Test 1 Part 3: Hunting for Clues

Jason sat in near darkness, staring at the LCD. "11:46, 11:46, 11:46," it blinked. And suddenly it changed. "11:47". Funny that.

"Shit," Jason said aloud. "Guess I should start looking."

His first thought turned him to the window. Surely it couldn't be that reinforced. But then, he did recall it was supposed to stop a steel baseball bat with a fair amount of angry thief behind it. The glass would shatter and spider web, true, but it was specially designed to do little more then that. Besides, was he willing to take that risk?

This car cost him a fortune. He'd had it since he was 16. Did he really want to go smashing it up? He thought not. Besides, the voice on the CD said there were many other ways to get out. Maybe one of them would mean escape without destroying his possession in the process. He turned away from the window; trying to think back on the rules he'd been told.

What were the important pieces? Honk for help? The battery is draining? Secrets in the doors? Which clue could he actually use here? He decided to investigate the unknown, starting with the back seat. Perhaps there was something there he could use?

Crawling out of the driver's side, he squeezed between the two seats and tried to scan the back. Darkness. His body blocked the minimal glow of the LCD. He'd just have to take the risk. Pushing through head first, he landed softly on the smooth leather coverings of the back seats beyond, and quickly sat up. Everything felt right so far, and the small night vision he had didn't reveal anything… nasty. He began to grope around, searching for something. Anything.

The seats proved to be empty, much to his disappointment, but he wasn't about to give up. Something had to be back here. The CD Sicko didn't seem like the kind of guy to not make use of 'wasted space'. Suddenly, in answer to his thoughts, his sneaker kicked something hard. The soft 'tinkle' as it rolled away told him it was a bottle. He swiftly bent down to scoop it up.

Holding it up in the faint LCD light, he could clearly make out what type of bottle it was. A beer bottle, and not just any kind. His favourite. For a second a glimmer of hope filled his stomach; man, he'd kill for a beer right now. But the lack of weight and swishing liquid inside quickly snuffed that glimmer out. No beer in there… cruel bastard…though, maybe there was something else.

He tipped it up, shaking the bottle about and listening for noise. As he expected, something fell out into his palm; a piece of paper, neatly tied into a nice cylinder. His fingers trembled slightly as he began to undo it. He quickly glanced at the time as he was doing so.

"11:49"

Fully unfolded, Jason lent back into the front cabin, trying to make out the writing scribbled on the paper. It was spidery, as if written by someone weak. The words did not further the image, however.

"Alcohol," it stated, "just one substance people who don't appreciate life use to escape there everyday reality. Though it will not help you escape today, Jason. But there is another substance, one just as evil and addictive as this, that may help you with that little problem. Tick tock, Jason. Let's see how smart you really are."

Another substance? Another addictive drug? How the hell was that going to help him? Shit, did this whacked out freak go and stuff some kind of narcotic in the car for him to find, so that if he couldn't escape he could still be too high to care when the pistons mashed body into a bloody pulp? It'd been years since he'd touched shit like that anyway; he had no idea if his body could still handle it.

'11:50, 11:50, 11:51. Times running low. Drugs, drugs, lets see how smart you really are.' The thoughts in Jason's head continued in an unstoppable stream. 'Evil and addictive, escaping reality. Tick tock, times up. How smart, how smart…'

Suddenly something clicked. Perhaps he was aiming to high. Perhaps it wasn't a serious or illegal drug he should be thinking of. Maybe something more common, like alcohol? His eyes drifted to the CD player, and then down. The ash tray.

Cigarettes. Evil and addictive. There was something in the ash tray! He lunged forward and grabbed the tray, ripping it clean from it seating. Nothing but a cloud of powdery grey came out, and it was all he could do to keep from throwing it on the floor and messing up his car. He placed it carefully back in its holding.

'It's cool, dude,' his own voice comforted inside his head. 'It was a good idea.'

But perhaps he hadn't been wrong? He had other ash trays, ones he never used and had forgotten about because he was always driving! Jason quickly swung around to the back of the driver's seat, feeling along the back for the elusive flip-down ash tray. He found it fast, opened it up, and felt around inside.

Nothing. Shit. Oh well, one to go. He shuffled over the other side and did the same procedure. Sticking his fingers into the hole, they immediately came in contact with something cold and shapely. A key!

"Yeesss!" he cried, "Fuck yeah! Come to daddy." He grabbed it out and crawled back into the driver's seat. "We have go, baby, yeah!"

But his heart sank inches from putting the key into the ignition. This was not that key. It was much smaller, and of an odd shape. He sank back in his seat and stared with despair at the flashing LCD.

"11:52, 11:53, 11:53"

Goddam it. Perhaps it was time for a change of tactic. Again he looked at the window. Was it worth it? Should he really try and smash his way out? He looked at his bleeding hand and then at the reinforced glass. 'Yes,' he decided, 'I do value my wrists.' He knew there'd be little to no chance of breaking it with his hands, and he'd only inflict a great amount of pain and injury on himself if he tried. He'd have to use something else. Something stronger.

Legs are stronger.

The thought had barely crossed his mind; he was already in the passenger's side seat, bracing himself against the door and tucking his legs in close. He paused for as second, looking at the glass and asking himself again: 'Is it going to be worth it?" The answer that came back was 'yes'. He closed his eyes and grimaced.

"I'm sorry, baby," he whispered.

CRACK

Back jarring shock shot up his legs, and his head slammed forcefully into the passenger door. He gasped for breath, then glanced at the window. It had spider webbed, but was still very much intact. He'd have to try harder.

CRACK. A little more. CRUNCH THUD THUD. The glass was bending outwards. He continued to pummel it, becoming more frenzied with his attacks.

"Come ON!" he screamed. "Break you bastard!"

There was a sudden grinding noise, and the window moved no more. It had jammed somehow, and the special reinforcement was not going to break any further. Not for his feet, anyway. Jason howled in frustration and kicked his steering wheel instead.

HONK, came the response, almost scaring him out of his wits. He'd set of the horn by accident. He stared at the steering wheel, a line of the rules churning through his head.

"… use the horn and honk for help if you like. But, bear in mind that cars hold a limited battery charge, and you don't have the ignition key…

Fuck the ignition key, the sick bastard probably never even put it in the car. And fuck the battery to. What did he really need it for? In…

"11:55, 11:55"

… 5 minutes the pistons would start and he'd have no where to drive anyway? Time to see if anyone was around to help.

HONK!… HONK HONK HOOOOOONNNNNNNKK! "Somebody? ANYBODY! HELP! HEELPP!" HONK! HONK HHOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNKK…

Jason kept his palm pressed firmly on the steering wheel, teeth grinding with fear and anger.

…OOOOOONNNNNNNNNnnnnnnkk…

He noticed the drop in volume very quickly. Jesus, the battery really was low. He took his hand away and listened. Surely someone had to have heard that. Surely. It was as loud as all hell.

But no one came. Even though the sound must have been amplified quite dramatically but the warehouse itself, midnight just didn't seem to be a time when people enjoyed being out and about. And he realised he wasn't as keen on wasting the battery as he first thought.

Time for a tactic change again. Back to playing the game. The small key was still gripped firmly in his palm, making an imprint of its shape in his flesh. He uncurled his hand and looked at it. What was it for? What else in his car needed to be opened with a key? Not the doors? No the ignition? What? What? WHAT!

And finally it dawned on him. There was something else, but he'd forgotten about it because he never actually locked it. The glove box, in front of the driver's side seat. He should have checked that earlier. Jason quickly crawled back over the other side, and reached for the glove box handle.

Wait. He wasn't that gullible. He needed all the fingers he could spare. Cautiously he bent down to peer under the handle, searching for a glint in the dim light. There was none.

"Phew," he sighed, and reached for the box again. He gave the handle a tug, and discovered that yes, it was indeed locked. Gripping the little key with childlike anticipation, he fumbled around for the lock, poking it here and there until it finally clicked home.

Jason paused. What was inside? A trap? Would a rattlesnake spring from the box to embed its fangs in his throat? He gritted his teeth and turned the key. Escaping would be worth the risk.

With a swift motion, he flung open the box, and then lunged over to the driver's side. Nothing followed him. There was no BANG of a spring loaded weapon. It seemed the CD Sicko had a limit to his evil trickery. Jason carefully leaned over to look in the open box, and his eyes widened at what glinted back.

A scalpel. Shiny, clean and sterile. Perfect for cutting material… or the flesh of the living. He picked it up and analysed it. There was no note attached. What was he supposed to do with this? Another line of the rules began to replay in his mind.

"Your goal is to escape your car… more then one way to do this… none of them will be possible without a significant amount of pain, however…"

'NO,' his mind screamed. That was not going to be an option. Sure, being crushed to death would be bad, but to slit his own throat or wrists? Unfathomable. Not only that, it was the chicken's way out. He was not going to let this freaky life-lesson teacher get the better of him; he was going to beat this game. The LCD flashed at him; mocking, doom bringing

"11:57, 11:57, 11:58."

He was going to beat this game. But he had less then two minutes left to do so.