The Zero Game

Stepping deeper into the lab, I point to the trail of muddy footprints along the otherwise stark white floor. It weaves back and toward the far left corner of the room, then down another corridor in the rear. Only one way to go…

“I thought you said Matthew authorized the land transfer to Wendell a few days ago,” Viv points out as we head toward the back corner. “How’d they get all this built so quick?”

“They’ve been working on the request since last year – my guess is, that was just a formality. In a town like this, I bet they figured no one would mind the sale of a dilapidated mine.”

“You sure? I thought when you spoke to the mayor… I thought you said he was rumbling.”

“Rumbling?”

“Angry,” she clarifies. “Raging.”

“He wasn’t angry – no… he was just mad he wasn’t consulted – but for everyone else, it still brings life back to the town. And even if they don’t know the full extent of it, as far as I can tell, there’s nothing illegal about what Wendell’s done.”

“Maybe,” she says. “Though it depends what they’re building down here…”

As we head further down the hallway, there’s a room off to our right. Inside, a large wipe-off board leans against a four-drawer file cabinet and a Formica credenza. There’s also a brand-new metal desk. There’s something strangely familiar about it.

“What?” Viv asks.

“Ever see one of those desks before?”

She takes a long hard look at it. “I don’t know… they’re kinda standard.”

“Very standard.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“They just redid some of our staff offices. We got the same ones for all our legislative assistants. Those desks… they’re government issue.”

“Harris, those desks are in half the offices in America.”

“I’m telling you, they’re government issue,” I insist.

Viv looks back at the desk. I let the silence drive home the point.

“Time-out… time, time, time – so now you think the government built all this?”

“Viv, take a look around. Wendell said they wanted this place for the gold, and there’s no gold. They said they were here to mine, and there’s no mining. They said they’re a small South Dakota company, and they’ve got the entire friggin’ Batcave down here. It’s all right in front of our face – why would you possibly believe that they’re really who they say they are?”

“That doesn’t mean they’re a front for the government.”

“I’m not saying that,” I reply, heading back into the hallway. “But let’s not ignore the fact that all this equipment – the lab tables, the forty-thousand-dollar computer servers, not to mention what it took to build a pristine facility eight thousand feet underground… These boys aren’t kneeling in the dirt, shaking sand through their sifters. Whoever Wendell really is, they’re clearly hunting for something bigger than a few gold nuggets – which in case you missed…”

“… aren’t even here anymore. I know.” Chasing right behind me, Viv follows me up the hallway. “So what do you think they’re after?”

“What makes you think they’re after something? Look around – they’ve got everything they need right here.” I point to the stacks of boxes and canisters that line both sides of the hallway. The canisters look like industrial helium tanks – each one comes up to my chin and has red stenciled letters running lengthwise down the side. The first few dozen are marked Mercury; the next dozen are labeled Tetrachloroethylene.

“You think they’re building something?” Viv asks.

“Either that, or they’re planning on kicking ass at next year’s science fair.”

“Got any ideas?”

I go straight for the boxes that are stacked up to the ceiling throughout the hallway. There’re at least two hundred of them – each one tagged with a small sticker and bar code. I tear one off to get a closer look. Under the bar code, the word Photomultiplier is printed in tiny block letters. But as I open a box to see what a photomultiplier actually is, I’m surprised to find that it’s empty. I kick a nearby box just to be sure. All the same – empty.

“Harris, maybe we should get out of here…”

“Not yet,” I say, plowing forward. Up ahead, the muddy footprints stop, even though the hall keeps going, curving around to the left. I rush through the parted sea of photomultiplier boxes that’re piled up on each side and turn the corner. A hundred feet in front of me, the hallway dead-ends at a single steel door. It’s heavy, like a bank vault, and latched tightly shut. Next to the door is a biometric handprint scanner. From the loose wires that’re everywhere, it’s still not hooked up.