The trees concealed our forms as we traveled along the service road. A cloud passed over the moon, deepening the darkness. I couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead, and my own hand looked grainy. The other members of Peter’s team seemed to glide over the soil, but when I tried to emulate their motion, twigs and gravel broke loudly under my feet.

As we traveled around a soft bend, the trees thinned and revealed the cluster of buildings in the distance. A large grey dome was at its head, with light shining out of a single square window. The white van was parked outside. In the night air, the odd shape of the dome was vaguely familiar, like something out of a textbook.

Peter raised a hand and our procession stopped. Someone nudged me deeper into the trees.“Listen,” Peter instructed. I strained my ears but heard nothing but the rustle of the branches and the buzz of cicadas. I closed my eyes and slowly picked up on a low babble, like distant voices carried on the wind.

“Are those people?” Owen whispered, “What are they doing out after curfew?” Peter silenced him with a glare, and we began to shuffle forward again. My brows furrowed under the mask. Owen’s questions, although ill-timed, had been justified. I felt a lump form in my throat. Are people searching for us already? Was there a tip-off?

No, I reasoned, then Peter would be concerned. It was hard to tell under the mask, but he had almost seemed satisfied. Could it have something to do with Daichi’s distraction?

“Stay quiet,” Peter whispered. He stayed low to the ground and followed the edge of the trees, his body blurring into the shadows. The road started to brighten with the light of the domed building.

Suddenly, the wind shifted. The group members sank onto their stomachs as it rustled the trees above our heads. Owen and I followed, my sore legs protesting.

I shuddered as my skin settled into a coarse substance. I glanced down, trying to figure out what had happened to the soft leaves of the forest floor. Instead, we were laying in something powdery and white. As I ran it through my fingers, a putrid scent permeated the air from above. It was sickly, like old meat and sweat. The scent of death.

I bowed my head and shook the white powder from my skin, bile rising in my throat. No wonder the dome looked so familiar.

It was the ingraining room, the city’s crematorium.

Ahead, dark smoke rained down from the dome. The wind carried the smoke and the smell deep into the recesses of the forest. Peter beckoned us forward, and the group began to army-crawl through the ashes. The smoke and the stirred-up particles filled my lungs and clogged my throat. I gagged and clamped a hand over my mouth, trying to mute the sound. Beside me, Owen’s breaths were ragged. A wave of anger washed over me. I wanted to punch him, slap him—anything for dragging us into this.

I lost track of time as we approached the domed building. The smell wormed its way into my brain, making my head pound. It was a constant battle to keep from coughing. Branches and roots, hidden by the ashes and the darkness, sprouted up from nowhere and tore at my skin.

We finally paused when we reached the patch of forest across from the dome. In front of us lay a wide expanse of dimly lit road. “Get ready to cross,” Peter instructed, and my heart shuddered at the thought of leaving the safety of the trees.

“Now?” Owen hissed, glancing at the lit window. Peter shook his head and held up a finger. As if on cue, the door to the crematorium snapped open, and a man in a grey jumpsuit strode out into the light. He was framed by the smog, and his face was obscured by a surgical mask and face shield. The ingrainer.

We watched in silence as he pulled off his jumpsuit and pried open a large metal box. It released an airy woosh, a green light flashed, and the man deposited his outfit inside. It seemed he had finished his job for the night and was sterilizing his uniform.

The ingrainer mounted a motorbike and sped down the road toward the compound. “We have thirty minutes until he returns,” a woman whispered. I glanced at her. How many nights were spent watching this exact spot, memorizing his habits?

“It’s time,” Peter spoke. I heard a collective intake of breath as the members of the third group moved into a crouch. As I followed, my cramped muscles screamed in protest. I clenched my teeth. It was going to be a very long night.

Peter gave the signal, and we shot up from our crouched positions and began to run. Our pounding feet churned up layers of ash, blocking my vision and making me wheeze.

We cleared the road in seconds. The ingraining building loomed overhead, its smooth grey walls still pulsing with heat. There was no time to recover. “Everyone clean off,” Peter instructed. I looked down at my once-black leggings and shirt. They were coated with dust and dark red at the knees.

Peter pulled several tightly-woven cloths from his bag, and a woman handed me bandages. As I beat the dust from my clothes and applied the bandages, I noticed Peter conversing with another man in hushed tones. Together, they approached the metal box and pried it open.

The air grew heavy with tension. Peter pulled the jumpsuit from the bag and rifled through the pockets. Even from several feet away, I could see his hands shaking. “It’s here,” he said, holding up an orange keycard triumphantly. There was a collective sigh from the group. We grabbed our things and crowded around the door as Peter swiped the card into a scanner. It buzzed and swung open, revealing the inside of the ingraining building.

Hesitantly, we moved inside. Immediately, I doubled over. The room was filled with dense and humid smoke. Next to me, Owen clutched his throat and emitted a horrific hacking noise. “Quiet!” his father hissed. I pulled my mask tighter and forced myself to straighten up.

The inside of the chamber was large and circular, divided in half by a glass panel. Lights on the ceiling illuminated thick, swirling vapors overhead. On the other side, the ingraining machine lay behind a wall of smoke. It emitted a quiet rumble, shaking the floor and filling me with dread.

My body became sticky with sweat. We crossed the room as a group, and the atmosphere seemed excited now that the mission was truly underway. Some of the members whispered amongst themselves, while others adjusted their gloves or tightened their packs. Another door awaited us on the opposite wall, and Peter scanned the card and beckoned us through. Owen glanced my way, and I could sense him brimming with excitement. I refused to meet his eyes.

We entered a long and poorly lit hallway. Behind us, the door to the ingraining chamber closed behind us with a firm click. We moved steadily down the hall, taking care to keep our footsteps light and noiseless. To my right, the grey wall was covered with posters. Stay safe! one read, Wash your hands.

Peter stopped at the end of the hallway and knelt a few paces from the entrance to the next building. Beside him was a rectangle the size of a window pane. Using his dagger, he pried it up, releasing a cloud of dust. Inside, a set of narrow stairs descended into the darkness.

I followed the members of Peter’s team down the stairs and into another dark hallway. I tripped over my own feet and tried to find my bearings. At the rear, a woman closed the trapdoor and sealed us in, releasing the oozing darkness. I looked up at the shining rectangle at the top of the staircase, wishing I was anywhere but here.

A few agonizing seconds passed before someone switched on a faint flashlight. I shuddered instinctively. We had entered an underground tunnel. Unlike the chamber and hallway above, the walls were made of red brick and had fallen into disrepair. Near my head, a broken metal pipe protruded from the wall, dripping an unknown liquid onto the floor. Plink, plonk.

My stomach tightened with claustrophobia. “Where does this lead?” Owen whispered. There was a long pause.

“To the East Wing of the Fortress,” a woman responded in a tight voice. The air seemed to grow colder around me. Why does such a tunnel exist? I wondered. Was it for the servants, when the Fortress was an estate? Or does the king still use it, to transport his men inconspicuously?

The minutes spent in the tunnel seemed to stretch into hours. I found myself questioning when, inevitably, our trespass would be discovered. Will it be when the ingrainer finds his keycard missing? Or will he spend time searching, assuming that he lost it himself? Perhaps we have already been discovered on a hidden camera, and an ambush awaits us at the next turn.

Finally, a set of stairs led us back aboveground and before another wooden trapdoor. “We are about to enter the lower offices,” Peter whispered. “We must move quickly, silently, and look out for security cameras.” He gestured to all of us. “Remember the purpose of this mission. We will do our best to succeed for the Resistance and for our loved ones. If something goes wrong, return to the graveyard and alert Muriel. She will make sure our families escape in time. No matter what, do not risk getting captured.” He placed a hand on his weapon, and his meaning was clear. There were nods all around.

Peter turned the doorknob, and the door squeaked open. Wiping the last traces of smoke from my eyes, I crossed the threshold into the Fortress.