Where would you escape to and how would you plan it?
Funny you should ask! So, I’m a complete research hound and a little bit of a weird adrenaline junkie (no skydiving though, that’s just cuckoo bananas), so when my friend April asked if I wanted to take an Urban Escape and Evasion class with her, I thought “why not!”
Why not indeed.
After two days of instruction, we were kidnapped, thrown in the back of a van, interrogated, hit with stun guns, hooded and duct taped. It was at this point that I growled to April, “You never mentioned the stun guns!” We were then given 5 minutes to escape, figure out where in Los Angeles we were dumped, and make our way to a safe house without being re-caught. First, we broke out of the tape. Then, we improvised weapons: I had a rock in a pillowcase and a knife in my bra. We took off running, hopped a fence, talked our way into a complete stranger’s car, then made it to a Ralph’s Market where, the night before, we had stashed a complete change of clothes. I went from my usual jeans-and-tee self to a surly Goth girl in all black with pink hair.
From there we figured out where we were and where we needed to go—it was 3 miles away, so we made friends with a lovely man in a meat truck and he took us to meet our “informant.” We were sent to our next location (a Little League game) where a Goth girl would stick out like a re-kidnap-able thumb. So, I took off all those clothes, wadded them up, taped them to my belly, and turned my scarf into a knee length dress: voila, a pregnant mommy at her kids’ little league game.
I had to pick a lock or two and cover some territory while completely committing to being a pregnant lady (read: waddle). Since cell phones could be traceable and we had no money, we had to talk a woman into borrowing her cellphone so we could make contact with our “extraction” team. We were tasked with a list of instructions: find a source of free food, find a free place to hole up for the night, etc. A pregnant lady would look weird waddling around Santa Monica Pier so I turned my dress into a skirt, threw on a tank and pulled down my hair: someone order a neo-hippie?
At the end of 8 hours we waltzed into our safe house (a pizza place), and I realized that if the need to disappear ever arises again, my plan is to escape to Hawaii and blend in as a beach-laying local. No stun guns allowed.
**Please note: this was a realistic but planned event. April and I were watched the whole time so PLEASE DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME!
Not everyone who goes into the woods comes out…
It was supposed to be a short hike, a way for Fletcher and Adam to kill time one boring afternoon. But when day turns into night and neither boy returns home, their town is thrown into turmoil.
Search teams comb through the forest. Then Avery, the police chief’s daughter, stumbles on a body. It’s Fletcher- disoriented, beaten, and covered in blood. He has no memory of the incident, and worse yet, he has no idea what happened to the still missing Adam…
As danger and suspicion grow, one thing becomes very clear. No one can escape the truth.
Excerpt from THE ESCAPE by Hannah Jayne:
“Hello?” she called out. “This is Avery Templeton with Search Team Five. Hello?”
The silence was complete, except for the steady thump of Avery’s heart. She took a step forward and slid on the loose earth, tumbling forward onto her hands and knees. Rocks tore skin and the knees of her jeans as she slid. When she stopped- eight, ten feet at the most- she was breathing heavily, her mind reeling. She did a quick assessment for damage. Other than the sting on her palms, nothing hurt.
So why was there blood on her hands?
She brought her hands towards her face and grimaced as the streaks of rust-colored blood-congealed, dirt stained-that covered her palms.
She wasn’t bleeding.
This wasn’t her blood.
It was then that she heard the slow gurgle, the sparse intake of breath followed by a low, throaty whisper. “Avery, you have to help me.”
Avery stared at the figure lying in front of her, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dim light.
The word came out in a desperate hiss, and he clasped a muddy, blood-caked hand around her wrist, his grip limp, his fingers trembling.
She gasped. “Fletcher?”
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