The Zero Game

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.