Chapter 1
Tick…...Tick…...Tick…...Tick…...Tick…...Tick…
He felt the vibration of the cold floor underneath his heavy limbs. His eyes fluttered open. What time is it?
He pushed himself into a seated position, his back resting on an upright, smooth wall. Who am I? How did I get here? Try as he could, he could not remember. He found his heart matching the rhythm of the ticking of the clock that, for some reason, seemed to tick faster than it was supposed to. AHH, he rubbed the back of his smooth head in an attempt to soothe the pounding headache. What is going on?
After a quick gaze at his surroundings, it was obvious to him that he was on a private jet. He figured that he either was a wealthy man, or a recently broke man. He released a small exhale of laughter at the thought, and felt his shoulders ease tension as he began to relax.
In an effort to jog his memory, he decided to do some exploring of the aircraft. He passed a small gym, which he thought was a creative addition to the jet. He glanced at his own frail arms and thought that perhaps he would take advantage of that later. He also passed an indoor spa, a large kitchen, and a quite luxurious lounge. To his dismay, there was no particularly useful information he could gather, and nothing unusual about the aircraft, other than the fact that the cockpit was empty and the plane was on autopilot.
The man asked the plane for the date and time, but voice recognition denied him access to any information other than that the aircraft was titled "Queen Industries Jet." He concluded that he couldn't be the pilot. Instead, he thought to himself, he must have a special mystery pilot, lurking among the shadows. His own dark sense of humor caused him to chuckle again, but he couldn't help but feel a small shudder run down his spine.
The man decided to follow the sound of the ticking. Maybe the clocks would have the date and time.
It was coming from an overhead carrier. One by one he began to open them.
Empty.
Empty.
Empty.
Wait, this one wasn't empty. No clocks, just a mangled piece of paper, and a dull wooden pencil. He examined the paper more closely and saw faint writing scribbled across the surface:
"Solve the riddle and you are free. The coordinates are:
AB: 15-16 _ _ : _ _
Good luck,
LL".
This was all getting very eerie. Was someone, this LL, holding him hostage? Why does he need to solve a stupid riddle?
He had to keep searching for any clue, for answers. Hurriedly, he started to open up every last overhead carrier. Until he finally reached the last one, and the ticking seemed to engulf the room.
Oh, God.
His stomach dropped to his feet. He should have seen this coming, but it was all too sudden to piece together in his mind. He had no reason to think anyone was trying to kill him, and on the contrary, he didn't even know who he himself was. Staring right at him was, not a clock, but a ticking explosive, attached to the plane, with a small keypad underneath it.
He thought he should do something, anything, maybe run, maybe try to hack the jet voice command system, or create a parachute and jump out of the plane. But for a moment that felt like an eternity, his limbs froze, as he entered a stage of miraging hypnosis staring at the numbers.
10:00
9:59
9:58
9:57
9:56
A sudden searing pain whipped across the back of the man's head and the world fell black before he hit the floor.