Rebellion (The 100 #4)(40)

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.