“There!” Rhodes yelled to his guards, pointing straight at Bellamy. The uniformed crew crossed the clearing in record time. Bellamy spun around, counting on his knowledge of the woods to put him at an advantage. He could sprint over tree stumps and duck under low branches at top speed. But he’d gone no more than a few meters when he felt one, then two bodies throwing themselves against his, knocking him to the ground. The guard who landed on him grunted and scrambled to get his hands around Bellamy’s arms. Bellamy fought back, hard, shoving and kicking as he wrestled his way to his knees, then to a standing position. His heart pounded so hard he actually felt his ribs vibrating with each beat. Adrenaline coursed through his limbs. He felt like one of the animals he’d tracked and killed to keep the hundred alive.

More guards arrived and began to surround Bellamy. He took a couple of short steps toward one of them, but at the last second, he ducked, whirled around, and ran in the opposite direction. The guards scrambled to keep up. Bellamy bolted a few steps farther into the shady woods, still hopeful that he could shake them.

But they didn’t use their bodies to stop him this time. A sharp crack pinged off the tree trunks, and dozens of startled birds fluttered out of the highest branches. Bellamy cried out as a piercing pain tore through his shoulder.

They had shot him.

Bellamy fell to the ground and was instantly swarmed with guards, who roughly lifted him up and bound his arms behind his back with no regard to the blood pouring from his wound. They dragged him into the clearing.

“Bellamy!” He heard Clarke’s voice as if from a long distance. Through hazy vision, he saw her pushing her way through the crowd, yelling at the guards as she approached. “Leave him alone. You shot him—isn’t that enough? Please, let me look at him. He needs medical attention.”

The guards parted, allowing Clarke through. She wrapped her arms around Bellamy’s chest and helped him sink to the ground. “It’s okay,” she said, her breath ragged. She ripped his shirt at the neck and pulled it off his shoulder. “I don’t think it’s too serious—I think the bullet passed right through.” Bellamy nodded but couldn’t speak through his gritted teeth.

“Your orders, sir?” one of the guards called out across the clearing to Rhodes.

Bellamy didn’t hear the answer. He had only one thought as he sank into unconsciousness: He’d rather die than live on Earth as a prisoner.

CHAPTER 7

Wells

Wells normally slept outside, preferring the silent, star-filled clearing to the overcrowded cabins, but he’d spent the past two nights on the floor in the infirmary cabin, barely sleeping at all.

Clarke spent every possible moment at Bellamy’s side, cleaning his wound, checking for fever, and saying whatever silly things she could to distract him from the pain. But she also had dozens of other patients to tend to, and so Wells pitched in as much as he could. He made sure Bellamy was drinking water and, in Bellamy’s more lucid moments, kept him informed about what’d been going on in camp.

Wells suppressed a groan as he rose to his feet, yawning while he rubbed his shoulder. There weren’t nearly enough cots to go around, and Wells had made sure they went to the injured. He glanced down at Bellamy, who’d finally fallen asleep after a painful, restless night. There didn’t seem to be any blood leaking through his bandage, which was a good thing, but Clarke was growing increasingly worried about infection.

He looked at Bellamy’s pale face and felt a new surge of fury toward the Vice Chancellor. His father would’ve never let the guards shoot Bellamy, regardless of whether he realized their target was his son. Rhodes had a lot to say about order and justice, but he didn’t seem particularly concerned about practicing what he preached.

Wells slipped outside, careful not to let the door slam. Early mornings used to be his favorite time on Earth. He’d have an hour to himself to watch the sunrise, before the rest of the camp would wake up and begin the day’s routine: The kids on water duty were up first, heading down to the stream with empty containers and messy hair. The firewood team was next, always racing through the chopping to see who could get it done fastest. They had quickly settled into a community, with their own customs and traditions. In many ways, it was a happier, freer life than anything they had known on the Colony.

But although it’d been less than seventy-two hours since the other Colonists arrived, those mornings felt like a distant memory. He hadn’t seen Sasha in days. They’d both agreed that it was safer for her to stay at Mount Weather until Wells figured out the right way to tell Rhodes about the Earthborns. He felt her absence as a physical ache.

The normally empty clearing was scattered with groups of miserable-looking people—new arrivals who hadn’t secured spots in the cabins and had spent a sleepless night staring terrified at the unfamiliar sky, or disgruntled members of the hundred who had chosen to brave the wet grass and frigid air rather than deal with the intruders who’d invaded their space.

A few adults were already standing around the cold fire pit, clearly waiting for someone to come light it for them. A group of guards stood off to the side, deep in conversation as they gestured toward the ridge where the splinter Earthborns had first appeared. After weighing the pros and cons of revealing that there were other people on Earth, Wells had told Rhodes about the two groups yesterday—about the peaceful ones led by Sasha’s father, and the violent ones who’d killed Asher and Priya. Ever since, Rhodes had stationed around-the-clock guards at the edges of the clearing.