Get Out If You Can

Matt | Hello And Welcome

"So what are we supposed to do now?"

If Hunter's going to spend his time asking questions like that, then I'm gonna curse my luck that I have him for a partner in a crazy escape room game.

Besides, the whole point of that question is that it has, well, abso-fucking-lutely no point. This is an idiotic, crazy, manipulative and surprisingly smart way to trick the two of us into some crazy freak's murder plan.

I can't believe I fell for it.

The reality of the whole thing still hasn't hit me square in the face. I can't decipher how that happened, what it made me do — all I'm aware of is that they took advantage of my insecurity. I still can't believe I wanted a proper house that bad. I mean, our roof may be falling apart, but even a measly shack like the one I lived in was better than this wickedly elaborate palace with no way out.

And no means of finding out what was going to happen, at all.

"Break a window?" he suggests. I shake my head. What a brilliant time to look around the place. There aren't any windows on the lower floors. From what I saw on the outside, the only windows are narrow, vintage things somewhere neighboring Heaven.

Under normal circumstances, I would've laughed at Hunter's flaming red hair; it's so all over the place. He's pacing up and down the living room, murdering the carpet in the process.

"I don't understand, there must be a way out." He fishes for his phone in his pocket, and I'm suddenly hit by a wild idea. I pull out my own battered, ancient and museum-worthy cellular from my pocket, that's sticky with a substance I couldn't care less to know the whereabouts of. I open Google and type 'Callenfield Citizen's Welfare Board Guidelines, Act 453 Subsection 12A'. The net is shitty; nothing's even loading. But now that I think of it, the most practical thing to have done was to Google the subsection-section crap before doing anything stupid — like this.

I look over at Hunter. He looks like he would very much like to crack his phone open.

"Any luck yet?"

"No," he scowls. Seconds later, I hear a light crash.

Fucking shit. Hunter Mason here has officially demolished the only satisfactory source of communication we had, considering my phone as more or less ancient. I smack my forehead.

"Congratu-fucking-lations," I say, shaking my head at the mess of metal. "Now how the fuck are we supposed to get out?"

"You're saying that like this phone was help," he sneers in response. "The moment I stepped out of the car I had a feeling about this. Not this," he gestures to the entire castle. "No service. There's absolutely no service here."

I shut my eyes and squeeze them tight. "Then let's just wait and see what death is planned for us, right?"

Shit, I really need a cigarette. It's the only thing that can help me make a feeble attempt to think. I helplessly fumble in my pocket for a Camel, but the only thing I close upon is a lighter — and a crumpled mass of paper.

I take it out and straighten it. Hunter walks over and reads it over my shoulder.

"That," he says, his voice laced with cold contempt, "is utter bullshit. There is no Article 435 or whatever. The last article in Callenfield is three hundred sixty-seven. This is nonsense, how the hell did you fall for it?"

"Shut up, at least I'm giving you company," I snap back. "Since you're definitely not smart enough to have—"

Something makes the both of us jump.

There's a low ring, echoed maniacally across the hollow hallways of the castle. It sounds eerily strange, like the flight last-calls they give at the airport — especially because of the voice that's speaking.

"Please meet in the hall," the voice, strangely female, echoes. I snatch a glance at Hunter's face. It's contorted in what looks like unpleasant familiarity. I bet this was the mechanized voice made to place a call to him, if they'd called him.

But that isn't even what bothers me. Whoever this person is, who's taken a special interest to us, has really gone all out and done their homework. There's no way anyone I know would know about the fact that I need a better place to live. If I'm gonna be very honest, I don't know for sure either. Besides, I'm not the kind that gives out my address and holds house parties, and you probably know why. I've got a stash of candy for the law right in my bedroom, and trust me, the law's hungry.

Not that I use any of it. I'm not stupid. I'm just making use of the business opportunity. There's no business like the stoning business — you don't even have to run to catch customers. No advertisements and no sponsors. Wherever you are, the customer will move through all hell and high water to get to you.

That's precisely why I'm not interested in any of it. I don't like being voluntarily vulnerable.

I hear footsteps, many of them, hurried and rushed as they tap-dance on the marble staircases. Okay, ladies and gentlemen, this is it. The moment you've all been waiting for. I shut my eyes, waiting for whatever machine gun bullets they're carrying with them to pierce my body, and just to be safe, I hunch down to the floor a bit. My eyes are shut so tight it's painful.

I wait there in that position, waiting for the expected hit, whip, lash, whatever — to come.

But it doesn't.

Instead, I hear voices. Lots of them. One of them is Hunter's, and for a brief, fleeting second, he sounds relieved, almost. Then, maybe, whoever was coming down couldn't be that bad, I guessed. It's probably safe to open my eyes. Maybe this is all a major trick, and someone had just wanted to do a psychological experiment on us or whatever. To see how people react to surprise. You never know what the government comes up with these days.

Well, if that's the case, then it's bad for them. The second I open my eyes is going to be the second they're going to fucking regret, because I'm going to kill them. Brutally.

But nothing comes.

I open my eyes, and for a second it's all blurry. However, I can make out a crowd of people around me. And some of them look kinda familiar.

I strain my vision a bit more, and finally I see them in full focus.

Hunter's a freakin' idiot to have sounded relieved. This is, if anything, worse.

"Diego and Emilie," I say, my eyes tentatively resting on each of their surprised — and strained — faces. If anything, if they had managed to get the better of all of these people, if they had managed to trick freaking Torrez's parents, then I have to say it. I'm terrified.

No one says a thing, so I take the liberty.

"Well," I say. "Club reunion, I assume? Welcome."