Zero Game - Brad Meltzer [104]
“. . . 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