The Truth Buried Deep Inside My Father’s Empty New Jersey Coffin
I looked at the dark opening behind the bookshelf.
It looked like a throat waiting to swallow me.
“Let’s go,” I said.
I helped Mara up again, and we followed my father down a steep flight of concrete stairs.
The air grew colder, smelling of concrete dust and ozone.
At the bottom of the stairs was a small bunker, crowded with old computer monitors and server racks.
It looked like a command center from the late nineties.
A single green terminal screen flickered in the center of the room.
“I kept the power running on a closed generator loop,” Raymond said, flipping a series of switches.
The servers hummed to life, their cooling fans whining in the damp air.
He slotted the silver thumb drive into a port on the side of the terminal.
The green screen flashed, rows of code scrolling down at high speed.
A prompt appeared in the center of the screen: *INPUT ACCESS KEY.*
Raymond turned to me, his face pale under the fluorescent lights.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Just do it,” I said, my heart hammering against my ribs.