THE 100

Twigs snap under our feet, each crackle magnified in the silence of the forest. My heart races like it's trying to outrun the fear creeping up my spine.

What a stupid idiot, Maddox. Get it together. My breath clouds my vision, blurring the stomping feet that echo my growing panic.

Jasper's alive—I hold onto that thought like a lifeline. But that spear. I've fired hunting rifles with decent aim since I was ten, but that spear had landed with the accuracy of a bullet. No amateur threw that. 

My knees feel like they might buckle, our group slowing to a stumbling trudge behind me. Octavia barely holds her own on one good leg, but I push forward, muscles burning, ignoring the crackle and grind in my bones.

Finally, we burst into the familiar clearing where the dropship should sit in quiet security—but it's not as we left it. The bug-eyed guy, Murphy, stands there, blood trickling from his head, eyes glazed with a cold, hard fury. He circles Wells like a vulture, murder in his gaze.

Wells spins around, holding a makeshift knife so close to Murphy's neck that it presses into his skin. Clarke's shout shatters the tension. "Wells! Let him go!" Her voice, raw with exhaustion, shakes through the air.

Wells' surprise shows, and he drops the knife. Murphy lunges, but Bellamy stops him with a look so cold and commanding that Murphy backs down. That's when Bellamy spots Octavia's limp, eyes flashing with concern.

"Octavia, what happened?" He helps her sit on a nearby rock, hands hovering over her wound as she winces. When he looks up, his eyes dart to our empty hands and sweat-streaked faces, bewildered. "Where's the food?"

"We didn't make it to Mount Weather," Finn gasps, collapsing onto the ground as the sun beats down on us, relentless. Clarke answers before he can catch his breath, guilt heavy in her voice as she stares into the woods. "We were attacked."

Wells' face pales as he glances at the gap in our group, his voice dropping to a whisper. "By what?"

"Not what." My voice is tight, barely containing the panic thrumming through me. "There are others out there. Humans."

Murmurs ripple through the crowd of teenagers gathered around the dropship. An icy shiver spreads through me, pricking my skin.

"Where's the kid with the goggles?" Bellamy scans our group, noting Monty's beaten-down expression and the guilt etched across Clarke's face.

"They took him," Clarke says, hands on her hips as she tries to catch her breath. Her gaze shifts to Wells, and she frowns, noticing the bare skin of his wrist. "Where's your wristband?" she asks.

Wells fidgets, his eyes darkening as he glances at the boy next to Octavia. "Ask him," he replies, bitterness seeping into his tone.

Clarke's fury ignites, and she shoots Bellamy a scathing look. I meet her gaze, feeling the tension build between us.

"You idiots," she hisses, her voice low and venomous. "Life support on the Ark is failing. That's why they sent us down here—to see if Earth is survivable again. We need their help against whatever's out there. If you take off your wristbands, you're not just killing them. You're killing us!" Her words hang in the air, echoing through the clearing as a few of the gathered prisoners shift uncomfortably, many with bare wrists, stripped of their life-monitoring bands.

But I can tell it's pointless. Bellamy stands, defiance glinting in his eyes, and it's the only answer I need.

"We're not prisoners anymore!" he shouts, raising his fist. "They say they'll forgive your crimes. I say you're not criminals! You're fighters, survivors! The Grounders should be afraid of us!" His voice rises in triumph as he shouts, rallying cheers from others around him, fists pounding the air. I roll my eyes, his bravado as empty as the sky above us.

I catch Clarke's gaze, worn and weary from the trek. "I told you," I murmur under my breath. She glares at me, then turns and stalks off, Wells trailing behind her.

Monty lingers, his face pale with fear. The memory of Jasper by his side flashes in my mind, and his expression is a reminder of all we've lost. "What do we do now?" he asks quietly.

I take a breath, glancing back at the rowdy crowd. "We wait.

--

I'm going home.

I sit on a boulder the size of a car, my hands chiseling away at a jagged piece of the dropship, stripping its thick metal down into a sharp, crude blade. My fingers ache, but my mind is sharper, buzzing with thoughts as I grind the metal to a lethal point.

The only reason I'd be here, breathing this air, was if I were dead. But I wasn't. It felt more like a certainty than a guess, and I wasn't planning on sticking around.

Nearby, laughter drifts over the low crackling of a fire. A dozen kids lounge around it, faces aglow, limbs sprawled as if this world isn't already gnashing its teeth at us. They sit there, oblivious, like any of us will last beyond the next week.

Then I spot Bellamy striding along behind Clarke and Wells, his cocky swagger making something twist hard in my gut. My chest tightens.

I can't survive here. Not like this, not like them.

I chisel away at blunt steel, the knife edge growing sharper with each stroke. The memories flash like glitches, fragments of my life before this, before yesterday.. My mind skips over the vague starts of the 100, landing with stark clarity on the later seasons—Mount Weather, the Grounders, the scorched earth. Each disaster edges closer, shadows lurking just beyond the treeline. If I had any shot at survival, I'd needed to be a step ahead.

But to make it through, food and guns wouldn't be enough. I'd have to find A.L.I.E.—the artificial intelligence lying dormant somewhere miles away. And to reach her, I'd need to cross an ocean and survive the nuclear ruin of Mount Weather, all while dodging the grounders waiting to tear us apart.

My hands grow rough, turning red from the metal, and I finally drop the blade beside me. My head pounds, and I press my palms to my temples. "What I wouldn't give for a Tylenol," I mutter, the words slipping out like a prayer.

Blinking, I scan the camp, the blurred edges of my vision flecked with blue and red. Teenagers sprawl in clusters, an ecosystem. Near the edge of camp, a group sits perched beneath a gnarled tree, pieces of metal stripped from the dropship between their fingers as they swing makeshift darts at a narrow tree trunk.

Water pools in makeshift buckets beside them. 

I lick my dry lips, only noticing the hunger I taste in my blood soaked mouth

If my memory served me right—a dangerous assumption at best—there were operational military bases just a few miles away. Stashes of guns, ammunition, and a stockpile of gunpowder—more than enough to arm an entire battalion. It was our one card to play, our edge over the Grounders, provided they didn't find us first.

I glance into the distance, tracing the outline of Mount Weather's peak as it rises from the forest, casting shadows over the plains. They're not an immediate threat, not yet, but they have something we don't: numbers, resources. All that separated us was the nuclear air between their facility and open ground.

I kick damp mud under my feet, leveling it so the soil creates a soft canvas. With a twig I mark a tiny x. If the dropship had landed where I thought it did, it meant that that bunker was day away by trek, nested between the river, and radiation soaked forest with hungry savages.

My belly groans in hunger, and the thrust is enough to drive away my plans at least for the next hour.

"Is that supposed to be a squid?" Warm breath tickles my neck, and I flinch.

Octavia's bright green eyes are staring down at my map in confusion, tilting her head so her hair falls across her eyes.

"You're a horrible artist, y'know?" She points at my work like I was trying to draw the Mona Lisa with a stick. I roll my eyes, hunger amping my irritation.

When I look up, though, I see the innocence still in her face, the light in her eyes. It hasn't dimmed. Not yet.

"It's not a squid," I say, knees popping as I stand. "It's a map."

Octavia's mouth opens, her gaze falling back to the ground. "A map for what?" she asks, curiosity clear in her tone. I notice her limp as she tries to follow me. 

"Aren't you supposed to be in the dropship?" I ask, deflecting. She rolls her eyes, glancing in Bellamy's direction. "Yeah, well, I've been trapped underground long enough. He can't tell me what to do." She looks back at me, narrowing her eyes. "You were right about him. About what he would do."

We circle the dropship, buzzing panels and fried circuits catching yesterday's mist. I spotted one of the torn seats, the seat belt frayed but the buckle still intact.

Octavia crosses her arms, hobbling, and asks almost meekly, "Do you know?" There's fear in her voice. She and her brother were close, but her time in the skybox had made him a different person.

I feel a pang of guilt. "I think that's a question you should ask him yourself." I murmur, tearing at the seatbelt and scratching the fabric with my knife.

Octavia shakes her head. "Yeah, I guess…" she murmurs, still looking off into the distance. When I manage to tie together a makeshift satchel, she finally notices the item. Her brows knit with suspicion. "Where are you going?" she asks.

I meet her eyes, smirking. "The less you know, the better." I glanced down at her injured leg and the boy glaring at us from the corner of my eye. "Save yourself some trouble, sweetheart, and get some rest. We're gonna need it."

"Wait!" she yelps, startled by my sudden departure as I sling the satchel over my shoulder. "Take me with you." There's a determination in her voice, even if she's pretending not to notice the curious eyes fixed on us. I raise an eyebrow. "And what? Risk your brother killing me?" She flinches slightly at Bellamy's name, but there's a spark of defiance in her gaze, challenging me.

"If you're making a map, then you must be looking for something, right? I can—" I cut her off, studying her with a measured gaze, her face set with determination despite the pain she's hiding.

"Your leg will slow me down," I say firmly, gripping her shoulder to steady her. "And whatever's out there—it's already more than I can handle alone."

I don't give her a chance to respond as I adjust the strap across my chest, feeling the urgency pulse in me. the longer I waited the stronger our enemy grew. 

I brush past the boys playing their version of football, swiping a ration packet from the oblivious delinquents and into the silence of the forest. 

The buzzing of small insects stick to my matted forehead. I stink of piss and rain, but the forest manages to mask the unnatural smell. The sun shines brightly overhead, the shade of looming trees casting shadows in the sparse light. 

It takes hours for the sun to set and for me to find water.

There's a smaller river north of where we'd found the unnatural fish. The river water is clear, sparkling with pools of lily pads and fresh seaweed. My parched mouth waters at the sight, and I dip my muddy hands, watching as the dirt brushes away. 

I don't wait as I strip myself of my clothes, ones I can't ever remember owning. And in the silence of my surrounding, I let a breath of air escape my mouth.

My eyes close, water scooping across the mud and filth of the 24 hours, washing away the blood on my head and the grease form my hair. A pair of birds fly high above me.

My head submerged underwater, small miniscule fish swim rapidly beside me, nibbling at pebbles in the shallow water. I let gulps of fresh water filter through my mouth, relishing in the gulp of actual water. 

I lean back, the cold water slipping off my skin in rivulets, and my fingers absently trace the hair on my forearms, watching the faint, erratic movement of the tiny droplets clinging to the hairs. Time seems to stretch, sluggish and thick, as I sit there in the river, letting the minutes pass by without thought. The air cools, the sun setting low, casting the sky in hues of deep oranges and purples. The stillness grows heavier with every passing second, the sound of the forest muted, as if it were holding its breath.

I've been here longer than I thought. My skin is pruney, my fingers stiff from the water's embrace, and yet, the bite of the evening chill doesn't feel like it should. It's not just the cold. It's the growing unease—something about the air feels thick, too silent, too still. I don't know how long I've been here, how much time has slipped by while I've been lost in the water's cool grasp, but the weight of this silence is unbearable.

Reluctantly, I pull myself from the river, grabbing my clothes with a grimace. The fabric is still damp, the smell of sweat and earth lingering despite the water, an odor I can't escape. My fingers tremble as I tug the clothes back on, the damp fabric clinging to my skin, uncomfortable, foreign.

I stand there for a moment, staring out at the dimming landscape, trying to shake the feeling gnawing at me.

It's not the cold that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. It's the unmistakable sense that I'm not alone. That there's someone—something—watching me from the darkening shadows. The stillness of the world around me presses in, thick and suffocating, as if the forest itself is holding its breath, waiting.

I glance over my shoulder, my heart pounding louder in my chest. But the forest remains silent, empty. The only sound is the faint rustling of leaves in the distant trees, a noise that feels miles away.

But I know better.

The feeling hasn't left.