The truck finally comes to a stop. I hear laughter, Lucas’s slow drawl. It must be a checkpoint. We start moving again, and the road is even bumpier, rocking my body hard against the rough sides of the crates. We drive for a short time before Lucas turns off the engine. I hear his door open, then slam shut. His footsteps disappear. I pull the tarp off me. It’s dim inside the truck bed, but light trickles in through the open back. Somewhere in the distance I hear a man shouting. I crawl forward and peer around the edge of the canvas. We’re parked near the officers’ barracks. Beyond them I see the steeple of the fake chapel rising into the night.
There are a few outdoor lights illuminating the open space, and soldiers mill around, some leaning against the steps of the buildings, some smoking cigarettes in small groups. Lucas’s truck is parked in the shadows, in a long line of similar army vehicles. To the right is a large stretch of forest. As quickly as I can, I jump out of the back and run into the woods. I stop behind a large tree trunk, listening for shouting behind me, waiting for a soldier to burst through the trees, gun in hand. But everything is quiet.
I walk carefully through the woods, keeping to the edge of the trees, my eyes on the clearing and the soldiers scattered near the white buildings. The men are all wearing olive uniforms, some with hats, some carrying guns. I don’t want to think about what will happen if I’m caught here again.
I circle the wide space until I find the main road. I follow it for a quarter of a mile, then veer to the right, heading into the trees. The bunker is to the southwest, and I walk in that general direction, grateful, for once, that my grandpa used to drag me here so often—at least I know where I’m going. But the forest is harder to navigate at night, and it’s less familiar in this time period. I trip over low roots and large rocks, and branches knot in my hair, swiping at my shoulders and cheeks. It reminds me of the night of the bonfire, where I felt like someone was following me. Now I wonder if someone was following me, if even then I was getting too close to the mysteries underground.
The moon is bright; it’s a cloudless, star-filled night. But instead of lighting my way, the moon just seems to make the shadows deeper, the trees taller. I hear a noise up ahead and I duck on instinct, curling my body around a rock. A group of soldiers walks through the woods in front of me, crackling the leaves underfoot and rustling tree branches. Someone laughs, a quick, abrasive sound that makes me flinch. I smell the smoke of their cigarettes as they pass.
I stay there for a moment and close my eyes, wondering if I’m making a mistake. Then I see that image of my grandfather again, shuffling through the trees, and I stand up. I can’t back out now.
I move deeper and deeper into the woods. I am aware of every sound I make: branches snapping under my feet, the rustling of leaves on the forest floor. I move more slowly, more quietly. Soon I am almost at the clearing. I hold my breath as I walk the last few feet and then quickly let it out in a rush of air. I can just make out the black outline of the concrete bunker in front of me.
The space around the bunker is empty and quiet. I pull the metal key out of my pocket and take a step forward.
Something grabs my shirt and yanks me back. I open my mouth to scream, but a warm hand covers it. An arm snakes around my middle and holds me tight. I’m dragged back into the woods.
I struggle against the hands that hold me, blood rushing through my veins. Suddenly I’m released, and I swing around, ready to face my attacker head on. I freeze when I see Wes staring down at me with his eyes narrowed and his mouth tight. He’s pissed. I’m used to having to try to read what he’s thinking, so it’s a shock to see his emotions so clearly written on his face.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I spit the words at him. I rub at my stomach, still able to feel his arm there.
“What are you doing here?” he snaps. “No, let me guess. You’re sneaking into the Facility.” His voice is annoyed, even sarcastic. I’m a little taken aback. I’ve seen uncertainty and confusion in him before, but this is like he’s on the edge of a cliff and any little move will push him over.
I don’t answer.
He clenches his jaw. “That’s what I thought.”
“I need to get inside.”
He steps closer to me. We’re almost touching. “Have you been listening to anything I’ve said?”
“I heard what you said.”
“Obviously not. Or you don’t care?”
The outline of his body is dark against the trees. He’s completely tense. I can practically feel the anger vibrating off of him.
I’m surprised by how mad he is. But then, I don’t really know him. He doesn’t really know me.
Both of us are keeping secrets, only giving out tiny pieces of information.
I raise my hands, ready to be diplomatic. “Look, I’m not trying to make you angry. I know you want me to go back to my own time, and I promise I will eventually. But there’s something I need to do first.”
He stares at me hard, then rubs his jaw with one hand. “Tell me why.”
So I do. I
