The Book of Miranda | gxg | ❖

(39) Hell On Earth

We're halfway down the second hallway when the first candle in a student's hand goes out. Our collective run slows to an expedient trot. The steam is so thick, breathing feels like getting a lungful of sulfuric water, and I wasn't born to be a fish. With only one candle remaining, the world has narrowed to a dense cloud of hot fog, the walls on either side of us, and a short distance ahead.

Another hot, wet gust extinguishes the second candle. I curse softly. Someone yelps behind me.

"Watch it," mutters another, coughing fit to bust a lung.

"I can't see."

"Do we even know we're going the right way?"

I grit my teeth. The air is sauna-hot, my hair sticks to my cheeks and forehead, and I'm sweating buckets beneath my blazer. I strip it off and tie it around my face like a mask instead. The thick, stiff fabric blocks some of the steam, but mostly because it blocks the air, too. In the darkness, the feeling of suffocation only intensifies.

"Why aren't we moving?" asks a panicky voice. "Are we lost?"

"We're not lost," I say. I still have our bearings, though navigating to the next tunnel fork just got a whole lot harder. My body is trying to convince me that I can't breathe, so I close my eyes for a moment—though it does absolutely nothing in the darkness—and say another prayer to refocus. Hot air continues to waft over me from behind. In the distance there, past the fretting students, is another sound.

"Everyone be quiet for a moment," I say, and most obey. I hone in on the anomaly and get an all-over chill that only soaks my shirt further. Far back in the tunnels, something bubbles once and falls silent. A moment later, it bubbles again.

I grope in the darkness until I find another student. "Hold onto me," I say. "Pass it on."

She grips the back of my shirt and whispers the message to the person behind her. In moments, we've got a human chain rather than a bison herd, quieting the yelps of the two who keep stepping on each other. I find the wall and start forward again. Students shuffle along behind me. In another minute, several realize they can use their own blazers as ropes to remain connected without holding onto one another, and we reattain normal walking speed. The feeling of suffocation subsides a little.

I can't shake the feeling that I'm going to run face-first into a wall, but I encounter no such indignity. The tunnel is just wide enough for me to touch both sides, so I keep my hands extended until one reaches empty space. The tunnel fork matches the map still kicking around in my mind. The pause to navigate it, though, reveals that the bubbling sound has picked up pace. A faint hiss follows each iteration. I start moving again. This should be the second-last tunnel, and sure enough, a faint light appears through the steam up ahead. It's another tunnel, this time to the open door of our escape route outside.

I tug the student behind me. In a moment, we're all running again, stumbling and scraping shoulders and elbows against the slick, wet walls. The tunnel turns to stairs, then ejects us into the smoky light and comparatively frigid air of freedom. Exie sits in the grass ahead of me with terror painted over her face. She mouths something, eyes darting behind me. I'm shoved forward as the remaining students pile out of the tunnel.

"There they are," says a voice that could freeze fire. I spin around.

"Don't try anything funny," says Mr. Ashcroft.

My heart plunges deeper than a church crypt. The teachers escaped. They ring the judged students, who are still on the ground by the school wall. My view of them warps as the tunnel entrance belches another clot of steam. This pales against the black smoke pillar rising from beyond the school wall. Framed by this backdrop, Mr. Ashcroft stands with a handgun to the temple of another student—one of the guards I left behind. The rest are all with Exie. They sit with their hands on their heads, huddled together like wolf-ringed sheep.