The Perfect Escape (The Perfect Escape #1) - Suzanne Park Page 0,53

needed. I could get a few punches in before these un-Incredible Hulks took me down.

The door to the escape room creaked open. We all jerked our heads in surprise.

“Hey, uh, Nate? You’re late. We should get started.” Damon, one of the longest tenured zombies, peeked his head out and surveyed the situation. Pete and his buddies relaxed their shoulders. Mine stayed tense.

Damon pulled out his phone from his tattered lab coat and straightened his black costume glasses. “Is everything okay here? Need me to…uh…call the owner? Or the police?”

Pete narrowed his eyes at Damon, my nerdy savior. “We stopped by to say hi to our buddy Nate here and were just heading out. No way are we wasting our weeknight playing some stupid shitty zombie game.” He turned my way and hissed, “We’ll see you later.”

Each word hit like rapid sucker punches to my stomach.

From his embossed leather wallet, Pete pulled out a crisp fifty-dollar bill and threw it at me. “Here’s your tip, skid.” He spat that last word at me. The money fluttered at first, then spiraled straight to my feet. In normal circumstances I’d be thrilled with any gratuity for my gracious hospitality and well-paced comedic monologue. Clearly this was not that kind of transaction. He’d thrown his “fuck you” money at me like I was a slum dog, small and pathetic.

He unlocked the entry door, and his buddies followed him outside. When it clicked shut, I exhaled slowly. How long had I been holding in my breath?

An excited look crossed Damon’s face. “Wow, big tipper! Does this mean we get the night off?”

With a sad smile, I picked up the bill and focused on the positive. “You and the rest of the guys can split the tip.” I sighed deeply. “And yeah, let’s call it a night. It’s been a long day.” I released the zombie talent early and locked up.

Rain pelted my windshield on the drive home, making the white and yellow lines on the road nearly impossible to see. Lucky for me, I’d taken this exact route home hundreds of times, so the trip home was essentially on autopilot. Full-body numbness set in during my ride, and at first, I assumed it was from nerves about the looming zombie survivalist competition. But the feeling of doom rising in my chest, the unmistakable urge to throw up, well, that wasn’t anticipation. Or excitement. That was fear, of the unbridled variety. Pete’s plan was not actually a choice; it was a mandate.

The downpour continued as I pulled the car into my driveway. In the streetlamp light the fuel gauge was dangerously close to E, and I was driving on fumes. And, more visibly now, it was clear that my hands were shaking violently.

* * *

Annie messaged me just before I crawled into bed.

Hey, she wrote.

Hey back

I’m coming to the cross-country meet. Good luck!

My stomach clenched. I’m not going. Got other plans.

I accepted a video chat request. “Whaddya mean you’re skipping the meet? Is everything okay?” Her bedside lamp glowed so brightly that it took over half her screen, partially obscuring her face. She was wearing a tattered Adam Levine shirt. I couldn’t tell if she was being ironic or not, so I kept my mouth shut. I also didn’t feel like mentioning that Pete had paid me a visit at work. No need to add even more stress the night before the big competition.

“Everything’s fine. I’ve already sent out most of my college applications, so this meet isn’t that big of a deal to me. And I qualified last year. Because I’m so awesome.”

She moved her head so the background light gave her an angelic halo. “So what are you doing instead? Masterminding a new product release in your basement? Going on a hot date with a girl?”

Did competing in a zombie survival contest with a cute girl count as a hot date? “Well, because you asked, Zeneration is sponsoring a survivalist competition tomorrow and Sunday. There’s a huge cash prize, and I think I’ve got a good shot at it. I need to be there bright and early in the morning, though.”