The Zero Game

by Brad Meltzer

  Gripping the edge of the short wall, Janos slid around to the opposite side, where a square piece of wood held fifty-two nails. He focused on the two metal tags labeled 15 and 27. Two tags. They were still together.

  Swiping both tags from the board, he looked down at them in his hand. Everybody gambles, he said to himself—but what’s most important to remember is that at some point, everybody also loses.

  49

  THINK THEY KNOW we’re here?” Viv asks, shutting off her mine light.

  I look around, checking the corners of the laboratory. The brackets are attached to the wall, and exposed wiring dangles down, but the surveillance cameras aren’t up yet. “I think we’re clear.”

  As I said, she’s done taking my word for it. “Hello . . . anyone home?” she calls out.

  No one answers.

  Stepping deeper into the lab, I point to the trail of muddy footprints along the otherwise stark white floor. It weaves back and toward the far left corner of the room, then down another corridor in the rear. Only one way to go . . .

  “I thought you said Matthew authorized the land transfer to Wendell a few days ago,” Viv points out as we head toward the back corner. “How’d they get all this built so quick?”

  “They’ve been working on the request since last year—my guess is, that was just a formality. In a town like this, I bet they figured no one would mind the sale of a dilapidated mine.”

  “You sure? I thought when you spoke to the mayor . . . I thought you said he was rumbling.”

  “Rumbling?”

  “Angry,” she clarifies. “Raging.”

  “He wasn’t angry—no . . . he was just mad he wasn’t consulted—but for everyone else, it still brings life back to the town. And even if they don’t know the full extent of it, as far as I can tell, there’s nothing illegal about what Wendell’s done.”

  “Maybe,” she says. “Though it depends what they’re building down here . . .”

  As we head further down the hallway, there’s a room off to our right. Inside, a large wipe-off board leans against a four-drawer file cabinet and a Formica credenza. There’s also a brand-new metal desk. There’s something strangely familiar about it.

  “What?” Viv asks.

  “Ever see one of those desks before?”

  She takes a long hard look at it. “I don’t know . . . they’re kinda standard.”

  “Very standard.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “They just redid some of our staff offices. We got the same ones for all our legislative assistants. Those desks . . . they’re government issue.”

  “Harris, those desks are in half the offices in America.”

  “I’m telling you, they’re government issue,” I insist.

  Viv looks back at the desk. I let the silence drive home the point.

  “Time-out . . . time, time, time—so now you think the government built all this?”

  “Viv, take a look around. Wendell said they wanted this place for the gold, and there’s no gold. They said they were here to mine, and there’s no mining. They said they’re a small South Dakota company, and they’ve got the entire friggin’ Batcave down here. It’s all right in front of our face—why would you possibly believe that they’re really who they say they are?”

  “That doesn’t mean they’re a front for the government.”

  “I’m not saying that,” I reply, heading back into the hallway. “But let’s not ignore the fact that all this equipment—the lab tables, the forty-thousand-dollar computer servers, not to mention what it took to build a pristine facility eight thousand feet underground . . . These boys aren’t kneeling in the dirt, shaking sand through their sifters. Whoever Wendell really is, they’re clearly hunting for something bigger than a few gold nuggets—which in case you missed . . .”

  “. . . aren’t even here anymore. I know.” Chasing right behind me, Viv follows me up the hallway. “So what do you think they’re after?”

  “What makes you think they’re after something? Look around—they’ve got everything they need right here.” I point to the stacks of boxes and canisters that line both sides of the hallway. The canisters look like industrial helium tanks—each one comes up to my chin and has red stenciled letters running lengthwise down the side. The first few dozen are marked Mercury; the next dozen are labeled Tetrachloroethylene.

  “You think they’re building something?” Viv asks.

  “Either that, or they’re planning on kicking ass at next year’s science fair.”

  “Got any ideas?”

  I go straight for the boxes that are stacked up to the ceiling throughout the hallway. There’re at least two hundred of them—each one tagged with a small sticker and bar code. I tear one off to get a closer look. Under the bar code, the word Photomultiplier is printed in tiny block letters. But as I open a box to see what a photomultiplier actually is, I’m surprised to find that it’s empty. I kick a nearby box just to be sure. All the same—empty.

  “Harris, maybe we should get out of here . . .”

  “Not yet,” I say, plowing forward. Up ahead, the muddy footprints stop, even though the hall keeps going, curving around to the left. I rush through the parted sea of photomultiplier boxes that’re piled up on each side and turn the corner. A hundred feet in front of me, the hallway dead-ends at a single steel door. It’s heavy, like a bank vault, and latched tightly shut. Next to the door is a biometric handprint scanner. From the loose wires that’re everywhere, it’s still not hooked up.

  Moving quickly for the door, I give the latch a sharp pull. It opens with a pop. The frame of the door is lined with black rubber to keep it airtight. Inside, running perpendicular to us, the room is long and narrow like a two-lane bowling alley that seems to go on forever. At the center of the room, on a lab table, are three hollowed-out red boxes that’re covered with wires. Whatever they’re building, they’re still not finished, but on our far right, there’s a ten-foot metal sculpture shaped like a giant O. The sign on the top reads, Danger—Do Not Approach When Magnet Is On.

  “What do they need a magnet for?” Viv asks behind me.

  “What do they need this tunnel for?” I counter, pointing to the metal piping that runs down the length of the room, past the magnet.

  Searching for answers, I read the sides of all the boxes that’re stacked around us. Again, they’re all labeled Lab. A huge crate in the corner is labeled Tungsten. None of it’s helpful—that is, until I spot the door directly across the narrow hallway. It’s not just any door, though—this one’s tall and oval, like the kind they have on a submarine. There’s a second biometric scanner that looks even more complex than the one we just passed. Instead of flat glass for a handprint, it’s got a rectangular box that looks as if it’s full of gelatin. I’ve heard of these—put your hand in the gelatin, and they measure the contour of your palm. Security’s getting tighter. But again, wires are everywhere.

  As I fly toward the door, Viv’s right behind me—but for the first time since we’ve been together, she grabs my sleeve and tugs me back. Her grip is strong.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I thought you’re supposed to be the adult. Think first. What if it’s not safe in there?”

  “Viv, we’re a mile and a half below the surface—how much more unsafe can it get?”

  She studies me like a tenth-grader measuring a substitute teacher. When I came to D.C., I had that look every day. But seeing it on her . . . I haven’t had it in years. “Look at the door,” she says. “It could be radioactive or something.”

  “Without a warning sign out front? I don’t care if they’re still setting up shop—even these guys aren’t that stupid.”

  “So what do you think they’re building?”

  It’s the second time she’s asked the question. I again ignore her. I’m not sure she wants to know my answer.

  “You think it’s bad, don’t you?” Viv says.

  Yanking free of her grip, I head f
or the door.

  “It could be anything, right? I mean, it didn’t look like a reactor in there, did it?” Viv asks.

  Still marching, I don’t slow down.

  “You think they’re building a weapon, don’t you?” Viv calls out.

  I stop right there. “Viv, they could be doing anything from nanotech to bringing dinosaurs back to life. But whatever’s in there, Matthew and Pasternak were both killed for it, and it’s now our necks they’re sizing the nooses for. Now you can either wait out here or come inside—I won’t think less of you either way—but unless you plan on living in a car for the rest of your life, we need to get our rear ends inside that room and figure out what the hell is behind curtain number three.”

  Spinning back toward the submarine door, I grab the lock and give it a sharp turn. It spins easily, like it’s been newly greased. There’s a loud tunk as the wheel stops. The door unlatches from the inside and pops open slightly.

  Over my shoulder, Viv steps in right behind me. As I glance back, she doesn’t make a joke or a cute remark. She just stands there.

  I have to push the door with both hands to get it open. Here we go. As the door swings into the wall, we’re once again hit with a new smell—sharp and sour. It cuts right to my sinuses.

  “Oh, man,” Viv says. “What is that? Smells like a . . .”

  “. . . dry cleaner’s,” I say as she nods. “Is that what was in those canisters out there? Dry-cleaning fluid?”

  Stepping up and over the oval threshold, we scan around for the answer. The room is even more spotless than the one we came from. I can’t find a speck of dirt. But it’s not the cleanliness that catches our eyes. Straight in front of us, an enormous fifty-yard-wide crater is dug into the floor. Inside the crater is a huge, round metal bowl that’s the size of a hot-air balloon cut in half. It’s like a giant empty swimming pool—but instead of being filled with liquid, the walls of the sphere are lined with at least five thousand camera lenses, one right next to the other, each lens peering inward toward the center of the sphere. The ultimate effect is that the five thousand perfectly aligned telescopes form their own glass layer within the sphere. Hanging from the ceiling by a dozen steel wires is the other half of the sphere. Like the lower half, it’s filled with thousands of lenses. When the two halves are put together, it’ll be a perfect spherical chamber, but for now, the top is still suspended in the air, waiting to be loaded into place.

  “What in the hell?” Viv asks.

  “No idea, but I’m guessing those things are the photomultiplier—”

  “What do you think you’re doing?” someone yells from the left side of the room. The voice is grainy, like it’s being broadcast through an intercom.

  I turn to follow the sound, but I almost fall over when I see what’s coming.

  “Oh, Lord . . .” Viv whispers.

  Rushing straight at us is a man in a bright orange hazardous-materials suit, complete with its own Plexiglas face plate and built-in gas mask. If he’s wearing that . . .

  “We’re in trouble . . .” Viv mutters.

  50

  YOU HAVE ANY IDEA what you’ve done?” the man yells, racing toward us in the orange containment suit.

  I want to run, but my legs won’t move. I can’t believe I led us into this—even the smallest amount of radiation could . . .

  The man reaches toward the back of his neck, then yanks the radiation hood off his head, tossing it to the ground. “These are supposed to be clean-room conditions—you know how much time and money you just cost us?!” he shouts, raging forward. If I had to guess his accent, I’d go with eastern European, but something’s off. He’s got sunken dark eyes, a black mustache, and silver wire-rimmed glasses. He’s also much thinner than he looked when the hood was on.

  “There’s no radiation?” Viv asks.

  “How’d you get down here?!” the man shoots back. Ignoring our orange vests, he takes one look at our clothes. Slacks and button-downs. “You’re not even mining people, are you?” Along the wall is an intercom with a telephone receiver. Right next to that is a red button. The man goes right for it. I know an alarm when I see one.

  “Harris . . .”

  I’m already on it. The man with the mustache dives for the alarm. I grab him by the wrist and shove him back. He’s stronger than I expected. Using my own weight against me, he whips me around, slamming me into the white concrete wall. My head jerks backward, and my helmet hits the wall so hard, I actually see stars. He adds a rabbit punch to my gut, hoping it’ll take the fight out of me. He doesn’t know me at all.

  His head’s exposed; I’m wearing an unbreakable mine light. Grabbing him by the shoulders, I ram my head forward, put all my weight behind it, and head-butt him with my helmet. The brim slices him across the bridge of his nose. As he staggers backwards, I look over at Viv.

  She stares at me blankly, unclear what to do.

  “Get out of here!” I tell her.

  “They’ll kill you for this!” the man with the mustache yells.

  Holding him tight, I grip his shoulder with one hand and wind up to hit him again. Thrashing wildly, he digs his fingers into my wrist. As I let go, he tries to make a run for it. He’s heading straight toward Viv—but before he gets there, I grab him by the back of his containment suit and yank him as hard as I can. He may not have been the one to kill Matthew and Pasternak, but right now he’s the only punching bag I’ve got. As he stumbles off balance, I give him one last shove—straight for the edge of the crater.

  “No . . . !” he screams. “It’ll all—!”

  There’s a loud, shattering crash as he clears the ledge and lands on half a dozen of the photomultiplier tubes. Sliding headfirst down the inside of the sphere, he smashes through every tube he hits like a human sled, clearing a path all the way to the bottom. The tubes crack easily, barely slowing him down . . . that is, until he smacks into the thick metal pylon at the base of the sphere. He looks up just in time to hit it face first. He tries to turn, but the pylon collides with his collarbone. There’s a sharp, muted crunch. Bone against metal. As his shoulder hits, his body spins awkwardly around the pylon—but the man doesn’t move. Facedown and unconscious, he’s sprawled across the base of the sphere.

  “Time to go!” Viv says, tugging me back toward the entrance.

  I look around the rest of the room. Across the sphere, there’re two more submarine doors. They’re both shut.

  “Harris, c’mon!” Viv begs, pointing down at the scientist. “The moment he gets up, he’s gonna howl at the moon! We gotta get out of here now!”

  Knowing she’s right, I turn around and leap out through the submarine door. Jackrabbiting out of there, we run back through the lab, retracing our steps past the mercury, past the tetrachloroethylene, and past the lab tables and computer servers. Just behind the servers, I notice a small bookshelf filled with black three-ring binders and empty clipboards. From the angle we originally came in, it was easy to miss.

  “Harris . . .”

  “Just a sec . . .”

  I shove the server out of the way and scan the binders as fast as I can. Like the clipboards, they’re all empty. All but one. On the top shelf is a black binder with a printed label that reads: The Midas Project. Pulling it off the shelf, I flip to the first page. It’s filled with numbers and dates. All meaningless. But in the top right-hand corner of the page are the words Arrivals/Neutrino. As I continue to flip, it’s the same on every page. Neutrino. Neutrino. Neutrino. I have no idea what a neutrino is, but I don’t need a Ph.D. to see the trend.

  “Harris, we gotta get out of here . . . !”

  I slap the book shut, tuck it under my arm, and follow Viv through the room.

  As we reach the first door of the air-lock, I toss the notebook to Viv and grab a fire extinguisher that’s leaning against the wall. If anyone’s waiting for us in the tunnel, we should at least have a weapon.

  Viv punches the black button that’s just beside the door, and we wait for the h
ydraulic hiss. As the doors swing open, we step into the air-lock, facing the next set of doors. Viv again pounds the black button.

  “Put your mine light on,” I tell her.

  She flips a switch, and the light blinks on. Behind us, the doors to the lab slam shut—but unlike before, the door in front of us doesn’t open. We’re trapped. We give it another second.

  “Why aren’t they—?”

  There’s another screaming hiss. The doors in front of us slowly wheeze open.

  “You think anyone’s out there?” she asks.

  I pull the safety pin on the fire extinguisher. “We’ll know in a second.”

  But as the doors finally open, there’s nothing there but the long darkness of the black tunnel. It’s not gonna last long. The moment someone finds the guy with the mustache, alarms’ll start ringing. The best thing we can do now is get moving.

  “Let’s go . . .” I call out, darting into the tunnel.

  “You know where you’re going?”

  “To find the cage. Once we get to the top, we’re as good as gone.”

  51

  STANDING IN FRONT of the empty elevator shaft, Janos narrowed his eyes at the steel cable, waiting for it to start churning. “Did you try to reach your guy down there?” he said into his cell phone.

  “I’ve been trying since early this morning—no answer,” Sauls replied.

  “Well, then don’t blame me when you don’t get what you want,” Janos said. “You should’ve called in security the moment I said they were headed this way.”

  “I told you sixteen times: Those locals down there . . . they may be thrilled to be working again, but they don’t know the extent of all this—we start calling in armed guards, and we might as well shove the microscope straight up our own ass. Believe me, the longer they think it’s a research lab, the better off we’ll all be.”