The floor is made of white brick, as are a bunch of the columns we pass as we walk. But what really gets me is the art that is down here—bone-like sculptures embedded in the walls, hanging from the ceiling, even resting on pedestals in various alcoves along the way.

It’s an obvious homage to the Paris catacombs, where seven million skeletons are laid to rest—or used for macabre decorations throughout. And I can’t help wondering if the school’s art classes added the “bone” sculptures to the tunnels here. I also want to know what art supplies the bones are really made of.

But trying to figure that out has to wait, too, if I have any hope of making it to art class even close to on time.

As we follow the tunnel, we get to a kind of rotunda-type room that pretty much has my eyes bugging out of my head. It’s obviously a main hub for the tunnels, because eleven other tunnels feed into it as well. But that’s not what has my eyes going wide, even though I have no idea which of the other tunnels we should take.

No, what has my mouth falling open and my eyes pretty much bugging out of my head is the giant chandelier hanging in the center of the room, unlit candles at the end of each arm. But it’s not the size of the chandelier or the fact that there are actual candles in it that catches my attention (although, fire code, anyone?). It’s the fact that the chandelier, like so many of the other decorations down here, looks to be made entirely of human bones.

I know it’s just art, and the bones are made of plastic or whatever, but they sure look realistic hanging off the chandelier—so much so that a chill creeps down my spine. This is more than an homage to the catacombs. It’s like someone actually tried to re-create them.

“Why are you stopping?” Flint asks, following my gaze.

“This is bizarre. You know that, right?”

He grins. “A little bit. But it’s also cool, isn’t it?”

“Totally cool.” I step farther into the room to get a better look. “I wonder how long it took. I mean, it had to be a class art project, right? Not just one student.”

“Art project?” Flint looks confused.

“We don’t know,” Lia interjects. “It was done years before we got here—years before your uncle or any of the other current teachers got here, too. But yeah, it had to be a class project. No way one artist could do all this in a semester or even a year.”

“It’s amazing. I mean, so elaborate and lifelike. Or…you know what I mean.”

She nods. “Yeah.”

There are more bones above each of the tunnels, as well as plaques bearing inscriptions in a language I don’t recognize. One of the Alaskan languages, I’m sure, but I want to know which one. So I take out my phone and snap a pic of the closest plaque, figuring I’ll google it along with the cottage names.

“We need to go,” Flint says as I start to take a second pic. “Class is starting.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.” I glance around as I shove my phone back in my blazer pocket. “Which tunnel are we taking?”

“The third one to the left,” Lia says.

We head that way, but just as we’re about to reach it, a low-grade tremor rips through the room. At first, I think I’m imagining it, but as the bones in the chandelier start to clink together in the eeriest sound imaginable, I realize there’s nothing imaginary about it.

We’re standing in the middle of a musty, crumbling old tunnel just as the earth begins to shake for real this time.

   30

You Make

the Earth Shake

Under My Feet…

and Everywhere Else, Too

Lia’s eyes go wide as the chandelier sways above us. “We need to get out of this room.”

“We need to get out of these tunnels!” I answer. “How sturdy do you think they are?”

“They won’t collapse,” she assures me, but she starts moving toward the tunnel that’s supposed to lead to the art studio pretty damn quickly.

Not that I blame her—Flint and I are moving fast, too.

It’s not a big earthquake, at least not the kind that Alaska is known for. But it’s not like the small tremors that I’ve felt since coming here, either. Based on what I’ve experienced back home, this one is an easy seven on the Richter scale.

Lia and Flint must realize that at the same time I do, because once we hit the new tunnel, our fast walk becomes a run.

“How far to the exit?” I demand. My phone is vibrating in my pocket, a series of texts coming in fast and furious. I ignore them as the ground continues to move.

“Maybe another couple hundred yards,” Flint tells me.

“Are we going to make it?”

“Absolutely. We—” He breaks off as a loud rumbling sound comes from the ground, followed closely by a violent shift that turns the quake from rolling to shaking.

My legs turn to rubber, and I start to stumble. Flint grabs me above the elbow to steady me, then uses his grip to propel me through the tunnel so fast that I’m not sure my feet are even touching the ground anymore. Unlike on the stairs a few days ago, this time I’m not complaining.

Lia’s in front of us, running even more quickly, though I don’t know how that’s possible, considering just how fast Flint has us moving.

Finally, the ground starts to slant upward, and relief sweeps through me. We’re almost there, almost out of this place, and so far the tunnels have held. Twenty more seconds and a door looms ahead of us. Unlike the one we originally came through, this one is covered in drawings of dragons and wolves and witches and what I’m pretty sure is a vampire on a snowboard.

It’s all done graffiti-style, using every color imaginable. And it is totally badass. Another day—when the earth isn’t literally moving under my feet—I’ll stop to admire the artwork. For now, I wait for Lia to punch in the code—59678 (I watch carefully this time)—and then the three of us burst through the door and into what is obviously a very large art supply closet.

The earthquake stops just as the door closes behind us. I exhale in relief as Flint drops my arm, then bend over and try to catch my breath. He might have been doing most of the work to get us here, but I was moving my legs as fast as I could.

Several seconds pass before I can breathe without feeling like my lungs are going to explode. When I can, I stand back up—and notice a few things all at the same time. One, this closet is really well stocked. Two, the door into the art classroom is wide open. And three, Jaxon is standing in the doorway, face wiped completely blank of expression.

My stomach drops at my first glimpse of his clenched fists and the wild fury burning in the depths of his eyes—not because I’m afraid but because it’s obvious that he was.