The Zero Game

“Whoa, sorry – didn’t mean to surprise you,” the man in the Spring Break ’94 T-shirt said. “Just wanted to know if you needed some help.”

“I’m looking for my coworkers,” Janos said. “One’s about my height…”

“With the black girl – yeah, of course – I sent ’em inside,” Spring Break said. “So you’re from Wendell, too?”

“Inside where?” Janos asked, his voice as calm as ever.

“The dry,” the man said, pointing with his chin at the red brick building. “Follow the path – you can’t miss it.”

Waving good-bye with a salute from his mining helmet, the man headed back toward the construction trailers. And Janos marched straight toward the red brick building.

46

RETRACING MY STEPS, I take Viv on the quick tour to catch her up to date.

“They can run a phone line down here, but they can’t build an outhouse?” she asks as we pass the red wagon. With each step, she tries to maintain the brave face, but the way her sweaty hand is gripping my own… the way she’s always at least a half-step or so behind me, it’s clear adrenaline fades fast. When she picks up the oxygen detector from the floor and looks down at the readout, I expect her to stop dead in her tracks. She doesn’t. But she does slow down.

“18.8?” she asks. “What happened to the 19.6 from the elevator?”

“The cage connects to the surface – it has to be higher up there. Believe me, Viv, I’m not going anywhere that’ll put us in danger.”

“Really?” she challenges. She’s done taking my word for it. “So where we are right now – this is no different than strolling by the Jefferson Memorial, taking photos with the cherry blossoms?”

“If it makes you feel better, the cherry blossoms don’t bloom until April.”

She looks around at the dark, mossy walls that’re splattered with mud. Then she shines the light in my face. I decide not to push back. For five minutes, we continue to weave slowly through the darkness. The ground slants slightly downward. As the never-ending hole takes us even deeper, the temperature keeps getting hotter. Viv’s behind me, trying to stay silent, but between the heat and the sticky air, she’s once again breathing heavy.

“You sure you’re…?”

“Just keep going,” she insists.

For the next two hundred or so feet, I don’t say a word. It’s even hotter than when we started, but Viv doesn’t complain. “You okay back there?” I finally ask.

She nods behind me, and her light stretches out in front of us, bouncing up and down with the movements of her head. On the wall is another red spray-painted sign marked Lift, with an arrow pointing to a tunnel on our right.

“You sure we’re not going in circles?” she asks.

“The ground keeps going down,” I tell her. “I think most of these places are required to have a second elevator as a precaution – that way, if something goes wrong with one, no one gets trapped down here.”

It’s a nice theory, but it doesn’t slow Viv’s breathing. Before I can say another word, there’s a familiar tinkle in the distance.

“Leaky faucet?” Viv whispers.

“No question, it’s running water…” The sound’s too faint to trace. “I think it’s coming from up there,” I add as she points her light in the distance.

“You sure?” she asks, checking behind us.

“It’s definitely up there,” I say, rushing forward and trying to follow the sound.

“Harris, wait…!”

I start to run. A series of ear-splitting chirps rips through the air. The sound is deafening, like a nuclear assault warning. I freeze and look around. If we tripped an alarm…

Deeper down the tunnel, a bright headlight ignites, and an engine rumbles to life. It was down here all along, hidden in the dark. Before we can even react, it barrels toward us like an oncoming freight train.

Viv tries to take off. I tug her back by the wrist. The thing’s moving so fast, we’ll never outrun it. Better that we not look guilty.

The metal brakes grind to a halt a few feet in front of us. I follow Viv’s light as it shines across the side of the banged-up yellow car and the man who’s sitting inside it. The car looks like a miniature train engine without the roof. There’s a large spotlight attached to the hood. Behind the wheel is a bearded middle-aged man in a ratty old pair of overalls. He shuts the engine, and the chirping finally stops.

“Sorry about the heat – we’ll have it fixed up in the next few hours,” he offers.

“Fixed?”

“You think we like it like this?” he asks, using his mine light to circle the walls and ceiling. “We’re a belch shy of a hundred and thirty degrees…” He laughs to himself. “Even for eight thousand, that’s hot.” I quickly recognize the flat South Dakota accent of the man who came down in the cage before us. Garth, I think. Definitely Garth. But what catches my attention isn’t his name – it’s the tone in his voice. He’s not attacking. He’s apologizing. “Don’t worry,” he adds. “We got this at the top of the list.”

“Th-That’s great,” I reply.

“And now that the air conditioner and exhaust’s in place, we’ll have you seeing your breath in no time. You won’t be sweating like that anymore,” he adds, motioning to our soaked shirts.