Thank you all so much for your reviews! They're what keep me going! My brain's felt a little muggy lately so some of my writing feels a little forced to me, but that just may be my insecurities. This chapter's moderately graphic in terms of gore.
The grounders had come for Clarke moments after her agreement, hauling her up the stairs by her armpits and dragging her heels through the dirt. The shackles had been removed from her feet but the pain in her calf made it impossibly hard to walk. She'd screamed for Bellamy and begged them to let her treat him. Blood was seeping from the wound in his abdomen and his skin had turned an ashen white. She could see his chest rise and fall but she had no way of knowing how deep the wound was, but the knife had entered right up to the sheath, making it five, six inches at minimum. Even if she was able to save the grounders and get him the antidote, he'd have lost too much blood.
She took a shaky breath and focused on the ground below, stomped flat by the amount of traffic in the camp. The village resembled one from her history books; muddy, trampled soil forming primitive roads, lining flat, stone buildings. They were solid grey slabs with open doorways and no windows, some weeds growing around the bases in sporadic patterns. The grounders had arranged various plant fronds on top of the buildings to form roofs, and some had metal sills at the edges to collect rainwater and deposit it in buckets down below. Trees surrounded the village from all sides and she had no doubt the branches contained grounders, on watch with primed bows. Ready to strike.
The grounder pushed her through a stone arch and into a relatively clean-looking room. Beds lined the concrete walls about two feet off the ground, high enough so that patients came to waist level when lying on their backs. The bed frames were made of metal, surprisingly; copper-tinged and bent in places like remnants of deteriorated, post-nuclear war buildings. There weren't many sheets or blankets for the injured to use, only ragged pillows made out of animal hide. A few rags sat in a corner of the room with dark red stains and a black, unknown liquid. Tables also filled the room with detailed tools, some of which she'd never seen. They were primitive in appearance and probably gathered by the grounders over years of exploration. Bottles of multicolored liquids capped with cork were scattered about, labeled with black ink marked on crinkled paper. Clarke felt a bit of relief; the grounders had some medical tools, ones she could use to help their people. Maybe she could do it.
But then she noticed the people in the room, the ones she had to heal, and any hope she'd had disappeared.
There were five or six grounders lying on their beds, most sleeping. The closest one - a man to her left - was covered in third degree burns from his charred skull to blistered feet. Most of his skin had burned away so that the first two layers had disintegrated, leaving bright red craters of exposed flesh and bone. It was wet and raw and a thin, gummy film of plasma coated the bloody burns. Surrounding the open sections was black scabbing, dotted with white pustules; the body's feeble attempt to reconstruct itself. The flesh around it was speckled with various yellow oozings due to infection. Clarke was astounded that he was able to sleep; the pain he'd be in was beyond describable. His face was intact, surprisingly; a small miracle.
Nauseous, Clarke was pushed to the second grounder, a young-looking female whose hair was plastered against her skin in a cold sweat. She was trembling and seemed to also have some bad burns, probably infected and causing the fever. Most of the injured grounders were suffering from bacteria and severe scarring, all except for one.
Clarke raised a tentative hand and lifted a large piece of fur that had been placed over the last woman. She immediately wished she hadn't; a huge chunk of shrapnel had dislodged from whatever had hit the village and embedded itself in her right thigh. It was half a foot long and as few inches wide, seeming to pass from one side of the leg to the other. There was no doubt it sat on an artery, pressing it closed against bone until moved and slicing it in half. Had the metal been taken out, the woman would have bled to death. Instantly.
She took a deep breath and turned to the grounder leader. "What's your name?"
The woman narrowed her eyes. "Anya."
"Anya. I can help with burns, if you give me alcohol, clean cloths, and antibiotics. But I can't help her. If she moves, the artery in her leg's going to split. I can't fix it. She's going to die."
Anya glanced at the grounder on the bed and shook her head. "She needs to live. You must heal her or else your male companion dies."
Clarke felt frustration bubbling in her throat. "Look at her!" She yelled, jabbing a finger at the gaping wound in the woman's leg. "If I remove the metal, she'll bleed out right away. The artery has to be sewn together by a full medical team, one with suction, extra hands, proper tools, and lots of light. I'm not a doctor and you don't have any of the needed tools. I can't do it." She grit out the last part.
A hiss escaped from the grounder leader's lips. "You don't have a choice, healer. Unless you want to die." She paused, and gave a nod to the man to her left. "We will provide you with what we can."
Clarke rubbed her forehead and felt sweat build at the back of her neck. Her eyes darted to the door but a grounder stood guard, fist grasping a long, pointed spear that would no doubt be lodged in her back if she tried to run. She flexed her fingers nervously and tried to remember anything she'd learned about arterial trauma and suturing vital parts of the body. Removing the shrapnel was the first thing to do, and it didn't really matter how it was taken out; the damage had been done as soon as the woman had been hit with it. If the metal had twisted and torn at the artery ends, she'd have to excise them and bring their clean-cut pieces together. They wouldn't reach. On the ark, her mother would have inserted a vein graft to add to the length, but she couldn't do that on the ground.
She swallowed and took another deep breath, then placed her hands on the shrapnel. There was no point in waiting.
She yanked.
It came out smoothly, covered in blood and darker clots. She handed it to the grounder next to her and quickly turned back to the patient, heart racing. The metal had made a six inch hole in her abdomen and would quickly be submersed if she didn't stop the bleeding.
Clarke reached into the woman's wound with shaking hands and fumbled until she felt the artery, sliced in half. It pulsed beneath her fingers as blood pumped through the vessel and into the thigh cavity. It was filling up fast. She blindly felt an end with the tip of her finger and was relived to find a smooth edge. No excision needed.
"I need two pairs of clamps, quick."
Someone handed her two rusted tools - ones she'd seen in sixth grade science class - but she gladly accepted them and secured both ends of the artery so that no more blood would be lost. It was essential to work fast so that the tissue didn't die. She knew her mother would have injected the arteries with some kind of anti-clotting agent, but with none on hand, she'd have to hope for the best. She squeezed the open ends to make sure no clots had formed and brought them together, then grabbed a piece of cloth and placed it behind the artery so she could see what she was doing.
This was the tricky part. Clarke shot a quick glance at the female grounder who, until now, had remained unconscious. If she were to wake up mid-suture, she risked shaking the clamps and bleeding out.
Clarke grabbed a needle and thread from a nearby table and passed the tip over an open flame... not that there could be any more bacteria in the woman's wound. Carefully, she thread the needle through the first end of the severed artery and into the other. It was impossibly hard to see through all the blood, so Clarke did most of it by feel, and the rubbery, wet sensation beneath her fingertips made her gag. She did this again on the opposite side. The basic sutures would steady the artery and allow her to do more accurate stitching.
She continued suturing around the two adjoining ends, about one millimeter apart and one millimeter from the cut edges. When the two ends were joined as one, she fumbled and tied clumsy knots on the outside. She reached for the clamps then paused, and remembered that the distal clamp - the one farthest away from the center of the body - had to be removed first. That way any leaks in her suture would show. Clarke then released the proximal clamp, providing pressure on the repair with a piece of fur, and crossed her fingers.
"The artery's closed." She muttered to herself, almost in disbelief. "The artery's closed."
Feeling a pulse in the artery distal to the repair, she gave a nervous laugh and prepared to clean the wound, then sew the rest of the skin shut. Her vision had began to blur at the edges and she worried that she might faint from adrenaline comedown. She grabbed a moderately clean looking rag and poured alcohol on it, then changed her mind and poured the alcohol directly into the wound.
That was when the grounder woke up.
The woman's eyes flicked open at first, then her entire body spasmed, contorting with pain. She let out a wild screech and jerked upwards, her arm catching Clarke in the side of the head. Clarke stumbled backwards and crashed into one of the operating tables. She watched as the grounder tried to sit upright in panic, flailing her arms at the guard and spurting blood all over the ground.
"What did you do?" Clarke heard the female leader's voice enter the room. Anya took one look at the injured patient and turned to Clarke, seething. "You made her worse!"
"She woke up!" Clarke insisted, running to one of the med tables and grabbing at vials. She frantically smelled one, then another, and another. "I need something to knock her out!"
She found a bottle that smelled like chloroform, and assumed that, by the way it made her head spin, it would work. She rushed to the patient and poured the liquid into a cloth, then pressed it over the woman's mouth and motioned for the guard to help hold the woman down. The patient struggled against the male grounder's hold until her eyelids drooped and her body finally stilled.
Clarke let out an exhausted breath. She took a moment to calm her racing heartbeat and checked the grounder's pulse, out of habit. It should have slowed to near bradychardia, below the normal amount of beats per minute.
And yet, she felt no pulse.
Clarke felt her own heart rate accelerate for the hundredth time that day and pressed her fingers to the woman's carotid once more, desperate to feel something. A pulse, a thump, a flutter, anything. She grabbed the woman's wrist, only to yield the same result. No, no, no. Clarke opened the woman's mouth and placed her cheek above it... and it was confirmed; the grounder wasn't breathing.
A chill ran up Clarke's spine. She dropped her head in defeat.
The woman was dead.
"What is it?" Anya asked, pushing Clarke aside. She shook the female grounder's shoulders and her voice elevated hysterically. "What did you do? What did you do?"
"I'm sorry." Clarke took a step back and braced herself. "I did everything I could."
"No. Not everything."
The leader grabbed Clarke by her shirt and slammed her against the stone wall, sending a wave of pain crashing through her shoulders. Her scream was cut short as Anya pressed a jagged blade to her throat and clamped a hand beneath her chin, fingers wrapping around her neck and cutting off her airway. She felt the cold bite of metal pushing against her jugular as she beat her fists against the leader's back in a desperate attempt to break free. Her body struggled beneath Anya's grip but the woman only pressed harder, teeth barred in fury. Black dots began to invade Clarke's vision as her breathing shallowed; her head spun: she was going to die. This was it. A desperate plea willed her to fight, but her hands were empty and she was weaponless. The walls were closing in at distorted angles and greys blurred with specks of color. Anya's stone expression muddled into fuzzy shapes as the woman spoke. Morrer unha soa vez.
Clarke couldn't hear her.
I'm sorry, Wells, she thought, her lids fluttering. I failed. I wasn't able to protect anyone. I couldn't even stay alive.
As her eyes closed, she uttered a silent prayer, willing it to be painless.
Suddenly Anya dropped to the ground.
Clarke barely registered the gunshot. As the pressure was released from her windpipe she crumpled to the floor next to the leader, coughing and gasping for air. It took a minute to catch her breath, but once she did, she glanced upwards in fear.
Bellamy stood in the doorway with a gun, body shaking and swaying as beads of sweat dripped down his pale face. Clarke shot a quick look at the unconscious grounder and rushed to Bellamy's side, slipping his arm over her shoulder and placing a steady hand on his back. His weight sagged against her as he panted, and she could feel his muscles – taught and strained - beneath his shirt. He was using every bit of strength just to stay upright.
"How?" Clarke began, helping him out of the door. She took the gun from his open hand and held it carefully, still shaky herself. Her leg was on fire but she bit through the pain.
"Rope was loose," He said, attempting a grin. Even though he was wincing in pain, his eyes were still proud. She glanced at his abdomen and grimaced at the wet, bloody gash in his shirt. "I got away from the guard and found the gun on him. Lucky."
"No kidding."
Clarke heard footsteps close by and pushed him around one of the stone buildings, pressing a finger to her lips. He nodded and they stilled, listening as urgent shouts sounded through the camp. Anya had been found. Her mind raced as she thought of an escape plan; grounders lined the trees, but there were more in the camp, reading to kill them on sight. But grounders couldn't be in every tree. They were probably only in the first few, circling the village's immediate radius in case of attack. If she and Bellamy were fast, they could avoid being shot.
But they weren't fast. From the way Bellamy leaned on her, she knew his condition was bad. He'd never show weakness, not unless he was desperate. And by the way his hair plastered his white, clammy skin, and his lips were pressed into a tight line, he was desperate. The wound in her leg wasn't too easy to walk on, either; the stitching had helped, but every step she took was still extremely tender.
"We have to go." She whispered. She could feel his warmth and weight stir against her body as he roused himself from near unconsciousness. "Can you run?"
He grunted. "I can try."
They took off as fast as they could, stumbling over branches and rough terrain. It wasn't easy. Clarke grit her teeth together in effort and focused on the trees ahead, willing her body to push forward until they were out of grounder range. Every muscle ached from overexertion and she was sure that her skin had become one big, blue, limping bruise. Bellamy was having more trouble, panting and clutching his stomach as he struggled along, but looked nothing but determined. She checked over her shoulder every few seconds, and even though none were to be seen, she could hear their shouts in the distance. Her heart beat like a drum as they ran.
Clarke had no idea how far they'd traveled when she felt Bellamy shift against her. He stumbled and fell to the ground with a groan, emitting a loud thud.
"Bellamy!" Clarke grabbed his arm and tried to pull him upwards, but he pushed her away. He was even more pale than before.
"Just go," He panted, struggling to get up. His eyebrows were knit together in pain. "You have a chance to make it back. The camp needs you."
"The camp needs you, too, stupid." She said. "We'll make it. Just get up."
"Clarke." Bellamy grabbed her wrist gently and turned her to face him, looking her straight in the eye. They were wide and pleading, but firm. "You know that's not true."
"I'm not leaving you, Bellamy." She whispered. His brown eyes flickered. "You saved my life, so I'm saving yours. We're getting out of this together."
Lines creased his forehead - whether from frustration or exertion - and he gave a low sigh. He shook his head slowly. "Stubborn princess," he mumbled. "All you do is fight me."
And then he held out his hand.
Something shifted in her chest like a gear falling out of place, and with a shaky breath, she helped him stand. She supported him the best she could as they stumbled through the forest, moving twice as slow so that Bellamy could stop to catch his breath. She had one hand on his abdomen in a feeble attempt to subdue the bleeding and the other around his back. He tried to put as little weight as possible on her shoulders, but the further they got, the more he gave in. Soon she was supporting most of his movement.
Eventually the grounders' cries grew distant, and Clarke began to recognize the surroundings. The lake, the rocks, the various hatches. They were moments away from camp. She grinned, relief washing over her like rain. She'd be okay, Bellamy would be okay. They'd made it.
When they arrived, all Clarke could remember was the opening of the gates and the rush of people. Bellamy was lifted onto a makeshift stretcher and rushed to the dropship. Questions buzzed about as she pushed through the flood of bodies, searching for someone... She heard a shout, then felt a pair of arms around her, warm, warm and heavy. They wrapped over her like thick, weighted blankets and she finally gave in, passing out.
