The Zero Game

by Brad Meltzer

  It’s been over three minutes since we left, and we’re still headed down what’s easily becoming the longest elevator ride of my life. On my right, the entrances to the tunnels continue to whip by at their regular blurred pace . . . and then, to my surprise, they start to slow down.

  “We there?” Viv asks, looking my way so her mine light shines in my face.

  “I think so,” I say as I turn toward her and accidentally blind her right back. It takes a few seconds for us to realize that as long as our lights are on, the only way we can talk is by turning our heads so we’re not eye to eye. For some people in the Capitol, that comes naturally. For me, it’s like fighting blind. Every emotion starts in our eyes. And right now, Viv won’t face me.

  “How we doing on air?” I ask as she looks down at her oxygen detector.

  “Twenty-one percent is normal—we’re at 20.4,” she says, flipping to the instructions on the back. Her voice wobbles, but she’s doing her best to mask her fear. I check to see if her hands are shaking. She turns slightly so I can’t see them. “Says here you need sixteen percent to breathe normally . . . nine percent before you go unconscious . . . and at six percent, you wave bye-bye.”

  “But we’re at 20.4?” I say, trying to reassure her.

  “We were 20.9 up top,” she shoots back.

  The cage bucks to a final halt. “Stop cage?” the woman asks through the intercom.

  “Stop cage,” I say, pressing the red button and wiping the slime against my tool belt.

  As I take my first peek through the metal safety gate, I look up at the ceiling, and my mine light bounces off a bright orange stenciled sign dangling from two wires: 4850 Level.

  “You gotta be kidding me,” Viv mumbles. “We’re only halfway there?”

  I press the intercom button and lean toward the speaker. “Hello . . . ?”

  “What’s wrong?” the hoist operator barks back.

  “We wanted to go to the eight thousa—”

  “Cross the drift and you’ll see the Number Six Winze. The cage is waiting for you there.”

  “What’s wrong with this one?”

  “It’s fine if you wanna stop at 4850, but if you plan on going deeper, you gotta take the other.”

  “I don’t remember this last time,” I say, bluffing to see if it’s changed.

  “Son, unless you were here in the 1900s, there ain’t nothin’ that’s different. They got cables now that’ll hold a cage at ten thousand feet, but back then, the furthest they could go was five thousand at a time. Now, step outside, cross the drift, and tell me when you’re in.”

  I tug on the safety gate, and it rolls up and out of the way. A downpour of water from the shaft forms a wet wall that partially blocks us from seeing out. Darting straight through the waterfall and feeling the freezing water pummel my back, I dash out into the mine, where the floor, walls, and ceiling are all made of tightly packed brown dirt. No different from a cave, I tell myself, stepping ankle-deep in a puddle of mud. On both sides of the tunnel as it stretches out in front of us are another twenty feet of side-by-side benches. They’re no different from the ones up top, except for the elongated American flag that someone’s spray-painted along the entire backrest. It’s the only patch of color in this otherwise muddy-brown underworld, and as we walk past the long stretches of bench, if I close my eyes, I swear I can see the ghostly afterimages of hundreds of miners—heads hung low, elbows resting on their knees—as they wait in the dark, beaten from another day spent huddled underground.

  It’s the same look my dad had on the fifteenth of every month—when he’d count up how many haircuts he’d need to make the mortgage. Mom used to scold him for refusing tips, but back then, he thought it was bad taste in a small town. When I was twelve, he gave up the shop and moved the business into the basement of our house. But he still had that look. I used to think it was regret for spending his whole day down there. It wasn’t. It was dread—the pain you feel from the thought that you have to do it again tomorrow. Entire lives spent underground. To cover it up, Dad put up posters of Ralph Kiner, Roberto Clemente, and the emerald green outfield at Forbes Field; down here, they use the red, white, and blue of the flag—and the bright yellow door of the cage that sits fifty feet dead ahead.

  Crossing the drift, we plow through the mud, heading straight for the door marked Winze No. 6.

  As I enter the new cage and pull the safety gate down, Viv scans the even tinier metal shoebox. The lower ceiling makes the coffin feel even smaller. As Viv cranes her neck downward, I can practically smell claustrophobia setting in.

  “This is Number Six Hoist,” the woman announces through the intercom. “All set?”

  I glance at Viv. She won’t even look up. “All set,” I say into the intercom. “Lower cage.”

  “Lower cage,” she repeats as the coffin starts to rumble. We both lean back against our respective walls, prepping ourselves for the freefall. A bead of water swells on the ceiling of the cage, drops to the ground, and plinks into a small puddle. I hold my breath . . . Viv looks up at the noise . . . and the floor once again plummets from beneath us.

  Next stop: eight thousand feet below the earth’s surface.

  40

  THE CAGE PLUNGES straight down as my ears once again pop and a sharp pain corkscrews through my forehead. But as I fight for balance and try to steady myself on the vibrating wall, something tells me my instant headache isn’t just from the pressure in my ears.

  “How’s our oxygen?” I call out to Viv, who’s cradling the detector in both hands and struggling to read as we’re jarred back and forth. The roaring sound is once again deafening.

  “What?” she shouts back.

  “How’s our oxygen?!”

  She cocks her head at the question, reading something on my face.

  “Why’re you suddenly worried?” she asks.

  “Just tell me what the percentages are,” I insist.

  She studies me again, soaking it all in. Over my shoulder, a different level in the mine flashes by every few seconds. Viv’s features sink just as fast. Her bottom lip starts to quiver. For the past five thousand-plus feet, Viv’s anchored herself to my own emotional state: the confidence that snuck us in here, the desperation that got us on the first cage, even the stubbornness that kept us moving. But the moment she gets her first whiff of my fear—the moment she thinks my own anchor is unmoored—she’s floundering and ready to capsize.

  “How’s our oxygen?” I ask again.

  “Harris . . . I wanna go up . . .”

  “Just give me the number, Viv.”

  “But—”

  “Give me the number!”

  She looks down at the detector, almost lost. Her forehead’s covered in sweat. But it’s not just her: All around us, the cold breeze that whipped through the top of the shaft is long gone. At these levels, the deeper we go underground, the hotter it gets—and the more Viv starts to lose it.

  “Nineteen . . . we’re down to nineteen,” she stutters, coughing and holding her throat. Nineteen percent is still within normal range, but it doesn’t calm her down. Her chest rises and falls in quick succession, and she staggers backwards into the wall. I’m still breathing fine.

  Her body starts to tremble, and not just from the movement of the cage. It’s her. The color drains from her face. Her mouth gapes open. As her shaking gets faster, she can barely stand up. A loud, empty gasp echoes from deep within her chest. The oxygen detector drops from her hand, smacking into the floor. Oh, no. If she’s hyperventilating . . .

  The cage rumbles down the shaft at forty miles an hour. Viv looks across at me. Her eyes are wide, begging for help. “Hhhh . . .” Gripping her chest, she lets out a long, protracted gasp and crumples to the floor.

  “Viv . . . !”

  I leap toward her just as the cage is slammed to the right. Off balance and knocked to the left, I crash into the wall shoulder first. A jolting pain runs down my arm. Viv’s still gasping, and the sudden jolt sends her fa
lling forward. Sliding on my knees, I dive at her, catching her just as she’s about to hit face first.

  I turn her around and cradle her body in my arms. Her helmet falls to the ground as her eyes dance wildly back and forth. She’s in full panic. “I got you, Viv . . . I got you . . .” I tell her, whispering the words over and over. Her head’s in my lap, and she’s trying to catch her breath, but the deeper we plummet, the more we feel the heat. I lick a puddle of sweat from the dimple of my top lip. It’s easily over ninety degrees down here.

  “Wh-What’s happening?” Viv asks. As she looks up at me, her tears run back toward her temples and are swallowed by her hair.

  “The heat’s normal . . . It’s just the pressure from the rocks above us . . . plus we’re getting closer to the earth’s core . . .”

  “What about oxygen?” she stutters.

  I turn to the detector, which is lying beside her. As my light shines across the digital screen, it goes from 19.6% . . . to 19.4%

  “Holding steady,” I tell her.

  “You lying to me? Please don’t lie . . .”

  This is no time to send her spiraling. “We’re gonna be fine, Viv . . . Just keep taking deep breaths.”

  Following my own instructions, I suck in a chest-full of steamy, hot air. It burns my lungs like a deep breath in a sauna. The sweat is pouring from my face, dripping off the tip of my nose.

  Kneeling behind Viv, who’s still on the ground, I take off her orange vest and jacket and push her forward so her head’s between her knees. The back of her neck is drenched, and a long, wet sweat stain runs down her spine, soaking through her shirt. “Deep breaths . . . deep breaths . . .” I tell her.

  She whispers something back, but as the cage hurtles downward, the rumbling of the walls is too loud for me to hear. One . . . two . . . three entrances to the tunnels whiz by within thirty seconds. We have to be close to seven thousand feet.

  “Almost there . . .” I add, putting both hands on her shoulders and holding her tight. She needs to know I won’t let go.

  As another tunnel whizzes by, my ears pop once more, and I swear my head’s about to explode. But just as I clench my teeth and shut my eyes, my stomach lurches back into place. There’s an audible screech and a sudden tug in forward momentum that reminds me of an airplane coming to a sharp stop. We’re finally slowing down. And as the cage settles into a slow rumble, Viv’s breathing does the same. From frenetic . . . to rushed . . . to the steady in-and-out of calm . . . The slower we go, the more she levels off.

  “There you go . . . just like that . . .” I say, again holding the back of her neck. Her huffing and puffing is smooth and steady as the cage jerks to its final stop. For a full minute, we dangle there, not moving. Viv is slumped in the bottom of the cage; the cage is slumped at the bottom of the shaft.

  Her breathing settles like a pond after a thrown rock ripples through it. “Hhhh . . . hhhh . . . hh . . .”

  I pull away, climbing to my feet. It takes Viv a moment, but she eventually turns around and offers an appreciative grin. She’s trying to be strong, but from the manic way she’s looking around, I can see she’s still freaked.

  “Stop cage?” the hoist operator asks through the intercom.

  Ignoring the question, I turn to Viv. “How you doing?”

  “Yeah,” she replies, sitting up straight, trying to convince me she’s fine.

  “It wasn’t a yes-or-no question,” I say. “Now, you wanna try again? How you doing?”

  “O-Okay,” she admits, biting her bottom lip.

  That’s all I need to hear. I head for the intercom. “Hoist, you there?”

  “What’s the word?” the operator begins. “Everybody happy?”

  “Actually, can you bring me back to the—”

  “Don’t!” Viv calls out.

  I let go of the intercom and stare her down.

  “We’re here,” Viv pleads. “All you gotta do is lift the stupid door . . .”

  “. . . after we get you back to the top.”

  “Please, Harris—not after we got this far. Besides, you really think it’s safer up there than down here? Up top, I’m alone. You said it yourself: We shouldn’t separate. Those were your words, weren’t they? Stay together?”

  I don’t bother to answer.

  “Now, c’mon,” she continues. “We came all this way—to South Dakota . . . down eight thousand feet—you’re gonna turn back now?”

  I stand there in silence. She knows what’s riding on this.

  “You okay down there?” the operator asks through the intercom.

  My eyes stay locked on Viv.

  “I’m fine,” she promises. “Now tell her you’re alright before she starts to worry.”

  “Sorry, Hoist,” I say into the intercom. “Just wanted to readjust some gear. All’s well. Stop cage.”

  “Stop cage,” the operator repeats.

  I raise the safety gate and give the outer door a shove. Like before, a hot wind seeps through the opening—but this time, the heat’s almost unbearable. My eyes burn as I squeeze them shut.

  “W-What’s going on?” Viv asks behind me. From the sound of her voice, she’s still on the floor, crawling outside.

  I push through the waterfall that drips from above the door and step out onto the dirt floor. Just like that, the vacuum of wind is gone, dissipating up the open shaft.

  Blinking the dust from my eyes, I turn back to Viv, who still hasn’t stood up. She’s sitting on a plank of wood outside the cage and staring up at the ceiling.

  Following her glance, I crane my neck up toward the highest part of the cave. The roof rises about thirty feet in the air and has an industrial light hanging from the center. “What’re you looking—?”

  Oh.

  “Is that doing what I think it’s doing?” Viv asks, still studying the ceiling.

  Straight above us, a long black crevice cuts through the ceiling like a deep scar that’s about to split open. Indeed, the only things holding it together—and thereby keeping the ceiling from splitting open—are nine-foot-long strips of rusted steel that’re bolted to the roof like metal stitches across the crevice. From this distance, they look like the girders from an old Erector Set—lined with circular holes that the bolts are riveted into.

  “I’m sure it’s just a precaution,” I say. “At this level . . . with all the pressure from above . . . they just don’t want a cave-in. For all we know, it’s just a simple crack.”

  She nods at the explanation but doesn’t move from her plank-of-wood seat.

  In front of me, the ceiling lowers and the walls narrow like a wormhole. It can’t be more than nine feet high, and just wide enough for a tiny car. Along the muddy floor, I follow the ancient metal train tracks. They’re more compact than standard tracks, but they’re in good enough shape to tell me how the miners are moving all that computer equipment through the mine.

  When I was twelve, Nick Chiarmonte’s dad took our entire sixth-grade class to Clarion, Pennsylvania, to tour a working coal mine. We got to go a hundred feet below the surface, which back then felt like we were burrowing toward the very center of the earth. When we got to the bottom, Nick’s dad said a mine was a living organism no different from the human body—a main central artery with dozens of intersecting branches that move the blood to and from the heart. It’s no different here. The train tracks run straight ahead, then branch out like spokes on a wheel—a dozen tunnels in a dozen different directions.

  I eye each one, searching to see if any of them are different. The mud on most of the tracks is caked and dried. But in the far left tunnel, it’s soaking wet, complete with a Sherlock Holmes boot print from the group that came down right before us. It’s not much of a lead, but right now it’s all we’ve got.

  “You ready?” I call back to Viv.

  She doesn’t budge.

  “C’mon . . .” I call again.

  She’s motionless.

  “Viv, you coming or not?”

  Shaking h
er head, she refuses to look up. “I’m sorry, Harris. I can’t . . .”

  “Whattya mean, you can’t?”

  “I can’t,” she insists, curling her knees toward her chin. “I just . . . I can’t . . .”

  “You said you were okay.”

  “No, I said I didn’t want to be upstairs all by myself.” It’s the first time she faces me. Beads of sweat dot her face—even more than before. It’s not just from the heat.

  Viv looks up at the crack in the roof, then over at an emergency medical stretcher that’s leaning against the wall. Bolted above that is a metal utility box with a sign that says: In case of serious injury, open box and remove blanket. Right now, as the temperature rises past a hundred, a blanket’s the last thing we need—but Viv can’t take her eyes off it.

  “You should go,” she blurts.

  “No . . . if we split up—”

  “Please, Harris. Just go . . .”

  “Viv, I’m not the only one who thinks you can do it—your mom—”

  “Please don’t bring her up . . . not now . . .”

  “But if you—”

  “Go,” she insists, fighting back tears. “Find what they’re doing.”

  With everything we’ve been through in the past forty-eight hours, it’s the first time I’ve ever seen Viv Parker completely paralyzed. I’m not sure if it’s the claustrophobia, her hyperventilating on the elevator, or just the simple, stark grasp of her own limitations, but as Viv buries her face in her knees, I’m reminded that the worst beatings we take are the ones we give ourselves.

  “Viv, if it makes you feel better, no one else would’ve made it this far. Nobody.”

  Her head stays buried in her knees.

  It wasn’t until my senior year of college—when my dad died—that I realized I wasn’t invulnerable. Viv’s learning it at seventeen. Of all the things I’ve taken from her, this is the one I’ll always hate myself for.

  I turn to leave, sloshing through the wet mud.

  “Take this,” she calls out. In her hand, she holds up the oxygen detector.

  “Actually, you should keep it here—just in case th—”