Wells lined up with his fellow captives in the early-morning light. While the Protectors walked up and down the line, he stood at attention, chin raised proudly, his mouth set in a tepid smile, just like the others.

Eric, Graham, and Kit were still playing along, of course. As were the other seven recruits from their camp. But for all Wells knew, the other dozen male recruits were true converts. They were Earthborns, though not from Max’s village, or part of the group that’d split off. It made his mind spin, thinking about how many other hidden communities there could be… people who’d found different ways to survive the Cataclysm. Once this was all over, he was going to learn about them all.

Oak stepped forward to address the gathering. There seemed to be only a loose hierarchy among the Protectors, but Wells had gotten the sense of a pecking order among them, with Oak near the very top.

“Today, we’re doing something different,” Oak boomed. “Some of you will be leaving the Stone to go do Earth’s will.”

Oak turned away, taking something from one of the other Protectors. In one quick blink, he was in front of Wells, holding out a rifle. There was a strange intensity in his eyes. Wells knew even before he took the gun from Oak that it was loaded.

At the first touch of cool metal, his heart started pounding so loud he swore everyone around him could hear it. He nodded sharply and stood with his gun across his chest, the way they’d trained him to, as Oak continued down the line, arming the other recruits for whatever today’s mission would be.

Oak stopped three men down, at Graham, pausing with a squint before handing the gun over. Graham gave a nod and Oak stomped away, pointing to the others, who hadn’t been given weapons, including Eric and Kit.

“The rest of you will remain with me for further target training. Wish your brothers luck today on their mission.”

As the others murmured, “Luck be with you, if Earth wills it,” Wells realized what was happening in slow, gradual bursts.

He was going out on a mission.

He was going out… leaving this compound.

He was holding a loaded rifle.

Wells turned and saw Graham realizing the same thing. A trickle of sweat rolled down Graham’s forehead, despite the chilly air.

Graham’s finger twitched against the rifle’s trigger, his eyes traveling to Wells’s and holding there, pleading. Wells shook his head—this morning wasn’t the moment, their friends weren’t even heading out with them—but before he could mouth, not today, another Protector with eerie blue eyes stepped up and began to give orders.

“I’ll be leading today’s expedition,” the Protector called, crossing his arms over his chest. “This will be very simple. In and out. We don’t anticipate any altercations today. We’ll be heading out to a farm site we’ve discovered near here to bolster our food stores for the winter. One hour by wagon, one hour there, one hour back. Any questions?”

A farm site. Wells still couldn’t get over the fact that there were other people here on Earth, not too far from his own camp. People with farms. He knew he should keep his mouth shut, but the offer was out there, and he did have a question. A big one. He raised his hand.

The blue-eyed Protector nodded at him. “Yes?”

“How can you be sure there won’t be any altercations?” he asked.

“We can’t be sure of anything.” The Protector blinked. “But the farm is, as of now, unoccupied. There shouldn’t be anyone there to oppose us.”

How can they know that? Wells wondered, but he nodded once and kept that question to himself, as they shouldered their weapons and stepped into a new set of horse-drawn wagons. This time they sat on the Protectors’ benches instead of being tied up on the floor. They must have scouted this farm, Wells realized as he sat down, just like they spied on my camp before taking us.

But if that were the case, why wouldn’t the Protectors have just gone in and looted then? Something wasn’t adding up about this mission.

The wagons rolled down a dirt road carved out of the rubble-strewn landscape, and Wells looked out the high windows to try to get his bearings. The morning sun was behind him, so they must have been heading north.

Good, Wells thought, glancing anxiously at Graham. If they’d headed back west, instead of into brand-new territory, Graham might have been tempted to make a break for it. I might have been tempted myself.

But that would mean leaving Eric and Kit behind, along with Glass, Octavia, and the others. It would mean risking large-scale retaliation. It wouldn’t solve anything.

After what felt like far less than an hour, the wagon rolled into a low valley and creaked to a stop.

Wells could smell it the second he stepped out into the crisp autumn air: charred wood… and something worse. As he turned to face the clearing beyond the wagon, his throat clenched tight.

So this was why they’d called it a farm site, instead of a farm. It wasn’t just their odd Protector terminology, it was the truth. This was a place where a farm used to be. Now it was just a burned-out field. In the center, there was the smoldering wreckage of what was once a homestead.

Wells stared at the far side of the site, disgust pooling in his stomach. The dirt was overturned there, loose and choppy, forming a wide, messy hill. Wells didn’t need to ask what that mound covered. The answer was in the blood still staining the grass around him. It was a mass grave.

They knew no one was here because they’d made sure of it.

“We had to wait for the fire to go out to search further,” the Protector said from behind Wells, the man’s eerily soft voice making him jump. He pointed over Wells’s shoulder at the desiccated heap where the building once stood. “There’s a cellar in the center that should be well stocked. Take whatever the fire didn’t destroy and load it in the carts.”

Wells couldn’t quite get the words “yes, sir” out, but this Protector didn’t seem to require it. He had already turned away, directing the others toward the remnants of the farm.

Wells started to shake more and more visibly the closer he got to the building. He wondered whether this was the real test. Were the Protectors bringing them here as a reminder of what they’d done to the recruits’ homes? Was this what Wells’s own camp looked like now, completely obliterated, the people who had lived there now buried in a heap of dirt?

Graham strode up beside him, his jaw clenched. He glanced at Wells darkly. Wells couldn’t muster a nod, a head shake, anything.

They marched together, fists clenched tight around their guns, to the center of the farmhouse, stepping gingerly over crumbling foundations and blackened beams. The two Protectors overseeing them watched unblinkingly from the wagon.

One of the other recruits walked nervously into the building, then gave a shout as his leg fell through the weakened floor. Wells hurried silently over to pull him out, looking into the boy’s eyes as he hoisted him up and patted him on the shoulder. This recruit had been there when Wells had arrived, but Wells had no idea what his name was, where he came from, or how he felt about all this, except that he looked white-knuckle terrified right now.

“Thanks, man,” the boy whispered, gripping his gun with sweaty hands as Wells nodded and moved away.

“It’s here,” Graham called, pointing downward with his rifle.

Wells made his way over. There was a rusted metal grate in the floor, and when they heaved it open, it revealed a poured-cement stairwell, still intact.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Wells said under his breath and started down, leading the way.

In the dusty light spilling down from above, Wells could make out shelves stocked with unmarked tins. Nets hung from the ceiling, full of potatoes, turnips, and other root vegetables, and a briny smell from the far corner probably meant there were cured meats and fish stocked here for the winter as well.

As Wells stepped closer to the shelves, ready to load up and get out of here as quickly as possible, his foot touched something soft. He leaned down to see what it was, but Graham was already beside him, stooping, pulling it up.

They both stood and stared at it in thick silence. It was a teddy bear, worn through in patches, its stitched mouth set in a deep frown.

A child had lived here.

Graham looked at Wells, eyes burning with rage. He dropped the teddy bear onto the ground. Then he turned and barreled back up the stairs, pulling his rifle off his shoulder and into position.

Wells felt the click of Graham’s safety like a snap in his own brain. He drew a scalding breath and raced after him.

“Graham, don’t!” he screamed, but it was too late.

Graham was sprinting out of the building, letting out a guttural wordless scream that echoed throughout the valley. A shot rang out, Graham’s course wavering a little from the kickback. Wells stared up at the two Protectors, ducking with their hands over their shaved heads, and reached for his own rifle, frantically wondering which direction to point it in. If Graham had hit one of them, he could get the other…

Graham fired again. It ricocheted off the side of the wagon, and Wells could see the spot his first bullet had hit. He’d missed both times. The Protectors were up and running, one of them zigzagging, luring Graham closer while the other looped around behind Graham, tackling him to the ground, disarming him effortlessly while shoving something into his back.

A sedative, Wells realized, his rifle dipping useless in his hands. Just like when they got us in the first place.

“Get him in the wagon,” the blue-eyed Protector called out to the other one, his voice as hollowed of emotion as ever. Then he turned his gun on Wells. “Drop your guns, all of you.”

Wells let go of his rifle, watched it plummet into the dirt and staggered backward, hands up high. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the other two prisoners follow suit.

“Good,” said the Protector, his eyes drifting past them. “Now finish up and let’s get going.”

Wells glanced behind him, surprised, then blinked hard and hurried back to the cellar as ordered. They acted so nonchalant, like this happened all the time. Maybe it did. Maybe they’d known one of them would crack.

Wells gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached as he loaded the vehicle with food. When it was done, he and the others ducked back into the wagon, where the Protectors had left them room on the bench.

Graham was sprawled unconscious on the floor beneath them. One of the Protectors casually used his lifeless shoulder as a footrest the entire way back to the Stone.

When they stopped in the courtyard, the blue-eyed Protector put his hand up, stopping Wells. “Drag your friend to the kennels.”

“He’s not my friend,” Wells said. “And I’d be happy to.”

The words tasted like poison in his mouth, but the Protector smiled, appeased. Wells drew a breath and reached into the wagon to hoist Graham into his arms.

“Did I tell you to carry him?” the Protector asked coolly. “Huh. I could have sworn I said to drag him.” He walked slowly behind Wells, raised his gun, and dug its barrel between Wells’s shoulder blades.

Wells felt wrath pulse through his veins, a volcano due to explode at any moment, but his fear was even stronger. One squeeze of that trigger and he wouldn’t be able to help Graham or Octavia or Glass or anyone ever again.

“Yes, sir,” he said. Carefully, he laid Graham onto the ground and started to pull, while the Protector’s gun dug into his back, prodding him step by step, straight into the belly of the Stone.

Soon, he thought. There was no more waiting for the perfect time, for the ideal intel, to bring these people to their knees. They were going to have to get out of there. The next chance we get.

If there was a next chance.

Wells dared one last longing glance back at the open sky, tugging Graham behind him, before the mammoth walls swallowed them both up again.