So Close to You (So Close to You - Trilogy) (5 page)

“I saw some suspicious metal tubs that I want to check out near the north side. I want to see if they’re still there.” I’m driving Grandpa’s old Honda while he sits in the passenger seat consulting a local map and his father’s journal.

We pass the dunes and enter a thicker section of the forest. The low, gnarled branches of the trees look like something out of a dark fairy tale. They reach and stretch their tangled arms out to us as we pass.

“Listen to this.” Grandpa holds up the journal and peers at it through the bottom half of his glasses. “‘May eighteenth, nineteen forty-four. As a soldier it is not my job to question why I’m ordered to do something. I’ve made a promise to serve my country, in any way I can, no matter the outcome. This new project is an order, and I have yet to decide if it’s a moral one. I must remember that it’s not my duty to judge it, but my duty to complete the task that is asked of me.’ And above that he scribbled Tesla’s name in the margins. It must be connected to the Montauk Project. Why else would he keep mentioning Nikola Tesla?”

“I don’t know, Grandpa.”

“It
has
to be significant.” He grips the leather so hard his knuckles turn white. “The answers are out there. I just know it.”

We are nearing the end of Long Island, and when we turn that final corner, the lighthouse looms white and red and quiet in the early afternoon. To the right is the sign for Camp Hero State Park.

This part of Montauk has become a tourist attraction. But during World War II, the army established Camp Hero and built lookout towers, barracks, a power plant, and huge guns to protect shipping lanes. All the buildings were designed to resemble a small fishing village, so that from the air the enemy saw white clapboard, a fake church, and what looked like scattered beach houses.

The history of the base is everywhere, but it’s the rumors about the Montauk Project that give the camp its mysterious feeling, as though something dark and secret is always hiding out there in the trees. I like to think I’m immune to this feeling, though my mad dash through the woods last night might suggest otherwise. Nerves, I tell myself, as we drive straight through the gates until we reach a dirt parking lot that looks out over the bluffs. Grandpa quickly gets out of the car, waiting impatiently as I grab a sweater out of the backseat. I step out and pause to look down at the cliffs in front of us. The fog is thick, hiding the blue of the ocean, but I know it stretches in an endless arc, miles and miles of water.

I can hear waves crashing against the rocks below. It reminds me of a Walt Whitman poem I recently read in English class:

From Montauk Point

I stand as on some mighty eagle’s beak
,

Eastward the sea absorbing, viewing, (nothing but sea and sky,)

The tossing waves, the foam, the ships in the distance
,

The wild unrest, the snowy, curling caps—that inbound urge and urge of waves
,

Seeking the shores forever
.

That line,
seeking the shores forever
, always makes me think of my grandfather. Though he looks and looks, he never seems to find his shore, his peace.

Behind me I hear him call out. He’s standing near the trail that leads into the forest. I turn away from the ocean and trudge slowly up the dirt path until I reach his side. The radar tower hovers over our heads, the wire metal antenna partially hidden in the fog. Together we walk into the woods.

By four o’clock I am tired, sweaty, and sick of looking at trees. How my grandfather, a man in his midseventies, still has so much energy is a complete mystery. The
only
mystery in Camp Hero, as far as I’m concerned. Exhausted, I slump against a nearby picnic table.

Grandpa consults some papers he brought along. They are covered in black lines and rough notes:
Bunker. West forest near paved road. Possible entrance to Lab B
. I sigh and close my eyes. The clouds from earlier have turned into a light drizzle that makes the ground spongy and damp, the wet leaves glistening and heavy. The fog has lifted, but mist still curves in ribbons around the tree trunks.

“Maybe we should go home, Grandpa.” I tilt my head back to feel the rain fall softly on my eyelids. “It’s really starting to come down.”

“Nonsense. It’s barely raining. And we’re not done yet. I need to go back to the southwest bunker.”

“You’ve been there a million times before. Why would it be different this time?”

“It might be. We have to be thorough. I want to look at the door one more time. I think the concrete is starting to crack. We might be able to create another hole if we’re lucky.” He starts back through a narrow path in the woods, pushing aside branches as he walks. I straighten and reluctantly follow him.

The southwest bunker is a cement door that leads into the side of a small hill. It is eight feet tall and ten feet wide, with faded black lettering across the front:
DO NOT ENTER. CLOSED TO PUBLIC
. On either side of the door cement wings flare outward, two triangles that frame the hill. If you look at it from the side or the top, it appears to be a normal grass-covered mound. Only from the front can you see the cement structure set deep into the earth. There are bunkers like this scattered all over Camp Hero, some large and on the main road, some, like this one, hidden in the woods.

For some reason my grandfather keeps returning to this one spot. It’s at the end of a long, rambling, tick-ridden path, a hike that only the most diehard conspiracy theorists would attempt to navigate. The bunker is almost concealed by the dense leaves and curving branches of nearby trees. The warning sign on the front is practically unreadable, and the cement is chipped, with a small chunk missing near the top.

These old bunkers were probably storage facilities used to house weapons or equipment during World War II, designed to look like hills to disguise them from enemy fire. Some of them were attached to long-range guns that jutted out over the ocean, ready to fire on German submarines. But according to my grandfather, they’re actually secret doors that lead to an extensive underground network of labs and holding cells. Never mind that the cement looks less like a door and more like a permanent seal. Never mind that it is so overgrown that it clearly hasn’t been opened in fifty years.

When we reach the bunker, I sit on the wet grass and lock my arms around my jeans. My grandfather starts bustling near the entrance, running his hands over the sealed edges of the door. What is he looking for? A break? A crack? A secret button that will slide it open and reveal all of its secrets? And if he finds it, then what? This seventy-five-year-old man will wander inside to fight a reptoid?

As I wait, I compulsively line up nearby sticks into neat, corresponding rows. One stick facing me, one away. Soon they are perfectly organized piles. Satisfied, I start to arrange the leaves that are scattered around my legs.

Time passes. The rain is a steady, falling mist that coats my button-down gingham shirt and the sweater I have draped over my shoulders. Tiny drops of water cling to my hair and face. The rain starts to get heavier. I stand up, my sweater falling onto the damp grass.

“Grandpa, I think it’s time to go.”

He still hasn’t moved. He’s soaked; his sweater looks heavy and uncomfortable, and his hair is plastered to the back of his head. “Not now, Lydia.” He sounds distracted, absent.

I walk closer to him. We’re so far in the woods that all I can hear are birds chirping in the trees. The air smells like wet earth and rotting leaves.

“Grandpa.” I touch his shoulder gently. “We’ve been here for hours. It’s time to go now.” My voice is soft and coaxing.

“Just one more second, kiddo.”

“No, Grandpa.” I carefully grasp his hand. “Please, it’s time to go now.”

“If I could just get into this concrete. If I could just look inside.”

“I know, but you can’t. It’s not going to open.”

“There has to be a way.”

I lightly tug at his hand. “You’re not going to find it today.”

“But I was so sure it would be different. I was so sure.” His voice cracks.

“I know. But you saw the door. It’s sealed shut. Nothing has changed from the last time we were here.”

“But—”

“It’s time to go now.” I slowly lead him away from the bunker, his larger frame falling against mine. His manic energy from earlier is gone. This is always how we end up leaving Camp Hero—him dejected, me trying to hold him up and struggling against the weight.

We start through the path in the woods. “Lydia,” he says softly, “I hope you never have to know what it feels like to lose someone you love. I know you must think I’m a crazy old man sometimes, but I think you’d be surprised at what you would do if it were you. At what you would feel you
have
to do.”

I blink drops of water from my eyes. “I don’t think you’re crazy, Grandpa.”

“I know there’s something here. I know there is.” The conviction in his voice sends a chill across my skin. As I shiver in the cold rain, I realize I’ve left my sweater at the bunker.

“Grandpa, we need to turn ar—” But I stop before I finish the sentence. If we both go back there, I’ll never get him to leave again. “I forgot something. Can you go to the car? I’ll meet you there soon.”

He nods. I squeeze his arm before I let go. I stand watching as he shuffles down the path, a hunched gray figure fading into the trees. As soon as he’s out of sight, I walk away, ducking under branches and wiping raindrops from my cheeks.

In just a minute, I’m stepping out and into the clearing, pushing my dripping bangs off my forehead. My sweater is on the ground near the tree trunk I was leaning against, the cream-colored fabric curled into a wet ball. I pick it up and turn back to the path. But something catches my eye. I freeze and drop the sweater back to the ground.

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.

“I
s
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.