For a moment Sam considered disobeying him. Why let themselves be ordered around if they were about to die, anyway? Maybe Go fuck yourself was the proper response.

What did any of it matter, though? Nobody was going to learn about any bravery of theirs down here. Maybe no one would ever know what had happened to them at all.

He turned, along with Dani. Lauren stayed facing forward, away from Pierce—she was holding her head again, her eyes focused on nothing in front of her. She seemed barely aware of what was going on. Dani went to her side, took hold of one shoulder and gently turned her toward Pierce. By then Sam had crossed back to where they were; the three of them faced the man as he came forward.

Pierce stopped ten feet away, the gun held level but aimed at no one in particular. He pointed at the fourth door along the opposite wall.

“Open that,” he said to Sam. “Zero zero three one five.”

Sam shook his head. “If you’re going to kill us, just … fucking…” He wanted to sound hard, but he couldn’t make it work. All he sounded like was a scared kid. He felt as if he were about a breath away from losing control and crying. He had never been half this afraid. Or angry.

It occurred to him that Pierce didn’t look very hard, himself. The guy’s lower jaw was shaking as if he were freezing, though the air down here was room temperature. Pierce’s eyes were wide and darting over the three of them. If not scared, he looked deeply uncomfortable, at least.

“You don’t really want to do this,” Dani whispered. “You don’t, I can tell. And you don’t have to.”

Pierce pointed the gun at her. “You open it.” He repeated the entry code.

“Mr. Pierce, please don’t do this,” Dani said. Her voice cracked and trembled. She could barely say the words. “Don’t do this to us. You don’t have to do this—”

“OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!” Pierce screamed, making all three of them jump.

Dani turned and ran to the fourth door, her breath hitching in sobs that echoed off the walls. Sam heard the metal keys clicking as she pressed them.

CHAPTER FIFTY

SEPTEMBER 2018

Dryden crossed to the shelves opposite the entry door. He moved his flashlight beam over each level, slowly and carefully. On the metal surface of each shelf were faint outlines of what had once been stored there. The bottoms of boxes and cans and plastic bags had left their impressions behind: clear shapes surrounded by the sparse dust that had once settled around them. Those outlines remained because there had been no new dust here in twenty-nine years. No people walking around, running hands through their hair, brushing their shirtsleeves against their sides.

Dryden studied the shapes, one shelf after another.

Nothing jumped out at him.