Lacrishia is a brilliant strategist. If any of the gray-shirts descend on us, we’ll split apart and head for the beach. They can’t catch us all, and Lacrishia just upped the odds that at least some of the evidence has a chance to make it off the island. But my stomach sinks at the thought of any of these kids being caught by the Reverend…

By the time we reach the bunker, the sun abandons us completely. Twenty minutes have come and gone since we donned our backpacks and traveled up the shoreline, past the vacant boys’ cabin and into uncharted territory. The cleared road has also left us; weeds and long grass brush my calves.

The only thing that’s stayed with us is the looming presence in the jungle. Whoever is out there, their footsteps are silent but their energy burns as powerfully as fire. My spear slips in my sweating hand whenever I think about them, crouching, waiting for us to drop our guard.

At last, the bunker materializes in the night. It’s just another cabin, only smaller and more dilapidated; it wades halfway into the lake itself, tall stilts lifting it above the water like a dozen outstretched fingers. Surrounding the bunker is a cage of overgrown marine roots, tendrils—tinged blood-red—that reach out of the lakebed to choke the building like a squid trying to drag a ship below.

“It’s not blood on those roots,” Marcos says, clasping my hand (and reading my mind). “They’re red mangroves. They grow like that out of the lake, and Nightlight just built the bunker inside.”

“That’s dramatic.” I giggle, relieved that these tendrils aren’t painted with the blood of rebellious campers.

“The door’s open,” Lacrishia says, wringing small gasps from the crowd. Through her torchlight, I search the bunker’s peeling front wall for what she’s referring to: beyond the tangle of red roots, a bulky, metallic gate rests open on its hinges. “That door is never open.”

“It’s a Goddamn trap,” Molly says.

“It’s a trap,” I agree. “But we can’t leave Darcy. And we’ve got the spears.” Lacrishia swallows hard, still resolved to our plan but with a new coat of dread. Lake water softly laps against the hefty mangrove roots, filling the silence as the group waits for Marcos and me to do what we agreed to do. “It’ll be just like Jack getting the evidence. In and out.”

Molly’s anxious feet won’t let her rest. She launches herself toward us: “I’m coming too.”

“No,” Lacrishia says, raising her torch. “I’m telling y’all, there’s no room in there. There’s room for two, and Marcos already knows what it’s like inside. I don’t need two people going in blind.”