Brad Meltzer - The Zero Game

She doesn’t answer. She’s still watching the silver pickup.

“Please just promise me we’ll be fast,” she begs.

“Don’t worry,” I say, swinging my door open and hopping outside. “We’ll be in and out before anyone even knows it.”

Lightly tapping the side of his thumb against the top of the Hertz rental car counter in the Rapid City airport, Janos made no attempt to hide his frustration with the South Dakota way of life. “What’s taking so long?” he asked the young employee with the skinny Mount Rushmore tie.

“Sorry… just been one of those busy mornings,” the man behind the counter replied, shuffling through a short pile of paperwork.

Janos looked around the main lounge of the airport. There were a total of six people, including a Native American janitor.

“Okay — and when will you be returning the car?” the man behind the counter asked.

“Hopefully, tonight,” Janos shot back.

“Just a quick visit, eh?”

Janos didn’t answer. His eyes stared at the key chain in the man’s hand. “Can I just have my key?”

“And will you be needing any insurance on the-”

Janos’s hand shot out like a dart, gripping the man’s wrist and swiping the key from his hand.

“We done?” Janos growled.

“I–It’s a blue Ford Explorer… in spot fifteen,” the man said as Janos ripped a map from the pad on the counter and stormed toward the exit. “You have a good day, now, Mr…” The man looked down at the photocopy of the New Jersey driver’s license Janos had given him. Robert Franklin. “You have a good day, now, Mr. Franklin. And welcome to South Dakota!”

Walking as fast as I can with my briefing book in hand, I keep up my Senator stride as we head for the red brick building. The book is actually the owner’s manual from the glove compartment of the Suburban, but at the pace we’re moving, no one’ll ever get a good look. On my right, Viv completes the picture, trailing behind me like the faithful aide to my Wendell executive. Between her height and her newly pressed navy suit, she looks old enough to play the part. I tell her not to smile, just to be safe. The only way to belong is to act like you belong. But the closer we get to the brick building, the more we realize there’s almost no one around to call us out and scream bullshit. Unlike the trailers behind us, the pathways over here are all empty.

“You think they’re underground?” Viv asks, noticing the sudden decrease in population.

“Hard to say; I counted sixteen cars in the parking lot — plus all that machinery. Maybe all the work’s being done back by the trailers.”

“Or maybe whatever’s up here is something they don’t want tons of people to see.”

I pick up my pace; Viv matches my speed. As we turn the corner of the brick building, there’s a door in front and a metal grated staircase that heads down and into an entrance on the side of the building. Viv looks my way. I agree. Sticking to the back roads, we both go for the stairs. As we step down, little bits of rock slide from our shoes through the grating and down to a concrete alley twenty feet below. It’s not even close to the drop we’re about to take. I look over my shoulder. Staring through the steps, Viv starts slowing down.

“Viv…”

“I’m fine,” she calls out, even though I never asked the question.

Inside the red brick building, we cross through a dark tiled hallway and enter a kitchenette that feels like it’s been picked over and left for dead. The vinyl floor is cracked, the refrigerator is open and empty, and a cork bulletin board sits flat on the floor, filled with brittle, yellowed union notices that’re dated at least two years ago. Whatever these guys are up to, they’ve only come back here recently.

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 the battery, pull it from the shelf, and slide it onto one of the nearby tool belts. As Viv fastens it around her waist, I thread the wire over the back of her shoulder and hook the light onto the front of her helmet. Now she’s all set. An official miner.