CHAPTER 2
Wells
Wells’s back muscles burned as he heaved the last barrel of cider into the cart. After days of preparation for the Harvest Feast, his hands were cracked and raw, his feet swollen and aching. Every inch of him was in pain.
And all he could think was: more. More pain. More work. Anything to distract from the dark thoughts that infected his mind like rot. Anything to make him forget.
An Earthborn woman carrying a baby in a sling walked by and smiled at Wells. He nodded politely back, bracing himself as a memory slammed into him like a meteor: Sasha dangling a stalk of wheat for the same baby to play with while the mother hung laundry to dry outside her cabin. Sasha’s black hair swinging forward, green eyes flashing as she teased Wells for being more afraid of babies than of facing Rhodes and his troops in battle.
Wells gritted his teeth and crouched to lift the cart, the painful weight of it obliterating the memory; then he pulled the load down the central village path to the edge of the forest, where the others were milling about with their own cargo.
Red-haired Paul, off duty but still wearing his guard uniform, stood on a boulder, overseeing the Earthborn villagers and Colonists who’d volunteered to bring supplies down to the camp for tonight’s feast. “Okay, folks, I’ve done a thorough patrol of the woods and the coast is clear. But let’s keep things moving, just in case.” He clapped and pointed down the now well-trodden forest path. “Look alive now, and maintain constant awareness.”
Wells watched as a few of the villagers shot Paul bemused looks. Paul was a relatively new arrival, one of the Colonists who’d been on a dropship that had landed off course. His group had made its way to camp just after their bloody battle with a violent faction of Earthborns had ended in a truce.
Wells had vaguely known Paul back on the Colony. Affable and energetic, he’d always struck Wells as more of a dependable, competent soldier than a leader, but things had clearly changed in the past year. Whatever had happened to Paul’s band of survivors between their crash landing and their arrival at camp, it had made him their unofficial captain, and he still assumed that air of responsibility.
“Those of you carrying heavy loads, take care not to strain yourself. If you’re injured, you’ll be an easy target for the enemy.”
Wells rolled his eyes. The dangerous Earthborns were long gone. Paul was just frustrated to have missed all the action, and was overcompensating for it now. Wells had no patience for that, not after he’d witnessed the real price of battle.
Paul frowned slightly. “Graham, what are you doing with that knife? You’re not hunting today.”
“Says who?” Graham said, pulling the long knife from its sheath and twirling it in Paul’s direction. For a moment, Wells considered intervening. Although Graham had settled down over the past few months, Wells would never forget the violent gleam in his eyes when he tried to convince the original hundred to kill Octavia for stealing medicine.
But before Wells could act, Graham snorted, resheathing his knife, and sauntered off, nodding at Eric, who was coming from the other direction.
Eric walked up to Wells. “Need help with this?” He motioned toward the cart. “You don’t want to strain yourself and become an easy target for the enemy,” he said drily.
Wells forced a laugh. “Sure, thanks. I’m just going to grab some more firewood and then I’ll be right behind you.”
He turned and headed for the woodpile behind the far row of cabins, smile dropping away, his jaw heavy with the effort of pretending. Everything about him felt heavy these days, each step weighted with grief. But he kept walking anyway, lifted the ax from its perch, and split logs until he had a sizable pile of wood to carry. He stacked it neatly, ignoring the splinters in his palms, wrapped it all in a back sling, and hoisted it onto his shoulders.
The village had emptied out while he was chopping; they’d all left to join the others to eat and celebrate: the harvest, a fresh start, a bigger community, a newfound peace.
Wells exhaled, his shoulders slumping. The straps of the sling cut through his shirt into his skin as he looked around at the vacant valley. This was good. He’d get to the camp a little late but with plenty of wood for the stoves and the bonfire. He’d stay by the fire and keep it stoked. That would be his job tonight, a perfect excuse to avoid the feast, the speeches, the hundreds of familiar faces, all of them thinking about the people they wished were with them tonight.