Rebellion (The 100 #4)(9)

Octavia nodded, whispering to the children.

Bellamy was nearly at the infirmary cabin, but he’d have to dash across open ground to get there. Thankfully, the invaders hadn’t come up this far; they were still concentrated at the other end of the clearing near the supply cabins, where the feast had been laid out.

Bellamy let out a long, ragged breath when he reached the door. The cabin looked untouched, no invaders in sight. But it was worryingly silent.

A branch cracked behind him and Bellamy whirled around, fists clenched. But instead of one of the men in white, it was a Colony guard, arms raised in surrender. Luke was almost unrecognizable, covered in gray soot from his curly hair to his boots. He held a rifle, which he lowered as he took a few steps toward Bellamy, limping more than usual.

Bellamy clapped a hand on Luke’s arm. “You all right?”

Luke looked more bewildered than scared. “I got thrown by the first blast, then somebody, one of those guys in white, started dragging me before the second one went off. I got away, got this gun, and fought them off.”

Bellamy glanced around. “Were you followed?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Good. Come on. Let’s get inside.”

Bellamy tried to open the infirmary door and found it barricaded with cabinets, medical bags, and cots. Good thinking, Clarke, he thought, even if it was keeping them out too. But they’d need to hurry. The invaders were still focused on raiding supplies from the other end of the clearing, but they’d make their way to this end soon enough. “Clarke,” he called softly. “It’s me.”

Clarke’s fingers appeared at the top of the pile, pulling objects downward. “You’ll need to climb!” she called. “I’ll make room at the top. Who’s with you? Do you have the kids?”

“They’re hiding with O,” Bellamy called back. “We’ll bring them here.”

“Go!” Clarke said, but Bellamy was already running back toward the perimeter, Luke on his tail.

Smoke poured out of the camp’s decimated buildings, and a huge gray cloud billowed over the new residential cabins. In the moments that he’d been at the infirmary, the men in white seemed to have left the clearing.

The kids must have seen Bellamy and Luke coming, because the littlest of them started to creep out from the relative safety of the woods. Bellamy cursed. The camp might look eerily empty now, but they’d been under attack just minutes ago. The boy, maybe five, ran toward Luke, sobbing, arms extended to be picked up. But they were still three hundred yards away, minimum. The other kids followed the boy in a mad rush, all order abandoned.

Bellamy broke into a sprint, pointing the children toward the infirmary as they passed him in a wave, his eyes scanning the edge of the clearing so fast everything seemed to blur.

Everything but Octavia, still too far away, stumbling as she ran. Then, like a scene from a nightmare, three tall figures in white emerged from the shadow of the woods. Bellamy could only run and run and run and watch, his eyes boring into his sister’s face.

Run, he shouted. Except that no sound came out. Not even when two of the men grabbed her, wrenching her arms behind her back, while the third pulled a syringe from his pocket and plunged it into her neck. A few seconds later, she fell limp as a cloth doll into her captors’ arms.

“No!” Bellamy screamed. “Get your hands off of her; I will kill you!”

The three figures glanced up, blandly curious; then one of them tossed something into the clearing between them—and the others carried his sister back into the woods.

Bellamy started to chase them, but Luke grabbed hold of him and dragged him backward.

“It’s a grenade. Get down!”

They fell beside each other on the hard ground, hands over their heads, bracing for the blast, but it was a muffled one. Bellamy peered up, seeing a wall of smoke between him and the last spot he’d seen his sister. He pulled up his shirt, covering his face and holding his breath as he tore through the fog, emerging on the other side to see… nothing.

The invaders were gone.

And so was Octavia.





CHAPTER 5


Wells


Something thudded against his head, over and over in a slow, relentless rhythm. He tried to open his eyes, but they were as heavy as sandbags and something gnawed at the back of his mind, whispering that he didn’t want to wake up quite yet. He wasn’t ready to know.

The last he could remember, he’d been in the woods with Eric. Bellamy had gone to find Clarke, and Wells and Eric were darting in and out of the clearing, grabbing more injured and bringing them to the woods, where Clarke’s father could treat them. He and Eric had just ducked back under the cover of the trees, supporting someone between them. Then there had been a sharp sting against his shoulder blade. Wells had turned to find a strange, unsmiling man with sunken cheeks. Then… nothing.

Awareness crept in. The feel of hard, cracked wood beneath his shoulders. A swaying motion, like he’d felt on the dropship before it hit Earth’s atmosphere. A sour humid smell; a weird grinding sound. Light flickered past his eyelids.

“This one’s waking up,” said a voice beside his ear, male, unfamiliar.

Wells’s eyes flew open. He was staring at a wooden wall, badly built, with gaps between the thin, rotting boards. Through one of the gaps, he could see a green blur. His bleary mind began to put pieces together, agonizingly slowly. The forest? They were moving through it. This was some sort of vehicle.