Brad Meltzer - The Zero Game

Level: Station Code

Top:1-1

Ramp:1-3

200:2-2

300:2-3

800:3-3

The list continues through all fifty-seven levels. Right now, we’re on the Ramp . At the very bottom, the list ends with:

Level: Station Code

7700:12-5

7850:13-1

8000:13-2

The eight-thousand-foot level. Station code: thirteen-two. I remember it from the guy with the flat accent barely two minutes ago. That’s the code he yelled into the intercom to take the elevator down, which means that’s where the action is. Thirteen-two. Our next destination. I turn back to Viv.

She’s still glaring at the blue sign and the word 8000 . “Hurry up and call it in,” she mutters. “But if we get stuck down there,” she threatens, sounding just like her mom, “you’re gonna pray God gets you before I do.”

Wasting no time, I pick up the receiver and take a quick check of the ceiling for video cameras. Nothing in sight — which means we’ve still got some wiggle room. I dial the four-digit number that’s printed on the base of the rusty keypad: 4881 . The numbers stick as I press each one.

“Hoist…” a female voice answers.

“Hey, it’s Mike,” I announce, playing the odds. “I need a ride down to thirteen-two.”

“Mike who?” she shoots back, unimpressed. From her accent, I know she’s a local. From my accent, she knows I’m not.

“ Mike ,” I insist, pretending to be annoyed. “From Wendell.” If the Wendell folks are just moving in, she’s been having conversations like this all week. There’s a short pause, and I can practically hear the sigh leave her lips.

“Where are you?” she asks.

“The Ramp,” I say, reading it again from the sign.

“Wait right there…”

As I turn toward Viv, she reaches into her pocket and takes out a metal device that looks like a thin version of a calculator, but without as many buttons.

Reading my look, she holds it up so I can see it. Below the digital screen is a button marked O 2% . “Oxygen detector?” I ask as she nods. “Where’d you get that?”

She motions over her shoulder to the shelves in the hallway. The black digital numbers on the screen read 20.9 .

“Is that good or bad?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” she says, reading the instructions on the back. “Listen to this: Warning: Lack of oxygen may be unnoticeable and will quickly cause unconsciousness and/or death. Check detector frequently . You gotta be friggin’-”

The thought’s interrupted by the giant rumble in the distance. It’s like a train pulling into a station — the floor starts to vibrate, and I can feel it against my chest. The lights flicker ever so slightly, and Viv and I twist back toward the elevator shaft. There’s a sharp screech as the brakes kick in and the cage rattles toward us. But unlike last time, instead of continuing through the ceiling, it stops right in front of us. I glance through the cutout window in the yellow steel door, but there’s no light inside the cage. It’s gonna be a dark ride down.

“See anything?” the female hoist operator asks sarcastically through the receiver.

“Yeah… no… it’s here,” I reply, trying to remember the protocol. “Stop cage.”

“Okay, get yerself in and hit the intercom,” she says. “And don’t forget to tag in before you go.” Before I can ask, she explains, “The board behind the phone.”

Hanging up the receiver, I cross behind the short wall that holds the phone and fire alarm.

“We okay?” Viv asks.

I don’t answer. On the opposite side of the wall, short nails are hammered into a square plank of wood and numbered 1 through 52 . Round metal tags hang from nails 4, 31 , and 32 . Three men are already in the mine, plus however many entered from the level above. From my pocket I pull out my own two tags — both numbered 27. One in your pocket, one on the wall , the guy out front said.

“You sure that’s smart?” Viv asks as I put one of my tags on the nail labeled 27 .

“If something happens, it’s the only proof we’re down there,” I point out.

Tentatively she pulls out her own tag and hooks it on the nail labeled 15 .

“Harris…”

Before she can say it, I cross back to the front of the cage. “It’s just insurance — we’ll be up and down in a half hour,” I say, hoping to keep her calm. “Now c’mon, your Cadillac awaits…”

With a sharp yank, I pull the lever on the steel door. The lock unhooks with a thunk, but the door weighs a ton. As I dig in my feet and finally tug it open, a mist of cold water sprays against my face. Up above us, a drumbeat of thick droplets bangs against the top of my construction helmet. It’s like standing directly under the edge of an awning during a rainstorm. The only thing between us and the cage is the metal safety gate on the cage itself.

“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.