The Zero Game

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.