Homecoming

CHAPTER 8: Clarke

The stitches weren’t holding. Clarke clenched her jaw as she cleaned the wound on Bellamy’s shoulder for the third time that day. She knew objectively that her frustration wasn’t helping, but she was half out of her mind trying to figure out what to do next. She could take her chances and hope Bellamy’s body fought off an infection and began to heal despite the stitches. Or she could remove the stitches and put new ones in—but that would put him at risk for reopening the wound inside, which could set him back.

She took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and tried to focus. Though Bellamy had been lucky that the bullet had made a clean exit, it had entered in the worst possible place, within millimeters of a major artery. It would have been a tricky spot to stitch up if they had been back on the ship with a sterile surgical suite and bright lights. But in this dark cabin, with two guards hovering over Bellamy and bumping into Clarke every time she tried to check his wound, it was nearly impossible.

This was why doctors weren’t supposed to operate on people they cared about. She could barely keep her hands from shaking, let alone make an objective decision under pressure. She felt Bellamy’s forehead with the back of her hand. His fever had come down, which was a good sign, but he was still disoriented and in a lot of pain. It made Clarke sick to think of how much he was suffering—and how little she could do to help him.

“Clarke?” a weak voice called from across the room. “Clarke? I need you, please.” It was Marin, an older woman with a deep gash in her leg. Clarke had cleaned and stitched the wound, but they were running desperately low on painkillers, which meant they could only be used in the most dire cases.

“I’ll be right there,” Clarke said. It killed her to leave Bellamy, but there were still so many people who needed serious medical care that Clarke couldn’t spend more than a few minutes with him at a time. She squeezed his hand, and he half opened his eyes, smiled, and gave her hand a weak squeeze in return. She gently placed his arm back down on the cot and turned, bumping into one of the guards.

“Excuse me.” Clarke could barely keep the irritation out of her voice. The constant security wasn’t just excessive—it was hampering her ability to care for her patients. Where was Bellamy supposed to go while semiconscious and half-delirious with fever?

“Clarke, please? It hurts.” The voice was plaintive, desperate now.

Clarke didn’t have time to wallow. She had dressings to change and medicine to administer. Yet while she was grateful for the chance to be helpful, the exhausting, around-the-clock care she had to provide wasn’t enough to clear her mind of worry. Every time she caught a glimpse of Rhodes, her body seized with fury and disgust. Not only had he nearly killed Bellamy, but he was essentially keeping her prisoner. There was no way she could leave the camp with Bellamy in danger, and every hour that passed was one that could’ve been spent tracking down her parents. As far as they knew, she was still on the Colony, not standing on the same ground, under the same sky. It was a thought almost too frustrating to contemplate.

Clarke crossed the room and leaned over Marin. As she lifted the bandage from her leg, she pushed away thoughts of how she was letting her parents down by standing here, in this cramped cabin, instead of setting off on her own to find them.

“I’m sorry you’re in so much pain,” Clarke said softly. “I know it hurts, but the good news is that this is healing beautifully.” Marin looked miserable, her face pale and clammy, but she managed a nod and a quiet thank you.

Clarke had spent so many nights on Phoenix leaning over her textbooks, marveling at the sophistication of medicine on the ship. Most major diseases had been eradicated—there was no more cancer or heart disease, not even the flu—and they had developed ways to regrow skin and rapidly fuse bones. She was awestruck to live in a time of such medical brilliance. She wanted to live up to the doctors who had come before her, so she worked hard, memorizing procedures and medications and physiological processes.

What Clarke wouldn’t give to have even a tenth of that medical equipment right then. She was essentially practicing in the dark, with fumbling hands instead of razor-edged scalpels, and flimsy assurances instead of bacteria-killing medicines. She might as well have offered her patients a wooden spoon to bite, like they did in the Middle Ages. She looked around at the faces of the bewildered adults and shell-shocked kids who groaned and wept and just stared off into the distance. There were hundreds more like them right outside. Could she care for all these people, day after day, all by herself?

And these were the lucky few who had somehow managed to secure a spot on one of the dropships. By the looks on some of their faces, the cost of saving themselves had been horrifyingly high. She could see the pain of leaving loved ones, friends, and neighbors behind—of letting others die so they could survive—written in their eyes. Clarke crouched down next to a boy, Keith, who lay quietly on a low cot at the back of the room. She smiled at him, and he gave her a little wave. Last night, she had asked Keith if his mom or dad were here with him, and he had shaken his head silently. Clarke could tell from his haunted expression that he was on Earth alone, and she stopped asking questions.

She wondered what would happen to him after he left her care. His broken ribs would heal soon, and he would leave the relative quiet of the hospital cabin. So far, Octavia had been taking care of the parentless children, but there was only so much one teenage girl could do. Who would teach him how to hunt or tell if the water was clean enough to drink? Would he be scared the first night he slept under the stars? Clarke brushed his sweaty hair back from his forehead and tapped the tip of his nose. “Get some rest, buddy,” she whispered. Keith closed his eyes, though Clarke doubted he would be able to rest.

Just seeing him so tiny and alone made Clarke grateful for the people she knew on Earth. There had been quite a few familiar faces among the latest arrivals—Dr. Lahiri, for one, and a few people from her residence corridor. Even Glass. Though they’d never really been friends, the girls had known each other their entire lives. There was something comforting about seeing a face you’ve seen all your life, about knowing that Glass had brought many of the same memories with her from the dying ship. Almost like Clarke didn’t have to remember everything herself—she had someone to share the load.

Although her limbs were heavy with exhaustion and anxiety, she forced herself to continue on to her next patient. It was Dr. Lahiri, whose shoulder was still causing him an unnerving amount of pain.

He lifted his head from the cot. His normally immaculately kept gray hair was greasy and tangled, which was almost more upsetting than the wound in his shoulder. “Hello, Clarke,” he said wearily.

“Hi, Dr. Lahiri. How’s your head?”

“Better. The dizziness has subsided, and I’m only seeing one of you at the moment.”

Clarke smiled. “Well that’s an improvement. Though I wish there were two of me, frankly.”

Dr. Lahiri studied her carefully for a moment. “You’re doing a great job here, Clarke. I hope you realize that. Your parents would be very proud of you.”

Clarke’s heart swelled—with sadness or gratitude, she wasn’t sure. For a few glorious days, she’d been absolutely sure she’d see her parents again and had spent long hours imagining all the things she would tell them, unloading all the thoughts and stories she’d tucked away, having no one to share them with. But now, the odds seemed slimmer and slimmer that she’d ever find the information she needed to track them down.

“I have to ask you something,” Clarke said quietly, looking around to make sure the guards were out of earshot. “I found something the other day, something that made me think my parents might be alive.” She watched Dr. Lahiri’s eyes widen, but it wasn’t with shock or even disbelief. Could he have known about this already? “And I think they’re on Earth,” she continued, taking a deep breath. “I know they are. I just need to figure out how to find them. Do you… do you know anything? Anything that could point me in the right direction?”

Dr. Lahiri sighed. “Clarke, I know you want—”

They were interrupted by a commotion by the door. Clarke spun around to see Vice Chancellor Rhodes standing at the front of the room. A murmur rippled across the cots as patients lifted their heads and saw who had entered. Clarke looked back at Dr. Lahiri desperately, wishing they could finish their conversation. He nodded at her, as if to say they would talk more later.

Clarke crossed toward the Vice Chancellor. She stopped in front of him, her hands on her hips, feeling protective of her patients and her infirmary. Guards fanned out in a semicircle around him, blocking out all light from the doorway. The room had darkened, in more ways than one. Just the sight of Rhodes’s smug face filled Clarke with rage. She didn’t think she’d ever felt this strongly about anything before. Rhodes was the one who had ordered her parents to test the effects of radiation on human subjects. On children. Rhodes was the one who had threatened to kill Clarke if they didn’t comply, then denied any involvement in the horrific experiments. He had sentenced her parents to die. And now he was here for Bellamy.

“Vice Chancellor,” Clarke said, not bothering to try to hide her disdain. “How can I help you?”

“Clarke, this doesn’t concern you. We’re here about Bellamy Blake.” He brushed against her shoulder as he stepped past her and farther into the room. Clarke clenched her hands into fists, her fingernails digging hard into her palms. The blood ran hot in her veins, and she had to take a couple of quick breaths to make sure she didn’t do something she’d regret. As corrupt and immoral as Rhodes was, he was also dangerous. Her parents had learned that the hard way.

Clarke watched as Rhodes approached Bellamy, who was, mercifully, asleep. The Vice Chancellor studied him for a moment, then turned and stepped briskly toward the door again. As he passed his guards, he spoke without looking at them. “Put the prisoner in solitary confinement until his trial.”

“Sir,” ventured one of the guards, “where will we keep him?”

Rhodes stopped and spun slowly to look at him with narrowed eyes. “Figure it out,” he snapped before disappearing through the door.

“Yes, sir,” the guard said to Rhodes’s retreating back.

Clarke’s stomach did a slow turn as she recognized the voice. It was Scott. She looked up to see him staring at Bellamy, his face unreadable. Normally the sight of his blotchy skin and watery eyes made her want to take a long, hot shower. But this time, she didn’t feel her usual revulsion. This time she felt more hope than disdain, because Scott had given her an idea. No one—especially not Vice Chancellor Rhodes—was going to hurt Bellamy. Clarke would see to that.