The Zero Game

I tug on the safety gate, and it rolls up and out of the way. A downpour of water from the shaft forms a wet wall that partially blocks us from seeing out. Darting straight through the waterfall and feeling the freezing water pummel my back, I dash out into the mine, where the floor, walls, and ceiling are all made of tightly packed brown dirt. No different from a cave, I tell myself, stepping ankle-deep in a puddle of mud. On both sides of the tunnel as it stretches out in front of us are another twenty feet of side-by-side benches. They’re no different from the ones up top, except for the elongated American flag that someone’s spray-painted along the entire backrest. It’s the only patch of color in this otherwise muddy-brown underworld, and as we walk past the long stretches of bench, if I close my eyes, I swear I can see the ghostly afterimages of hundreds of miners – heads hung low, elbows resting on their knees – as they wait in the dark, beaten from another day spent huddled underground.

It’s the same look my dad had on the fifteenth of every month – when he’d count up how many haircuts he’d need to make the mortgage. Mom used to scold him for refusing tips, but back then, he thought it was bad taste in a small town. When I was twelve, he gave up the shop and moved the business into the basement of our house. But he still had that look. I used to think it was regret for spending his whole day down there. It wasn’t. It was dread – the pain you feel from the thought that you have to do it again tomorrow. Entire lives spent underground. To cover it up, Dad put up posters of Ralph Kiner, Roberto Clemente, and the emerald green outfield at Forbes Field; down here, they use the red, white, and blue of the flag – and the bright yellow door of the cage that sits fifty feet dead ahead.

Crossing the drift, we plow through the mud, heading straight for the door marked Winze No. 6.

As I enter the new cage and pull the safety gate down, Viv scans the even tinier metal shoebox. The lower ceiling makes the coffin feel even smaller. As Viv cranes her neck downward, I can practically smell claustrophobia setting in.

“This is Number Six Hoist,” the woman announces through the intercom. “All set?”

I glance at Viv. She won’t even look up. “All set,” I say into the intercom. “Lower cage.”

“Lower cage,” she repeats as the coffin starts to rumble. We both lean back against our respective walls, prepping ourselves for the freefall. A bead of water swells on the ceiling of the cage, drops to the ground, and plinks into a small puddle. I hold my breath… Viv looks up at the noise… and the floor once again plummets from beneath us.

Next stop: eight thousand feet below the earth’s surface.

40

THE CAGE PLUNGES straight down as my ears once again pop and a sharp pain corkscrews through my forehead. But as I fight for balance and try to steady myself on the vibrating wall, something tells me my instant headache isn’t just from the pressure in my ears.

“How’s our oxygen?” I call out to Viv, who’s cradling the detector in both hands and struggling to read as we’re jarred back and forth. The roaring sound is once again deafening.

“What?” she shouts back.

“How’s our oxygen?!”

She cocks her head at the question, reading something on my face.

“Why’re you suddenly worried?” she asks.

“Just tell me what the percentages are,” I insist.

She studies me again, soaking it all in. Over my shoulder, a different level in the mine flashes by every few seconds. Viv’s features sink just as fast. Her bottom lip starts to quiver. For the past five thousand-plus feet, Viv’s anchored herself to my own emotional state: the confidence that snuck us in here, the desperation that got us on the first cage, even the stubbornness that kept us moving. But the moment she gets her first whiff of my fear – the moment she thinks my own anchor is unmoored – she’s floundering and ready to capsize.

“How’s our oxygen?” I ask again.

“Harris… I wanna go up…”

“Just give me the number, Viv.”

“But-”

“Give me the number!”

She looks down at the detector, almost lost. Her forehead’s covered in sweat. But it’s not just her: All around us, the cold breeze that whipped through the top of the shaft is long gone. At these levels, the deeper we go underground, the hotter it gets – and the more Viv starts to lose it.

“Nineteen… we’re down to nineteen,” she stutters, coughing and holding her throat. Nineteen percent is still within normal range, but it doesn’t calm her down. Her chest rises and falls in quick succession, and she staggers backwards into the wall. I’m still breathing fine.

Her body starts to tremble, and not just from the movement of the cage. It’s her. The color drains from her face. Her mouth gapes open. As her shaking gets faster, she can barely stand up. A loud, empty gasp echoes from deep within her chest. The oxygen detector drops from her hand, smacking into the floor. Oh, no. If she’s hyperventilating…