Chapter 1 — Doors Open for Sixty Seconds

Chapter 1 — Doors Open for Sixty Seconds

Lu Chi spent forty minutes in the basement that night, all for a doorbell that didn't ring.

K-0471 was the most useless elevator in that old office block. A freight car. One-ton capacity, nine floors, brushed steel walls someone had scratched with a key — two marks, like a pair of closed eyes. Lu Chi was the technician who kept it alive. His badge read ELEVATOR MAINTENANCE — LU CHI. Thirty-eight hundred a month, on call whenever.

That night he was supposed to be in and out in twenty minutes.

"Mr. Lu, the bell down on B2 isn't working. Have a look while you're there," the property manager said over the phone.

"The bell has nothing to do with the elevator."

"You're there anyway."

So he was there anyway, for forty minutes. The bell needed a battery. He swapped it, pressed it once, and it chimed — very faint, like someone clearing their throat in an empty garage.

He packed his tool bag, stepped into the car, and pressed 1.

Then the lights went out.

Not a power cut. The emergency lamp was still on, a pale strip hanging from the ceiling, aimed straight at his face. The floor indicator lost its "1" first, then the other digits died one by one, until a single symbol was left.

◇

A diamond. That symbol had never existed in this elevator.

Lu Chi pressed the open-door button. Nothing. He hit the alarm — once, twice, seven times. The car was so quiet he could hear himself swallow.

He took out his phone. Four bars. Full signal. He dialed the fire service.

"The number you have dialed cannot be reached at this time."

Four bars. Cannot be reached.

He tried to pry the doors apart. There was no light in the gap — not darkness. Nothing. As if someone had slid a panel out from behind the world and left a crack.

Then the speaker crackled.

A woman's voice, flat, like a subway announcement: "K-0471 is now connected to the Well-Net. Today's stop: unknown. Doors open for sixty seconds. Those who remain in the car are not counted today."

Lu Chi heard the whole thing and kept three words: sixty seconds, not counted, Well-Net.

His first reaction was to look up.

Well-Net. Well.

Eight years in the trade, and he knew how absurd those two characters sounded together. A shaft held wire rope, guide rails, oil cups, and a layer of cement dust he hadn't gotten around to clearing last month.

His second reaction was to check the counterweight.

Eight years of habit. First thing on any call: check the counterweight. How it sways. How it sits. Whether the guide shoes are worn. Whether the safety gear has fired.

Counterweight normal. No broken strands. Safety gear hadn't engaged.

A perfectly healthy elevator, stopped at a floor that didn't exist.

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At 23:48 he heard something else.

From deep in the shaft. Muffled, like someone dragging an iron table across a floor a long way off. Another car, moving.

There were three elevators in this building — two passenger, and the freight car he was sitting in. Both passenger cars had been parked when he came down.

Now one of them was moving.

Lu Chi put his hand against the wall and waited two minutes. The sound didn't stop and it didn't come closer. It stayed far off, going up, going down.

As if someone else was also looking for a floor they could stop at.

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He checked his watch. 23:50.

Worst time of night in this job. A breakdown call at half past eleven meant somebody was usually trapped inside.

The moment the second hand passed the twelve, the lights died completely.

Not the dimness from before. Black — not even his own hand — and yet he knew, with absolute clarity, that his eyes were open.

Then he saw.

He saw the doors open. Beyond them, a corridor. The ceiling tubes were underwater, glowing a sick green. Water to his shins.

He saw himself walk out.

An office chair floated on the surface, a suit jacket hooked over the back. On the wall, a sign — FIRE STAIRWAY, arrow left.

He saw his own hand reach into the water and pull out a bottle.

Then the water moved.

Not flowing. Something walking under it. The surface bulged and pushed toward him.

He dropped the bottle, turned, ran.

He ran faster than he thought he could, and every step landed in the same place. The floor slid backward beneath him; he pedaled and went nowhere.

A wet, white hand came out of the water and closed around his ankle.

He looked down.

Under the surface was a face. Eyes open, white as over-soaked paper. The mouth working, opening and closing, saying something.

It pulled him in.

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He woke on his knees on the car floor.

Blood ran off his chin — tap, tap — onto the steel.

He lifted his right trouser leg.

Three blue fingerprints, already turning purple.

His watch said 23:51.

Ninety seconds.

He wiped his nose and stood up on the handrail, legs shaking. He looked down at those three marks, and for the first time he felt cold in the basement of that rotten building.

Three things were clear.

One. That had not been a dream.

Two. Tomorrow, when the doors opened, there would be water. And something in it.

Three. That thing could hold a man.

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He sat down in the corner and emptied his tool bag.

Multimeter. Two rolls of electrical tape. Pry bar. Flashlight. Half a bottle of water. Two compressed biscuits. A utility knife. A printed work schedule.

He laid it all in a row beside his leg and looked at it for a long time. The knife went into his waistband. The pry bar went by his right hand.

The last line of the schedule read: "K-0471 annual inspection: pending."

Lu Chi laughed once, crumpled the paper, and shoved it in his pocket.

There was a clock in the car. He was certain it hadn't been there before. He'd serviced this thing for two years; he knew which panel was loose with his eyes shut.

The clock turned over to 00:00.

Ding.

The doors opened.

There was no water outside.

A warm yellow lamp was on, like a living room somebody had forgotten to turn off. The sign at the end of the corridor was still there — FIRE STAIRWAY, arrow left. And on the wall hung a waterline: a single mark, level, at two meters, as if someone had drawn it with a ruler.

Lu Chi stood in the doorway and didn't move.

He held the pry bar and looked at that line.

The corridor he'd seen last night had water up to his shins. This line was two meters high.

If the water had dropped from two meters, it had dropped fast.

If it had risen from half a meter, it had risen fast.

Either way, tonight, there would be water in that corridor.

He checked his watch.

Fifty-seven seconds left.