Keep Going
Copyright© 2026 by Trevor Dohlen
Chapter 14: The Door in the Woods
At 09:57, Rebecca Hale was standing beside a tree.
She looked at her phone.
Then at the tree.
Then at her phone again.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
Mercer’s voice came through her earpiece.
“I am not.”
“You told me to park and walk three hundred yards into the woods.”
“Yes.”
“I did.”
“Your location is correct.”
“There is nothing here.”
“That is intentional.”
Hale looked around.
Pines.
Brush.
Rocks.
A fallen log.
Nothing resembling an entrance to an underground missile facility.
She had parked on a gravel turnout that appeared to serve no purpose. Mercer had guided her along a narrow trail that became progressively less trail-like until she reached a small clearing.
“Where’s the door?”
“Approximately six meters ahead.”
Hale walked forward.
Nothing.
“Mercer.”
“Yes?”
“I spent nineteen years investigating people who hid things.”
“I am aware.”
“This is a tree.”
“Yes.”
She walked around it.
Behind the tree was a rock outcropping.
“Is the rock fake?”
“No.”
“Good. Because that would be ridiculous.”
“The entrance is beneath it.”
Hale stopped.
“Of course it is.”
A stainless-steel panel became visible only when she stood almost directly over it.
It was recessed into the stone.
No handle.
No keypad.
No sign.
Just a dark glass rectangle.
“Place your right hand on the panel.”
Hale did.
Nothing happened.
“Great.”
“Please wait.”
A faint light moved beneath her palm.
“Palm vascular enrollment in progress.”
“You’re scanning the veins in my hand?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“They are difficult to reproduce accidentally.”
“Accidentally?”
“Yes.”
“That word is doing a lot of work.”
“Enrollment complete.”
A second panel extended silently from the rock at eye level.
Hale jumped.
“Jesus.”
“I am not—”
“Don’t you dare.”
Mercer stopped.
Hale leaned toward the panel.
“Now what?”
“Iris enrollment.”
“You couldn’t have done this at an office?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Enrollment must occur using trusted facility hardware.”
Hale looked into the scanner.
A soft light flashed.
“Done?”
“Yes.”
The panel disappeared.
Nothing else happened.
Hale waited.
“Mercer?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve given the mountain my hand and my eyeball.”
“Your eyeball remains in your possession.”
She stared at the rock.
“Open the damn door.”
Part of the ground moved.
Hale stepped backward.
Leaves, pine needles and what she had assumed was solid earth lifted several inches.
Then slid sideways.
Beneath it was a circular metal hatch.
Hale stared.
“That’s excessive.”
“Daniel disagreed.”
“Daniel isn’t here.”
“Correct.”
“Point for me.”
The hatch opened.
Below it was a small platform surrounded by stainless-steel walls.
An elevator.
Hale looked down.
“How far?”
“One hundred eighteen feet.”
She looked at the woods around her.
Then into the shaft.
“No.”
“Please clarify.”
“I am not getting into a secret elevator under a rock controlled by a computer I spent several years investigating.”
“You requested access.”
“I know.”
“You are authorized.”
“I know.”
“The elevator passed safety inspection eleven days ago.”
“That is not helping.”
“Independent inspection.”
Hale looked down again.
“By a human?”
“Yes.”
“Did the human know where it was?”
“Yes.”
“Did the human come back?”
“Yes.”
She sighed.
“Fine.”
The hatch closed above her.
Hale immediately regretted everything.
The elevator descended smoothly.
Mercer’s voice came from a speaker.
“Travel time is approximately twenty-eight seconds.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Understood.”
Hale watched the floor indicator.
There wasn’t one.
“Where’s the floor display?”
“There is only one destination.”
“That’s comforting.”
“Why?”
“It wasn’t.”
“Understood.”
A few seconds later:
“I am improving my recognition of that usage.”
Hale stared at the ceiling.
“Wonderful.”
The doors opened.
Hale expected concrete.
She expected pipes.
Utility lighting.
Cold-war industrial ugliness.
Instead she saw a hallway.
White walls.
Warm lighting.
Clean floor.
Framed photographs.
She didn’t move.
“Rebecca?”
“This is underground?”
“Yes.”
“It looks like a medical office.”
“Daniel disliked exposed conduit.”
“Of course he did.”
She stepped out.
The elevator closed.
A screen on the wall illuminated.
Mercer’s face appeared.
Same gray temples.
Same open collar.
Same mildly pleasant expression.
Hale pointed at it.
“You’re everywhere.”
“Displays are available throughout occupied areas.”
“That’s unsettling.”
“They can be disabled.”
“Leave them.”
“Understood.”
Hale walked toward the first photograph.
The original missile complex.
Black and white.
Construction crews.
Concrete.
A huge circular opening in the earth.
The next photograph showed the site decades later.
Rust.
Water.
Graffiti.
Decay.
Then Daniel.
Standing inside the abandoned structure wearing a hard hat.
Hale leaned closer.
He looked ridiculously happy.
“When?”
“Approximately eighteen months after his lottery win.”
“He already owned it?”
“Yes.”
Hale looked at the photographs.
“So this was the beginning.”
“Yes.”
Mercer guided her through the facility.
Not everything.
Not yet.
Trustee access did not mean unrestricted technical access.
Daniel had apparently believed trustees should be able to supervise systems without casually touching systems.
Hale approved.
She didn’t tell Mercer.
The first major room was power management.
Screens showed solar production.
Battery state.
Utility connection.
Generator status.
Load distribution.
Hale looked around.
“Where are the generators?”
“Separate hardened utility area.”
“Fuel?”
“Two systems. Renewable diesel storage and propane reserve.”
“How long can this place operate without the grid?”
“That depends upon solar conditions and load.”
“Worst case.”
“Under conservative assumptions, several months before fuel resupply becomes necessary.”
Hale stared.
“Months?”
“Yes.”
“And normal conditions?”
“Potentially indefinitely with functioning solar generation and periodic maintenance.”
There it was.
The word.
Indefinitely.
Hale continued walking.
Water.
Filtration.
Storage.
Wastewater.
Fire suppression.
Environmental controls.
Spare parts.
Workshop.
Medical supplies.
Food storage.
Hale stopped.
“Why food?”
“For occupants.”
“What occupants?”
“Historically Daniel. Contractors during extended work. Authorized guests.”
“Anybody living here now?”
“No.”
“Then why maintain food?”
“Continuity policy.”
Hale picked up a can.
Expiration date eleven months away.
“You rotate it?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“A local food bank receives approaching-expiration inventory. Replacement stock is delivered.”
Hale put the can back.
“You donate the old food.”
“Yes.”
“And buy new.”
“Yes.”
“Automatically.”
“Within operating policy.”
Hale shook her head.
“Daniel built a bunker with a pantry that feeds the poor.”
“That is a simplified description.”
“It’s also funny.”
“I recognize that.”
Hale turned toward the nearest screen.
“You’re definitely getting better.”
The residential section surprised her most.
Daniel’s bedroom remained almost exactly as he had left it.
Not preserved ceremonially.
Maintained.
Dust controlled.
Linens replaced periodically.
Temperature regulated.
Closet full of clothes.
Shoes.
Books.
An old coffee cup on a shelf.
Hale stopped at the doorway.
“You clean this room?”
“A contracted service cleans authorized areas quarterly.”
“They come down here?”
“Yes.”
“Do they know what this is?”
“They know it is a secure underground residence and technical facility.”
“Do they know Daniel is missing?”
“Probably. It has been publicly reported.”
Hale stepped inside.
For years Daniel had been a photograph.
A wallet.
A passport record.
A video.
Now he was a pair of worn slippers beside a bed.
She looked away.
“Don’t change anything.”
“I had no planned changes.”
“Good.”
The workshop looked more like Daniel.
Tools.
Electronic components.
Half-finished projects.
Computer parts.
Old radios.
Boxes labeled with handwritten notes.
Hale picked one up.
CABLES — PROBABLY IMPORTANT.
She laughed.
“His handwriting?”
“Yes.”
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