One of the labs is an inner room‚ with no windows, and Chris flips the light switch by the door. The fluorescent tubes overhead flicker into bluish life, casting a wan glow on the apparatus that clutter the lab tables.
“We should do some experiments,” says Jesse. She unfolds a white lab coat from a nearby stool and slips it on. The sleeves engulf her thin arms, and she rolls them up over her elbows. She settles one hip on a stool and fiddles with glass tubes and beakers, mimicking the gestures of a chemist combining potions.
Chris stands behind her, watching. Jesse’s short hair spikes away from her head in cowlicks and dark swirls. “You look like one of those nutty science dudes in those old movies,” Chris says.
“Gee, thanks a bunch.”
“No, I mean, they’re cool. I mean, they’ve just invented the monster and stuff, and they grab their heads a lot. To help ‘em think, I guess.” He puts his hand on the top of Jesse’s head, pressing gently, his palm flat. The whorls of her hair spring up against his fingers.
“Whattaya doin’?” Jesse pivots on her stool to face him. Chris leans in abruptly and tries to kiss her, but she pivots again, and his lips brush the side of her face.
“Knock it off!”
“Com’on, Jesse.” He reaches for her, his fingers brushing the slender body inside the loose lab coat.
“No. Get away. Ashley!” Jesse pulls out of the coat, leaving it bunched in Chris’s two fists, and hurries toward the laboratory door. She catches one foot on a metal stool as she passes down the long row of lab benches, and it tips over with a loud clang. Ashley appears in the doorway just as Jesse reaches it.
“Com’on, Ashley, let’s get out of here.” Jesse herds her puzzled friend in front of her, and the two girls hurry through the dim hallway and down the basement stairs that lead back to the tunnels.
“What’s goin’ on?”
“Oh, that pervert, Chris. Tried to grab me. As if I’d be interested in him.”
“As if.”
“Hurry up. Here he comes.”
Ashley holds the flashlight in front of her at arm’s length, and the two girls make their way back to the intersection of the tunnels. Chris follows them, but doesn’t completely catch up. When they reach the junction, they turn right and follow the same route that Ouija and Curtis took earlier.
“Where do you s’pose they are?” he calls up the stairs.
“They’ll be here,” answers a voice from above him. Ouija appears in the brighter light at the top of the stairs. He descends the stairs slowly, pausing on each step, clasping and unclasping the many blades of a large Swiss Army knife. “I’m keepin’ this,” he says. He folds the knife closed and slips it into his pocket just as Jesse and Ashley, followed by Chris, round the corner and descend the slope toward him.
“Where you guys been?”
“In Chemistry, where else? Whattaya you been doin’?”
“Exploring.” Ouija tosses his head toward the shops behind him. “Lots of good stuff up there. You should see.”
“That’s okay,” says Ashley. “So, what else is down here?” She peers into the half-opened doorway on her left. “Where does this one go?”
Chris pushes past Jesse and elbows the door all the way open. Ashley shines her flashlight up the dusty steps to the wooden hatch at the top.
“Never been up this way before,” says Chris. “It’s always been locked.”
“Let’s check it out.”
Chris takes his flashlight from Ashley and mounts the steps. When his head reaches the level of the hatch, he places the flashlight on the top step and presses both hands against the wooden door. Heaving upward, he lifts the hatch a few inches above his head and shines his light into the dark space in front of him.
“It’s another tunnel,” he calls down to the others. “But smaller. We’d have to crawl.”
“Where’s it go?” asks Curtis.
“Pay attention, stupid,” says Jesse. “He said he hadn’t been in there before.”
Curtis sniffs and settles his helmet back on his head. He tightens the chinstrap and stands up. “Let’s try it,” he says.
Ashley moves up close behind Chris and peers over his shoulder into the low-roofed tunnel that stretches ahead into darkness, beyond the range of the flashlight. The tunnel is no more than three feet square, its sides formed by compacted earth. Metal supports--squared bands of steel--are set into the tunnel at three-foot intervals. “It’s not even cement,” Ashley says. “Just dirt.”
“Yeah.” Chris pushes the wooden hatch all the way open, and it falls backward, landing with a soft thud. He hoists himself into the tunnel and turns, on his hands and knees, to face Ashley. He extends a hand, and, after a second’s hesitation, she takes it and lets him pull her into the tunnel behind him. Jesse scrambles up the stairs and into the tunnel behind her friend, followed by Ouija, who stops to put his pack on backwards. It hangs underneath him as he crawls, like a baby monkey under its mother. He switches on his flashlight and tucks it into the neck of his shirt, wedging it between his chin and the top of his backpack. The flashlight’s beam bobs erratically around the earthen tunnel as he moves along. Curtis sniffs again and follows Ouija into the tunnel, leaving the wooden hatch lying open. He inches away from the square of dim light, until it’s lost in darkness behind him.
The group crawls along slowly, close together.
“Ugh! This is awful.”
“I’m getting filthy. My hair!”
“You should be wearing a helmet.”
“Shut up, Curtis.”
“This better come out somewhere soon. I’m getting clos--claus--what’s that word?”
“Claustrophobic.”
“Yeah. Clostaphobic.”
“Is that when you don’t like closets?”
“Yeah, sorta.”
“Wait!” Chris stops crawling. “We’re at the end.” The others pile up behind him. He shines his light on another wooden trap door set in the earth just over his head. This door is bolted on the inside, but Chris tugs on the bolt, and it slides reluctantly out of its hasp. He squats beneath the door, then stands, pushing it open. Cold air rushes into the tunnel.
“We’re outside.” Chris scrambles out of the tunnel, pulling Ashley after him. One by one, the others pass through the trap door, until all five are standing on the grass in the night air, coughing and brushing damp earth from their shins and knees.
Some of the narrower monuments are tipped and broken on the ground. Cracked stone crosses and mutilated cherubs with trumpets are scattered in the grass, knocked off their bases by vandals.
“It’s the cemetery,” says Ashley.
