The Zero Game

by Brad Meltzer

  “I’ll never tell anyone, Harris.”

  “I didn’t think you would.”

  She thinks about it for a moment.

  “Did you really do that thing with the ice-cream cones?”

  “Only to the real jerk-offs.”

  “So . . . uh . . . hypothetically, if I was working at some unnamed burger place, and some woman with a bad fake tan and some trendy haircut she saw in Cosmo came in and ripped my head off, telling me I’d be working there for the rest of my life—just because her food was taking too long—if I went in the back and theoretically hocked a back-of-the-throat loogie into her Diet Coke, then mixed it in with a bendy straw, would that make me a bad person?”

  “Hypothetically? I’d say you get points for the bendy straw, but it’s still pretty darn gross.”

  “Yeah,” she says proudly. “It was.” Looking at me, she adds, “Nobody’s perfect, Harris. Even if everyone else thinks you are.”

  I nod, continuing to hold her hand. There’s only one light between us, but as long as we stay together, it’s more than enough. “So you ready to see what they’re digging for down here?” I ask.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “You always have a choice.”

  As she shoves her shoulders back, there’s a new confidence in her silhouette. Not from what she did for me—what she did for herself. She looks out toward the tunnel on my left, her mine light carving through the dark. “Just hurry up before I change my mind.”

  I plow forward along the rocks, deeper into the cavern. “Thank you, Viv—I mean it . . . thanks.”

  “Yeah, yeah, and more yeah.”

  “I’m serious,” I add. “You won’t regret it.”

  45

  KICKING THROUGH THE gravel of the Homestead mine’s parking lot, Janos counted two motorcycles and a total of seventeen cars, most of them pickup trucks. Chevrolet . . . Ford . . . Chevrolet . . . GMC . . . All of them American-made. Janos shook his head. He understood the allegiance to a car, but not to a country. If the Germans bought the rights to build the Shelby Series One and moved the factory to Munich, the car would still be the car. A work of art.

  Stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jean jacket and taking another hard glance at the trucks in the lot, he slowly sifted through the details: mud-covered wheel wells . . . dented rear quarter panels . . . beat-up front clips. Even on the trucks that were in the best shape, stripped wheel nuts betrayed the wear and tear. Out of the whole lot, only two trucks looked like they had ever met a car wash: the Explorer that Janos drove . . . and the jet black Suburban parked in the far corner.

  Janos slowly made his way toward the truck. South Dakota plates like everyone else’s. But from what he could tell, the locals didn’t buy their trucks in black. The beating from the sun was always too much of a paint risk. Executive cars, however, were an entirely different story. The President always rode in black. So did the VP and the Secret Service. And sometimes, if they were big enough names, so did a few Senators. And their staffs.

  Janos lightly put his hand on the driver’s-side door, caressing the polished finish. His own reflection bounced back at him from the shine in the window, but from what he could tell, no one was inside. Behind him, he heard a crush of loose gravel and, in an eye blink, spun to follow the sound.

  “Whoa, sorry—didn’t mean to surprise you,” the man in the Spring Break ’94 T-shirt said. “Just wanted to know if you needed some help.”

  “I’m looking for my coworkers,” Janos said. “One’s about my height . . .”

  “With the black girl—yeah, of course—I sent ’em inside,” Spring Break said. “So you’re from Wendell, too?”

  “Inside where?” Janos asked, his voice as calm as ever.

  “The dry,” the man said, pointing with his chin at the red brick building. “Follow the path—you can’t miss it.”

  Waving good-bye with a salute from his mining helmet, the man headed back toward the construction trailers. And Janos marched straight toward the red brick building.

  46

  RETRACING MY STEPS, I take Viv on the quick tour to catch her up to date.

  “They can run a phone line down here, but they can’t build an outhouse?” she asks as we pass the red wagon. With each step, she tries to maintain the brave face, but the way her sweaty hand is gripping my own . . . the way she’s always at least a half-step or so behind me, it’s clear adrenaline fades fast. When she picks up the oxygen detector from the floor and looks down at the readout, I expect her to stop dead in her tracks. She doesn’t. But she does slow down.

  “18.8?” she asks. “What happened to the 19.6 from the elevator?”

  “The cage connects to the surface—it has to be higher up there. Believe me, Viv, I’m not going anywhere that’ll put us in danger.”

  “Really?” she challenges. She’s done taking my word for it. “So where we are right now—this is no different than strolling by the Jefferson Memorial, taking photos with the cherry blossoms?”

  “If it makes you feel better, the cherry blossoms don’t bloom until April.”

  She looks around at the dark, mossy walls that’re splattered with mud. Then she shines the light in my face. I decide not to push back. For five minutes, we continue to weave slowly through the darkness. The ground slants slightly downward. As the never-ending hole takes us even deeper, the temperature keeps getting hotter. Viv’s behind me, trying to stay silent, but between the heat and the sticky air, she’s once again breathing heavy.

  “You sure you’re . . . ?”

  “Just keep going,” she insists.

  For the next two hundred or so feet, I don’t say a word. It’s even hotter than when we started, but Viv doesn’t complain. “You okay back there?” I finally ask.

  She nods behind me, and her light stretches out in front of us, bouncing up and down with the movements of her head. On the wall is another red spray-painted sign marked Lift, with an arrow pointing to a tunnel on our right.

  “You sure we’re not going in circles?” she asks.

  “The ground keeps going down,” I tell her. “I think most of these places are required to have a second elevator as a precaution—that way, if something goes wrong with one, no one gets trapped down here.”

  It’s a nice theory, but it doesn’t slow Viv’s breathing. Before I can say another word, there’s a familiar tinkle in the distance.

  “Leaky faucet?” Viv whispers.

  “No question, it’s running water . . .” The sound’s too faint to trace. “I think it’s coming from up there,” I add as she points her light in the distance.

  “You sure?” she asks, checking behind us.

  “It’s definitely up there,” I say, rushing forward and trying to follow the sound.

  “Harris, wait . . . !”

  I start to run. A series of ear-splitting chirps rips through the air. The sound is deafening, like a nuclear assault warning. I freeze and look around. If we tripped an alarm . . .

  Deeper down the tunnel, a bright headlight ignites, and an engine rumbles to life. It was down here all along, hidden in the dark. Before we can even react, it barrels toward us like an oncoming freight train.

  Viv tries to take off. I tug her back by the wrist. The thing’s moving so fast, we’ll never outrun it. Better that we not look guilty.

  The metal brakes grind to a halt a few feet in front of us. I follow Viv’s light as it shines across the side of the banged-up yellow car and the man who’s sitting inside it. The car looks like a miniature train engine without the roof. There’s a large spotlight attached to the hood. Behind the wheel is a bearded middle-aged man in a ratty old pair of overalls. He shuts the engine, and the chirping finally stops.

  “Sorry about the heat—we’ll have it fixed up in the next few hours,” he offers.

  “Fixed?”

  “You think we like it like this?” he asks, using his mine light to circle the walls and ceiling. “We’re a belch shy of a hundred and thirty d
egrees . . .” He laughs to himself. “Even for eight thousand, that’s hot.” I quickly recognize the flat South Dakota accent of the man who came down in the cage before us. Garth, I think. Definitely Garth. But what catches my attention isn’t his name—it’s the tone in his voice. He’s not attacking. He’s apologizing. “Don’t worry,” he adds. “We got this at the top of the list.”

  “Th-That’s great,” I reply.

  “And now that the air conditioner and exhaust’s in place, we’ll have you seeing your breath in no time. You won’t be sweating like that anymore,” he adds, motioning to our soaked shirts.

  “Thanks,” I laugh back, anxious to change the subject.

  “No, thank you—if it weren’t for you guys, this place woulda still been boarded up. Once the gold was plucked, we didn’t think we had a shot.”

  “Yeah, well . . . happy to help, Garth.” I throw in his name to get his attention—and to keep him from staring at Viv. As always, it does the trick. “So how’s it look otherwise?” I ask as he turns back to me.

  “Right on time. You’ll see when you get down there. Everything’s in place,” he explains. “I should really get back, though . . . We got another shipment coming in. I just wanted to make sure we had the space ready.”

  With a wave, he gets back in the man-car and starts the engine. The shrill scream of the chirping pierces the entire tunnel. Just a warning system as he drives through the dark—like the beeping sound when a big truck goes in reverse. As he races past us, the chirping fades just as fast.

  “Whattya think?” Viv asks as I watch him disappear in the darkness.

  “No idea. But from the sound of it, there’s no gold left down here.”

  Nodding, Viv heads deeper into the mine. I stay with the man-car, making sure it’s gone.

  “By the way, how’d you remember his name?” she adds.

  “I don’t know—I’m just good with names.”

  “See, nobody likes people like that.”

  Behind me, I hear her feet crunching against the rocks. I’m still focused on the man-car. It’s almost gone.

  “Hey, Harris . . .” she calls out.

  “Hold on, I want to make sure he’s—”

  “Harris, I think you should take a look at this . . .”

  “C’mon, Viv—just gimme a second.”

  Her voice is dry and flat. “Harris, I think you should take a look at this now . . .”

  I turn around, rolling my eyes. If she’s still worried about the—

  Oh, jeez.

  Up ahead . . . at the very end of the tunnel . . . I have to squint to make sure I’m seeing it right. The man-car was blocking it before, but now that it’s gone, we’ve got a clear view. Down at the lowest part of the tunnel, two brand-new shiny steel doors gleam in the distance. There’s a circular glass window cut into each one, and while we’re too far to see through them, there’s no mistaking the bright white glow that seeps out through the glass. Two pinholes in the darkness—like the fiery white eyes of the Cheshire cat.

  “C’mon . . .” Viv calls out, dashing toward the doors.

  “Wait!” I call out. It’s already too late. Her mine light bounces as she runs, and I chase behind the lightning bug as she weaves deeper into the cave.

  The truth is, I don’t want to stop her. This is what we came for. The actual light at the end of the tunnel.

  47

  SLAMMING BOTH HANDS against the polished steel double doors, Viv pushes as hard as she can. They don’t budge. Behind her, I stand on my tiptoes to get a look through the windows, but the glass is opaque. We can’t see inside. The sign on the doors says, Warning: Authorized Personnel Only.

  “Let me try,” I say as she steps aside. Shoving my shoulder against the center of the doors, I feel the right one give slightly, but it doesn’t go anywhere. As I step back for another pass, I see my warped reflection in the rivets. These things are brand-new.

  “Hold on a second,” Viv calls out. “What about ringing the doorbell?”

  On my right, built into the rock, is a metal plate with a thick black button. I was so focused on the door, I didn’t even see it. Viv reaches out to push it.

  “Don’t—” I call out.

  Again I’m too late. She rams her palm into the button.

  There’s a tremendous hiss, and we both jump back. The double doors shudder, the hiss slowly exhales like a yawn, and two pneumatic air cylinders unfold their arms. The left door opens toward me; the right door goes the other way.

  I crane my head to get a better look. “Viv . . .”

  “I’m on it,” she says, pointing her light inside. But the only thing that’s there—about ten feet ahead—is another set of double doors. And another black button. Like the doors behind us, there’s a matching set of opaque windows. Whatever’s giving off that light is still inside.

  I nod to Viv, who once again presses the black button. This time, though, nothing happens.

  “Press it again,” I say.

  “I am . . . It’s stuck.”

  Behind us, there’s another loud hiss as the original steel doors begin to close. We’ll be locked in. Viv spins around, about to run. I stay where I am.

  “It’s okay,” I say.

  “What’re you talking about?” she asks, panicking. The doors are about to squeeze shut. This is our last chance to get out.

  I scan the cave walls and the exposed rocky ceiling. No video cameras or any other security devices. A tiny sign on the top left-hand corner of the door says, Vapor-Tight Door. There we go.

  “What?” Viv asks.

  “It’s an air-lock.”

  There’s less than an inch to go.

  “A what?”

  With a heavy thunk, the outer doors slam shut and the cylinders lock into place. A final, extended hiss whistles through the air, like an old-fashioned train settling into the station.

  We’re now stuck between the two sets of doors. Twisting back to the black button, Viv pounds it as hard as she can.

  There’s an even louder mechanical hiss as the doors in front of us rumble. Viv looks back at me. I expect her to be relieved. But the way her eyes jump around . . . She’s hiding it well, but she’s definitely scared. I don’t blame her.

  As the doors churn open, a burst of bright light and a matching gust of cold wind come whipping through the hairline crack. It blows my hair back, and we both shut our eyes. The wind dies fast as the two zones equalize. I can already taste the difference in the air. Sweeter . . . almost sharp on my tongue. Instead of sucking in millions of dust particles, I feel a blast of icy air cooling my lungs. It’s like drinking from a dirty puddle, then having a glass of purified water. As I finally open my eyes, it takes me a few seconds to adjust. The light is too bright. I lower my eyes and blink back to normalcy.

  The floor is bright white linoleum. Instead of a narrow tunnel, we’re in a wide-open, stark white room that’s bigger than an ice-skating rink. The ceiling rises to at least twenty feet, and the right-hand wall is covered with brand-new circuit breakers—top-notch electricals. Along the floor, hundreds of red, black, and green wires are bundled together in electronic braids that’re as thick as my neck. On my left, there’s an open alcove labeled Changing Station, complete with cubbies for dirty boots and mine helmets. Right now, though, the alcove’s filled with lab tables, a half-dozen bubble-wrapped computer hubs and routers, and two state-of-the-art slick, black computer servers. Whatever Wendell Mining is doing down here, they’re still setting up.

  I turn to Viv. Her eyes are locked on the stacks of cardboard boxes piled all around the immaculate white room. On the side of each box, there’s one word written in black Magic Marker: Lab.

  She looks down at the oxygen detector. “21.1 percent.”

  Even better than what we had up top.

  “What the hell’s going on?” she asks.

  I shake my head, unable to answer. It doesn’t make any sense. I look around at the polished chrome and the marble tabletops and repla
y the question over and over in my head: What’s a multimillion-dollar laboratory doing eight thousand feet below the surface of the earth?

  48

  DOWN IN THE BASEMENT of the red brick building, Janos stopped at the charging station for the battery packs and mine lights. He’d been there once before—right after Sauls hired him. In the six months since, nothing had changed. Same depressing hallway, same low ceiling, same dirt-caked equipment.

  Taking a closer look, he counted two openings in the charging station—one on each side. Thinking they were playing the odds, they gambled, he realized. That’s how it always is, especially when people are panicking. Everybody gambles.

  As he moved further up the hallway, Janos stepped past the wooden benches and entered the large room with the elevator shaft. Avoiding the shaft, he headed for the wall with the phone and fire alarm. No one goes down without first making a call.

  “Hoist . . .” the operator answered.

  “Hey, there—was hoping you could help me out,” Janos said as he pressed the receiver to his ear. “I’m looking for some friends . . . two of them . . . and was just wondering if you sent them down in the cage, or if they’re still up top?”

  “From Ramp Level, I sent one guy down, but I’m pretty sure he was alone.”

  “You positive? He should’ve definitely been with someone . . .”

  “Honey, all I do is move ’em up and down. Maybe his friend went in up top.”

  Janos looked up through the elevator shaft at the level that was directly above. That’s where most people came in . . . but Harris and Viv . . . they’d be looking to keep it quiet. That’s why they would’ve followed the tunnel down here . . .

  “You sure he didn’t just go down by himself?” the operator asked.

  But just as Janos was about to answer, he stopped. His first wife called it intuition. His second wife called it lion’s instinct. Neither was right. It’d always been more cerebral that that. Don’t just follow your prey. Think like them. Harris and Viv were trapped. They’d be searching for a safety net . . . and they’d look everywhere to find it . . .