Rebellion (The 100 #4)(4)
Wells had vaguely known Paul back on the Colony. Affable and energetic, he’d always struck Wells as more of a dependable, competent soldier than a leader, but things had clearly changed in the past year. Whatever had happened to Paul’s band of survivors between their crash landing and their arrival at camp, it had made him their unofficial captain, and he still assumed that air of responsibility.
“Those of you carrying heavy loads, take care not to strain yourself. If you’re injured, you’ll be an easy target for the enemy.”
Wells rolled his eyes. The dangerous Earthborns were long gone. Paul was just frustrated to have missed all the action, and was overcompensating for it now. Wells had no patience for that, not after he’d witnessed the real price of battle.
Paul frowned slightly. “Graham, what are you doing with that knife? You’re not hunting today.”
“Says who?” Graham said, pulling the long knife from its sheath and twirling it in Paul’s direction. For a moment, Wells considered intervening. Although Graham had settled down over the past few months, Wells would never forget the violent gleam in his eyes when he tried to convince the original hundred to kill Octavia for stealing medicine.
But before Wells could act, Graham snorted, resheathing his knife, and sauntered off, nodding at Eric, who was coming from the other direction.
Eric walked up to Wells. “Need help with this?” He motioned toward the cart. “You don’t want to strain yourself and become an easy target for the enemy,” he said drily.
Wells forced a laugh. “Sure, thanks. I’m just going to grab some more firewood and then I’ll be right behind you.”
He turned and headed for the woodpile behind the far row of cabins, smile dropping away, his jaw heavy with the effort of pretending. Everything about him felt heavy these days, each step weighted with grief. But he kept walking anyway, lifted the ax from its perch, and split logs until he had a sizable pile of wood to carry. He stacked it neatly, ignoring the splinters in his palms, wrapped it all in a back sling, and hoisted it onto his shoulders.
The village had emptied out while he was chopping; they’d all left to join the others to eat and celebrate: the harvest, a fresh start, a bigger community, a newfound peace.
Wells exhaled, his shoulders slumping. The straps of the sling cut through his shirt into his skin as he looked around at the vacant valley. This was good. He’d get to the camp a little late but with plenty of wood for the stoves and the bonfire. He’d stay by the fire and keep it stoked. That would be his job tonight, a perfect excuse to avoid the feast, the speeches, the hundreds of familiar faces, all of them thinking about the people they wished were with them tonight.
Their loved ones back on the Colony… all dead because of Wells.
He’d been the one to loosen the airlock back on the ship, dooming the hundreds of people who couldn’t find seats on the dropships to a slow, suffocating death—his own father, the Chancellor, included. He’d done it to save Clarke, but still, every time he caught sight of his own reflection, he recoiled from it. Every action he took led to destruction and death. If the other Colonists knew what he’d done, they wouldn’t just turn him away from today’s Harvest Feast tables—they’d cast him out of their community entirely. And he would deserve it.
He exhaled again, and felt himself wobbling, suddenly weak. He turned to steady the heavy load on his back and saw that one of the cabins had its door ajar.
It was Max’s cabin. Sasha’s home.
Wells had only known Sasha for a few weeks, but it felt like years of vivid memories had built up during that short time. He’d especially loved being with her in the village. She hadn’t just been the Earthborn leader’s daughter—she’d been part of the community’s life force. She was the one who’d first volunteered to gather intelligence on the hundred, even though the mission put her life in danger. She was the first to lend a helping hand, offer a sympathetic shoulder, or voice an unpopular opinion on behalf of the less powerful. She was useful, she was valued, she was loved, and now she was gone.
Wells dropped his sling, ignoring the clatter of the firewood, and stumbled like a sleepwalker to the doorway. He hadn’t been inside the cabin for nearly a month, avoiding both memories and interactions with the grieving Earthborns for as long as possible. But now there was no one around, and the cabin was drawing him in like a magnet.
His eyes searched the dim interior, taking in a table crammed with scraps of electronics, a small kitchen space, Max’s sleeping quarters… and there, in the back, Sasha’s corner.
Her bed, her quilt, a bundle of dried flowers, a drawing of a bird scratched into the wooden wall. All still there.
“I couldn’t bring myself to move any of it,” came a deep, gravelly voice behind Wells.
He turned to see Max standing a foot away, peering past him with an inscrutable expression. His beard was neatly trimmed, his best clothes neatly darned, all ready for his official role at tonight’s festivities. But right now he didn’t look like the leader of the Earthborns and a member of the new, united Council. He looked like a wounded man—a father still in the freshest wave of grief.
“She drew that bird when she was five, you know. I thought it was pretty good for that age. For any age.” He let out a little laugh. “Maybe in the old world, she could have been an artist.”
“She could have been a lot of things,” Wells said softly.