My body jerked as I sputtered awake. “Urg!” I grunted, my injuries igniting with fiery pain. I sat back on my elbows and waited for my vision to clear.

What happened? A series of images flashed before my eyes: Owen’s capture, the broken window, and the horrible fall. My stomach churned with horror as I remembered Peter’s death. I tilted my head skyward, breathing slowly. The sun had climbed over the horizon, and the trees rustled with a thin breeze. Nearby, a bird warbled a morning song. The sound was muffled, as if I was underwater.

“You’re awake,” a voice observed. I turned to see a man crouching only a few feet away, packing a backpack with supplies. A black mask obscured his mouth and nose. The primal urge to run flitted across my mind, but it was gone in an instant—my aching legs reminded me that I could not run a step further.

I glanced down at my body. My hands and arms were wrapped in skin-colored bandages, which were already acquiring a red tint as blood seeped through. My exposed skin was a patchwork of cuts and bruises. I touched it gingerly, still unconvinced that I had survived the fall.

I felt the man’s eyes on me and met his stare. He was watching me carefully, as if I were a cornered animal. His skin was a shade darker than mine, and he had dark eyes, so brown they seemed black. He was lean and muscular, and I realized that I would be hard-pressed to defend myself even in peak condition. He leaned close to me and spoke, pronouncing each word clearly. “Who are you? Why are you here?” I said nothing, my mouth pressed into a thin line. I was already determined to preserve my identity—it was all I had left.

“Did you bandage my wounds?” I asked. My voice sounded flat and foreign even to my own ears. The man fixed me with another scrutinous stare and then nodded curtly. The atmosphere was fraught with tension, and I worried for a moment that he might question me again.

“Can you stand?” he asked. Slowly, without looking away, I pulled myself to my feet. He slung his backpack over one shoulder, turned on his heel, and began to walk through the trees. After a half-dozen paces, he beckoned for me to follow.

I scanned my surroundings, but they were utterly unfamiliar. I was standing underneath a thick canopy of branches, and the Fortress wall from which I had fallen was a couple hundred yards away. I wasn’t certain, but it appeared as though the man was walking deeper into the compound, away from the gates. He beckoned me forward again, his gestures growing more impatient.

For now, I’ll humor him. I stepped to follow, but my right leg refused to hold my weight. I grabbed the trunk of a tree to keep myself from crumbling to the ground. The man strode back to me, his eyebrows pinched together. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

“I can’t walk. I think my ankle is broken.”

“All right,” he replied, his voice holding an undercurrent of anxiety. He bent down to examine my ankle, which was swollen and turning purple around the joint. Sighing, he slid an arm around my back as if to support me.

I flinched away, frustrated at my own confusion. “Where are you taking us?”

The man looked around uneasily, and a vein pulsed at his throat. “We’re still on Fortress grounds. We need to leave, now.”

“Okay,” I conceded. I leaned against him, and we walked deeper into the trees. Sweat beaded on my forehead. As we were swallowed by the trees, I lost all sense of direction, becoming completely dependent on the stranger. Then, when my pain became almost too much to bear, I could focus on nothing more than the dull pulse of my own blood and the sound of our breathing.

“We’re almost there,” the man said, his voice softening. I looked up to see a fence towering above the treeline, at least thirty feet tall and topped with rolls of barbed wire.

“No way,” I whispered.

“Just follow me until we cross,” he said grimly. He began to run his foot over the ground, as if searching for something. After only a moment, he brushed aside a layer of dead leaves to reveal a concrete slab.

He released a long breath and cleared the rest of the slab. It was about five feet across, and fixed in the center was an iron manhole cover large enough to fit a person. He tucked his fingers into the grooves and began to lift the cover. “Come help me,” he groaned, and I hurried to the other side. We heaved it sideways, my injuries throbbing in protest.

He glanced skyward, his eyes narrowing into a squint. “Helicopters. Come on, hurry.”

I stared at the hole apprehensively. The air wafting out was dark and stale, an echo of the Fortress tunnels. Metal rungs were built into the one side of the shaft, leading into the darkness below. I grimaced—another climb was unappealing.

“It’s this or the fence,” the man reminded me. I grunted in response and I lowered myself onto the ladder, wrapping my fingers around the first rungs. They were wet and cold, uncomfortable against my sliced-up skin.

A moment later, my shoes squelched as they met the wet, moldy bottom. The man began his descent, stopping to drag the manhole cover back over the hole, and we were plunged into darkness. There was a thud as he landed next to me and fumbled for his backpack. I backed up quickly, fearful that he would take the opportunity to kill me where my body would never be found. Although he had bandaged my wounds, his knowledge of the Fortress was suspect.

A light cut through the darkness as the man flicked on a flashlight. My shoulders slumped with relief. “What is this place?” I asked, purposefully avoiding any personal questions.

“It’s a pipeline. It’s not used anymore.” He pointed the light around, and I caught a glance of rounded metal walls and dark green algae. There was a strong earthy scent, like mildew and decay. “Here,” the man said, tossing me a package of crackers, “eat this.”

I tore open the package and examined the contents. They were simple flour wafers, a common snack in Historical Amberasta. My stomach rumbled as I sniffed them. There’s no point in being suspicious, I reasoned, if he wanted me to die, he would have left me to bleed out next to the Fortress wall.

I ate the crackers ravenously; I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. When I was finished, the man offered me a drink from his canteen. I took a long drought and then several small sips, savoring what I could. I handed back the canteen and fixed my gaze on him. ‘Why are you helping me?’ I wanted to ask. We are nothing but strangers.

I shook my head. It was a question for another time. I shouldn’t push my luck.

Wordlessly, the man fixed his arm around me again. I sighed, knowing it was time to continue—to walk on my aching feet into the darkness, supported by a stranger, away from everything I had ever known.