A dull thud echoes down the shaft from the room above. It’s followed by another… and another. The noise stays steady but never gets louder. Just soft and even — like footsteps. Viv and I both freeze.
“Frannie, it’s Garth — cage is at station,” a man’s voice announces with a flat South Dakota accent. His voice reverberates through the shaft — it’s coming from the room above us.
“Stop cage,” a female voice replies, crackling through an intercom.
There’s a loud shriek of metal that sounds like a storefront’s rolltop gate being thrown open — the steel safety gate on the front of the cage. The footsteps clunk as they enter the cage. “Stop cage,” the man says as the door slides shut with another shriek. “Going to thirteen-two,” he adds. “Lower cage.”
“Thirteen-two,” the woman repeats through the intercom. “Lowering cage.”
A second later, there’s a soft rumble, and the benches behind us again start to vibrate. “Oh, shit…” Viv mutters.
If we can see them, they can see us. As the elevator plummets downward, we both race to opposite sides of the shaft. Viv goes left; I go right. The elevator screeches past us like a freefall ride in an amusement park, but within seconds, the thundering sound is muffled as it fades down the rabbithole. Ducked around the corner, I still don’t move. I just listen — waiting to see how long it takes. It’s a seemingly endless drop. Six Empire State Buildings straight down. And then… deep below us, the metal of the cage whispers slightly, lets out one final gasp, and finally — poof — disappears in the dark silence. The only thing we hear now is the calming swish of the water as it runs down the walls of the shaft.
Above my head, next to the rusted-out yellow door, there’s a short wall with a break-glass-in-emergency fire alarm. Next to the alarm is a phone receiver and a matching rusty keypad. There’s our way in.
I glance back at Viv, who’s got her hands up on her head and a dumbfounded look on her face as she studies the elevator. “Nuh-uh-uh,” she says. “Nuh-uh. No way you’re gettin’ me in that…”
“Viv, you knew we were going down…”
“Not in that rusty old thing, I didn’t. Forget it, Harris — I’m done. Gone. Nn-nnn. Momma don’t let me get on buses that run inta that bad a neighborhood…”
“This isn’t funny.”
“I agree… That’s why I’m keeping my black ass right here.”
“You can’t hide here.”
“I can… I will… I am. You go jump in the well — I’ll be the one up here turning the crank so we can at least get the water bucket back at the end of the day.”
“Where’re you gonna hide up here?”
“Plenty of places. Lots of ’em…” She looks around at the wooden benches… the narrow hallway… even the empty elevator shaft, where there’s nothing but a cascade of running water. The rest of the room is just as bare. There’re some old tires in the corner and an enormous wooden spool of discarded electrical wire in the back.
I cross my arms and stare her down.
“C’mon, Harris, stop...”
“We shouldn’t separate, Viv. Trust me on this — I can feel it in my gut: we need to stay together.”
Now she’s the one staring at me. She studies my eyes, then glances over at the intercom. Just behind us, leaning against the wall, is a bright blue sign with white stenciled letters:
Leveclass="underline" Station Code
Top:1-1
Ramp:1-3
200:2-2
300:2-3
800:3-3
The list continues through all fifty-seven levels. Right now, we’re on the Ramp. At the very bottom, the list ends with:
Leveclass="underline" Station Code
7700:12-5
7850:13-1
8000:13-2
The eight-thousand-foot level. Station code: thirteen-two. I remember it from the guy with the flat accent barely two minutes ago. That’s the code he yelled into the intercom to take the elevator down, which means that’s where the action is. Thirteen-two. Our next destination. I turn back to Viv.
She’s still glaring at the blue sign and the word 8000. “Hurry up and call it in,” she mutters. “But if we get stuck down there,” she threatens, sounding just like her mom, “you’re gonna pray God gets you before I do.”
Wasting no time, I pick up the receiver and take a quick check of the ceiling for video cameras. Nothing in sight — which means we’ve still got some wiggle room. I dial the four-digit number that’s printed on the base of the rusty keypad: 4881. The numbers stick as I press each one.
“Hoist…” a female voice answers.
“Hey, it’s Mike,” I announce, playing the odds. “I need a ride down to thirteen-two.”
“Mike who?” she shoots back, unimpressed. From her accent, I know she’s a local. From my accent, she knows I’m not.
“Mike,” I insist, pretending to be annoyed. “From Wendell.” If the Wendell folks are just moving in, she’s been having conversations like this all week. There’s a short pause, and I can practically hear the sigh leave her lips.
“Where are you?” she asks.
“The Ramp,” I say, reading it again from the sign.
“Wait right there…”
As I turn toward Viv, she reaches into her pocket and takes out a metal device that looks like a thin version of a calculator, but without as many buttons.
Reading my look, she holds it up so I can see it. Below the digital screen is a button marked O 2%. “Oxygen detector?” I ask as she nods. “Where’d you get that?”
She motions over her shoulder to the shelves in the hallway. The black digital numbers on the screen read 20.9.
“Is that good or bad?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” she says, reading the instructions on the back. “Listen to this: Warning: Lack of oxygen may be unnoticeable and will quickly cause unconsciousness and/or death. Check detector frequently. You gotta be friggin’-”
The thought’s interrupted by the giant rumble in the distance. It’s like a train pulling into a station — the floor starts to vibrate, and I can feel it against my chest. The lights flicker ever so slightly, and Viv and I twist back toward the elevator shaft. There’s a sharp screech as the brakes kick in and the cage rattles toward us. But unlike last time, instead of continuing through the ceiling, it stops right in front of us. I glance through the cutout window in the yellow steel door, but there’s no light inside the cage. It’s gonna be a dark ride down.
“See anything?” the female hoist operator asks sarcastically through the receiver.
“Yeah… no… it’s here,” I reply, trying to remember the protocol. “Stop cage.”
“Okay, get yerself in and hit the intercom,” she says. “And don’t forget to tag in before you go.” Before I can ask, she explains, “The board behind the phone.”
Hanging up the receiver, I cross behind the short wall that holds the phone and fire alarm.
“We okay?” Viv asks.
I don’t answer. On the opposite side of the wall, short nails are hammered into a square plank of wood and numbered 1 through 52. Round metal tags hang from nails 4, 31, and 32. Three men are already in the mine, plus however many entered from the level above. From my pocket I pull out my own two tags — both numbered 27. One in your pocket, one on the wall, the guy out front said.
“You sure that’s smart?” Viv asks as I put one of my tags on the nail labeled 27.
“If something happens, it’s the only proof we’re down there,” I point out.