The Last Match's Flame

[NONGRAPHIC MENTIONS OF A SCHOOL SHOOTING]

Plick. 

Plick.

Plick. 

“Is it too late to go back for my phone?” 

“Shh!” 

Hiss.

The underground tunnel dimly lit with the small match flame, just barely illuminating the moss-covered walls and toxic-smelling sewage trickling along the cracked cement floor. 

Plick. 

“Gross, that one landed on my head!” a young girl whined. 

“Shh!” 

She went quiet, but rubbed the top of her head in discomfort. Another girl, just slightly older, wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. The group continued walking down the tunnel, their footsteps echoing into the darkness around them. 

Dante held the match closer to his chest, struggling to breathe with the nauseating smell in the air. He led the group down the winding path, blindly stumbling towards what he hoped would be an exit far from where they entered. He glanced over his shoulder, eyes catching on the numerous silhouettes of his classmates. 

“How much longer?” Someone else whined, this time a boy. Dante clenched his jaw, grip on the match getting tighter. It snapped in half and he shook his hand quickly to avoid being burnt before quickly lighting another. He was barely keeping it together with the light, and based on the sharp gasps he heard around him, so was the rest of the group. 

“Not much, now stay quiet. We don’t know if they followed us.” The sentence left a heavy weight over the group, now entirely silent. 

Plick. 

Plick. 

Plick. 

The next match went out. Only ten left in the box. He lit another. 

Hiss. 

He’d heard stories about this happening, watched the news cover stories about nut-jobs running into a school with loaded guns, but never would he have expected…

It just wasn’t something that happened in this town. Hell, he’d heard some assholes a year below him joking about something like this happening just last week. All fun and games, they had said. Dante wondered where they were right now. 

“Turn off all the lights,” someone quietly whispered in a sing-songy voice. “Nobody make a sound.” 

“Knock it off,” a senior hissed, and another student started crying. 

“Ashes to ashes, we all fall down,” someone else continued, letting out a harsh laugh that reverberated off of the walls in the tunnel. 

“I’m serious, knock it off! Our friends, our siblings, they could be dead right now.” 

The group fell into a tense silence again. 

Match went out. Nine remaining. Dante lit another. 

“My sister…” a girl whispered, and Dante squeezed his eyes shut. 

“My brother,” another added. 

“My girlfriend.” 

“My dad,” a boy whispered, and Dante had to push thoughts of the English professor out of his mind. 

“…Mom?” 

Dante whipped around, cursing when the match went out at the sudden movement. 

Hiss. 

Eight left. 

“Are you seriously calling your mom right now?” someone asked, tone disbelieving. 

“S-Shut up,” the girl whispered, holding her phone close to her ear as tears streamed down her cheeks. She closed her eyes for a second, then hung up, shoving the phone in her pocket. “Doesn’t even matter. Went straight to voicemail.” 

“Yeah, not a lot of service in the sewers,” Dante deadpanned as he turned back around. “Keep quiet, everything echoes down here.” 

Someone hummed absently, falling into place next to him. He glanced over, not surprised to see the other senior, Annika. She gave him a wobbly smile, looking down at the match as it flickered out. He dropped it into the sludge and slid the next one across the matchbox. 

Hiss. 

Seven remaining. 

“How did you know about this place?” 

Dante looked down the pitch-black tunnel ahead of them, then at the match in his hand. The flames were the only light source in the miles of darkness, and even then, the shadows overpowered any brightness from the fire. 

“I didn’t,” he answered honestly. “I heard gunshots, found the trapdoor in the floor, and started funneling people in. Who knew the school had these tunnels underneath us this entire time.” 

“Weird,” she whispered, looking up at the dripping ceiling. 

Plick. 

Plick. 

Plick. 

“Have you ever wondered,” she started, then paused. 

“No,” he answered flatly, lips curling when she nudged him in annoyance. 

“I was gonna say, have you ever wondered why we exist?” 

“Deep shit.” 

“Shut it. I’m serious, think about it. At this exact moment, twelve high school students are creeping through half a foot of sludge in the underground sewers during an active shooter situation. What are the odds that we are two of those students?” 

“…Damn.”

“Yeah.” The match went out. He pulled another out of the box. 

Hiss. 

Six remaining. 

Plick. 

Plick. 

Plick. 

“What happens when we run out of matches?” Annika asked, voice low and unsteady. Behind them, a few of the other students were sniffling quietly. Dante gripped the box harder, brows furrowing as he stared at the darkness ahead. 

“I don’t know,” he answered simply, though the slight tremor in his voice gave away his fear. They’d been walking for at least twenty minutes with no sign of an exit. Not one ladder or turn, no light outside of the matches. 

The match went out. He lit another. 

Hiss. 

Five remaining. 

“It could go on for hours,” she whispered.  

“It won’t,” he assured, but he could hear the doubt creeping into his voice. The match went out. He lit the next. 

Hiss. 

Four. 

“How many do you have left?” Annika asked, careful to keep her voice down. 

“Enough,” he responded, though they both knew it was a lie. “Four,” he added in a hushed whisper, barely audible. 

“What do we do when we’re out?”

“Of the sewers?” he asked. She shook her head, her wild curls swinging dangerously close to the flame. He hastily jerked his hand away from her, cursing when the match went out. 

Hiss. 

Three.

“No, out of matches,” she clarified, her voice shaking nearly as much as his hands. He took a steadying breath, then paused, turning around to face the group. 

“Who has their phone on them?” He spoke quietly, but his voice echoed in an almost deafening volume compared to the muted sounds of their whispers and footsteps. Two people raised their hands: the girl who tried calling her mom and a sophomore boy. 

“My phone’s dead, though,” the boy added, holding up the dark screen. Dante turned to the girl, who had a distraught expression. She was staring down at her screen, which had a large battery symbol on it. 

“Mine too,” she whispered, shakily tucking it back in her pocket. Dante looked at the rest of the group, feeling pathetic as he gripped the tiny match between two fingers. It went out, and a few of the students audibly stifled gasps. 

Hiss. 

He lit another. Two left. He saw the blatant relief on everyone’s faces as the light source returned and a spike of panic ran through him. 

“Nobody else has a phone on them?” he asked desperately. Everyone shook their heads. 

“Mr. Waltz makes us turn them in before class,” a junior grumbled. “Not like we had time to grab them.”

“What happened to Mr. Waltz?” the freshman girl asked. Dante squeezed his eyes shut, trying to forget the fear on the man’s face when a freshman boy ran in a panic at the sound of gunshots, the way he instructed the class to follow drill procedures before rushing out of the windowless room, locking the door behind him with a resounding and deafening click. 

“He’s going to be fine,” Dante assured, turning back around. “We need to keep moving.” 

The match went out. 

Hiss. 

One.