The Zero Game

by Brad Meltzer

  She wings it through the air, directly at me. As I catch it, there’s a loud screeching noise behind her. The cage rumbles back to life, rising up the elevator shaft and disappearing through the ceiling. Last plane out.

  “If you want to leave,” I tell her, “just pick up the receiver and dial the—”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she insists. Even now she won’t completely give up. “Just find what they’re doing,” she says for the second time.

  I nod her way, and my helmet light draws an imaginary line up and down her face. As I spin back toward the tunnels, it’s the last good look I get.

  41

  SO CAN I GET YOU a room?” the woman behind the motel’s front desk asked.

  “Actually, I’m just looking for my friends,” Janos replied. “Have you seen—”

  “Doesn’t anyone just want to rent a room anymore?”

  Janos cocked his head slightly to the side. “Have you seen my friends—a white guy and a young black girl?”

  The woman cocked her head right back. “Those’re your friends?”

  “Yes. They’re my friends.”

  The woman was suddenly quiet.

  “They’re my friends from work—we were supposed to fly in together last night, but I got delayed and—” Janos cut himself off. “Listen, I got up at four A.M. for my flight this morning. Now are they upstairs or not? We’ve got a big day ahead of us.”

  “Sorry,” the woman said. “They already checked out.”

  Janos nodded. He figured as much, but he had to be sure. “So they’re already up there?” he added, pointing at the tall triangular building at the top of the hill.

  “Actually, I thought they said they were headed to Mount Rushmore first.”

  Janos couldn’t help but grin. Nice try, Harris.

  “They left over an hour ago,” the woman added. “But if you hurry, I’m sure you can catch them.”

  Nodding to himself, Janos stayed locked on the headframe as he headed for the door. “Yeah . . . I’m sure I can.”

  42

  TEN MINUTES LATER, I’m ankle-deep in runny mud that, as my light hits it, shines with a metallic rust color. I assume it’s just oil runoff from the engine that runs along the tracks, but to be safe, I stick to the sides of the cave, where the mud flow is lightest. All around me, the walls of the rocky cave are a patchwork of colors—brown, gray, rust, mossy green, and even some veins of white zigzag through them. Straight ahead, my light bounces off the jagged curves of the tunnel, slicing through the darkness like a spotlight through a black forest. It’s all I’ve got. One candle in a sea of silent darkness.

  The only thing making it worse is what I can actually see. Up above, along the ceiling of the tunnel, the rustiest pipes I’ve ever seen in my entire life are slick with water. It’s the same on the walls and the rest of the ceiling. At this depth, the air is so hot and humid, the cave itself sweats. And so do I. Every minute or so, a new wave of heat plows through the tunnel, dissipates, and starts again. In . . . and out. In . . . and out. It’s like the mine is breathing. At this depth, the air pressure forces its way to the nearest blowhole, and as another huge belch of heat vomits up through the shaft, I can’t help but feel that if this is the mouth of the mine, I’m standing right on its tongue.

  As I move in deeper, another burning yawn hits, even hotter than before. I feel it against my legs . . . my arms . . . at this point, even my teeth are sweating. I roll up my sleeves, but it doesn’t do any good. I was wrong before—this isn’t a sauna. With this heat . . . it’s an oven.

  Feeling my breathing quicken, and hoping it’s just from the temperature, I glance down at the oxygen detector: 18.8%. On the back, it says I need sixteen percent to live. The footprints ahead of me tell me at least two others have made the trek. For now, that’s good enough for me.

  Wiping the newest layer of sweat from my face, I spend ten minutes following the curve of the railroad tracks back through the tunnel—but unlike the brown and gray dreariness of the other parts, the walls back here are filled with red and white graffiti spray-painted directly on the rock: Ramp This Way . . . Lift Straight Ahead . . . 7850 Ramp . . . Danger Blasting. Each sign has an arrow pointing in a specific direction—but it’s not until I follow the arrows that I finally realize why. Up ahead, my light doesn’t disappear up the never-ending tunnel. Instead, it hits a wall. The straightaway’s over. Now there’s a fork in the road with five different choices. Shining the light on each one, I reread the signs and examine each new tunnel. Like before, four of them are caked in dried mud, while one’s wet and fresh. Danger Blasting. Damn.

  Retracing my steps, I open my wallet, pull out my bright pink California Tortilla Burrito Club card, and wedge it under a rock by the entrance of the tunnel I just left—the mining equivalent of leaving bread crumbs. If I can’t find my way out, it doesn’t matter how far in I get.

  Following the sign that says Danger Blasting, I make a sharp right into the tunnel, which I quickly realize is slightly wider than the rest. From there, I stick with the train tracks, following the soupy mud through a fork that goes left, and another that goes right. Spray-painted signs again point to Lift and 7850 Ramp, but the arrows are now pointing in different directions. To be safe, I put down more bread crumbs at each turn. My Triple-A card at the first left, the scrap of paper that holds my list of movies to rent at the next right. The distances aren’t far, but even after two minutes, the jagged walls . . . the muddy train tracks—everything in every direction looks alike. Without the wallet bread crumbs, I’d be lost in this labyrinth—and even with them, I’m still half expecting to turn the corner and be back by Viv. But as I make a left and wedge my gym membership card under a rock, my eye catches something I’ve never seen before.

  Dead ahead . . . less than thirty feet . . . the tunnel widens slightly on the right, making space for a narrow turnoff that holds a bright red mining car that looks like an ice-cream pushcart with a sail attached to the roof. Up close, the sail is nothing more than a plastic shower curtain, and on top, the cart is sealed by a circular door that looks like a hatch on a ship, complete with one of those rotating steering wheel twist locks. There’s clearly something inside—and whatever it is, if it’s important enough to put a lock on it, it’s important enough for me to open.

  Shoving the sail out of the way, I grip the steering wheel with both hands and give it a hard twist. Red paint cracks off in my hands, but the hatch lets out a metal thunk. With a strong tug, I crack the hatch and pull it open. The smell hits me first. Stronger than the acidic stench of vomit . . . sharper than bad cheese . . . Ugggh . . . Crap. Literally.

  Inside the hatch is a mound of juicy brown lumps. The whole cart’s filled with shit. Tons of it. Stumbling backwards, I hold my nose and fight to keep myself from throwing up. Too late. My stomach heaves, my throat erupts, and a firehose of last night’s grilled cheese sprays across the earth. Bent over and grabbing my gut, I spray the ground two more times. All the blood rushes to my face as I spit out the last few chunks. My body lurches with one final dry heave . . . then another. By the time I open my eyes, my light’s shining off the long, extended strand of drool that dangles from my lower lip. I glance back up at the wagon, and it finally makes sense. The shower curtain’s for privacy; the hatch is the seat. Even this far underground, these guys still need a bathroom.

  Banging into the back wall, I fight for balance, my face still scrunched up from the whiff. I didn’t have time to close the hatch, and there’s no way I’m getting close enough to do it now. With a sharp shove, I push myself away from the wall and stagger back up the tunnel. On my left, there’s a shallow hole dug into the wall. My light shines directly into it, casting deep shadows along the jagged fangs of the hole. The light’s almost yellow in color. But as I pass the hole and continue even further into the cave, I’m surprised to see that the yellow tint is still there.

  Oh, no—don’t tell me it’s—

  A high-pitched buzz erupts above my forehead.
I immediately look up—but it doesn’t take long to realize the sound’s coming from my helmet. In front of me, the yellow glow from my light takes on an almost gold color. Before, I could see at least fifty feet in front of me. Now it’s down to thirty. I pull the helmet off my head and stare into the mine light. It pulses slightly, its color fading. I don’t believe it. My hands start shaking, the light quivers back and forth, and I stare down at the battery pack on my tool belt. Viv was right about the charging station . . . The problem is, as the light on my helmet hums once more and fades to a brown, it’s becoming increasingly clear I picked the wrong side.

  Spinning around as quickly as I can, I tell myself not to panic—but I can already feel the tightening in my chest. My breathing rises and falls at lightspeed, trying to compensate. I look up . . . down . . . side to side . . . The world’s starting to shrink. Along the walls and floor, the shadows creep in closer. I can barely see back to the red wagon in the distance. If I don’t get out of here fast . . .

  Darting forward, I sprint full speed back the way I came, but the thousands of rocks underfoot make it even harder to run than I thought. My ankles bend and turn with every step, fighting for traction. As the walls of the tunnel blur by, the helmet light jerks wildly in front of me, struggling to slice through the darkness like a dying flashlight through a cloud of black smoke. Worst of all, my breathing’s at full gallop. I’m not sure if it’s the depth of the mine or just plain fear, but within a minute, I’m completely winded. I’ve run marathons. This can’t be . . .

  A sharp burst of air leaves my lips, sending dust twirling through my still-fading light. I breathe in . . . then exhale just as fast. I can’t slow it down. I’m already feeling light-headed. No, don’t pass out. Stay calm, I beg myself. I don’t have a chance. I glance down at the oxygen detector, but before I can get a look, my foot clips a rock, and my ankle twists out from under me. Falling forward, I drop the detector and put out my hands to break my fall. With a crash, I skid across the ground, getting a fresh mouthful of dirt and a sting in my left wrist. I can still move it. Just a sprain. My mine light fades to amber, and I lose another eight feet of visual distance. Scrambling to my feet, I don’t even bother to stop for the detector. If I don’t get out of here now . . . Don’t even think about it.

  Picking up speed, I focus on the white gym membership card that’s dead ahead. Those bread crumbs are my only way out. My light shrinks to a fading candle. I can barely see twenty feet. At this rate, I don’t think I’ve got another thirty seconds.

  Locked on the gym card, I have to squint to see. There’s no time to take it slow—I’ve still got ten feet before I reach the archway it marks. If I can get through there, I can at least get one last look at the other bread crumbs so I know where to turn. The candle flickers, and it takes everything I have to ignore the burning pain in my chest. Almost there . . .

  To make it easier, I hold my breath, my eyes glued to the archway. Don’t let it go. Don’t lose it. As the light shrivels, I lean forward. I’m still not there—and as my hand reaches out for the opening in front of me, the entire cave and everything in it goes completely . . . and utterly . . . black.

  43

  WELCOME TO TWO QUAIL,” the maître d’ said as he cupped his hands together. “Do you have a—”

  “It should be under Holcomb,” Barry interrupted with perfect charm. “Party of two . . .”

  “Holcomb . . . Holcomb . . .” the maître d’ repeated, his glance lingering a second too long on Barry’s glass eye. “Of course, sir. The window table. Right this way.” Extending his arm to the left, he pointed Barry toward a meticulously set table that sat in a small, private nook at the front of the restaurant. Barry turned his head but didn’t take a step.

  “Sir, shall I—?”

  “We’ll be fine,” Dinah said, holding Barry’s elbow and walking him toward the table. “Thank you for offering.”

  As Barry tapped his cane, Dinah glanced around the restaurant, which was decorated to evoke the feeling of an eclectic but wealthy family home. Unmatched silverware and antique furniture gave it plenty of charm; its location within walking distance of the Capitol gave it plenty of lobbyist clients.

  With a quick pat-down of the table and its two ultrahip chairs—one wing-back, one art deco—Barry motioned for Dinah to sit, then took the seat opposite her.

  “The waiter will be with you shortly,” the maître d’ added. “And if you need additional privacy . . .” With a sharp pull, he tugged a cord by the wall, and a burgundy velvet curtain slid into place, separating the nook from every other table in the restaurant. “Enjoy your lunch.”

  “So what do you think?” Barry asked.

  Dinah craned her neck, staring through a thin opening in the curtain. She didn’t usually eat in places like this. Not on a government salary. “How’d you find this place?” she said.

  “I actually read about it in a book.”

  Dinah was silent.

  “Why, you don’t like it?” Barry added.

  “No . . . it’s fine . . . it’s great . . . I just . . . after Matthew . . .”

  “Dinah . . .”

  “He should be the one sitting here.”

  “Dinah . . .”

  “I can’t help it . . . our desks are so close they’re almost on top of each other—every time I look over at his stuff, I just keep . . . I keep seeing him. I close my eyes and . . .”

  “. . . and he’s standing right there, hunched over and scratching at that bird’s nest of blond hair. You think I don’t feel the exact same thing? I spoke to his mom the day it happened. And then Pasternak. That alone . . . I haven’t slept in three nights, Dinah. They’ve been my friends for years—ever since—” Barry’s voice cracked, and he stopped himself.

  “Barry . . .”

  “Maybe we should just get out of here,” he said, standing to leave.

  “No, don’t . . .” She reached for his sleeve and held tight.

  “You said it yourself.”

  “Just sit,” she begged. “Please . . . just sit.”

  Slowly, cautiously, Barry made his way back to his seat.

  “It’s hard,” she said. “We both know that. Let’s just take some time and . . . Let’s just try to have a nice lunch.”

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely,” she said as she picked up her water glass. “Let’s not forget—even with all this, we’ve still got a big day ahead.”

  44

  AS THE DARKNESS HITS, I keep my arm outstretched in front of me to stop myself from ramming into the wall. I never get there. My foot sinks into a divot, and I lurch off balance. Crashing into the ground, my knees tear across the rocky floor, making me feel every stray, pointy pebble. From the loud rip and the sudden pain across my kneecaps, I feel another fresh hole slice through my pants. I again put my hands out to break my fall, but the momentum’s too much. Sliding headfirst into home plate, I face-plant across the gravel as the rocks roll against my chest. By the time I open my eyes, I taste my ever-present mouthful of dust and dirt, but this time, I can’t see it. I can’t see anything. Anything.

  Coughing violently and still fighting to catch my breath, I feel a final hunk of yesterday’s grilled cheese hurl up my esophagus and slam into the back of my teeth. I spit it out and hear the wet splat against the floor. Lying on the ground until my breathing settles, I keep my eyes shut, trying to take a small victory in the fact that I at least was smart enough to leave bread crumbs. It doesn’t do any good. The darkness is already overwhelming. I hold my hand to my face, but nothing’s in front of me. I bring it close enough that I’m touching my eyebrows. Still nothing. This isn’t like shutting the lights in your bedroom and waiting for your eyes to adjust. I wave my hand back and forth. It’s like it doesn’t even exist. Still fighting for proof, I close my eyes, then open them. No difference.

  The light is gone. But sound is an entirely different story.

  “Viv!” I call out, shouting through the tunnels. “Viv, can
you hear me?!”

  My voice echoes through the chamber, eventually dying in the distance. The question goes unanswered.

  “Viv! I need help! Are you there?”

  Again, my question fades and dies. For all I know, she took the elevator back to the top.

  “Is anyone here?!” I scream as loud as I can.

  The only sound I hear is my own labored breathing and the grinding of rocks as I shift my weight. I grew up in a rural town of less than five hundred people, yet I’ve never heard the world as silent as it is right now, eight thousand feet below the earth. If I plan on getting out of here, I’m gonna have to do it myself.

  Instinctively I start to stand up, but quickly change my mind and sit back down again. I’m pretty sure the archway that’ll lead me back to the earlier part of the tunnel is in front of me, but until I’m positive, I’d better not wander around in the dark. The only thing helping me grab my bearings is the bitter smell of feces coming from the nearby wagon. As I follow the smell and trace it to the left, I’m crawling on all fours and patting the rocky ground like I’m looking for a lost contact lens. The smell is so awful, it’s starting to make my eyes water, but right now that pile of reeky shit is the only beacon I’ve got.

  Crawling forward, I hold one hand out, petting the air and searching for the wagon. If I can find it, I’ll at least know which way is out. Or at least, that’s the plan. My fingertips quickly collide with the jagged edges of a sharp, wet rock. But as I open my hand to get a better feel, I trace it upward, and it just keeps going. It’s not a rock. It’s the whole wall.

  Tapping the floor slightly, I search for the wagon, but it’s not there. It was on my right as I was coming in, so to get out, I keep heading left, feeling my way. Over my shoulder, there’s a metallic twang as my foot collides with something behind me. Still on all fours, I reach back and pat my way along the ground until I feel the thin spokes of the red wagon’s wheels. It doesn’t make sense.