by Gwenda Bond
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For every woman who could save the world, because she learned how from books
48 HOURS
(AND UNTOLD MILLENNIA) ON THE CLOCK
PART ONE
IN THE BEGINNING
“Why is a raven like a writing-desk?”
.…
“Have you guessed the riddle yet?” the Hatter said, turning to Alice again.
“No, I give it up,” Alice replied: “What’s the answer?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said the Hatter.
ALICE’S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND, LEWIS CARROLL
Is this not the true romantic feeling; not to desire to escape life,
but to prevent life from escaping you.
THOMAS WOLFE
CHAPTER ONE
CALLIE
LEXINGTON, KENTUCKY
“Hmm.” My mother puts her hands on her hips and inspects the waiting area with a slight frown. She’s wearing a T-shirt with her favorite Time Lord on the front.
I try to imagine what she’s seeing. Because everything is just as it should be: the giant metal lock with the name of our family business—THE GREAT ESCAPE—hangs straight and shiny on the wall; the counter and hardwood floor are pristine; T-shirts and key chains and water bottles saying WE GREAT ESCAPED wait in stock bins; iPads for customers to bring into their chosen rooms sit in a fully charged line; and, of course, the all-important release forms are plentiful.
“I feel like I’m forgetting something, Callie-expialidocious,” Mom says, walking around to give everything a higher level of scrutiny.
“That seems unlikely,” I say.
Because Mom doesn’t forget things. Her mind is the proverbial steel trap. If you want to know how Bletchley Park broke the Enigma code during World War II to help defeat the Germans or the names of the key people who worked on the team (it wasn’t just Alan Turing), she can recite the answers without pause. Same if you can’t remember which episode of Star Trek is the one where Kirk kisses Uhura.
(It’s “Plato’s Stepchildren”—I’m not even that into classic TV, but I inherited her legendary affinity for collecting random pieces of knowledge. Though I do my best to make mine even more obscure. I’m particularly drawn to occult factoids. Historical ghost stories? Every single era of witch burning? Famous grimoires for a thousand, Alex? I’m your girl.)
No, she’s not forgetting anything. I know exactly why Mom is postponing her departure. She’s freaking herself out about leaving. I understand. I’d be doing the same thing. I also inherited her predisposition to hermit in my favorite places and trust new people slowly, when I end up trusting them at all. A big event filled with strangers? Speechifying in front of them? Nightmare territory.
“It’ll be fine,” I tell her. “Go. You don’t want to be late. This is a big deal.”
Mom’s frown melts away, replaced by a cocky grin. “It is, isn’t it?”
“Huge.” I sweep out my arms. “Planet-sized.”
The Association of Escape Room and Countdown Games named her Owner of the Year and she’s off to their conference in Nashville for the weekend to accept the award. Meanwhile, I volunteered to hold down the fort with the (in my opinion, unnecessary) help of my older brother, Jared.
We’re the best escape room business in the country. I help Mom write and run the games and find all our props in my copious spare time. Yes, it’s decently copious. I graduated from college in the spring with a history degree, only to discover that there are no jobs for someone with my specialty. We’ve all decided being doomed to repeat history is fine, I guess. I’ll admit I’m flailing a bit—school wasn’t much of a challenge for me, well, ever. The read-all-the-books thing. I can even adequately math.
Adulthood seems to require different skills, ones I didn’t realize I needed. I’m also single. Apparently relationships require different skills too.
“Still,” Mom says, and her frown returns. “I was hoping Jared would show up before I left.”
“I’m sure he’s on his way,” I say.
Jared is a freak of nature, by which I mean smart and good at extroverting and social situations. He’s in his second year of law school, which he took to the way perfect human specimens take to becoming lawyers. I’m sure he has not just straight As, but a million friends and a canon of party anecdotes.
Meanwhile, I’m considering going to graduate school to become more (or less?) employable, fantasizing about the giant libraries it will afford me access to hide away in. Ah, crusty old book spines and teeny tiny type, how I dream of thee. Mostly, my mom is okay with my struggle to figure out what to do with my life. But she knows we’re anxiety twins.
She focuses on me. Her hands rise to my shoulders. “Callie, you’re going to do great this weekend,” she says, sensing my secret nerves that I’ll manage to mess this up. “Everyone on the books is routine. The odds a tricky situation will come up are low. Jared will be here. But I don’t have to go…”
“It really will be fine.” When that doesn’t seem to convince her and I can practically hear her anxious nature telling her to stay home and skip the awards, I fall on the sword of my pride. “And you’re right. Jared will be here anytime.”
“Okay.” She squeezes my shoulders, then lifts her hands away as the tone of the door opening sounds. “Call me if anything happens.”
I turn expecting to see my brother, but brighten at the sight of my best friend for life and the ever after, Mag. A freshly applied glittering fuchsia lip stain pops against their brown skin and baggy gray silky T-shirt. David Bowie is their forever patron saint, a fixed star in their ever-evolving constellation of style. Mag landed a job as a graphic designer for a local ad agency immediately after graduation.
“We are not going to need to bother you in any way,” Mag says. “Go, be fancy.”
Mag and I met after church during toddlerdom and our friendship was sealed when we renamed all our dolls after superheroes and had them attack the other kids’ Barbies (liberating them from the control of Planet Blonde; we could be judgy). I trust Mag always, and they trust me.
“I know what it is!” Mom thrusts her hand up and snaps her fingers. “The extra clues. You know people always crumple at least one. They’re in the—”
“Extra clue cabinet, neatly labeled,” I return, giving her a helpful-daughter stare. “And yes, there are plenty, we made new ones last weekend. You are not forgetting anything. Go.”
“Okay, fine.” At long last Mom retrieves her purse from behind the counter. “But no new bookings. Just what we already have. And you’ll call me if anything happens?”
“Scout’s honor,” I say.
“You were never a scout.”
“I was,” Mag chimes in. “Eagle and everything.”
“Close enough, then,” Mom says.
“Plus, you know I’m not going to get into trouble.”
“You’re having a tough time lat
ely. You could use some trouble.” She pauses. “Not this weekend, though, please. Text me when your brother gets here, and I’ll see you Sunday night.”
“Jared’s coming here?” Mag asks. “Tonight?”
“Yes, to supervise,” I say and roll my eyes where only Mag can see. “Love you, Mom. Now get going.”
“Okay.” She presses a quick kiss to my cheek and then she’s finally out the door.
We watch her all the way to the car and wave again after she’s behind the wheel of the minivan. She waves back, and then she’s gone for real, pulling out of the parking lot.
Mag looks at me and then raises both hands in the air. “Keg arrives in ten, party starts in six!”
We both burst out laughing. “I think you mean the party of six arrives in ten,” I say. “I better head upstairs.”
“Aye, aye, Captain Callie.” Mag salutes me.
I’m a little giddy with the freedom of a weekend … running my mom’s business like someone who has their act together. And hanging out with my bestie, since we don’t get to do that enough these days.
* * *
I take up my perch between the control room monitors that show every inch of the escape rooms so we can provide clues or see attempted cheating or theft. I’ll be running this side of the evening’s adventures, and that starts with sizing up the customers as they enter. Mag’s talking to tonight’s first group in the lobby now while I listen in.
I instantly categorize the six-pack of guys as “Frat Boys Out for the Evening.” They’re in khakis and GO CATS T-shirts. Going by Mag’s slight nose wrinkle, I’m guessing that inhaling their general aroma is like being inside an Axe Body Spray factory. We get a fair number of these guys, and I prefer the sorority version. Besides better taste in scents, they don’t tend to break at least one piece of furniture per visit. Speaking of which …
“You don’t need to move any heavy pieces of furniture,” Mag says slowly, making sure the group is listening. “Nothing comes off the wall. Anything lightweight can be moved or removed, but you won’t need to bust into anything. Got it?”
“Sure,” the leader says. He’s got a fresh-from-spring-break tan. “Hey, what’s the fastest time anyone’s ever made it out in?”
“Eighty percent don’t. But forty-one minutes,” Mag says.
“We’re going for thirty,” he declares. His bros cheer and exchange high-fives.
I roll my eyes and eat popcorn, literally, by the handful, as Mag leads them up the hall and completes giving them the drill. Mag unlocks the outer chamber of Tesla’s Laboratory, the room they chose of the three we currently offer. The group is admitted into an alcove designed to look like a ye olde street, complete with faux gaslight lamps. Mag tells them how many hints they can have (five), that they all have to raise their hands in agreement to get one, that the prompts will show on the corner monitors along with the countdown timer, and so on. Then they’re finally locked in and my control-freaky fun begins.
I start the clock. The first second ticks off: 59:59.
The guys attack their first challenge—figuring out how to get into the lab from the doorstep they’ve been left on. They remove the envelope from the postbox beside it with their first clue. One of them reads it and I tune him out, since I wrote it and I know it by heart: Dear colleague, I’m afraid that Edison’s men have been spotted in the area again … Three of them …
The theme of this room is Mom’s brainchild, based on the infamous rivalry between inventors Nicola Tesla and Thomas Edison. Sure, everyone knows Edison’s name, but Tesla is responsible for the alternating current system of electricity that powers most of our houses and other buildings. (Tesla would rank high on a list of history’s strangest geniuses. He once fell in love with a pigeon that had gray-tipped wings and flew around outside his window. We put a painting meant to be of her inside the room.)
The boys proceed to run their hands over every part of the walls and above the doors. And one of them is either sniffing or licking the fake cobblestones. It’s hard to tell from this angle.
“Read the clue again,” I mutter.
A furry white dog paw lands on my thigh. Then, before I can even react, a second paw joins the first and a long snoot noses up into my face.
“Down, Bosch,” I say, and put her legs gently back on the floor. I scratch her on the head. Our freckle-nosed dog is a little spoiled. She’s a rescue and had a rough life before winning the “pets who are spoiled but not in ways that make them uncomfortable like outfits and constant baby talk” lottery, so I don’t feel too bad about it. Or at all bad, really.
Bosch waits, brown woe-eyes of doom on me.
“Fine.” I offer her a small handful of popcorn.
She nibbles it straight from my palm, then circles three times and settles back down in her bed two feet away.
The guys have their hands up when I glance back to the monitor. First hint already? Most people get through this part without using one.
We rank clues from easy to hard. I click my way down the menu and select a heavy-handed one. You don’t want to give a difficult clue in a situation like this.
They squint at the monitor, which now reads: Knock on the door.
One of them does, then another waves the letter. “Oh, wait, it says there were three men. Try three times!”
One knocks three times with a fist.
“You can do this,” I say, rooting for them. Sure, we design the games and the stories and clues to be difficult, but we also play fair. Everything needed to get out is provided, and we give players three to six clues on top of that. Creating a game no one ever wins is no fun. Also, no one would ever come back.
“What if we use this?” one guys asks. They’ve spent six precious minutes on this.
“Hallelujah,” I say, when he points to the knocker mounted on the wall beside the door. He takes it in his hand and does the deed while the others wait. They cheer when a brass key falls from the ceiling on the third knock. It hits the cobblestones with a satisfying clatter.
“We did it!” They retrieve the key and let themselves into the lab room where the rest of the puzzles await.
I toss Bosch another piece of popcorn, which she tries and fails to catch in midair. Goofy dog. My phone buzzes.
Mag: They in yet?
Me: Just.
Mag: You have snacks?
Me: Come on up. Rosé in the fridge.
A few minutes later, Mag slips into the chair beside mine and sets two coffee mugs half-full of rosé on the desk. I pass over the bag of white cheddar popcorn. “How are the guys doing?” they ask around a mouthful.
“Better than you’d think, and not as bad I expected either. Maybe we misjudged them.”
The guys navigate the inside of the room, designed to be a combination lab/office space. Locked trunks and sinister-looking beakers abound. They already managed to figure out the combo to the first lock, on the desk’s middle drawer, and are now working on the second one.
I drum my fingers on the desk and watch the monitor. “You staying over tonight?”
Mag’s apartment is way across town, and they volunteered to help out all weekend. But they’ve also been dating someone new. And cagey about the details, claiming it’s too early to talk about.
“If you don’t mind.”
“Mind? Bosch is going to do a dance.”
Bosch trots over at her name and Mag humors the dog by taking her paws and leading her in a dance as graceful as a human-pooch waltz can be.
“Jared is too, but he probably won’t bother us much,” I say.
Mag doesn’t respond, so I assume they’re about as confident of that as I am.
We watch on the monitors, groaning when the group misses big pieces of the puzzle. When they’re almost out of time, Mag gets up and salutes. “I’ll go get ready to take the ‘we didn’t escape’ photos with these guys and open back up for our next victims.”
“Customers,” I correct.
As predicted, our first group d
oesn’t make it out before the hour elapses. But they also made it slightly farther than I had assumed and they didn’t break any furniture. I head downstairs after they leave to reset the room. A bridal shower booked it for tomorrow morning and if I do it now, we can get out of here after the next group. Mom kept things light, and I do my best not to be insulted by that. I could’ve handled a heavier load. Though Jared is still nowhere to be seen. My phone buzzes at that moment and I check it. It’s him: Had to help a friend with test prep. Leaving now. See you at home later? You’re okay to close up solo, right?
I text back yes and then message Mom he’s here so she won’t worry. He’s on his way, so it’s a white lie. After, I replace the letter in the envelope, reset the locks. The guys didn’t even muss the clues.
“They might grow up to be responsible, contributing members of society.” Unlike me.
I turn out the lights, let the door lock behind me, and go back to the control room. As soon as I sit down, I see our next group has arrived.
“Holy wow,” I say, leaning forward. “Now this is interesting.”
And not what I’d call routine.
The group is mixed gender and cosplaying something I’m not familiar with (my geek fu must be slipping). They wear black capes that look high quality and those eerie plague doctor masks with the long, creepy, curving beaks. The masks are costumes now, but they were real enough when they were adopted in Paris in the 1600s to deal with bubonic plague sufferers. The beaks were stuffed with sweet (or at least better)– smelling substances and straw, meant to protect the wearer from breathing both the stench and the tainted air around their patients.
“Really getting into character for the room.” Because they booked my baby, the first of our countdown games fully designed by me: the Chamber of Black Magic. It’s super hard, super detailed, and supremely spooky. I poured every occult, demonic thing that gives me the worst heebie-jeebies into it.
