Rebellion

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.

Wells gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached as he loaded the vehicle with food. When it was done, he and the others ducked back into the wagon, where the Protectors had left them room on the bench.

Graham was sprawled unconscious on the floor beneath them. One of the Protectors casually used his lifeless shoulder as a footrest the entire way back to the Stone.

When they stopped in the courtyard, the blue-eyed Protector put his hand up, stopping Wells. “Drag your friend to the kennels.”

“He’s not my friend,” Wells said. “And I’d be happy to.”

The words tasted like poison in his mouth, but the Protector smiled, appeased. Wells drew a breath and reached into the wagon to hoist Graham into his arms.

“Did I tell you to carry him?” the Protector asked coolly. “Huh. I could have sworn I said to drag him.” He walked slowly behind Wells, raised his gun, and dug its barrel between Wells’s shoulder blades.

Wells felt wrath pulse through his veins, a volcano due to explode at any moment, but his fear was even stronger. One squeeze of that trigger and he wouldn’t be able to help Graham or Octavia or Glass or anyone ever again.

“Yes, sir,” he said. Carefully, he laid Graham onto the ground and started to pull, while the Protector’s gun dug into his back, prodding him step by step, straight into the belly of the Stone.

Soon, he thought. There was no more waiting for the perfect time, for the ideal intel, to bring these people to their knees. They were going to have to get out of there. The next chance we get.

If there was a next chance.

Wells dared one last longing glance back at the open sky, tugging Graham behind him, before the mammoth walls swallowed them both up again.

CHAPTER 21

Clarke

There wasn’t much she could do to prepare. She wasn’t bringing any weapons, of course. And she wasn’t bringing anything to trade. Unless there was some kind of gift she could offer as a sign of goodwill? Images of white-clad men flashed through her mind—their blank, expressionless faces as they methodically scoured the camp, ignoring the cries and screams of those who’d been injured in the explosion.

No, these weren’t the type of people who could be swayed with gifts. They would respond to strength. And bravery.