Zero Game - Brad Meltzer [84]
“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
YOU 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