First Shift: Legacy (Shift, #1)(46)

“This is really f*cking important,” Mick said. He snapped his fingers in front of Donald. Two lines of workers filed past. Beyond them, a man sat in a small cubicle, a brush in one hand and a can of paint in the other. He was painting a set of steel bars a flat gray. A technician behind him was wiring something on the wall. Not everything looked like it was being finished precisely the way Donald had drawn it.

“Donny, listen to me. I’m dead serious. Today is the last day we can have this talk, okay? I need you to see what you built.”

Donald tore his gaze away from the workers. He shouldn’t be surprised that there were last minute details that needed attending to. The entire project had been rushed right up to the end, every deadline missed as they fought to catch up. He had suggested they wait and complete the build after the national convention. The Senator and a few others had nearly blown their tops.

Looking to Mick, he saw a similar mask of seriousness. His friend’s permanent and mischievous grin was gone, his eyebrows tilted. He looked, if anything, sad.

“Will you please come inside?” he asked.

Donald wanted to laugh and point out that he already was inside. But he knew what Mick meant. He meant deeper. Taking a full breath and fighting the urge to rush out to the hills and fresh air, away from the stifling crowds, Donald found himself agreeing. It was the look on Mick’s face, the feeling that he needed to tell Donald about a loved one who had just passed away, something deathly serious.

Mick patted his shoulder in gratitude as Donald nodded. He turned and merged with the line heading through the security office’s inner door, and Donald felt like he was seeing one of the thousands of rendered walk-throughs he’d performed in AutoCAD. It helped to imagine this. He wasn’t below the earth and concrete at all—he was in his office on Capitol Hill. He was at his desk, working his mouse, sending his bodiless avatar through his blueprints one final time. So when he gasped for air, he imagined the window behind his desk was open, the sounds of D.C. traffic wafting through on the fresh breeze—

“This way.”

Mick led him toward the central shaft. Donald slid his imaginary mouse forward and followed. They passed through the cafeteria, which was being used. It made sense. Workers sat at tables and ate off plastic trays, taking a break. The smell of food drifted from the kitchens beyond. Donald laughed. He never thought they’d be used at all. At least they would have this one go. Again, it felt like the convention had given this place a purpose. It made him happy. He thought of the entire complex devoid of life one day, all the workers milling about outside storing away nuclear rods, Atlanta buzzing with its everyday routine, while this massive building, a skyscraper that would have touched the clouds had it been above ground, would sit perfectly empty, plunged into the dirt like a forgotten needle.

Down a short hallway, the tile gave way to metal grating, and a broad cylinder dove straight through the heart of the facility. Anna had been right. It really was worth seeing. He really had wimped out.

They reached the railing of the central shaft, and Donald paused to peer over. The vast height made him forget for a moment that he was underground. On the other side of the landing, a conveyor lift rattled on its gears while a never ending series of flat loading trays spun empty over the top. It reminded Donald of the buckets on a waterwheel. The trays flopped over before descending back down through the building.

The men and women from outside deposited each of their containers onto one of the empty trays before turning and heading back out. Donald looked for Mick and saw him disappearing down the staircase.

He hurried after, his fear of being buried alive chasing him.

“Hey!”

His shoes slapped the freshly painted stairs, the diamond plating keeping him from skidding off in his haste. He caught up with Mick as they made a full circuit of the thick inner post. Tupperware containers full of emergency supplies—supplies Donald figured would rot, unused—drifted eerily downward beyond the rail as Donald raced to match Mick’s pace.

“I don’t want to go any deeper than this,” he insisted.

“Two levels down,” Mick called back up. “C’mon, man, I want you to see.”

Donald numbly obeyed. It would’ve been worse to make his way out alone.

At the first landing they came to, a worker stood by the conveyor with some sort of gun. As the next container passed by, he shot its side with a flash of red, the scanner buzzing. The worker leaned on the railing, waiting for the next one while the container continued its ratcheting plummet.

“Did I miss something?” Donald asked. “Are we still fighting deadlines? What’s with all the supplies?”

Mick shook his head. “Deadlines, lifelines,” he said.

At least, that’s what Donald thought his friend said. Mick seemed lost in thought.

They spiraled down another level, ten more meters of reinforced concrete between, thirty-three feet of wasted depth, all according to idiotic specifications that he knew all too well.

The next landing looked the same as the last. A young woman stood there with her scanner, two Tupperware containers stacked up by her feet. Her gun buzzed as she targeted the next one rumbling down the line. A good-looking young man came out of a pair of hinged doors and grabbed the top container. The two shared a few words while Mick grabbed the open door and waved Donald through.

Donald knew the floor. And not just from the plans he’d drawn. They had toured a floor like this in the factory where it had been built.