Homecoming
Page 66
“You good?” he shouted to Wells over the din.
“Good,” Wells grunted as he clubbed an Earthborn over the head with a sickening crack. “You?”
Before Bellamy could respond, an Earthborn with maniacal eyes lurched at him. The man let out a cackling yelp as he swung an ax high in the air, aimed right at Bellamy’s head. Bellamy sidestepped just as the blade came down. He felt a breeze as it whisked by his cheek. The Earthborn growled in frustration. Flush with renewed energy, Bellamy dropped into a low, defensive crouch, bouncing on the balls of his feet, ready for round two. His opponent raised the ax again and took a few staggering steps forward. Nostrils flaring and adrenaline coursing through him, Bellamy forced himself to stand still and let the man approach. Wait, he told himself. Just wait. When the Earthborn was close enough that Bellamy could smell the sweat on him and the ax had just begun its descent toward Bellamy’s head again, Bellamy dropped to the ground and rolled out of range. The Earthborn screamed in rage.
Bellamy waited again, letting his enemy tire himself out. As the man got close, Bellamy squatted down low, pulled one knee into his chest, and, with all his strength, kicked the Earthborn square on the side of his kneecap. The man’s leg splintered under him, and he dropped to the ground like he’d been shot.
Suddenly what felt like a thousand-pound weight landed on Bellamy’s shoulders, almost knocking him to the ground. He stumbled and righted himself as forceful hands closed around his neck. Frantic, he gasped for air but got none. Bellamy reached behind him to pull off his new attacker. He got a handful of hair, and he pulled it with all his strength, ripping some of it out at the roots. The man’s grip loosened just enough. His heart pounding and his chest hurting from lack of oxygen, Bellamy seized his chance: He bent forward, doubling over and flipping the Earthborn over his head and onto the ground. The man slammed into the dirt with a thud. Bellamy took a step backward, reached for his bow, and lined up an arrow, all in one smooth motion. Just as the man staggered to his feet, a nasty gleam in his eye, Bellamy let the arrow fly into his chest.
Bellamy didn’t stick around to watch the outcome. He turned back to see if Clarke and Wells were okay. In the heat of the moment, they had somehow all gotten separated. As he turned to look, someone slammed into his shoulder, and he lurched sideways. Struggling to regain his balance, Bellamy stepped backward, and his foot landed on something solid but soft. It was a person. He spun around and pointed a tightly strung arrow at the ground.
It was Vice Chancellor Rhodes.
Rhodes was alive and conscious but badly injured; there was blood coming from somewhere on his head, and his face and shirt were drenched in red. He was doubled over in pain, gagging and coughing. He couldn’t speak, but he looked up and locked eyes with Bellamy. There was a pathetic, pleading look in them. The man led like a coward, and he lost like a coward too.
Bellamy’s whole body relaxed. With the toe of one boot, he pushed the Vice Chancellor’s shoulder back so he was lying flat on the ground. Bellamy placed his foot firmly in the center of Rhodes’s chest, pinning him down. It felt good to see him trapped like the rodent he was.
Bellamy had a choice to make: He could either finish him off with one swift arrow to the heart, or he could let the bastard rot right here on the battlefield. His injuries looked bad enough to kill him. No one would argue that Rhodes deserved a better end. A powerful, satisfied feeling coursed through Bellamy, but something else awoke in him too. It wasn’t an emotion he was used to, but he recognized it right away: It was pity. Bellamy studied Rhodes’s dirty and bloodied face. His hands were clasped together, begging. Conflicting emotions surged through Bellamy—his desire for vengeance, and the deep-seated knowledge that he didn’t want to watch anyone die again. His brain was already full of memories he’d never be able to shake. Rhodes didn’t deserve a place among them.
Bellamy sighed and dropped his arms to his sides, letting the arrow fall away from the bow. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t fire the shot, and he couldn’t turn his back on a broken man, leaving him to die here. He sure as hell hoped he wasn’t going to regret this later. Bellamy bent down and extended one hand. Rhodes just stared at it, unsure if Bellamy was toying with him.
“Let’s go before I change my mind,” Bellamy growled.
Rhodes reached up with a shaky hand, and Bellamy bent down and hauled him up, half carrying him back down into camp.
CHAPTER 27
Wells
Wells lost track of Bellamy in the chaos. He had no idea how many Earthborns he had fended off. His hands were blistered and raw from gripping and swinging the ax, and his muscles ached with fatigue. Wells found himself standing momentarily alone with no one charging or grabbing him—a respite in the sea of struggle. All around him, people fought for their lives, while others lay on the ground, wounded or dead. Wells couldn’t tell who had the upper hand, the Earthborns or his comrades, but he feared it was the enemy. The Colonists and the hundred looked like they were getting beaten, badly. He needed to get a better vantage point.
No one seemed to notice as he slipped away from the scrum, leaping over bodies and rubble, and headed for the edge of the clearing. He moved a few meters into the woods and circled toward the side of the camp, where he knew he could be less visible and get a higher sight line. He could still hear the cries and moans of injured people as he ran through the thick foliage.
Wells emerged from the forest near the prison cabin. He quickly scaled the side and perched atop the building, scanning the battleground. He was shocked by what he saw. From the middle of the fight, it felt like total mayhem, but the Earthborns had clearly been strategic about their attack. They had destroyed nearly every vital element of the camp: several of their food stores, all the extra ammunition. Yet the dormitories, dining hall, and prison were intact. There was no way they could have just guessed which buildings’ destruction would cripple the Colonists the most. They had to have known the purpose of each.
“Good,” Wells grunted as he clubbed an Earthborn over the head with a sickening crack. “You?”
Before Bellamy could respond, an Earthborn with maniacal eyes lurched at him. The man let out a cackling yelp as he swung an ax high in the air, aimed right at Bellamy’s head. Bellamy sidestepped just as the blade came down. He felt a breeze as it whisked by his cheek. The Earthborn growled in frustration. Flush with renewed energy, Bellamy dropped into a low, defensive crouch, bouncing on the balls of his feet, ready for round two. His opponent raised the ax again and took a few staggering steps forward. Nostrils flaring and adrenaline coursing through him, Bellamy forced himself to stand still and let the man approach. Wait, he told himself. Just wait. When the Earthborn was close enough that Bellamy could smell the sweat on him and the ax had just begun its descent toward Bellamy’s head again, Bellamy dropped to the ground and rolled out of range. The Earthborn screamed in rage.
Bellamy waited again, letting his enemy tire himself out. As the man got close, Bellamy squatted down low, pulled one knee into his chest, and, with all his strength, kicked the Earthborn square on the side of his kneecap. The man’s leg splintered under him, and he dropped to the ground like he’d been shot.
Suddenly what felt like a thousand-pound weight landed on Bellamy’s shoulders, almost knocking him to the ground. He stumbled and righted himself as forceful hands closed around his neck. Frantic, he gasped for air but got none. Bellamy reached behind him to pull off his new attacker. He got a handful of hair, and he pulled it with all his strength, ripping some of it out at the roots. The man’s grip loosened just enough. His heart pounding and his chest hurting from lack of oxygen, Bellamy seized his chance: He bent forward, doubling over and flipping the Earthborn over his head and onto the ground. The man slammed into the dirt with a thud. Bellamy took a step backward, reached for his bow, and lined up an arrow, all in one smooth motion. Just as the man staggered to his feet, a nasty gleam in his eye, Bellamy let the arrow fly into his chest.
Bellamy didn’t stick around to watch the outcome. He turned back to see if Clarke and Wells were okay. In the heat of the moment, they had somehow all gotten separated. As he turned to look, someone slammed into his shoulder, and he lurched sideways. Struggling to regain his balance, Bellamy stepped backward, and his foot landed on something solid but soft. It was a person. He spun around and pointed a tightly strung arrow at the ground.
It was Vice Chancellor Rhodes.
Rhodes was alive and conscious but badly injured; there was blood coming from somewhere on his head, and his face and shirt were drenched in red. He was doubled over in pain, gagging and coughing. He couldn’t speak, but he looked up and locked eyes with Bellamy. There was a pathetic, pleading look in them. The man led like a coward, and he lost like a coward too.
Bellamy’s whole body relaxed. With the toe of one boot, he pushed the Vice Chancellor’s shoulder back so he was lying flat on the ground. Bellamy placed his foot firmly in the center of Rhodes’s chest, pinning him down. It felt good to see him trapped like the rodent he was.
Bellamy had a choice to make: He could either finish him off with one swift arrow to the heart, or he could let the bastard rot right here on the battlefield. His injuries looked bad enough to kill him. No one would argue that Rhodes deserved a better end. A powerful, satisfied feeling coursed through Bellamy, but something else awoke in him too. It wasn’t an emotion he was used to, but he recognized it right away: It was pity. Bellamy studied Rhodes’s dirty and bloodied face. His hands were clasped together, begging. Conflicting emotions surged through Bellamy—his desire for vengeance, and the deep-seated knowledge that he didn’t want to watch anyone die again. His brain was already full of memories he’d never be able to shake. Rhodes didn’t deserve a place among them.
Bellamy sighed and dropped his arms to his sides, letting the arrow fall away from the bow. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t fire the shot, and he couldn’t turn his back on a broken man, leaving him to die here. He sure as hell hoped he wasn’t going to regret this later. Bellamy bent down and extended one hand. Rhodes just stared at it, unsure if Bellamy was toying with him.
“Let’s go before I change my mind,” Bellamy growled.
Rhodes reached up with a shaky hand, and Bellamy bent down and hauled him up, half carrying him back down into camp.
CHAPTER 27
Wells
Wells lost track of Bellamy in the chaos. He had no idea how many Earthborns he had fended off. His hands were blistered and raw from gripping and swinging the ax, and his muscles ached with fatigue. Wells found himself standing momentarily alone with no one charging or grabbing him—a respite in the sea of struggle. All around him, people fought for their lives, while others lay on the ground, wounded or dead. Wells couldn’t tell who had the upper hand, the Earthborns or his comrades, but he feared it was the enemy. The Colonists and the hundred looked like they were getting beaten, badly. He needed to get a better vantage point.
No one seemed to notice as he slipped away from the scrum, leaping over bodies and rubble, and headed for the edge of the clearing. He moved a few meters into the woods and circled toward the side of the camp, where he knew he could be less visible and get a higher sight line. He could still hear the cries and moans of injured people as he ran through the thick foliage.
Wells emerged from the forest near the prison cabin. He quickly scaled the side and perched atop the building, scanning the battleground. He was shocked by what he saw. From the middle of the fight, it felt like total mayhem, but the Earthborns had clearly been strategic about their attack. They had destroyed nearly every vital element of the camp: several of their food stores, all the extra ammunition. Yet the dormitories, dining hall, and prison were intact. There was no way they could have just guessed which buildings’ destruction would cripple the Colonists the most. They had to have known the purpose of each.
