The Perfect Escape (The Perfect Escape #1) - Suzanne Park Page 0,56
information was brand-new to us, like the fact that we were being driven to the middle of God-knows-where in a storm instead of having the event at the campground. Other details were not—like bringing automatic weapons or handguns would warrant disqualification. After a few minutes of him “warming up the crowd,” I’d completely tuned him out.
Thanks to the twisty-turny roads, I completely lost my bearings. The bus hurtled along through the forest, around and down, then up again. Our phones barely got any reception. Unable to pinpoint our precise location, GPS was showing that we could be anywhere within a five-mile radius of the campgrounds. Google Maps showed us in a large green area in the middle of nowhere.
Nate was fast asleep, so I stuck in my earbuds, cranked up my playlist, and stared out the window. The condensation made it hard to see, so with one horizontal arm swipe, I cleared the glass.
Straight ahead, thousands of majestic evergreen trees touched the heather-gray sky. Far away, they were compact, but next to them it was hard to peer upward to see the emerald tips without knocking our heads fully back like Pez dispensers. The dark clouds in the distance never drew any closer. Maybe we’d be lucky and the rain would pass.
Nearly an hour later, the bus turned into a gravel parking lot and pulled in next to another charter bus. “Okay, last stop! Everyone off!” the bus driver boomed. He let us know this was the last chance we had to use a civilized bathroom, either in the back of the bus or the portable one a few feet away outside. The rain had finally let up, and a handful of people were braving the drizzle to use the facilities.
We descended the bus’s steps. The emcee-turned-luggage-handler opened up the storage in the belly of the bus and held up each pack for the owner to retrieve. He held mine up, and Nate grabbed it for me.
“Thanks, partner,” I said. Without me asking, he helped me with the second strap, lifting it so I could pull through my arm.
His backpack came out, and someone behind us whistled, “Whoa, that looks heavy!”
Nate hoisted his pack on before I could offer my help in return. He smiled at me and placed his hand on the back of my upper arm, pushing me gently toward the fence opening. A tingle ran down my entire spine just as my arm warmed to his touch. My face flushed, overheated despite the cool weather.
By some miracle, the menacing rain clouds passed over us and sun breaks streamed through the tops of the trees. In the distance, the sound of a running brook caught my attention. If we weren’t about to spend up to forty-eight sleepless hours in the freezing cold, being massacred by biting insects and possibly bears, fighting off zombies for a minuscule chance of winning a competition, I’d say it was a picturesque Pacific Northwest day.
The final bus pulled up, but rather than wait any longer for them, the event organizers—discernable from their whistles and walkie-talkies—ushered us to the left side of the lot, where we collected our team T-shirts. Unfortunately for us, we got the hideous magenta ones. Mine was a men’s XS and hung huge on my frame, even when tucked in. Nate was issued one in an impressive XXL, passable as a wind sail. Hardly the outfit I would have chosen to wear in a survivalist competition, where blending in was key.
We were each handed electronic wristbands, similar in style to a high-end Fitbit. “What are these for?” I asked.
The guy at registration demonstrated for us. “It’s weatherproof, has GPS, tells time, and it also has a half-mile-range walkie-talkie for your team.” His voice dropped deeper. “If it’s removed from your wrist, or tampered with, your team will be disqualified. The ops teams will be deployed and will collect you, along with your belongings.”
Nate and I practiced using the walkie-talkie function.
“Breaker one-nine. Testing, testing, one-two-three,” I chirped.
“Copy,” he responded. “Should we go join the others at the start line?”
“Affirmative.”
“Roger that. Over and out.”
Speakers blared above our heads on the large wooden poles lining the parking area. “Bus