Zero Game - Brad Meltzer [80]
Back in the hallway, I stick my head in a room where the door is off its hinges. It takes me a second to weave inside, but when I do, I stop midstep on the tile floor. In front of me are row after row of open industrial showers, but the way they’re set up, it’s like a gas chamber—the nozzles are just pipes sticking out of the wall. And though I know they’re just showers, when I think of the miners washing away another grueling day of work, it’s truly one of the most depressing sights I’ve ever seen.
“Harris, I got it!” Viv says, calling me back to the hallway, where she taps her pointer finger against a sign that says The Ramp. Below the words, there’s a tiny directional arrow pointing down another set of stairs.
“You sure that’s the—?”
She motions to the old metal punch clock that’s next to the sign, then looks back at the bulletin board and the refrigerator. No question about it. When miners used to fill this place, here’s where they started every day.
Down the stairs, the hallway narrows, and the ceiling is low. From the mustiness alone, I know we’re in the basement. There are no more rooms off to the side—and not a single window in sight. Following another sign for The Ramp, we dead-end at a rusted blue metal door that’s caked in mud and reminds me of the door on an industrial freezer. I give it a sharp push, but the door seems to push back.
“What’s wrong?” Viv asks.
I shake my head and try again. This time, the door cracks open slightly, and a sharp, hot gust of air bursts out, licking me in the face. It’s a wind tunnel down there. I shove a little harder, and the door swings open, its rusty hinges screaming as the full dry heat of the breeze bounces against our chests.
“Smells like rocks,” Viv says, covering her mouth.
Reminding myself that the man in the parking lot told us to come this way, I will myself to take my first step into the narrow concrete hallway.
As the door shuts behind us, the wind dies down, but the dryness is still in the air. I keep licking my lips, but it doesn’t help. It’s like eating a sand castle.
Up ahead, the hallway curves to the right. There are some full mop buckets along the floor, and a fluorescent light in the ceiling. Finally, a sign of life. Heading deeper into the turn, I’m not sure what we’re breathing, but as I taste the bitter air on my tongue, it’s dusty, hot, and bad. On the left-hand wall, there’s a 1960s-era Fallout Shelter sign with an arrow pointing dead ahead. Caked in dirt, you can still make out the black and yellow nuclear logo.
“Fallout shelter?” Viv asks, confused. “Eight thousand feet below ground? A little overkill, no?”
Ignoring the comment, I stay focused on the hallway, and as it straightens out, we get our second sign of life.
“What is it?” Viv says, hesitantly moving forward.
Up ahead, the right and left sides of the hall are covered from floor to ceiling with metal storage racks that look like shallow bookshelves. But instead of books, they’re filled with gear: dozens of knee-high rubber boots, thick nylon tool belts, and most important, mine lights and white construction helmets.
“Is this gonna fit?” Viv asks, forcing a laugh as she pulls a helmet onto her short-cropped Afro. She’s trying her best to act ready for this, but before she convinces me, she has to convince herself. “What’s this?” she adds, nervously tapping the metal clip on the front of her helmet.
“For the light,” I say, pulling one of the mine lights off the shelf. But as I attempt to grab the round metal bulb, I notice that it’s connected by a black wire to a red plastic case that holds a paperback-sized version of a car battery—and that the battery is connected to some clips on the shelf. This isn’t just a bookcase—it’s a charging station.
Unlatching the clips, I unhook