Chapter Text
The thing Clarke misses most is showers.
She never appreciated them, back before the world went to shit. There was always too much for her to do to really appreciate a nice, relaxing shower — standing underneath the hot spray felt like a waste of time, time that could be better spent on homework or sketching or working. She would race through the routine every morning, challenging herself to beat her time for shampooing her hair, to shave her legs in less than a minute without leaving them covered in nicks. She got good at cutting her showers down. The last one she remembers was three minutes long.
Now, though, she’d give just about anything to be able to step into a nice, hot shower and stay inside until the steam and the water pruned her skin.
“You still with me, Princess?”
Finn’s voice cuts across the aisle of the pharmacy, low and careless on the surface, but there’s an undercurrent of worry there. Zoning out is dangerous, especially away from camp, and Clarke’s done just that — her eyes have been drawn to an overturned bottle of pomegranate shower gel, spilling bright orange liquid onto the shelf that it sat on, back when things made sense. She shakes her head, clearing her thoughts of showers and steam and things long ago, and meets Finn’s gaze with steady eyes.
“I’m with you,” she says, slipping her rucksack from her shoulders. “Come on, let’s hurry.”
The pharmacy they’re standing in isn’t the only one in the city, but it’s the biggest. It’s where Clarke’s family would get their prescriptions, where they would develop vacation photographs before the advent of the digital age, where Clarke came at the age of eleven, red-cheeked and sweating, to get her first package of sanitary towels.
Another thing that Clarke misses; feminine hygiene products.
The store is mostly empty now, but they’ve come in search of supplies anyway, because things are running low at camp. The entire city is running low, every store broken and raided, houses standing vacant with smashed windows and doors hanging off the hinges, gardens overgrown and rustling with flies and vermin. They’re going to have to move on soon. They’ve bled Clarke’s hometown dry just trying to survive.
Clarke and Finn are here for medicine, mostly, though the chances of finding any are slim to none. Anything else that they might find — ammunition, food — is a bonus. There are other groups scouting the other stores in the area, but it’s just the two of them in here, moving in tandem among the silent aisles and empty shelves, hoping to stumble upon some kind of treasure.
They don’t find much, though neither of them are surprised. A battered bottle of aspirin, caught in the gap between one shelf and the next; a few bottles of gummy vitamins; a box of protein bars that might last a day or two back at camp, shared among the group. They load their loot into Clarke’s rucksack and then emerge into the sunlight, careful not to make too much noise.
Most of the others are still looking, but Octavia and Bellamy are already at the meeting point, the bronze statue in the centre of the main square that used to be the city’s pride and joy. Now it’s battered and broken, stained with blood and brain matter. Corpses litter the ground around it, but Clarke doesn’t bat an eye at them as she and Finn approach. These days, the sight is ordinary.
“Any luck?” she asks, but Octavia and Bellamy shake their heads glumly.
“This was all we could find,” Octavia says, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a crumpled, half-empty packet of AA batteries. “Hardware store was a bust. I figured as much, but I was hoping there’d be something left.”
“Nothing’s left,” Bellamy says, sounding defeated. “We’ve ripped every part of this city apart, there’s nothing else to take. We have to move on, sooner rather than later. It’s gonna start getting cold out here soon.”
He’s not wrong. The world turned upside down in the middle of summer, but summer’s end came a long time ago, and fall is starting to melt away, too. The trees are almost bare of leaves, and the nights come on quicker than they used to. Clarke thought that they would have found somewhere permanent to stay by now, somewhere safe, but they’re still holed up in that camp outside town, sleeping in tents and taking it in shifts to watch the perimeter. Tents aren’t going to be much use warding off the cold, but the city and its suburbs just aren’t safe anymore. They’d tried sleeping in houses before — after they lost the fifth member of their group, they decided that the outskirts of town were safer.
“Maybe the others found something,” Finn says, ever the optimist, but when Jasper and Monty return, they’re empty-handed as well, and all that Murphy and Miller have managed to find is a couple of old, threadbare blankets. Defeated, they start to make their way back to camp.
It’s been a long time since a supply run turned up anything good, so Clarke’s not too worried about letting anyone down. No one back at camp expected them to find anything; none of them will be surprised to be proven right. They’ll get by, anyway, for a few more days at least. There are people in their group who’ve proven themselves to be surprisingly adept hunters, and they’ve set up camp by a river with water that’s more or less fresh. They can survive, for a little while longer. The only thing they really need to worry about is the cold weather rolling in, and even then, maybe they can make it.
Humans are built to adapt; this is something that Clarke has always known. In the face of change, human beings adapt and survive in a way that most other species can’t — they change with the times. They learn to live in whatever conditions they’re presented with, and sometimes, they emerge on the other side as better, stronger people. Clarke has always known this, but it’s only in the last few months that she’s truly believed it. It’s one thing to know that humans are adaptable. It’s another to see it happen, or to have it happen to you.
The thing is, when the dead rise from their graves, you get pretty damn good at adapting.
It’s why Clarke doesn’t flinch when a corpse lurches out of the alleyway between a pizza place and a bank, skin rotting off of its face, dried blood matting its hair. It’s why she doesn’t hesitate before unsheathing the knife that she always carries at her waist now and plunging it into the person that isn’t a person anymore, before it can attack her or any of her companions. It’s why her stomach doesn’t turn when she yanks the knife out with a loud squelch and wipes the gunk off on her jeans.
“Good shot,” Murphy says, sounding impressed. Clarke spares him a withering glance — what she’s just done isn’t something for anyone to admire. She’s done it to survive, would do it again to survive, but she doesn’t want any praise for it. Certainly not from Murphy, who seems a little too recklessly happy at the fact that the world has ended. This is the kind of world that a guy like Murphy thrives in.
Before they move on, Clarke forces herself to look at the corpse’s face. She’s always afraid to look — not because she’s squeamish, or afraid of blood, but because she’s terrified of recognising one of them. She looks anyway. Whatever they are now, these things were people once, and she thinks that it’s the least she can do to remember their faces. She’s relieved to see that the corpse with the gaping knife wound in its head doesn’t bear even a passing resemblance to anyone that she knows.
Used to know.
“Wait up,” she calls softly to the group that have begun to trudge ahead.
She falls into step beside Bellamy, who gives her a sidelong glance, as if to check that she’s alright after killing the lurker. Over the past few weeks, they’ve become the default leaders of their group. It’s not because either of them had any desire to lead, but because they’re the only ones willing to make tough decisions, when it comes down to it all. While the others walk ahead, Bellamy veers closer to Clarke, speaking to her in a low tone.
“About what I said at the statue…”
“You’re right,” Clarke murmurs. “Look, I know you’re right, we need to move on, but we have to have somewhere to go first. We can’t just go wandering off without a destination. We’d be dead in days. You know that.”
“The city—”
“Is overrun. Come on, Bellamy, you know as well as I do that if it was safe to stay down there, we’d be there already. No one likes sleeping on the ground every night.”
He frowns. “The longer we wait, the harder it’s going to be.”
Clarke closes her eyes. “I know.”
They lapse into silence, and eventually Bellamy quickens his pace to walk by his sister’s side, leaving Clarke alone to take up the rear.
They reach camp just as darkness is beginning to fall. The makeshift fence surrounding their little tent city seems flimsier than it did when they left this afternoon, but Clarke tries not to linger on that thought as they make their way inside. Lanterns are already lit, flickering in tandem with the campfires set up in the centre of the camp. Clarke and the rest of the scouts head for the biggest one, which acts as the de facto town square. Some of the girls in the group are already seated around the fire, trying to warm themselves as a chill begins to permeate the air. Clarke counts them; Harper, Fox, Monroe. Monroe half-rises from her seat at the sight of them, but Octavia shakes her head before she can get her hopes up.
“City’s sucked dry,” she says, settling herself on one of the logs beside Fox. “We didn’t find much. I don’t think there’s any point in going back.”
Clarke empties her rucksack of the meagre offerings from the pharmacy; Miller hands out the threadbare blankets.
“Where are the others?” Bellamy asks, sitting cross-legged on the ground next to Octavia’s log and putting his hands close to the fire for warmth. Fox inclines her head slightly towards the biggest of the tents, the one that’s become a sort of headquarters.
“Raven and Wick are trying to get the radio working. They said to send Monty in when you guys got back.”
Monty bites his lip and heads for the tent, though he doesn’t look hopeful. Clarke can hardly blame him. They’ve been trying to get the radio to work for weeks, but so far, there’s been nothing but static. Raven and Wick keep trying, though. None of them are ready to believe that it’s over yet. They’re still waiting for someone to rescue them.
Clarke shakes her head like she’s trying to get water out of her ears. “Wells?” she asks.
“In his tent,” Harper says. “He said he’d take first watch tonight, so he’s going to get some shut-eye now.” She hesitates. “He doesn’t seem like he’s doing so good, Clarke.”
Clarke nods, unsurprised. Humans adapt, but Wells has always been gentle — too gentle for this new world of death and blood and violence. He's Murphy's antithesis; he can’t stomach it the way that the rest of them can.
Clarke’s still not sure if that’s a problem with Wells, or with the rest of the group.
“He’ll be alright,” she says, but her words sound unconvincing even to her own ears. The others don’t mention it; Monroe is the one to change the subject, telling the scouting groups about how tonight’s hunt went. Clarke closes her eyes and listens, and for a moment, she can pretend that it’s the old days. They’re a group of friends out camping for the night. In the morning, they’ll go back to their houses in the suburbs, to their part-time jobs at coffee shops and bookstores, to their on-off relationships with the nice neighbour boy who blushes every time they kiss.
It’s just for a moment, and then Clarke remembers that there are no houses anymore, that part-time jobs aren’t really a necessity when the worldwide economy has collapsed, and that the nice neighbour boy died screaming with a dead man’s jaws clamped around his throat.
As night falls over the campsite like a blanket, Fox starts cooking the squirrels that Monroe and Harper brought back from their hunt tonight. Bellamy passes around small cups of river water. Octavia heads for the tent where Raven, Wick and Monty are working on the radio, and Clarke goes to rouse Wells from his nap. Soon, they’re all seated around the big fire, a rag-tag bunch of survivors devouring roasted squirrel as though it’s the greatest meal they’ve ever eaten in their lives.
Clarke counts them while she eats, taking a silent inventory of her companions; on one log, there’s Fox, with her soft voice and her expressive eyes; Monroe, tough as nails; Harper, smart as a whip and ready to do whatever it takes to survive. The Blake siblings, Octavia and Bellamy, sitting side-by-side on the ground now and trading playful jabs over dinner. Jasper and Monty, who started out shaky and nervous, but have grown more capable than any of them expected. Miller, quiet and brooding most of the time, but snarky whenever he deigns to open his mouth. Raven, the engineering prodigy who’s determined to contact other survivors; Wick, determined to help with whatever he can. Finn, an old flame who’s proven himself a close ally, and Wells, her best friend since childhood. Even Murphy, sitting further apart from the rest of the group and holding onto his portion of squirrel as though someone’s going to rip it away from him.
Most of these people were strangers to her until the world went to hell, but they’re her family now. She’ll do anything to protect them.
When the meal is finished, a few of the group peel away. Murphy heads for the tent that he shares with Miller, Raven commandeers Wick and Monty to go work on the radio some more, and Wells excuses himself to start patrolling the perimeter. When the group sitting around the campfire is smaller, Bellamy looks across the flames to meet Clarke’s eyes, and she knows what he’s going to say.
“We need to talk about leaving,” he says, and it’s only the solemnity in his tone that stops the others from disagreeing outright. “It’s already started getting colder. We can’t stay here when winter hits or we’ll freeze to death. We need shelter — real shelter, not canvas and cloth. If we leave in the next few days, we have a decent shot at finding somewhere in time. If we don’t, then I don’t think we’re going to make it.”
There’s a rush of voices speaking over one another, each trying to have their say, until finally, Octavia’s voice rises above the others.
“Bell’s right,” she says. “Even if the cold wasn’t coming, we’re running out of supplies. I know we don’t want to think about leaving, but it’s time that we faced reality. The city is dead. There’s nothing left for us here. It’s time to go.”
“Go where?” Miller asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Anywhere,” Bellamy says. “We could find a housing development or an apartment complex — anything. Anything’s got to be better than this.”
Silence falls over the group, and Clarke knows what they’re all thinking. The last time they tried houses, they lost five of their own. The suburbs of her hometown are overrun with the dead; there’s nothing for them there. But maybe it’s different elsewhere.
“There could be other survivors,” Jasper says, breaking the silence. “I mean, there could be, right? We can’t be the only ones left.”
It’s something that Clarke’s thought about almost constantly in the past few months. Jasper’s right. Surely there are others out there who’ve managed to scrape by like they have. Raven's been messing with the radios for weeks for news of others, but they’ve never actually tried to find anyone else. Maybe it’s time that that changed.
“Clarke?”
It’s Bellamy, looking at her with that steady gaze, waiting for her opinion.
“What I said earlier still stands,” she says. “I think you’re right, we should leave. But,” she adds quickly, before Bellamy can respond, “not until we know where we’re going. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. We need a plan and a time-frame. We’re not just going to abandon camp if we’ve got nowhere else to go.”
The rush of voices returns, each of them offering suggestions on where to go. Clarke’s head is starting to hurt with all of the chatter, so she’s more than a little relieved when Monty emerges from the big tent and approaches the campfire, looking a little shell-shocked. He tries to speak, but he can’t be heard over the voices of the others. It’s Miller who notices him standing there, trying in vain to get everyone’s attention, and it’s Miller who raises his voice above the crowd.
“Shut up,” he says loudly, and then, softer, “Monty?”
“It’s working,” Monty says, breathless. “The radio — it’s working.”
Clarke blinks. “Are you sure?”
“Just come,” Monty urges, and then he disappears, ducking back into the tent while the rest of them stare, open-mouthed. There’s a beat, and then they’re all scrambling to follow, nearly tripping over one another in their haste to get inside.
There’s not much inside the tent, just a table and a couple of mismatched stools that Clarke and the others brought back from trips into town. Raven and Wick are sitting on the stools; in Raven’s hands is the radio, small and silver, and amazingly, not crackling with static. Instead, the speaker emits a low hum of voices, though the words are indistinguishable. Raven looks up at the interruption and then back down at the radio, concentration furrowing her brow.
“I’ve got it,” she says, that familiar determination colouring her words. “It’s working, I just can’t get the volume up. I think it’s the batteries.” She hits the radio, frustrated, and lets out a sigh. “There’s not enough juice. We got it to pick up a signal, but we can’t hear the damn thing.”
“Batteries?” Octavia says, fumbling in her pocket. “Hang on, I — here!”
Grinning, she presses the batteries she scavenged from the hardware store into Raven’s hands, earning a look of bafflement in response.
“I don’t even want to know how you have these,” Raven mutters while she switches out the batteries, “because I’m afraid that’s going to jinx it. Just a second…” She presses the batteries into place, replaces the cover of the battery compartment, and then twists the volume dial. After a quick crackling noise, the voices from before return, except now, they’re clearer.
THIS IS A NOTICE TO SURVIVORS OF THE CRISIS, the speaker crackles.
“The crisis,” Miller repeats, sardonic. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
Someone shushes him.
YOU ARE NOT ALONE.
Jasper inhales audibly.
MOUNT WEATHER SAFE ZONE. OPEN TO ALL WHO SEEK REFUGE FROM THE DEAD. There’s a pause, followed by coordinates, and then another pause before the message repeats itself. Hardly able to believe what she’s just heard, Clarke searches out Bellamy’s eyes, finding them lit with hope for the first time in weeks.
A safe zone. At last, they have somewhere to go.