When Songbirds Fly | Bellamy Blake

Chapter Fifty-Three: The Plural of "Apocalypse"

TW// Vomit, blood

—

'How's the planning going?'

Bellamy and I exchange nervous glances, following closely behind Clarke through the narrow corridors of Alpha Station. They both push rickety trolleys laden with supplies, while I keep my blueprints tucked under one arm.

I shrug awkwardly, using my cane to push me further on despite the burning complaint that pulls at my prosthesis with each step. 'Sure is going. At the moment, we'll be stuck with drinking our own piss.'

His nose scrunches in disgust, eyebrows raising sceptically. 'Charming.'

'Yeah. Started working on a distillery with Monty's help, but we're gonna need something bigger if we want to sustain five hundred people. It's gonna taste... well, like piss, but at least all the bad stuff'll be gone.'

'Unfortunately,' Clarke sighs, 'survival comes before comfort. Anything else?'

I take a second to consult my plans. 'Uh... maybe some kind of neutraliser? If there's rain, maybe we can catch it and balance out all the acid stuff. I don't know. Most of this is totally hypo— hyp— hypothical?'

'Hypothetical?'

'Yeah, that one. I just wish it was possible to talk to the original Grounders, find out how they survived. I mean, it can't have always been so... green.'

Bellamy's lips twitch upwards slightly. He catches my eye but I quickly look away again, feeling my face flush. We've been like this for the past week, shying away from each other like middle schoolers with a crush.

Clarke continues ahead, oblivious. 'Well, unless some of the Grounders have managed to find the secret to immortality, we'll just have to make those hypotheses into theories.'

The three of us walk in silence for some time. I pull the blueprints out from under my arm and give the first one another look-over. It still doesn't make much sense. I think I'm still in shock from the knowledge that there's going to be another apocalypse.

'What do you even call it?' I whisper to myself.

Pausing, Bellamy looks to me with a bemused frown. 'Call what?'

'The plural of "apocalypse". Like, what is it? "Apocali"? "Apocalypses"? "Apocalypsies"? Or is it just "apocalypse", like with "fish" and "food" and "Bourgeoisie"?'

Neither of them speak for a moment. Their lips remain pursed, their eyes narrowed in confused squints.

Finally, Bellamy stifles a quiet laugh and looks to me, his eyes bright with amusement. 'I don't know. Maybe it was never supposed to happen more than once, so nobody ever came up with one.'

'Pretty sure it's just "apocalypses",' Clarke replies. Distracted, she glances sceptically towards their trolleys. 'Bellamy, are you sure this is all the food we can spare at the moment? If people find out about the rest of the situation they're not gonna be happy.'

He is quick to subdue his grin, hurriedly breaking another brief moment between us. 'Two meals a day for people working as hard as ours? We won't make any friends.'

'Well, if there's one thing our people understand, it's rationing.'

We come to a stop by a series of shelves bearing various chemicals and equipment. Raven stands on a step ladder just ahead of us, welding a crack in the ceiling shut. I take a step back, nervously eyeing the shower of sparks cascading around her.

'Besides,' Clarke continues, 'once we close the doors, it'll be one meal a day for the next five years.'

'Try one meal every other day,' Raven says, pulling up her welding helmet to reveal her face as she carefully descends the ladder. 'Hunting parties are coming back with less and less. Thanks to your friend Niylah, we're preserving more meat than ever, but it's still not enough. Without a way to make water, growing our own protein like we did on the Ark is not an option. Remember that when we're starving.'