Kass Morgan - The 100

His plan was reckless and stupid and incredibly selfish, but he didn’t care. He had to make sure Clarke was sent to Earth instead of the execution chamber.

Wells jogged down the empty, narrow staircase, lit only by faint emergency lights. There was no reason for anyone to visit the airlock except for routine checks, and Wells had already hacked into the maintenance files to check the schedule. He would be totally alone.

The airlock in C14 was original to the ship. And despite the engineers’ efforters’ es to keep it in top condition, after three hundred years of facing the extreme temperatures and UV rays of space, it had started to deteriorate. There were tiny cracks along the edge and shiny squares where newer material had obviously been patched over the airlock.

Wells reached behind him for the pliers he’d tucked into the waistband of his pants. It would be fine, he told himself, his arms shaking. They were all going to be evacuated soon, anyway. He was just speeding up the process. Yet in the back of his mind, he knew that there weren’t enough dropships for everyone. And he had no idea what would happen when it came time to use them.

But that was his father’s concern, not his.

He reached out and began to pry up the flimsy edge of the airlock, wincing when he heard the faint hiss. Then he turned and raced back toward the stairs, trying to ignore the horror welling up in his stomach. He could barely stand to think of what he’d done, but as he hurried down the stairs, he told himself he’d done what he had to do. Wells rose wearily to his feet. It was getting dark, and there was still a lot of work to do on the new cabins. They needed to finish at least some of the shelters before the next storm. As he approached camp, wondering if Clarke had taken enough blankets with her, if she would be warm when the temperature dropped, Asher came up beside him and launched into another line of questioning. He held one of the trimmed logs and seemed to want Wells’s opinion on the size and cut.

Wells was too absorbed in his own thoughts to hear what Asher was saying. As they walked side by side toward the tents, he could see the boy’s mouth moving, but the words never made it to Wells’s ears.

“Listen,” Wells began, ready to tell Asher it could wait until morning. Just then, something streaked past his face. There was a sickening thwack, and Asher flew backward. Blood bubbled out of his mouth as he fell to the ground.

Wells dropped to his knees. “ Asher ,” he screamed as his eyes struggled to make sense of the image in front of him. There was an arrow sticking out of the boy’s neck.

His first, mad thought was Bellamy. He was the only one who could shoot like that.

Wells spun around with a yell, but it wasn’t Bellamy behind him. A line of shadowy figures stood at the bottom of the hill, the setting sun behind them. He gasped as shock and horror raced through his veins. Suddenly, it became clear who had set fire to the camp—and who had taken Octavia. It wasn’t anyone from the Colony.

The hundred might have been the first humans to set foot on the planet in three centuries, but they weren’t alone.

Some people had never left.

I owe an immeasurable debt of gratitude to Joelle Hobeika, who not only dreamed up the premise for The 100 , but whose imagination, editorial acumen, and tenacity were essential in bringing it to life. The same applies to Katie McGee, Elizabeth Bewley, and Farrin Jacobs, whose incisive questions and intelligent suggestions shaped the book at every level. I’m also grateful to the intimidatingly clever people at Alloy, specifically Sara Shandler, Josh Bank, and Lanie Davis, and the dedicated teams at Little, Brown and Hodder & Stoughton.

Thank you to my remarkable friends on both sides of the East River, the Gowanus Canal, the Mississippi, and the Atlantic for your support and encouragement. A special “shout”-out to my confidants and coconspirators at both ends of 557 Broadway, to the Crossroads crew, who first introduced me to science fiction, and to Rachel Griffiths for going light-years beyond the call of duty to help me grow as a writer and editor.

Most of all, I am grateful to my family—my father, Sam Henry Kass, whose writing overflows with unmatched wit and unparalleled heart; my mother, Marcia Bloom, whose art shimmers with the wisdom of a philosopher and the soul of an aesthete; my brilliant brother, Petey Kass, who makes me laugh until I can’t breathe; my inspiring grandparents, Nance, Peter, Nicky, and David; and the Kass/Bloom/Greenfield clans, who make so many places feel like home.