Read So Close to You (So Close to You - Trilogy) for Free Online Page B

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.
    I take another step down and put my hand on the wall, feeling something sticky and wet. I step down again, then push my foot forward as I search for the next step. Over and over I do this, descending into the black. The rhythm of my steps is broken only by the unevenness of my own breathing. I try to stay calm, but the farther I get from the light at the top of the stairs the more my heart races, the tighter my lungs feel.
    The low, beeping becomes a wail, a steady stream of noise, louder and louder the deeper I go. When I’m halfway down, I start to see a blinking light. I move toward it, down and down and down. The air is getting colder, and the flashing light is red, perfectly timed with the relentless, piercing noise.
    I stumble slightly at the bottom of the stairs. The red pulse is the only source of light. Through the hazy flashes I see that I’m in a wide, dingy hallway that leads to several scarred, metal doors. Most of them look sealed shut and have keypads next to the handles. I pause as I realize that the doors are new, not some relic from the past. People must have been here recently. Fear chokes at my throat, and I have to force myself to keep moving forward. With my hands stretched out in front of me I pull on each door as I pass. Nothing opens. Finally, at the very end of the short hallway, there’s a door ajar.
    I peer around the doorway, then step through into a long, wide hallway. Even through the red flashing light, I can see that the corridor is white—white walls, ceiling, floors. The alarm is louder now, and the acidic smell is even stronger here. It burns my nose and makes my chest hurt.
    I press back into the wall. Camp Hero is not just a state park. I turn my head to look at the door behind me. It’s still partially open, and this time the darkness beyond it looks more inviting than scary. It would be so easy to walk back up those stairs, to show my grandfather what I’ve found.
    But when will I have this opportunity again? By the time I find my grandfather and hike back through the woods, the concrete bunker will probably be sealed shut. Then I’d never find out the truth of what’s happening down here. I’d be just another conspiracy theorist who saw an unbelievable “clue.” What if my grandfather is right? What if Grant is right? What if the Montauk Project has always been real?
    I take a deep breath. I’m a journalist. My job is to find and report the truth. And I can’t let my grandfather down. He’s spent his whole life trying to answer this question, and I may have stumbled upon the answer by accident.
    I inch along the hallway. It bisects in a T shape with another long corridor. When I reach it, I peer around one side. I’m about to choose which way I go next when I hear new noises mixed in with the piercing siren: shouting. Footsteps. I stagger back, pressing myself tightly against the wall behind me. Men run along the opposite hallway, their boots heavy on the tiled floor. Through the throbbing red light, I catch a flash of black clothing, metal gleaming at the men’s shoulders. And