Chapter One
Be warned, lovely readers, because I am an author that refuses to give you one of those happy endings full of rainbows and unicorns.
I also have severe commitment issues so who knows when an update will come. I wonder how I even have a girlfriend.
Number One-Hundred couldn't breathe.
There she sat, amongst ninety-nine other shit-piss terrified teens, strapped into a chair within a circular room, shrouded in darkness. The walls were made of aluminum and steel, all discolored and clearly reused from some other project the Ark's engineers had been working on and had eventually scrapped. The screws that were visible all appeared to have been recently polished - the rust that had developed having been scraped off hastily before being put to use on the ship. Various black stickers littered the walls, signaling things number One-Hundred couldn't give less of a shit about. Silence seemed to have conquered everyone's vocal cords for the moment, because no one spoke, they all seemed to barely be breathing.
It was so quiet, she swore she could hear everyone's heartbeat.
Maybe it was just her own heart, its thumping like a beat tapped against her eardrums, making her deaf.
She swallowed a vicious lump in her throat, her fair features drawn tight with worry and fear. Crystal blue eyes - a mutation that had grown so rare that only her, her mother, and two orphaned boys possessed them - surveyed the room carefully. The blonde stubbornly skipped a dark skinned boy with an eager face, desperate to make eye contact. There was an Asian boy, all awkward limbs and elegant cheekbones. His number was Eighty-Two. She made eye contact with him.
Blue eyes met brown ones, and an understanding was made.
He nodded firmly, jaw set tight with nerves. She nodded in return.
They would stick together after they landed - everyone would need an ally. Everyone on the ship was aware that the likelihood of them all working together in some sort of harmony had about the same chance as a snowball thrown into the fiery depths of hell, so small alliances were probably their best bet.
Around her, other teenage 'criminals' were surveying their fellows, scoping out the ones that were the strongest, the ones that looked the most stable - the ones that didn't have piss running down their pant leg, like number Twenty-Eight.
One-Hundred pitied Twenty-Eight, he was a small thing with beady, fearful eyes. He had no muscle, and from what she had seen of him at school before she was imprisoned, he wasn't exactly a smart cookie either. He wouldn't survive long.
"Clarke!" the dark skinned boy from before, number Seventeen, hissed. He squirmed in his seat, the steel buckle resting against his bellybutton clinking against the zipper of his dark jacket.
One-Hundred - Clarke, ignored him. She didn't want anything to do with Seventeen - Wells. He used to be a childhood friend, and Clarke had cherished his friendship then, but they were children no longer. Too much had happened, too much had been destroyed, for her to be able to speak to him.
Clarke Griffin would never forgive a traitor for anything.
The ship rattled, alarms blared and a few of the more nervous teens screamed and panicked. One nasty looking boy with an arched nose and a cruel sneer bellowed for them to shut up. One-Hundred filed his number away in her brain for later, she definitely wouldn't want to be around someone like number Thirty-Three for any period of time greater then what was needed.
Eventually, the alarms grew silent, as did the terrified cries of the unwilling passengers.
All but one of them were fearful. Some were eager. Some were overjoyed at the fact that they would get to leave the Ark, stop being its prisoner and be free.
The one thing they all shared, was a thought.
'What the hell is it like down there?'
Ninety-One, Sixty-Seven, and Forty-Nine had died during the landing - really no loss there, in Sixty-Six's opinion. They were skinny little dweebs that were probably jailed for the same reason she was. That one child per family law was a real bitch up in the Ark. She had never seen those three before, so they probably were jailed at birth or a little while after they were born. She had been lucky - hidden by her brother, saved from the suffocating walls of a six by six prison cell until she was sixteen.
Octavia Blake was not one of those weak girls, she didn't cry over their deaths like a little red-haired girl, or sniffle quietly like another, rat-looking one. She was tough. She could handle herself, and she would handle anyone else that gave her or her brother a problem.
She was the first Arker to set foot on goddamn Earth, she would take this world by storm and have the time of her life while she did.
While Octavia strolled near the drop ship, her older brother, Bellamy, number One, was organizing the masses. They listened to him, followed his lead almost within question - whether it was his speech, his confident presence, or the sleek black gun tucked in the back of his pants, it didn't matter, they were beginning to get organized.
The tall, curly haired man just barely out of his teens had a charming smile, and some of the girls were only listening to hear the sound of his voice, instead of his words. Clarke, having realized this after the past six hours they had spent on Earth, was disgusted. The boys weren't much better, the majority of them leering at the surprisingly attractive masses of girls that marched about, doing their jobs.
'We were sent to the planet humans ran from ninety-something years ago - a planet that could potentially be inhabited by hostile creatures - and all these people can think about is having sex?!'
Jesus Christ, did anyone have their priorities straight besides Bellamy?
The beautiful blonde heaved a sigh, and helped the curly haired boy set up a sheet of scrap metal with a few other boys. It would act as a strong wall - the thickest and sturdiest one they probably would be able to erect within the next few weeks. They would sleep mainly beside this wall, and let the heat of the large bonfire that roared at the center warm them from a slight distance.
The sun was strong, yet it only struck a single strip of the partially constructed base clearly, the rest of the base was shielded by thick clusters of healthy trees, their leaves creating a thick blanket that only a few thin rays of sunlight could pierce. Clarke turned her head, careful to steady her hands as she sought her only method of telling time.
Clarke glanced over at the sundial, eyeing the twelve rocks carefully to get a grasp of the time. It was twelve-thirty, give or take a few minutes. This day was going to be grueling, what with Bellamy screeching out orders as though they would be under siege by nightfall.
Eighty-Two, the kind boy from the ship, had created the simple sundial. His real name was Monty, and Clarke already had a high opinion of him. Apparently, he didn't desire sex, nor did he really think about it all - something Clarke found incredibly surprising, but whatever floated his boat was okay with her.
A loud crash reached Clarke's ears, then a high-pitch scream of pain accompanied by the terrified cries of a few others. The wall was slammed into place before they ran to the source of the noise - the safety of them all was more important than a few of them screaming about something.
That something nearly made Clarke's heart stop in shock.
Hunched over Twenty-Eight, or 'Piss-Pants', was a frail-looking figure. From a distance, it looked like a malnourished, clearly balding boy. But as Clarke and Bellamy came closer, they noticed broken ribs poking out from rotting skin. A chunk of decaying flesh as large as Bellamy's fist had been ripped from the figures neck, and within it, maggots squirmed about, mutated to possess up to six heads. The flesh itself resembled a demented, rotting rainbow of color. Deep, near-black reds, putrid dark greens and dark yellows swirled about, shifting into different shades with each bit of sinew. The skin of the… thing was a checkerboard of pale whites, greens and purples dotted with deep gashes that instead of pouring blood, dripping a maggot every few seconds.
Clarke wanted to vomit. Monty actually did vomit, as he staggered away to create distance between him and the creature.
Twenty-Four, an awkward looking boy named Jasper, dropped to his knees and vomited also, into a bush within their incomplete base.
Twenty-Eight convulsed as his screams became croaks before he began to choke. He gave a vicious cough, one so forceful and painful that it cracked one of his already bruised ribs. His beady eyes frantically whirled about, suddenly meeting Bellamy's gaze. Chapped lips parted in preparation to speak, but not even a word came out. He resembled a dying fish out of water, flopping about with desperation.
The figures black, cracked nails, and sunk into his throat, ripping out a chunk of vital flesh to stuff hungrily into its mouth. The wet squelch of an eye being plucked out of its socket reached Clarke's ears, as the figure popped one of Twenty-Eight's grey eyes in its mouth. The figure rose to its full height - nearly six feet - and turned to meet Bellamy's gaze, damaged jaw working calmly to break down the flesh it had stuffed in its mouth.
Milky gray eyes, with a terrifying, malicious yet somehow dead and gloomy glowing green glint, bore into Bellamy's own brown eyes. He swallowed audibly, and clawed for his gun just as the figure took a step forward, the enormous smile upon its face actually just its teeth revealed due to a lack of lips. Bits of Twenty-Eights flesh could be seen dangling from between rotting, yellow teeth.
The elder Blake child fumbled with the safety on his gun, anxiety off the charts as his heart hammered at a pace almost inhuman. Just as Bellamy managed to click off the safety, a pipe sunk deep into the deformed skull of the figure with a sickening thump followed by a wet squelch as the remains of a brain were slammed into.
Clarke grasped the pipe firmly in her soft hands, pushing back as to keep the figure at a distance. Once she was sure it was dead, she shoved the pipe forward, dropping it. Dirt covered hands were shaking slightly at her sides, but the sheer determination and will that shone from her fair features was all that anyone could pay attention to.
"Get this shit out of our home," the blonde snapped, soft hands curling into small fists.
Two of the larger boys walked up without a word. Together they yanked out the pipe, tossing it to the side before grasping a foot each to drag the figure away. Every member of the One-Hundred stood in silence, watching the two boys lift the figure up and throw it as far as possible away from their new home.
Bellamy's jaw was clenched viciously until he turned to Clarke - then, it softened, as did his eyes. They shone with gratitude, and Clarke gave him a stiff nod, not entirely sure if what had just happened was truly real.
"Everyone!" Bellamy hollered, chest inflating with a deep, strong inhalation, "Ten of you get your asses over here to start our first patrol! The rest of you back to work!"
Ten of the stronger looking teens approached, most of them terrified, all of them determined. They wouldn't end up like Twenty-Eight, and neither would their friends.
Bellamy gave them a quick nod, steely determination in his gaze as he continued to shout encouragement and assist with the various construction projects that had come together in a matter of hours. He needed these people pumped up, full of hope, and he needed them to remain orderly. The curly haired man kept an eye on Murphy, knowing the boy could easily cause disorder and chaos if left unchecked.
For a massive group of quick-tempered teens, they were productive. They had come together beneath Bellamy's sudden leadership to start the process of surviving.
Well, everyone but Clarke.
She stood right where she had killed the cannibalistic figure, shining sapphire eyes glued to the body of Twenty-Eight, watching in horror as his corpse twitched suddenly with life.
This feels like such a shit story, but its just to get me back into writing.