The 100 (The 100 Series) (6 page)

“Please,” she said. Her voice trembled. “Help me.”

Clarke glanced at the label on the girl’s vital monitor.
SUBJECT 121
. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Lilly.”

Clarke stood there awkwardly, but when Lilly scooted back on her pillows, Clarke lowered herself to sit on the bed next to her. She’d just started her medical training and hadn’t interacted
with patients yet, but she knew one of the most important parts of being a doctor was bedside manner. “I’m sure you’ll get to go home soon,” she offered. “Once you’re feeling better.”

The girl pulled her knees to her chest and buried her head, saying something too muffled for Clarke to make out.

“What was that?” she asked. She glanced over her shoulder, wondering why there wasn’t a nurse or a medical apprentice covering for her parents. If something happened to one of the kids, there’d be no one to help them.

The girl raised her head but looked away from Clarke. She chewed her lip as the tears in her eyes receded, leaving a haunting emptiness in their wake.

When she finally spoke, it was in a whisper. “No one ever gets better.”

Clarke suppressed a shudder. Diseases were rare on the ship; there hadn’t been any epidemics since the last outbreak they’d quarantined on Walden. Clarke looked around the lab for something to indicate what her parents were treating, and her eyes settled on an enormous screen on the far wall. Data flashed across it, forming a large graph.
Subject 32. Age 7. Day 189. 3.4 Gy. Red count. White count. Respiration. Subject 33. Age 11. Day 298. 6 Gy. Red count. White count. Respiration.

At first Clarke thought nothing of the data. It made perfect sense for her parents to monitor the vitals of the sick children in their care. Except that
Gy
had nothing to do with vital signs.
A
Gray
was a measure of radiation, a fact she well knew as her parents had been investigating the effects of radiation exposure for years, part of the ongoing task to determine when it’d be safe for humans to return to Earth.

Clarke’s gaze settled on Lilly’s pale face as a chilling realization slithered out of a dark place in the back of Clarke’s mind. She tried to force it back, but it coiled around her denial, suffocating all thoughts except a truth so horrifying, she almost gagged.

Her parents’ research was no longer limited to cell cultures. They’d moved onto human trials.

Her mother and father weren’t curing these children. They were killing them.

They’d landed in some kind of clearing, an L-shaped space surrounded by trees.

There weren’t many serious injuries, but there were enough to keep Clarke busy. For nearly an hour, she used torn jacket sleeves and pant legs as makeshift tourniquets, and ordered the few people with broken bones to lie still until she found a way to fashion splints. Their supplies were scattered across the grass, but although she’d sent multiple people to search for the medicine chest, it hadn’t been recovered.

The battered dropship was at the short end of the clearing, and for the first fifteen minutes, the passengers had clustered around the smoldering wreckage, too scared and stunned to
move more than a few shaky steps. But now they’d started milling around. Clarke hadn’t spotted Thalia, or Wells, either, although she wasn’t sure whether that made her more anxious or relieved. Maybe he was off with Glass. Clarke hadn’t seen her on the dropship, but she had to be here somewhere.

“How does that feel?” Clarke asked, returning her attention to wrapping the swollen ankle of a pretty, wide-eyed girl with a frayed red ribbon in her dark hair.

“Better,” she said, wiping her nose with her hand, unintentionally smearing blood from the cut on her face. Clarke had to find real bandages and antiseptic. They were all being exposed to germs their bodies had never encountered, and the risk of infection was high.

“I’ll be right back.” Clarke flashed her a quick smile and rose to her feet. If the medicine chest wasn’t in the clearing, that meant it was probably still in the dropship. She hurried back to the still-smoking wreck, walking around the perimeter as she searched for the safest way to get back inside. Clarke reached the back of the ship, which was just a few meters from the tree line. She shivered. The trees grew so closely together on this side of the clearing, their leaves blocked most of the light, casting intricate shadows on the ground that scattered when the wind blew.

Her eyes narrowed as they focused on something that didn’t move. It wasn’t a shadow.

A girl was lying on the ground, nestled against the roots of a tree. She must have been thrown out of the back of the dropship during the landing. Clarke lurched forward, and felt a sob form in her throat as she recognized the girl’s short, curly hair and the smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose.
Thalia
.

Clarke hurried over and knelt beside her. Blood was gushing from a wound on the side of her ribs, staining the grass beneath her dark red, as if the earth itself were bleeding. Thalia was breathing, but her gasps were labored and shallow. “It’s going to be okay,” Clarke whispered, grabbing on to her friend’s limp hand as the wind rustled above them. “I swear, Thalia, it’s all going to be okay.” It sounded more like a prayer than a reassuran
ce, although she wasn’t sure who she was praying to. Humans had abandoned Earth during its darkest hour. It wouldn’t care how many died trying to return.

Wells shivered in the late afternoon chill. In the few hours since they’d landed, the air had grown colder. He moved closer to the bonfire, ignoring the snide glances of the Arcadian boys on either side of him. Every night he’d spent in Confinement, he’d fallen asleep dreaming about arriving on Earth with Clarke. But instead of holding her hand while they gazed at the planet in wonder, he’d spent the day sorting through burned supplies and trying to forget the expression that crossed Clarke’s face when she spotted him. He hadn’t expected her to throw her arms around him, but nothing could’ve prepared him for the look of pure loathing in her eyes.

“Think your father kicked the bucket already?” a Walden boy a few years younger than Wells asked as the kids around him snickered. Wells’s chest tightened, but he forced himself to stay calm. He could take one or two of the little punks without breaking a sweat. He’d been the undisputed champion of the hand-to-hand combat course during officer training. But there was only one of him and ninety-five of them—ninety-six if you counted Clarke, who was arguably less of a Wells fan than anyone on the planet at the moment.

As they’d loaded onto the dropship, he’d been dismayed not to see Glass there. To the shock of everyone on Phoenix, Glass had been Confined not long after Clarke, though no matter how many times he pressed his father, Wells had never discovered what she’d done. He wished he knew why she hadn’t been selected for the mission. Although he tried to convince himself that she could’ve been pardoned, it was far more likely that she was still in Confinement, counting down the days until her fast-approaching eighteenth birthday. The thought made his stomach twist.

“I wonder if Chancellor Junior thinks he gets first dibs on all the food?” asked an Arcadian boy whose pockets were bulging with nutrition packs he’d collected during the mad scramble after the crash. From what Wells could see, it looked like they’d been sent down with less than a month’s worth of
food, which would disappear quickly if people kept pocketing everything they found. But that couldn’t be possible—there had to be more in a container somewhere. They would come across it once they finished sorting through the wreckage.

“Or if he expects us to make his bed for him.” A petite girl with a scar on her forehead smirked.

Wells ignored them, looking up at the endless stretch of deep-blue sky. It really was astonishing. Even though he’d seen photographs, he had never imagined the color would be quite so vivid. It was strange to think that a blanket of blue—made of nothing more substantial than nitrogen crystals and refracted light—separated him from the sea of stars and the only world he’d ever known. He felt his chest ache for the three kids who hadn’t survived long enough to see these sights. Their bodies lay on the other side of the dropship.

“Beds?” a boy said with a snort. “You tell me where we’ll find a
bed
in this place.”

“So where the hell are we supposed to sleep?” the girl with the scar asked, looking around the clearing as if she expected sleeping quarters to magically appear.

Wells cleared his throat. “Our supplies included tents. We just need to finish sorting through the containers and collect all the pieces. In the meantime, we should send a few scouts to look for water so we know where to set up camp.”

The girl made a show of glancing from side to side. “This looks good to me,” she said, prompting more snickers.

Wells tried to for C tring everce himself to stay calm. “The thing is, if we’re near a stream or a lake, it’ll be easier to—”

“Oh, good.” A low voice cut him off. “I’m just in time for the lecture.” Wells glanced to the side and saw a boy named Graham walking toward them. Aside from Wells and Clarke, he was the only other person from Phoenix, yet Graham appeared to know most of the Waldenites and Arcadians by name, and they all treated him with a surprising amount of respect. Wells didn’t want to imagine what he’d had to do to earn it.

“I wasn’t
lecturing
anyone. I’m just trying to keep us alive.”

Graham raised an eyebrow. “That’s interesting, considering that your father keeps sentencing our friends to death. But don’t worry, I know you’re on our side.” He grinned at Wells. “Isn’t that right?”

Wells glanced at him warily, then gave a curt nod. “Of course.”

“So,” Graham went on, his friendly tone at odds with the hostile glint in his eyes, “what was your infraction?”

“That’s not a very polite question, is it?” Wells tried for what he hoped was a cryptic smile.

“I’m so sorry.” Graham’s face took on an expression of mock horror. “You have to forgive me. You see, when you’ve
spent the past 847 days of your life locked in the bottom of the ship, you tend to forget what’s considered polite conversation on Phoenix.”

“847 days?” Wells repeated. “I guess we can assume you weren’t Confined for miscounting the herbs you probably stole from the storehouse.”

“No,” Graham said, taking a step toward Wells. “I wasn’t.” The crowd fell silent, and Wells could see a few people shifting uncomfortably while others leaned in eagerly. “I was Confined for murder.”

Their eyes locked. Wells kept his expression carefully devoid of emotion, refusing to give Graham the satisfaction of seeing the shock on his face. “Oh?” he said carelessly. “Who’d you kill?”

Graham smiled coldly. “If you’d spent any time with the rest of us, you’d know that
that
isn’t considered a very polite question.” There was a moment of tense silence before Graham switched gears. “But I already know what you did anyway. When the Chancellor’s son gets locked up, word travels fast. Figures you wouldn’t fess up. But now that we’re having a nice little chat, maybe you can tell us exactly what we’re doing down here. Maybe you can explain why so many of our
friends
keep getting executed after their retrials.” Graham was still smiling, but his tone had grown low and dangerous. “And why now? What made
your father
decide to send us down all of a sudden?”

His father
. All day, absorbed in the newness of being on Earth, Wells had almost been able to convince himself that the scene on the launch deck—the sharp sound of the gunshot, the blood blooming like a dark flower on his father’s chest—had been a terrifying dream.

“Of course he’s not going to tell us,” Graham scoffed. “Are you, soldier?” he added with a mock salute.

The Arcadians and Waldenites who’d been watching Graham turned eagerly to Wells, the intensity of their gazes making his skin prickle. Of course, he knew what was going on. Why so many kids were being executed on their eighteenth birthdays for crimes that might have been pardoned in the past. Why the mission had been hastily thrown together and put in motion before there’d been time to plan properly.

He knew better than anyone, because it was all his fault.

“When will we get to go home?” asked a boy who didn’t look much older than twelve. Wells felt an unexpected pang of pity for the brokenhearted mother who was still somewhere on the ship. She had no idea that her son had been hurtled through space onto a planet the human race had left for dead.

“We
are
home,” Wells said, forcing as much sincerity as he could into the words.

If he said it enough times, perhaps he’d start to believe it himself.

He’d almost skipped the concert that year. It had always been his favorite event, the one evening musical relics were taken out of their oxygen-free preservation chambers. Watching the performers, who spent most of their time practicing on simulators, coax notes and chords out of the relics was like witnessing a resurrection. Carved and welded by long-dead hands, the only instruments left in the universe produced the same soaring melodies that had once echoed through the concert halls of ruined civilizations. Once a year, Eden Hall was filled with music that had outlasted humanity’s tenure on Earth.