The 100 (The 100 Series) (31 page)
Read The 100 (The 100 Series) Online
Authors: Kass Morgan
Glass turned to her, startled, but she couldn’t make out the expression on Camille’s face. “What are you talking about?”
“He deserves to know the truth. That his friend
died
because of you.”
Glass shuddered, and even though she couldn’t see Camille smile, she could hear it in her voice.
“I know your secret. I know what you did to Carter.”
35
Clarke
They had been walking for hours, making widening concentric circles through the woods, trying to cover every inch of terrain. The backs of Clarke’s legs were burning, but she relished the sensation; the physical pain was a welcome distraction from her thoughts. The flames engulfing the sides of the infirmary tent… Wells’s arms like handcuffs around her… the sickening crack as the walls collapsed.
“Hey, look over here.” Clarke turned to see Bellamy kneeling on the ground near the spot where she’d discovered Octavia’s ribbon, staring intently at what appeared to be footprints in the dirt. She was no tracker, but the marks of struggle were easy to read. Whoever had left the prints
hadn’t been on a pleasant stroll through the woods.
“It looks like someone was running, or in a fight,” Clarke said softly. She refrained from finishing the sentence:
almost like someone had been dragged away
. They’d assumed Octavia had run away… but what if she’d been taken?
She could read the same terrible line of questioning on Bellamy’s furrowed brow, and knelt down beside him. “She can’t be far,” Clarke said, meaning it. “We’ll find her.”
“Thank you.” Bellamy nodded as he rose, and they continued walking. “I’m… I’m glad you’re here with me.”
They trudged on for what felt like hours, the sun rising and then sinking in the sky. As their circles grew wider, Clarke could tell they were approaching the edge of the forest. Through the outlines of the trees she saw a clearing and paused. There were more trees, but these looked different from the ones in the woods. They had massive, gnarled trunks and thick limbs covered with a canopy of green leaves. The branches sagged with round, red fruit. Apples.
Clarke approached the apple trees, Bellamy close behind her. “That’s strange,” she said slowly. “The trees are spaced so evenly. It almost looks like an orchard.” She walked over to the closest one. “But could it really have survived all these years?”
Although the tree loomed over her, the lowest branch was fairly close to the ground. Standing on her toes, it was easy for
Clarke to stretch up and pluck an apple. She twisted around and tossed it to Bellamy before reaching for another one.
Clarke held the apple up to her face. They grew fruit in the solar fields on the ship, but t
hose apples looked nothing like these. The skin wasn’t just red; it had threads of pink and white running through it, and it gave off a scent unlike anything she had smelled before. She took a bite and gasped as juice began running down her chin. How could something taste sweet and tart at the same time? For just a moment, Clarke allowed herself to forget everything that had happened on Earth and let the sensation overtake her.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Bellamy asked, and Clarke looked over. While she’d been busy eating, he’d begun using fallen branches to measure the distance between the trees.
“To be honest, I wasn’t thinking anything beyond how good this tastes,” Clarke admitted, feeling the hint of a smile curl her lips. But Bellamy didn’t laugh or tease her. He just kept staring at the perfectly spaced trees.
“These didn’t survive the Cataclysm, and they didn’t just grow like this,” he said slowly, his voice filled with wonder and dread. Before he’d even finished, Clarke knew what he was going to say. Her chest tightened with fear. “Someone planted them.”
36
Wells
“Is this better?”
Wells turned and saw Asher, the Arcadian boy, pointing to the log he’d been chopping. The grass was covered with wood shavings and pieces tha t had been discarded after false starts—but this one actually looked promising.
“Definitely.” Wells nodded and crouched down next to the log, running his fingers over the grooves Asher had carved into the wood. “Just make sure they’re all approximately the same depth, or else the logs won’t lock into place.” As Wells stood up, Graham walked by, carrying a shred of melted tarp toward the growing mound of salvaged supplies in the middle of the clearing. Wells stood a little taller, bracing for a scoff or
snide remark, but Graham kept his eyes forward and continued on without a word.
The fire had destroyed their tents, but most of the tools had been spared, and the medicine, too. It had been Wells’s idea to try to build permanent wood structures. It was a thousand times more difficult than it sounded in books, but they were slowly figuring it out.
“Wells!” A girl from Walden ran over. “How are we going to hang the hammocks? Eliza says they’re going to hang from the roof beams, but those aren’t going to be ready for days, right? Also, I was thinking—”
“I’ll come over in a few minutes, okay?” Wells said, cutting her off. A look of hurt flitted across her round face. “I’m sure you and Eliza are doing a great job,” he added, giving her a small smile. “I’ll be right there.”
She nodded and dashed away, darting around a pile of melted tent rods that still looked too hot to touch.
Wells glanced over his shoulder, then started walking toward the tree line. He needed a moment to himself, to think. He moved slowly, the heaviness in his chest seeming to seep into his limbs, making every step laborious and painful. At the edge of the forest, he paused, breathing the cooler air deep into his lungs, and closed his eyes. This was where he’d kissed Clarke for the very first time on Earth—and for what was surely the last time in his life.
He thought he’d already experienced the most terrible kind of pain possible—knowing that Clarke hated him, that she couldn’t stand the sight of him. But he’d been wrong. Watching her leave with Bellamy had nearly killed him. She hadn’t even looked his way when she’d come to collect what was left of her gear. She’d just nodded silently at the rest of the group before following Bellamy into the forest.
If only she knew what he’d really done to be with her on Earth. He’d risked everything. And it was all for nothing.
None of the guards gave Wells more than a cursory glance as he raised his eyes to the retina scanner, then strode through the doors. Entry to sector C14 was highly restricted, but his officer’s uniform, purposeful walk, and well-known face guaranteed access to pretty much any part of the Colony. He’d never taken advantage of his status, until now. After he’d heard his father’s conversation with the Vice Chancellor, something inside of Wells had snapped.
His plan was reckless and stupid and incredibly selfish, but he didn’t care. He had to make sure Clarke was sent to Earth instead of the execution chamber.
Wells jogged down the empty, narrow staircase, lit only by faint emergency lights. There was no reason for anyone to visit the airlock except for routine checks, and Wells had already hacked into the maintenance files to check the schedule. He would be totally alone.
The airlock in C14 was original to the ship. And despite the engineers’ efforters’ es to keep it in top condition, after three hundred years of facing the extreme temperatures and UV rays of space, it had started to deteriorate. There were tiny cracks along the edge and shiny squares where newer material had obviously been patched over the airlock.
Wells reached behind him for the pliers he’d tucked into the waistband of his pants. It would be fine, he told himself, his arms shaking. They were all going to be evacuated soon, anyway. He was just speeding up the process. Yet in the back of his mind, he knew that there weren’t enough dropships for everyone. And he had no idea what would happen when it came time to use them.
But that was his father’s concern, not his.
He reached out and began to pry up the flimsy edge of the airlock, wincing when he heard the faint hiss. Then he turned and raced back toward the stairs, trying to ignore the horror welling up in his stomach. He could barely stand to think of what he’d done, but as he hurried down the stairs, he told himself he’d done what he had to do.
Wells rose wearily to his feet. It was getting dark, and there was still a lot of work to do on the new cabins. They needed to finish at least some of the shelters before the next storm. As he approached camp, wondering if Clarke had taken enough blankets with her, if she would be warm when the temperature
dropped, Asher came up beside him and launched into another line of questioning. He held one of the trimmed logs and seemed to want Wells’s opinion on the size and cut.
Wells was too absorbed in his own thoughts to hear what Asher was saying. As they walked side by side toward the tents, he could see the boy’s mouth moving, but the words never made it to Wells’s ears.
“Listen,” Wells began, ready to tell Asher it could wait until morning. Just then, something streaked past his face. There was a sickening thwack, and Asher flew backward. Blood bubbled out of his mouth as he fell to the ground.
Wells dropped to his knees. “
Asher
,” he screamed as his eyes struggled to make sense of the image in front of him. There was an arrow sticking out of the boy’s neck.
His first
, mad thought was Bellamy. He was the only one who could shoot like that.
Wells spun around with a yell, but it wasn’t Bellamy behind him. A line of shadowy figures stood at the bottom of the hill, the setting sun behind them. He gasped as shock and horror raced through his veins. Suddenly, it became clear who had set fire to the camp—and who had taken Octavia. It wasn’t anyone from the Colony.
The hundred might have been the first humans to set foot on the planet in three centuries, but they weren’t alone.
Some people had never left.
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I owe an immeasurable debt of gratitude to Joelle Hobeika, who not only dreamed up the premise for
The 100
, but whose imagination, editorial acumen, and tenacity were essential in bringing it to life. The same applies to Katie McGee, Elizabeth Bewley, and
Farrin Jacobs, whose incisive questions and intelligent suggestions shaped the book at every level. I’m also grateful to the intimidatingly clever people at Alloy, specifically Sara Shandler, Josh Bank, and Lanie Davis, and the dedicated teams at Little, Brown and Hodder &
Stoughton.
Thank you to my remarkable friends on both sides of the East River, the Gowanus Canal, the Mississippi, and
the Atlantic fo
r your support and encouragement. A special “shout”-out to my confidants and coconspirators at b
oth ends of 557 Broadway, to the Crossroads crew, who first introduced me to science fiction, and t
o Rachel Griffiths for going light-years beyond the call of duty to help me grow as a writer and edit
or.
Most of all, I am grateful to my family—my father, S
am Henry Kass, whose writing overflows with unmatched wit and unparalleled heart; my mother, Marcia
Bloom, whose art shimmers with the wisdom of a philosopher and the soul of an aesthete; my brillian
t brother, Petey Kass, who makes me laugh until I can’t breathe; my inspiring grandparents, Nance,
Peter, Nicky, and David; and the Kass/Bloom/Greenfield clans, who make so many places feel like hom
e.
