The bunker is still tucked into the side of the hill, half covered with leafy branches. It all looks the same, except for one major difference: The cement door is wide-open.
CHAPTER 4
“Is anyone there?”
My voice is loud in the empty clearing. There’s no answer. I look around, searching for a park ranger, for anyone who can explain why this sealed concrete has suddenly opened. But I’m alone.
I inch closer. The cement has shifted, leaving a large, open space on the right side, as if it’s an ordinary sliding glass door that someone pushed to the left.
I pause within arm’s length. “Hello?” I call into the darkness of the open door. Shadows fall across the entrance, and I struggle to see into the space beyond. There are several black shapes, what looks like broken furniture spread across the floor.
Why is the seal open? And how? Goose bumps rise on my arms, and I know they have nothing to do with the cold rain. I should go get camp security and notify someone that the bunker is open. I should get my grandfather, though I know he would go barreling inside without a second thought. I automatically reach for my cell phone before I remember that I left it in the car.
I turn away, ready to find help, when I hear a low humming noise. I cock my head, concentrating on the sound. It’s a faint buzzing that echoes through the cement, and it sounds like it’s coming from somewhere far away. I take a step toward the bunker, and another one, until I’m standing in the entrance, framed by the concrete. The large, open space is shaped in a half circle, with a wide, curved back wall. The floor is littered with broken pieces of wood and layers of dust. The smell hits me. It’s musty and acidic, like old batteries.
There are metal doors all along the wall, some nailed shut, some boarded up, some falling off their hinges. I follow the low humming sound to the second one from the right. The door is a dull silver, the knob loose and hanging. I push at it but it doesn’t budge. I push harder, and it opens a crack.
Behind the door, stairs lead down into blackness. The strange noise is louder here, a long, drawn out beeping. I hesitate, glancing back over my shoulder toward the clearing. I shouldn’t go down the stairs. I should get help. But what if my grandfather is on to something, even if it’s not what he thinks it is? What if there really is something down there? For his sake, shouldn’t I keep going?
I take a step into the darkness and stop, my heart pounding in my ears. The constant sound is like a beacon calling me forward even as my common sense is telling me to get out of here. But I can’t walk away because of fear—this might be my only chance to ever see what’s inside one of these bunkers. If I leave now I’ll never know the truth of what’s at the bottom of this staircase.
I take another step down and put my hand on the wall, feeling something sticky and wet. I step down again, then push my foot forward as I search for the next step. Over and over I do this, descending into the black. The rhythm of my steps is broken only by the unevenness of my own breathing. I try to stay calm, but the farther I get from the light at the top of the stairs the more my heart races, the tighter my lungs feel.
The low, beeping becomes a wail, a steady stream of noise, louder and louder the deeper I go. When I’m halfway down, I start to see a blinking light. I move toward it, down and down and down. The air is getting colder, and the flashing light is red, perfectly timed with the relentless, piercing noise.
I stumble slightly at the bottom of the stairs. The red pulse is the only source of light. Through the hazy flashes I see that I’m in a wide, dingy hallway that leads to several scarred, metal doors. Most of them look sealed shut and have keypads next to the handles. I pause as I realize that the doors are new, not some relic from the past. People must have been here recently. Fear chokes at my throat, and I have to force myself to keep moving forward. With my hands stretched out in front of me I pull on each door as I pass. Nothing opens. Finally, at the very end of the short hallway, there’s a door ajar.
I peer around the doorway, then step through into a long, wide hallway. Even through the red flashing light, I can see that the corridor is white—white walls, ceiling, floors. The alarm is louder now, and the acidic smell is even stronger here. It burns my nose and makes my chest hurt.
I press back into the wall. Camp Hero is not just a state park. I turn my head to look at the door behind me. It’s still partially open, and this time the darkness beyond it looks more inviting than scary. It would be so easy to walk back up those stairs, to show my grandfather what I’ve found.
But when will I have this opportunity again? By the time I find my grandfather and hike back through the woods, the concrete bunker will probably be sealed shut. Then I’d never find out the truth of what’s happening down here. I’d be just another conspiracy theorist who saw an unbelievable “clue.” What if my grandfather is right? What if Grant is right? What if the Montauk Project has always been real?
I take a deep
