“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.”

CHAPTER 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.