Zero Game (20 page)

The eight-thousand-foot level. Station code: thirteen-two. I remember it from the guy with the flat accent barely two minutes ago. That’s the code he yelled into the intercom to take the elevator down, which means that’s where the action is. Thirteen-two. Our next destination. I turn back to Viv.

She’s still glaring at the blue sign and the word
8000
. “Hurry up and call it in,” she mutters. “But if we get stuck down there,” she threatens, sounding just like her mom, “you’re gonna pray God gets you before I do.”

Wasting no time, I pick up the receiver and take a quick check of the ceiling for video cameras. Nothing in sight—which means we’ve still got some wiggle room. I dial the four-digit number that’s printed on the base of the rusty keypad:
4881
. The numbers stick as I press each one.

“Hoist . . .” a female voice answers.

“Hey, it’s Mike,” I announce, playing the odds. “I need a ride down to thirteen-two.”

“Mike who?” she shoots back, unimpressed. From her accent, I know she’s a local. From my accent, she knows I’m not.

“
Mike
,” I insist, pretending to be annoyed. “From Wendell.” If the Wendell folks are just moving in, she’s been having conversations like this all week. There’s a short pause, and I can practically hear the sigh leave her lips.

“Where are you?” she asks.

“The Ramp,” I say, reading it again from the sign.

“Wait right there . . .”

As I turn toward Viv, she reaches into her pocket and takes out a metal device that looks like a thin version of a calculator, but without as many buttons.

Reading my look, she holds it up so I can see it. Below the digital screen is a button marked
O
₂
%
. “Oxygen detector?” I ask as she nods. “Where’d you get that?”

She motions over her shoulder to the shelves in the hallway. The black digital numbers on the screen read
20.9
.

“Is that good or bad?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” she says, reading the instructions on the back. “Listen to this:
Warning: Lack of oxygen may be unnoticeable and will quickly cause unconsciousness and/or death. Check detector frequently
. You gotta be friggin’—”

The thought’s interrupted by the giant rumble in the distance. It’s like a train pulling into a station—the floor starts to vibrate, and I can feel it against my chest. The lights flicker ever so slightly, and Viv and I twist back toward the elevator shaft. There’s a sharp screech as the brakes kick in and the cage rattles toward us. But unlike last time, instead of continuing through the ceiling, it stops right in front of us. I glance through the cutout window in the yellow steel door, but there’s no light inside the cage. It’s gonna be a dark ride down.

“See anything?” the female hoist operator asks sarcastically through the receiver.

“Yeah . . . no . . . it’s here,” I reply, trying to remember the protocol. “Stop cage.”

“Okay, get yerself in and hit the intercom,” she says. “And don’t forget to tag in before you go.” Before I can ask, she explains, “The board behind the phone.”

Hanging up the receiver, I cross behind the short wall that holds the phone and fire alarm.

“We okay?” Viv asks.

I don’t answer. On the opposite side of the wall, short nails are hammered into a square plank of wood and numbered
1
through
52
. Round metal tags hang from nails
4, 31,
and
32
. Three men are already in the mine, plus however many entered from the level above. From my pocket I pull out my own two tags—both numbered
27
.
One in your pocket, one on the wall
, the guy out front said.

“You sure that’s smart?” Viv asks as I put one of my tags on the nail labeled
27
.

“If something happens, it’s the only proof we’re down there,” I point out.

Tentatively she pulls out her own tag and hooks it on the nail labeled
15
.

“Harris . . .”

Before she can say it, I cross back to the front of the cage. “It’s just insurance—we’ll be up and down in a half hour,” I say, hoping to keep her calm. “Now c’mon, your Cadillac awaits . . .”

With a sharp yank, I pull the lever on the steel door. The lock unhooks with a thunk, but the door weighs a ton. As I dig in my feet and finally tug it open, a mist of cold water sprays against my face. Up above us, a drumbeat of thick droplets bangs against the top of my construction helmet. It’s like standing directly under the edge of an awning during a rainstorm. The only thing between us and the cage is the metal safety gate on the cage itself.

“Let’s go . . .” I say to Viv, reaching down and twisting the latch at the bottom of the gate. With one last pull and a final metal shriek, the gate rolls open like a garage door, revealing an interior that reminds me of the Dumpster where I found Viv’s nametag. Floors . . . walls . . . even the low ceiling—it’s all rusted metal, slick with water and covered in dirt and grease.

I motion to Viv, and she just stands there. I motion again, and she hesitantly follows me inside, desperately looking for something to hold on to. There’s nothing. No banisters, no handrails, not even a fold-down seat. “It’s a steel coffin,” she whispers as her voice echoes off the metal. I can’t argue with the analogy. Built to carry as many as thirty men standing shoulder to shoulder below the earth and to withstand any random blasting that might be happening on any level, the space is as cold and bare as an abandoned boxcar. The thing is, as thick drops of water continue to drumbeat against my helmet, I realize there’s one thing worse than being stuck in a coffin: being stuck in a leaky coffin.

“This
is
just water, right?” Viv asks, squinting up at the mist.

“If it were anything bad, those other guys would never’ve gotten in,” I point out.

Flipping a switch on the front of her helmet, Viv turns on her mine light and stares down at the directions for her oxygen detector. I flip on my own light and approach the intercom, which looks like the buzzer outside my old apartment building. The only difference is, thanks to years of water damage, the entire front panel is covered with a thick mossy film that smells like wet carpet.

“You gonna touch that?” Viv asks.

I don’t have a choice. I press the large red button with just the very tips of my fingers. It’s caked in slippery goo. My fingers slide as I hit it.

“Stop cage,” I say into the speaker.

“You close the safety gate?” the woman’s voice buzzes through the intercom.

“Doing it right now . . .” Reaching up, I grab the wet nylon strap and drag the garage door back into place. It screeches against the rollers and slams with a metal clang. Viv jumps at the sound. No turning back.

“Just one more question,” I say into the intercom. “All the water down here . . .”

“That’s just for the shaft,” the woman explains. “Keeps the walls lubricated. Just don’t drink it and you’ll be fine,” she adds with a laugh. Neither of us laughs back. “Now, you ready or not?” she asks.

“Absolutely,” I say, staring through the metal grate at the emptiness of the basement. The way Viv’s light shines over my shoulder, I can tell she’s giving it one last look herself. Her light points toward the fire alarm and the telephone. On the other side of the wall are our metal tags. The only proof of our descent.

I turn around to say something but decide against it. We don’t need another speech. We need answers. And whatever’s down here, this is the only way we’ll get them.

“Going to thirteen-two,” I say into the intercom, using the same code from before. “Lower cage.”

“Thirteen-two,” the woman repeats. “Lowering cage.”

There’s a grinding of metal and one of those never-ending pauses you find on a roller coaster. Right before the big drop.

“Don’t look,” the woman teases through the intercom. “It’s a long way down . . .”

38

Y
OU THERE YET?”
Sauls asked, his voice breaking up as it came through Janos’s cell phone.

“Almost,” Janos replied as his Ford Explorer blew past yet another thicket of pine, spruce, and birch trees as he made his way toward Leed.

“What’s
almost?
” Sauls asked. “You an hour away? Half hour? Ten minutes? What’s the story?”

Gripping the steering wheel and studying the road, Janos stayed silent. It was bad enough that he had to drive this piece of dreck—he didn’t need to listen to the nagging as well. Flipping on the radio in the truck, Janos turned the dial until he found nothing but static.

“You’re breaking up . . .” he said to Sauls. “Can’t hear you . . .”

“Janos . . .”

Slapping his phone shut, he tossed it into the empty passenger seat and focused back on the road in front of him. The morning sky was crystal blue, but from the nonstop bending of the two-lane road, and the claustrophobia from the surrounding mountains, this was a tough drive during the day, let alone at night—especially if you’d never done it before. Add that to the late hour of Harris and Viv’s arrival, and they may’ve even turned off for a snack, or even some sleep. Whipping around yet another curve, Janos shook his head. It was a nice thought, but as he realized an hour ago when he blew past that diner in Deadwood, it’s one thing to stop for food or toiletries—it’s quite another to set up camp before you reach your destination. If Harris was smart enough to get them this far, he was also smart enough to make sure they didn’t stop until they got to the very end.

Welcome to Leed—Home of the Homestead Mine
, the billboard said along the side of the road.

Janos breezed right by it, recalculating the timeline in his head. Even if their jet got off immediately, they couldn’t have arrived before midnight. And if they didn’t get in until midnight, they had to sleep somewhere . . .

Making a sharp left into the parking lot of the squat sixties-era building, Janos read the signs in the neighboring storefront windows:
Out of Business . . . Lost Lease . . . Gone to Montana.
Sauls was at least right about that—Leed was definitely on its last legs. But as he parked his car and eyed the neon
Vacancy
sign out front, it was clear at least one place was still open:
the Gold House Motel
.

Janos opened his door and headed straight inside. On his left, he noticed the metal rack of tourist brochures. All of them were faded by the sun, every single one of them—except for the one entitled
The Homestead Mine.
Janos studied the rich red, white, and blue colors of the pamphlet. The sun hadn’t faded it a bit—almost as if . . . as if it’d just been exposed in the last hour or so.

“Hiya, there,” the woman at the front desk called out with a friendly smile. “So what can I do for you today?”

39

M
Y STOMACH LEAPS
into my chest as the cage plummets. For the first few feet, it’s no different from an elevator ride, but as we pick up speed and plunge down the shaft, my stomach sails up toward my esophagus. Jerking back and forth, the cage bangs wildly against the walls of the shaft, almost knocking us off our feet. It’s like trying to stand on a rocking rowboat as it bottoms out under you.

“Harris, tell her to slow down before—!”

The floor of the cage heaves violently to the left, and Viv loses her chance to finish the thought.

“Lean against the wall—it makes it easier!” I call out.

“What?!”
she shouts, though I can barely hear her. Between the pounding of the cage, the speed of our descent, and the rumble of the waterfall, everything’s drowned in a never-ending, screeching roar.

“Lean against the wall!”
I yell.

Taking my own advice, I lean back and fight to keep my balance as the rowboat rattles beneath me. It’s the first time I take a glance outside the cage. The safety gate may be closed, but through the grating, the subterranean world rushes by: a blur of brown dirt . . . then a flash of an underground tunnel . . . another blur of dirt . . . another tunnel. Every eight seconds, a different level whizzes by. The openings to the tunnels whip by so fast, I can barely get a look—and the more I try, the more it blurs, and the dizzier I get. Cave opening after cave opening after cave opening . . . We’ve gotta be going forty miles an hour.

“You feel that?”
Viv calls out, pointing to her ears.

My ears pop, and I nod. I swallow hard, and they pop again, tighter than before.

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.