The Zero Game

by Brad Meltzer

  I quickly realize I’m not just in the cellar. The way the wind whips around me . . . the echoing sound . . . I thought the air tunnels were running above and below me. But as I look around at the rounded curves of the walls . . . This entire room is one giant tunnel. I’ve been standing in it the entire time. That’s the breeze I feel on my face. And that’s why all the air-conditioning units are here. The subterranean tunnels burrow up from below us, empty into this room, and feed all the machines fresh air. Glancing up at the dark arches in the ceiling, I see they’re not dead ends at all. Beyond the darkness are the passageways that run up through the Capitol. This is the hub that feeds the spokes of the building. Like air-conditioning ducts, the tunnels are all interconnected. That’s why Janos’s footsteps echoed on my left and right. Tap the metal grille on your right and you’ll also hear it from behind. It’s a good thing to know—especially right now.

  Crouched down, I run between two parallel sets of air ducts and hear Janos’s footsteps in three different directions. All three of them are getting louder, but because of the whistling of the air tunnel and the faint churning of the machines, it’s still impossible to tell which set of footsteps is coming first. The only good thing is, Janos is having the same problem.

  “We’ve already got help coming!” I shout, hearing it echo behind me. “Capitol police are on their way!” I’m headed toward the left side of the room. With the help of the echo, Janos should hear it from the right. It’s not the greatest trick in the world, but right now all I need is to stall. Buy some time and let Viv ride in for the rescue.

  “Did you hear what I said, Janos?! They’re on their way!” I add, hoping to confuse him as my voice bounces back and forth through the room.

  Once again, he stays silent. He’s too smart to answer. That’s why I decide to get personal.

  “You don’t strike me as a fanatic, Janos—so how’d they get you to sign up? Something against the United States, or was it purely a financial decision?”

  There’s a sharp skritch as he pivots and backtracks. The sound’s coming from behind him. He’s definitely lost.

  “C’mon, Janos—I mean, even for a guy like you, there’s gotta be some limits. Just because a man has to eat, doesn’t mean you lick every piece of gum off the sidewalk.”

  The footsteps get louder, then softer as he second-guesses. Now he’s annoyed.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” I continue, stooping underneath a section of air vents and hiding behind one of the oval water heaters. “I understand life is about picking sides, but these guys . . . Not to stereotype, but I’ve seen you, Janos. You’re not exactly from their nest. They may want us dead now, but you’re not too far down the list.”

  The footsteps get slower.

  “You think I’m wrong? They’ll not only put a knife in your spine, they’ll know exactly which two vertebrae to stick it between to make sure you feel every single inch of the blade. C’mon, Janos, think of who we’re talking about . . . This is Yemen—”

  The footsteps stop.

  I lift my head, staring back across the room. Unreal. “They didn’t tell you, did they?” I ask. “You had no idea.”

  Again, silence.

  “What, you think I’m making it up? It’s Yemen, Janos. You’re working for Yemen!” I sneak out from behind the water heater and curve back in Janos’s direction, still crouching low. With a light tap, I hit another machine with the pliers. The more I keep moving, the harder it is to trace me. “How’d they hide it from you, anyway? Let me guess: they hired some CEO-type to make it look like an American company; then that guy goes out and hires you. How’m I doing? Hot? Cold? Feet on fire?”

  He still won’t answer. For once, he’s actually off balance.

  “Didn’t you ever see The Godfather? The hired guns don’t ever get to meet the real boss.”

  The last part’s just to get him raging. I don’t hear a footstep anywhere. He’s either taking it in or trying to follow the sound of my voice. Either way, there’s not a chance he’s thinking straight.

  Hunched over and staying completely silent, I weave behind a ten-foot-tall blower fan that’s encased in the dustiest metal grille I’ve ever seen. Connected to the grille is a long aluminum duct that runs a good twenty feet across the room, back toward the door. In front of me, the blades of the fan spin slowly, so when I time it just right, I can see through the length of the duct, out the other side. I take a peek, and almost swallow my tongue when I see the back of a familiar salt-and-pepper crewcut.

  Dropping down low, I squat beneath the grille of the fan. From where I’m crouched, I have a clear view that runs along the underside of the long duct. There’s no mistaking the Ferragamo shoes on the other end. Janos is dead ahead, and from the way he’s standing there, frozen in frustration, he has no idea I’m behind him.

  Gripping the needle-nose pliers in my sweaty fist, I keep to my squat and get ready to move forward. Within three seconds, I talk myself out of it. I’ve seen enough Friday the 13th sequels to know how this one ends. The man’s a killer. All I have to do is stay hidden—anything else is a bad-horror-flick risk. The thing is, the longer I sit here, the better the odds of him turning around and staring straight at me. At least this way, I’ve got surprise on my side. And after what he did to Matthew, and Pasternak, and Lowell . . . some things are worth the risk.

  Crouched down and steeling myself with one last deep breath, I slowly chicken-walk forward. One hand skates lightly against the side of the metal vent; the other holds tight to the needle-nose pliers. I duck down even lower to check underneath the length of the vent. Janos is still at the far end, struggling to pinpoint my location. From this section of the room, the rumble of the machines makes it harder than ever. Still, I take it as slow as possible, being cautious with every step.

  I’m about ten feet away. From my current angle, Janos’s upper body is blocked by the length of the vent. I can see the tip of his right shoulder. Moving in a bit closer, I get the back of his head and the rest of his arm. Less than five feet to go. He’s looking around—definitely lost. In his right hand is the black box, which looks like an old Walkman. In his left is the Senator’s nine iron. If I’m right, those are the only weapons he’s got. Anything else—a knife or a gun—he’d never get through the metal detector.

  He’s just a few feet away. I grit my teeth and raise the pliers. The wind whips through the tunnel, almost like it’s picking up speed. Below my feet, there’s a slight crackle. A stray piece of plaster snaps in half. I freeze. Janos doesn’t move.

  He didn’t hear it. Everything’s okay. Counting to myself, I shift my weight, ready to pounce.

  I’m so close, I can see the stitching on the back belt loop of his slacks, and the overgrown stubble on the back of his neck. I almost forgot how big he is. From down here, he’s a giant. I tighten my jaw and raise the pliers even higher. On three: one . . . two . . .

  Springing upward, I jack-in-the-box straight at him and aim the pliers at the back of his neck. In a blur, Janos spins around, holding the neck of the golf club and swatting the pliers from my hand. They go flying across the room. Before I can even react, he’s got his other arm up in the air. In one quick movement, it arcs downward. And the black box stabs directly at my chest.

  76

  HURRY . . . WE HAVE to get help!” Viv insisted, tugging on the sleeve of Barry’s jacket.

  “Relax, I already did,” Barry said, scanning the hallway. “They should be here any second. Now where’s Harris?”

  “There . . .” she said, pointing back to the machinery room.

  “What’re you pointing at? The door?”

  “You can see?” Viv asked.

  “Just outlines and shadows. Take me there . . .” Grabbing Viv’s elbow, he rushed forward, forcing her toward the door.

  “Are you nuts?” Viv asked.

  “I thought you said he was in there with Janos.”

  “I did, but—”

  “So what would you rather do—stay
out here and wait for the Capitol cops, or get in there and maybe save his life? He’s alone against Janos. If Harris doesn’t get help now, it’s not going to matter.”

  “B-But you’re blind . . .”

  “So? All we need right now are bodies. Janos is smart—if two people walk in, he’s not risking a confrontation. He’ll run. Now you coming or not?”

  Lost in the rush, Viv trailed Barry slightly as he tapped his cane through the hallway. Looking over her shoulder, she once again checked for the Capitol police. Barry was right. They were running out of time. Picking up speed, she quickly led him forward. She wasn’t leaving Harris alone.

  Halfway up the hall, they passed Lowell’s lifeless body, still sprawled against the ground.

  Viv glanced up at Barry. His eyes stared vacantly ahead. He couldn’t see it.

  “Lowell’s dead,” she said.

  “Are you sure?”

  She looked back at the frozen body. Lowell’s mouth was wide open, lost in a final, soundless scream. “I’m sure.” Turning back to Lowell, she added, “Was he the one who called you?”

  “What?”

  “Lowell. Was he the one who called you? Is that how you knew to come?”

  “Yeah,” Barry said. “Lowell called.”

  Barry’s cane collided with the base of the door. Viv reached out for the doorknob. As she pushed the door open, a cool burst of air brushed against her face.

  “How’s it look?” Barry whispered.

  Peeking inside, she made sure it was clear. Nothing had changed. The mop bucket. The propane tanks. Even the army blanket was right where she’d left it. Further back in the room, though, she heard a deep, guttural grunt. Like someone in pain.

  “Harris . . . !” she cried, tugging Barry into the room. As fast as she moved, he held tight to her elbow. She thought about leaving him behind, but Barry was right about one thing: There was still strength in numbers. “You sure you can keep up?” she asked as they rushed forward. To her surprise, even with Barry’s weight, it was easier to run than she thought.

  “Absolutely,” Barry said. “I’m right behind you.”

  Viv nodded to herself. He’d obviously done this before. But just as she turned away from Barry and focused back on the room, she felt his grip tighten around her elbow. At first, it was just an annoyance, but then . . .

  “Barry, that hurts.”

  His grip got tighter. She tried to pull her arm free, but he didn’t let go.

  “Barry, did you hear what I—?”

  She turned to face him, but he was already in midswing. Just as Viv spun toward him, Barry backhanded her across the face. The punch was wild, catching her just above the mouth. Her top lip split open, and as she fell off balance to the floor, she could taste the thick sourness of her own blood.

  She put her palms out to stop her fall, but it didn’t help. Crash-landing on her knees, Viv scurried on all fours to get away.

  “What, now you’re suddenly quiet?” Barry asked. He was right behind her.

  “Harris . . . Harris . . .” she tried to scream. But before she could get the words out, Barry wrapped his arm around her neck and pulled as tight as he could. Viv coughed uncontrollably, unable to breathe.

  “I’m sorry—did you say something?” Barry asked. “Sometimes I don’t hear so good.”

  77

  JANOS’S BLACK BOX comes lunging at my chest. My eyes are focused on the two fangs on the end of it. They’re going straight for my heart—the same place I saw him stab Lowell. Twisting, I try my best to slide out of the way. Janos is ruthlessly fast. I like to think I’m faster. I’m wrong. The needles miss my chest, but they still punch through my sleeve, sinking deep into my biceps.

  Pins and needles come first, shooting down my arm and rippling across my fingertips. Within seconds, the jolt begins to burn. A rancid stench that reminds me of burnt plastic fills the air. My own flesh and muscle burning.

  “Rrruhh!” I shout, thrashing violently and shoving Janos in the shoulder with my free arm. He’s so focused on protecting the black box, he almost doesn’t notice as I snatch the golf club from his other hand. Enraged, he raises the box for another pass. I swing wildly, hoping to keep him back. To my surprise, the tip of the club catches the edge of the box. It’s not a direct hit, but it’s enough for Janos to lose his grip. The box whips through the air, eventually crashing on the ground and cracking open.

  Wires, needles, and double-A batteries scatter across the floor as they roll under a nearby air-handler. I glance back at Janos. His unforgiving eyes tear me apart and are darker than I’ve ever seen them before. Moving toward me, he doesn’t say a word. He’s had enough.

  I once again raise the golf club like a bat. Last time, I surprised him. The problem is, Janos doesn’t get surprised twice. I swing the club at his head—he sidesteps it and hammers the knuckle of his middle finger into the bone on the inside of my wrist. A jolt of pain seizes my hand, and my fist involuntarily springs open, dropping the club. I try to make a fist, but I can barely move my fingers. Janos is having no such problem.

  Jabbing at me like a precision boxer, he drills the tip of his knuckle straight into the dimple on my upper lip. The hot burst of pain is unlike anything I’ve ever felt, and my eyes flood with water. I can barely see. Still, I’m not here to be his piñata.

  Barely able to close my hand, I lash out with a sharp punch. Janos leans left and grabs my wrist as it passes his chin. Taking full advantage of my momentum, he pulls me toward him, and in one quick movement, lifts my arm up and digs two fingers deep into my armpit. There’s a bee sting of pain, but before it even registers, my whole arm goes limp. Still not letting up, Janos holds tight to my wrist. He shoves it even farther to his left, then uses his free hand to ram my elbow to the right. There’s an audible snap. My elbow hyperextends. As my muscles continue to tear, it’s clear that whenever the feeling comes back, my arm isn’t gonna work the same way again. He’s picking me apart piece by piece—systematically short-circuiting every part of my body.

  Kneeling slightly, he lets out a throaty grunt and spears me with another jab that hits me right between my groin and belly button. The entire bottom half of my body convulses backward, sending me stumbling toward his corner of the room. As the back of my calves collide with a two-foot-tall section of vents, momentum again gets the best of me. Tumbling backwards, I trip over the vents and crash flat on my ass behind an enormous air-conditioning unit that’s easily the size of a garbage truck. On the side of the machine, a spinning black rubber conveyor belt chugs to life—churning fast, then suddenly slowing down, its short cycle complete. But as Janos thunders toward me, leaping over the vents and landing with a booming thump, his eyes aren’t on the conveyer belt . . . or even on me. Whatever he’s looking at is directly over my shoulder. Still on the floor, I spin around and follow his gaze.

  Less than twenty feet away, a curving, corroded brick wall marks the edge of the air tunnel—but the focus of Janos’s attention is what’s right below it: a dark open hole that’s wider than an elevator shaft, and from the looks of it, just as deep. I’ve heard about these but never seen one for myself. One of the subterranean tunnels that runs up from under the building. Here’s where the fresh air comes in from—underground, below the entire Capitol . . . and feeding from one of the few fresh air-intake areas. Some people say the holes run down hundreds of feet. From the yawning echo that whistles past me with a burst of fresh air, that doesn’t sound too far off.

  Next to the hole, a rectangular metal grate is propped upright, leaning against the wall. Usually, the grate serves as a protective cover, but right now, the only thing on top of the hole is a thin strip of yellow and black police tape with the word Caution on it. Whatever they’re doing down there, it’s clearly under construction. Of course, the Capitol takes its usual safety precautions: two yellow plastic Caution—Wet Floor signs are balanced right on the edge. The signs couldn’t keep out a sneeze—which is what Janos is counting on as he leans down and g
rips me by the collar of my shirt.

  Lifting me to my feet, he shoves me backwards toward the hole. My legs feel like they’re filled with oatmeal. I can barely stand. “D-Don’t do this . . .” I beg, fighting for my footing.

  As always, he’s stone silent. I try my best to stay on my feet. He again slams me in the chest. The impact feels like a sonic boom. I fight to hold on to his shirt, but I can’t get a grip . . . Stumbling backwards, I fly directly toward the hole.

  78

  WITH HIS ARM LOCKED tight around Viv’s neck, Barry clenched his teeth and leaned back, squeezing as hard as he could. As Viv fought for air, Barry could barely contain her. From the span of her shoulders, she was bigger than he’d remembered. Stronger, too. That was the problem with judging by shadows—you never really knew until you got your hands on someone and felt for yourself.

  Viv’s body squirmed and thrashed in every direction. Her nails dug into Barry’s forearm. Still gasping for a breath, she coughed a spray of saliva across his exposed wrist. Filthy, he thought. It only made him pull tighter, tugging her close. But just as he did, Viv reached over her shoulder and clawed at his eyes.

  Protecting his face, Barry turned his head to the side. That’s all Viv needed. Reaching back, she grabbed a clump of his hair and pulled with everything she had.

  “Aaahh . . . !” Barry roared. “Son of a—!” Leaning forward to stop the pain, he was up on his tiptoes. Viv bent down even further, making him feel every inch of her height. Barry was finally off balance. Throwing her weight backward, she launched herself toward the brick wall behind her. Barry’s back smashed hard into the bricks, but he still didn’t let go. Stumbling out of control, they plowed into the collection of propane tanks, which tumbled like bowling pins. Barry tried to tug Viv back, but as they continued to spin, Viv pushed off even harder. Flying backwards toward a nearby boiler, she felt her full weight crash into Barry as the tip of an exposed pipe drilled into his back, grinding into his spine.