Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
This is fine.
I’m fine.
Being trapped in a stinky room in the dark with no food or water or a pot to piss in is fine.
“Fuck that,” I growl after less than a minute, pushing myself back to my feet. I didn’t claw my way back from hell and onto a pro-hockey team to surrender to a locked door.
I move toward where I remember seeing that overflowing stick rack, feeling my way along the wall as the light continues to fade. The only illumination in the overflow storage comes from narrow windows at the top of the concrete wall on the other side of the room, and the summer sun is setting fast.
If I don’t get out of here soon, I’ll be trapped in a black void for the night.
Shouting wasn’t working, but maybe I can make enough noise by banging on the door with a hockey stick to alert the security guard on the floor above me.
I fumble across the wall, but instead of a stick, my hand closes around a slightly tacky-feeling plastic cylinder on a dusty shelf. I give it an experimental squeeze, and it moans like the world’s loudest squeaky toy. I grip it again, harder this time, summoning a sound halfway between a rubber duck on steroids and a dying moose. As my eyes adjust to the shadows, I see that it’s a Bucky the Badger toy from the 1970s, the mascot management decided to retire after kids routinely burst into tears when Bucky merch was tossed into the stands.
This one is currently staring at me with a maniacal gleam in his eye and bared yellow teeth, as if daring me to squeeze him again. I nearly toss the cursed little fuck across the room, but it does have a serious squeaker.
And a dying moose would certainly get my attention if I were in charge of monitoring the building for signs of trouble after hours…
I brace Bucky against the wall near an air vent and shove my hand into his chubby belly again and again, until his horrible raspy honk echoes in the confines of the storage room. It makes my ears ring, triggering memories of post-concussion symptoms I’d rather forget, but I push on. Ear ringing won’t kill me. Being trapped in this room with Bucky and his friends just might—there are more of the toys, I see now, glaring at me from the shelf nearby, plotting revenge on me for assaulting one of their brethren.
Somewhere between five minutes and a torturous infinity of honking later, I’m rewarded with a knock on the equipment room door.
“Hello? Is someone in there?” a high-pitched male voice shouts from the hall. “Hello?”
“Yeah, it’s me!” I call back, relief dumping into my bloodstream as I hurry back to the door. “Hey man, it’s Tank LiBassi. I was in here looking for gear for the kid camp tomorrow when the door swung shut and locked me in. Can you get me out?”
“Sure thing, Mr. LiBassi,” the man—kid?—replies. “Just give me a second to punch in the code.”
I wait impatiently, primed to bolt the second that door opens.
“Shoot,” the voice comes again, softer than before. “Hold on, the old code isn’t working. Let me check my email. Maybe they changed it.”
“Yeah, sure thing,” I say, my throat tightening. “Thanks. I’d help you out, but the door was already open when I walked in.”
“That’s okay. I just have to figure out how to connect to the Wifi,” he replies. “I’m new. Just started a couple week ago, and I don’t get on my phone much at work.”
Great. My knight in shining armor is the only member of his generation not to spend his entire shift doom scrolling.
I pace back and forth, doing my best not to hyperventilate. Now that freedom is so close, I can’t get out of this room fast enough. I swear, the vibes are getting creepier with every passing moment, raising the hairs on the back of my neck and making sweat break out along my forehead.
“Okay, let me try this one,” the kid says. I hear faint beeping, then a longer beep, and a not-at-all encouraging buzzing sound. “Shoot,” he says. “That one isn’t working either.”
“Maybe try both codes again?” I ask, my heart beating in my throat. My chest aches and my blood rushes too fast as I add, “Please?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe I should call my boss.”
“Please,” I beg, my blood pressure inching into unhealthy territory. “Just try one more time. I’m going a little crazy in here, man. Not a fan of being trapped.”
“I get it, I’m sorry, I—” The kid breaks off before shouting in a more upbeat voice, “Hey Mr. Stone! Hey Tyler! I heard you were joining the team! That’s so great, man. You were killing it in Seattle last year.”