The Perfect Escape

Chapter One

Nate

I’d recited this blah script more than fifty times.

“Welcome to the Zombie Laboratory. I’m Nate, and I’ll be your host for the evening. Can I get a show of hands of anyone who has been to an escape room before?” Near the main entrance, a goateed guy with chunky black glasses raised a hand. Ten tipsy thirtysomething-year-old bachelorette party ladies giggled next to him, ignoring me. They were all wearing strappy, sparkly heels, of course. Who the hell wore heels to a zombie escape room?

“Only one?” I asked. “Okay, show of hands-how many of you have recently been bitten or eaten by a zombie?” A few titters came from some guys near the front. This time everyone made eye contact with me and smiled. Whew! I’d just added that joke in and was testing it out for the first time.

“That’s good! Because that would mean we’d be trapped in the room with more undead than our zoning permit allows.”

No laughs.

Shit.

I’d have to try out another line next time.

The group chattered as we walked down the dimly lit, flickering hallway. To my relief, the bachelorettes didn’t look drunk enough to require janitorial assistance (of the vomit-cleaning variety). No stumbling backward in those ill-advised heels. No high-pitched, eardrum-bursting squeals. No swaying.

Drunk customers were the worst customers. Actually, scratch that. Drunk-to-the-point-of-puking customers were the absolute worst customers. I’d gotten to the point where spotting them was easy, and I had the power to refuse service during the waiver form process.

“Can’t we just staaaaart? My heels are killing me!” The pouty bride-to-be swept her hair off her shoulder and crossed her arms. “I’m SUFFERING!” Her girlfriends gathered round and gave her hugs.

Don’t roll your eyes, Nate. Don’t.

“Not too much longer,” I said with a smile.

Sometimes, if the group’s vibe is good, I help give clues for some of the puzzles. But this group? Nah, they weren’t worth the time. With all the side eying and sighing, I knew they weren’t into it.

The other large party in this group was a bunch of douchebros from Houzzcalls, a telemarketing software start-up down the street. They wore company shirts with WE MAKE HOUZZCALLS across their chests. Judging by the hooting, hollering, and advanced handshake coordination, I’m guessing these guys were in sales, not software development. They probably found a Groupon or were here for mandatory team bonding, not because they actually liked puzzles or were zombie aficionados. Unlike us dedicated employees, who lived and breathed this stuff.

Judging by the looks of these guys, this sorry bunch would panic after thirty minutes when the halftime buzzer honked, a cue for the zombies to lean harder on the barricaded door. The undead got feistier in the second half, chomping and snapping their teeth as they pushed their way through. The music would speed up, and the clock would tick louder. It was all part of the game. A game I loved. On the hour mark, I pushed open the heavy metal door and dropped my voice an octave. “Good luck.”

Once we entered, the gigantic glowing red digital clock on the wall started the one-hour countdown. The first clue was laid out on the metal laboratory table, a sixty-piece jigsaw puzzle spelling out the next set of instructions. It went ignored by everyone except the trio of Russian exchange students who had signed up at the very last possible minute.

After twenty-five minutes, one of the Russians yelled, “Done!” He was over six feet tall, had a super-chiseled face, and commanded my attention when he read aloud, “Make haste! What you need next is in the attaché case!” His brow furrowed. “Attaché case? What is that?” He stared at the bros and bachelorettes, who were paired off and leaning against the wall, whispering, laughing, touching, and ready for their post-escape room orgy.

The Russians searched along the walls for a case, not realizing it was in my hand. I could offer help, but they needed to ask me for it. Those were the rules. The attaché case held a key that would chain-lock the door, keeping out the soon-to-stampede army of zombies.

My prediction? This group wouldn’t even finish the second clue. They’d be devoured by zombies at the thirty-two-, maybe thirty-three-minute mark. Just shy of half an hour, a warning alarm went off, and the door with the broken padlock and chain pushed open a little. Grotesque, gray, mutilated arms flailed through the widened opening, and the groaning and moaning commenced.

The bachelorette party switched gears from mad flirting to scream shrieking, “Oh my God!” on repeat. They retreated back into the far corner away from the door, stumbling over the wussy tech sales guys as both parties ran as far away from the zombies as possible.

I shook the briefcase in my hand, hoping someone would hear the padlock and key clattering inside. Like a giant, adult rattle. Come and get it! Achtung! Did Russian people know German? The room was divided by the zombie arm blockade: bachelorettes and sales guys on one side, and the exchange students and me on the other.

I rattled the briefcase one more time.

“Is that the attachment case?” one of the exchange students asked, pointing to my hand.

I nodded, and all three exchange students bolted toward me. The girl reached me first and flipped up the clasps. The thirty-minute alarm went off, and the zombies barreled into the room.

Too late.

There were eight zombies in all, and they split into two groups and moaned and groaned as they made their way to their human victims. At thirty-one minutes, the female exchange student was the last one standing, and she jumped on the table with the attaché case high above her head, wild-eyed and ready to use the case as a weapon. One of the crawling zombies behind her tapped her foot. Gotcha. Game over.

The clock froze at thirty-one minutes. The zombies exited the way they came in, and all of the overhead fluorescents flooded the room with intense light. It was the worst escape room effort I’d ever seen.

With eyes filled with disappointment, each of the Russians shook my hand and said they had a good time. “How many clues were there?” the girl asked. I didn’t feel like sugarcoating. “Ten. You guys had a tough group to work with. But thanks so much for coming.” I had a pocket full of “Please review us on Yelp!” cards, but I only gave those to winners, people who would rave about this place. Winning groups usually came up with a system, like division of clues, or everyone solving problems together. Losers broke into factions immediately like, say, exchange students versus humping party animals.

Unfortunately for me, losers gave weak tips.

“Let’s go get some booze to celebrate our loss!” cheered one of the bros as he walked out with one of the bachelorette partiers, his hand sliding down the small of her back. The rest of the group shuffled out too, giggling and guffawing as they exited.

The bride patted my face and said, “You’re adorable! My fiancé is Korean too,” then stumbled out. I was surprised she could tell I was Korean. Usually people assumed I was Chinese. Sometimes Japanese. Even kids at school who’d known me forever thought I was Chinese.

“Can I come out now?” a muffled voice cried out from the closet on the far wall.
“Uh, sure? Everyone’s gone.”

The door creaked open. I backed away as a mutilated female zombie wearing a crumpled witch hat stumbled out.

Chapter Two

Nate

There were entrails hanging out where her belly button should’ve been.

“I was starting to get a little claustrophobic.” The girl blinked rapidly, adjusting her eyes to the flickering radiant lights. “I’m Kate, the new ‘spooky seasonal feature’ they added last week.” She took one quick look at my Feed Me (Braaaains)! T-shirt and tattered jeans, then focused her gaze on my face.

My eyes and ears tuned into her every move, my whole body on high alert. I was trapped in a room with a zombie girl. All the other zombies I’d worked with were dudes. “I’m Nate.” I shrugged, trying not to cringe at our cutesy rhyming names, not quite sure why I was shrugging in the first place. Everything on my body that could possibly sweat did. Instant oil slicks involuntarily formed on my palms, feet, and face T-zone, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to stop it.

Was it weird to think she was cute? She had shining brown eyes and a button nose that crinkled adorably each time she looked at the fluorescent lights. Well, as adorable as a zombified girl could be, with all that makeup, straggly hair, and fake wounds. Why did she take this “zombie girl in the closet” role? She could seriously star in commercials or something like that.

This girl was way out of my league, though. Out of my dimension, even. My heart pounded as my chest tightened, giving me the sensation that my body was trying to choke my heart out of my chest cavity. God, why was I so awkward around girls? And a zombie girl, no less.

Not knowing what else to do next, I extended my clammy, sweat-pooled hand, and we shook firmly, like we were coaches facing off in a football game. “Nice to meet you, Nate,” she said, then stretched her arms high above her head. “That closet is way too small for someone my height. And I’m only five foot three and a half.” After hopping around on both feet, she added, “My feet are asleep!”

“So, you’re the new big finale, jumping out of the closet at the end? You’re here from now through Halloween, and then what are you coming back for Thanksgiving and Hanukkah and Christmas?” I was torn between being ecstatic about her new role and being terrified, knowing she’d be hiding in the closet for fifty-nine minutes of each session, maybe listening to me give my opening spiel. Even with fifty-plus escape room games under my belt, my self-confidence shrank by the second at the mere thought of being in future sessions with this zombie girl.

“Yeah, I’m just a seasonal worker, not a year-rounder like you. Will work for food. Or brains,” she said, giving a nod toward my shirt. A boom of thunder rumbled and echoed through the building, taking me by surprise. Thunderstorms were a rarity in Seattle, something to do with the cool breeze on the Pacific Ocean. Something I didn’t really pay much attention to in junior high science class, but maybe should have.

“Hey, can you do me a favor?” she asked.

Gulping down my fear, I replied, “Depends. What do you need? If you need a ride home or something, then maybe?” My mom’s 2002 Honda was a busted piece of crap and shimmied at fifty-five miles per hour, its top speed, but it got the job done, driving from point A to point B. But if Kate wanted to borrow money, she was shit out of luck. All of my wages went toward my Xbox subscription, college fund, and savings for a business I’d launch in a few years. I had nothing to spare.

“I need you to tell me which black eye looks better.” She pointed double finger guns at her face. “Left eye…or the right one? I’m trying to perfect my makeup artistry for work again tomorrow.” Damn, she was working a shift tomorrow, and unfortunately I wasn’t. My stomach twinged with disappointment. Or hunger. Maybe both.

“I-I-I like the one on the left. It gives your eye a gaunt, hollow look,” I said hesitantly as she raised an eyebrow at me.

She pulled a mirror from her purse and examined both eyes. “Interesting. I kind of like the other one. It looks more realistic to me. Like I’m not trying too hard to look dead, you know?”

What in the hell was she talking about? Both of her eyes were “dead”-looking. I’d worked at this zombie escape room job for a year. Read every zombie survival guide I could get my hands on. Watched every zombie movie and every episode of The Walking Dead more than once. I knew my zombie shit. “Yeah, I agree,” I replied, and motioned for her to come with me to the employee lockers in the break room.

“So, actually, could I get a lift home maybe?” she asked as we opened our lockers. “I didn’t really think about how I’d look taking public transportation. And you know, the rain could make it all worse.” She removed her hat and smiled, revealing a fake missing tooth and bloody gums. I had to admit, she took her zombie job very seriously. Kate was convincingly, purposefully gross.

I grinned confidently while shutting my locker door, even though my heart was pounding and my sweatiness all over my body intensified. “Sure, my after-hours job is zombie rescue. I retrieve zombies and put them back in their habitat.”

She pulled her peacoat from her locker and put it on over her raggedy dress. “Great! There’s a Dick’s Hamburgers on the way to my house. I need food. I’ll buy you dinner and a milkshake if you want.” When we got outside, rain assaulted us from every direction. We’d already had ten days of straight rain, not unusual for October in Seattle. And the seven-day forecast? Even more rain.

Kate studied the flyers on the corkboard next to the entrance while I locked up. She stared hard at the neon-green Zombiegeddon advertisement, examining every word. Zombiegeddon was a new zombie-themed survival competition with a huge cash prize. It was on the same day as my big-time cross-country meet a month away, so I hadn’t bothered to look into it more.

When we finally got to my car, I swiped my accordion folder of college financial aid applications off the front passenger seat and tossed it in the back. I handed Kate a wad of clean tissues from my pocket to mop up her runny makeup and also used some to wipe my forehead’s fountain of sweat. As I turned the key in the ignition, I wondered, If we are eating hamburgers and it is her treat, does this count as a date?

Kate took a selfie just before wiping off her cheeks. “I look scarier now than I did before. I might try this look tomorrow. Maybe I’ll stick my head under the shower or something.”

Her boot thumped hard against something on the floorboard. “Oops,” she said apologetically. “I hope I didn’t break anything.” She bent down to look. “Wow, is this where you keep guns and ammo?”

I laughed. “That’s my dad’s trusty six-drawer toolbox. It’s older than I am.” He always liked to consider himself handy around the house, but Mom and I called him Mr. Fixer-Downer. “He refuses to hire plumbers or handymen. He’s a do-it-yourselfer, to save money. Watches YouTube videos and thinks he’s a pro.”

“Oh, that’s cool!” Kate sighed and glanced at the toolbox again. “My dad’s not handy at all. He outsources everything.”

I wished we outsourced more. “Well, I didn’t say my dad was good at it. He once spent three hours building a three-cube bookshelf.”

“In his defense, IKEA furniture is a pain in the ass to put together. Don’t let those cute cartoon drawing instructions fool you,” she teased.

“Yeah! How do they manage to have like forty types of different screws with all sorts of head shapes in an impossible-to-open plastic baggie for just one stool? I should be nicer to my dad.”

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel at a stoplight and snuck a quick glance at her. “Too bad I don’t work tomorrow. Do you work any other days too?” Saturday nights were when I played State of Decay on Xbox Live with my buddies. There were three of us, and we’d all played together since middle school. I was zombie_killir_1. Spelling was never my forte.

Kate shook her head. “I’m only working Friday and Saturday nights. It’s okay, though. That works out with school and other stuff.”

“I usually work Monday-Wednesday-Friday.” It dawned on me that the next time I’d see her was the next Friday. “It’s cool we’ll be able to work together, at least for a few weeks.”

Kate shrugged. “I’m a temp zombie for now, but maybe if I do a good job, the guys in charge will keep me around for the whole year.”

“Yeah, think about all the holidays after Christmas! Valentine’s Day. Saint Patrick’s Day. Easter. And who doesn’t love an Easter zombie?” I waggled my eyebrows the best I could.

She smiled at me as she grabbed my phone from the center console and typed her address into the maps app. “I live twenty minutes away. Looks like there’s a little bit of traffic on the way there. Sorry. But we can do our Dick’s pit stop, and maybe the roads will clear up.” She leaned forward and peered at the radio. “Mind if I turn it on?”

Heat flushed to my cheeks, starkly contrasting with my rain-pelted, clammy skin. “This is my mom’s car. It’s super old, so there’s nothing automatic on it. You might even have to turn the knob.” My ears burned with embarrassment. “And her preset stations are NPR, easy listening, and classical crap, so no judging. But yeah, fiddle with it if you want.”

She punched one of my mom’s preset stations and “Jingle Bell Rock” came on. Already? It was only October! I thought there were rules against that shit.

“Yes! Holiday music!” she squealed. “Don’t you love Christmas music?” Ugghhh, noooo. Kill me now. “Yeah. It’s great.”

Mickey’s Christmas Carol was the only Christmasy thing I liked. Scrooge McDuck was rich, focused, and no-nonsense. When asked the question “Who would I have dinner with, real or fictional?” I always answered Scrooge McDuck. I didn’t dare tell Kate all this, though, given her affinity for the shittiest yuletide song in history.

When exiting the freeway, she pointed ahead to the right. “Dick’s is up there. Let’s get milkshakes. Wanna split a burger and fries?”

“Sure,” I said cheerily, even though I was sort of lactose intolerant and didn’t like the mayo-goop they put on their “Special” hamburgers or their lactose-y shakes. I parked in a spot near the customer walk-up windows, and we both got out and ran up to one of the free attendants.

Please don’t order the Special burger. Please don’t order the Special burger.

Kate rattled off our dinner request. “We’d like two chocolate milkshakes, a large fry, and a Special burger, cut in half. To go, please.” The attendant repeated back the order and said she’d be back with our shakes. She didn’t seem fazed at all by Kate’s full-on zombie appearance.

I almost interrupted them to change the order at the last second, but I kept my true feelings in check because OMG, I had a girl here on a quasi date with me who, unfortunately, liked disgusting burgers. So instead I shut up and prayed the restaurant would somehow mess up our order and our beef would be free of specialness.

“I love the Special burger. It’s sooo good!”

I nodded. Dick’s fries were those fresh-cut ones. I kind of hated those too. Kate and I were proving to be polar opposites.

Panic hit me hard as I tried to figure out what the payment protocol was for this Dick’s Hamburger pit stop. She’d offered to pay, and I hadn’t budgeted for this, uh, burger-binging almost-date. Did she pay for everything because she was the one who wanted to stop here? Did we split payment? Did I pay because I was a dude? Dumb things like this always tripped me up. And it messed with my saving goals for the month. This baby needed a new pair of shoes…plus a newer car and college tuition. Oh, and more Xbox games.

We got our drinks, and as I fumbled with my wallet, Kate shoved a Dick’s burger gift card into my palm to hand to the attendant. “It’s on me. Thanks for the drive,” she said with an appreciative grin.

“Thanks!” I downed my shake in less than a minute, mostly out of relief that I didn’t have to pay for everything and she’d handled it so smoothly. Our food came fast. “I’m pretty full already,” I said as we got back in the car.

Kate nibbled on a fry. “More for me, then!” She swallowed with a gulp. “I have a ton of money on that gift card if you want to order something else for later. It’s on me.”

Wow, she was nice and loaded with infinite Dick’s dollars. Things were looking up! The milkshake really did fill me up, though. “I actually already ate dinner and wolfed down a sleeve of Chips Ahoy on the way to work. Not a proud moment for me. I don’t even like them.”

Kate made a face. “Chips Ahoy? I agree, yuck.” She cocked her head.

“Stress-eating?”

How’d she know? “Yeah, AP classes, college applications, all of that.” I ran my hand through my hair. Twice. “Oooh, I like salty processed food for stress-eating. Anything with fake cheese.” Her eyes brightened as she laughed.

I grinned. “Yes! Anything that can turn my fingertips an abnormal neon orange color, I’m in.”

She handed me a long fry from the paper bag, and I ate it. It wasn’t so bad after all. I held out my hand, and she gave me a few more. “What’s your favorite zombie movie?” I asked while chewing. “Mine is Zombieland.”

She bit her lip. “Tough one. I liked Zombieland. Hmmm…maybe World War Z? Oh, the Korean one! Train to Busan?” My eyes widened. She really knew her zombie flicks. “Whoa, I just saw that. Yeah, you’re right. It’s the best one I’ve seen.” I had to watch it with the lights on, but I didn’t tell her that.

“Yeah! It was scary as hell, but it made me cry too.” Kate pulled her wig off, revealing a matted, sweaty head of brown hair in some kind of netting. “That hairpiece itched too much. Sorry I didn’t warn ya.” After fiddling in her coat pocket, she pulled out a bottle and squeezed goop into her palm. “Special lotion. For eczema.” She rubbed it into her forearms, wrists, and hands. The faint aroma of lemons filled the car cabin as we exited the parking lot. It was a good kind of lemony smell, not the furniture wax kind.

Google Maps showed I had only four more minutes left of Kate time. I hadn’t spoken much after we hit the road, and she would be leaving my car soon. I needed to say something fast. “I never asked where you went to school,” I blurted, a slight crack to my voice.

“Seattle Academy,” she sighed, and then chewed another fry thoughtfully. “I finally graduate this year. Thank God.” SA was the artsiest high school in the city.

“Cool.” I don’t know why I asked her about school because normal conversationalists reciprocated questions, and I didn’t want her to know I went to Clyde Hill Academy. CHA was the douchiest, most elite prep school for grades six through twelve in the Pacific Northwest, and I’d gone there the entire time. I also didn’t want her to know I was there on a full ride. Kids like me on full scholarship had a nickname at Clyde Hill. “Skids,” short for “scholarship kids.” There’s no positive association for that word. Skid row. Skid mark. Skids were also trolls on hacker forums, according to Urban Dictionary.

I hated being a skid.

I also didn’t want her to figure out I was only sixteen and eleven-twelfths years old. I was a senior like Kate, but I’d skipped sixth grade as soon as I arrived at CHA. Back then, I’d thought it was so great to jump to seventh grade and into pre-algebra. I didn’t know that decision came with consequences. I was last to get a driver’s permit. Last to get a license. Getting dropped off and picked up by my mom through junior year did wonders for my social life, let me tell you.

Clyde Hill kids were cultured in a “we go to exotic destinations with all inclusive, five-star vacation packages” sort of way. They waved them off as “quick vacays” to get some “R&R.” My buddies Zach, Jaxon, and me, though, we didn’t travel anywhere fancy, ever. Skids never did. The closest we got to culture was on our eighth-grade trip to Orlando, and Epcot Center blew our minds.

Skids had something the school desperately desired in exchange for free tuition: high test scores, or athletic prowess, or in the case of Zach, they wanted bona fide geniuses to attend, so they would hopefully have the next Bill Gates or Mark Zuckerberg as alumni. My parents gladly accepted the $40,000 scholarship each year for my 4.0 GPA and high PSAT and SAT scores. No way could their IT consultant and Korean tutor salaries cover the expenses of private school.

I turned down Kate’s fog-covered street, decelerating as we approached her home. She lived in the remote part of Bothell, in an area where there was still abundant farmland. Her driveway was a few houses down on the right and disappeared down a steep hill into a black, foggy abyss. Total horror movie setting. Cue creepy-as-shit music.

My tires squeaked, and I hesitated before descending into the dark unknown. Kate opened the door before I maneuvered down. “I can jump out here. It’s fine. It’s a pain in the ass to reverse out, and there’s a gate a few yards down.” She yanked her bag of food and milkshake from the center console and shouted, “Thanks for the ride!” I grinned. “No problemo, señorita.” Really, Nate? Spanish? My God. “It was really fun.”

Kate returned my smile, warming my insides. “It was! See ya Friday.” She shut the door and bounded down her driveway, disappearing into the night. I’d see Kate in a week! After archery class and work on Monday, Krav Maga on Tuesday, self-defense and work on Wednesday, and cross-country on Thursday. Google Maps let me know there were twenty-four minutes and eleven miles between Kate’s house and mine. So many questions swirled inside my head as I drove to the freeway.

Did she think I was weird?

Or maybe not that weird?

Just a little weird? Everyone was a little weird, right? Why didn’t she ask about my school?

Would I get to drive her home again? Why didn’t I get her number? Argh, Nate, you idiot.

“All I Want for Christmas Is You” blared on the tinny speakers, breaking my concentration with Mariah’s high-octave runs. Reaching down to switch off the radio, a mangy, wet pile of dark hair in the passenger seat caught my eye.

Kate’s wig.

How do you forget your hair?

I couldn’t call her because I didn’t ask for her number. Again: Argh, Nate, you idiot.

But maybe she’d come to work early on Friday.

Maybe.

I took the wig up to my bedroom because if my mom saw a girl’s anything in my possession, she’d lose her shit without letting me explain. What is this? Why you drive girls around in my car? Did she give you gas money? Don’t get distracted from school! I’d never brought home a pile of matted, fake hair before, so this was all new territory for me. I hid it between my mattress and my headboard for safekeeping. After homework, snack, and shower, I was ready for bed. Kate’s fresh, lemony scent, just inches from my face.