The urgency and disbelief in Finn's voice shattered the early morning calm. "Kegan, Kegan get up man! Wells is dead, man! You need to get up!" His words were rushed, each one laden with a mixture of shock and urgency that instantly dispelled any remnants of sleep from my mind.
Confusion clouded my thoughts as I tried to process his words. "Wells is what?" I stammered, my voice thick with sleep and disbelief.
Finn's face was etched with horror and urgency as he relayed the grim news. "Wells is dead. We think the Grounders got him. His fingers were cut off. Jasper tripped and saw them," he explained, his voice trembling slightly with the weight of what he was saying.
Before the reality of his words could fully sink in, Clarke's voice, strained and frantic, cut through the air. "Finn, Kegan! Where are you?"
Resigned to the gravity of the situation, I sighed heavily. "Duty awaits," I muttered, slipping my hat over my head and preparing myself mentally for what lay ahead.
Finn and I hastened down the ladder to join Clarke. Her face was a portrait of stress and grief, the loss of Wells casting a shadow over her usually resolute features.
"Hey Keegs, Bellamy wants to see all of us," Clarke said, her voice raspy and heavy with unspoken sorrow. Despite their complex past, it was evident that the years of friendship she shared with Wells still held a profound place in her heart.
We followed Clarke in silence, our footsteps heavy with apprehension, into the tent where Bellamy waited with a grave expression.
"You needed us?" I asked, stepping into the dimly lit tent.
"Uh, yeah. Here, look at this, we found it over by Wells," Bellamy said, extending his hand to show us a crucial piece of evidence.
I took the knife, turning it over in my hands. "It's one of our knives," I observed, a chill running down my spine as the implications became clear.
"That means the Grounders didn't kill Wells. One of us did," Clarke stated, her voice steady but her eyes betraying a hint of shock and betrayal.
Jasper's voice was tinged with fear and confusion. "So there's a murderer in the camp?"
Bellamy's response was grim. "There's more than one murderer in this camp."
Clarke moved to exit the tent, but Bellamy stepped in front of her, blocking her path. "We need to keep this quiet," he insisted, his tone suggesting a strategy rather than concern.
I could see the logic in Bellamy's argument, yet the moral dilemma was palpable. Revealing the truth about Wells' death could send the camp spiraling into chaos and fear.
Clarke, however, was having none of it. "Get out of my way, Bellamy," she growled, her frustration boiling over.
Bellamy persisted, emphasizing the benefits of the community's ignorance. "Look at all we've achieved so far, the wall, the patrols. Thinking the Grounders killed Wells is good for us."
Clarke snapped back, accusing him of manipulating the situation for his own gain. "Good for you, you mean. What, keep people afraid so they'll work for you?"
Bellamy retorted, challenging her plan of action. "Yeah, that's it. The fear of the Grounders is building that wall and what are you going to do, huh? Walk out there and ask the killer to step forward. You don't even know whose knife that is," he argued, his voice rising in frustration.
Just as I was about to step in and mediate, Clarke unveiled a critical piece of evidence. "Oh yeah. JM, John Murphy," she growled, displaying the initials inscribed on the blade. "The people have a right to know."
With a mix of anger and determination, Clarke stormed out of the tent, leaving us in a charged silence.
"Oh shit," I murmured under my breath, realizing the magnitude of the situation. This revelation was about to turn our already fragile community upside down.
As we filed out of the tent behind Clarke, each of us was lost in thought, contemplating the implications of this discovery and the uncertain path that lay ahead in the wake of this unsettling morning. The early morning tranquility of the camp was shattered when Clarke confronted Murphy. Her anger was palpable as she charged at him, shoving him in the chest with a force that echoed her rage. "You son of a bitch!" she yelled, her voice a mix of fury and grief.
Murphy, caught off-guard, laughed off her aggression with a dismissive sneer. "What's your problem!" he retorted, unaware of the storm he was about to face.
Clarke's hands trembled with a blend of rage and sorrow as she held up the knife, the evidence of his crime. "Recognize this!" she demanded, her voice sharp and accusing.
"Yeah, that's my knife. Where'd you find it?" Murphy asked, his cockiness faltering as he reached for the weapon, only for Clarke to snatch it away.
"Right where you dropped it after you killed Wells!" Clarke cried out, her voice cracking with emotion, pulling the knife back before Murphy could grab it.
Murphy's face contorted in confusion and panic. "Where I what? The Grounders killed Wells. Not me!" he protested, his voice rising in a desperate plea of innocence.
By now, the commotion had drawn the attention of the entire camp. A crowd formed around us, their faces a mix of shock, curiosity, and brewing anger.
"I know what you did. And you're going to pay for it," Clarke growled, her face inches from Murphy's, her eyes blazing with a fire fueled by loss and betrayal.
Murphy, trying to maintain his bravado, appealed to Bellamy. "Really? Bellamy, you believe this crap?" he asked, his voice tinged with a mixture of cockiness and growing fear.
Clarke was relentless in her accusation. "You threatened to kill him, we all heard you. We hated Wells," she pressed on, her argument cutting through the morning air like a knife.
"Plenty of people hated Wells. His father was the Chancellor who locked us up!" Murphy shot back, his voice tinged with a mix of anger and desperation.
The tension among the onlookers was palpable; the air thick with unspoken accusations and suspicions. The revelation of Murphy's previous altercation with Wells only heightened the growing sense of dread. Octavia's sudden input about Murphy's attempt on Jasper's life added a new layer of accusation. The camp, already on edge, was now a powder keg waiting to explode.
Murphy tried to deflect, his bravado crumbling under the weight of the crowd's judgment. "Wow. I don't need this. I don't have to answer to you, I don't have to answer to anybody," he declared, raising his hands in a futile gesture of innocence.
Bellamy's intervention was like the strike of a match in a room full of gasoline. "Bellamy. Come on man, I didn't do this. You've got to believe me," Murphy pleaded, his voice laced with desperation as he approached Bellamy.
"His fingers were on the ground with your knife," Bellamy stated, his voice cold and factual.
Clarke, undeterred, continued her pursuit for justice amid the growing unrest. "Is this the kind of society you want? You say there shouldn't be any rules, does that mean that we can kill each other without punishment?" she challenged, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd.
"I already told you. I didn't kill anyone," Murphy insisted, his eyes darting around the crowd that was now turning against him.
Then, the call for archaic justice rang out. "I say we float him!" someone in the crowd yelled, igniting a chorus of agreement. The phrase 'float him' echoed through the camp, a chilling reminder of the Ark's draconian laws.
Clarke's face registered a moment of regret, realization dawning that her quest for justice was spiraling into a mob's cry for vengeance. "Wait, that's not what I meant," she said, her voice drowned out by the rising clamor for retribution.
But the crowd was beyond reason. "Revenge is not justice," I interjected, but my words were lost in the chants demanding Murphy's punishment.
The situation escalated rapidly. Murphy lunged at Clarke in a desperate attempt to escape, but my instinctive action tripped him, sending him sprawling to the ground. The crowd, fueled by rage and fear, descended on him, their blows fueled by pent-up anger and a thirst for retribution. Clarke's pleas for restraint were futile as the crowd, now a frenzied mob, became an uncontrollable force of vengeance. Murphy, gagged and overwhelmed, was dragged away by a group of furious campers. Finn and I followed, witnessing the brutal aftermath as Murphy was left face-down in the mud, a victim of the crowd's fury. The situation took an even darker turn as a noose was thrown over a tree branch. The realization of what was about to happen sent a chill down my spine. I looked over to Clarke, her face a mixture of horror and regret, desperately trying to undo what had been set in motion.
Bellamy, now the focus of the crowd's attention, approached Murphy. Clarke's pleas for mercy were desperate, her voice echoing the turmoil churning within her. "Bellamy, I saw you in the woods with Atom. I know you're not a killer. Bellamy, please don't do this," she pleaded.
But Bellamy pushed past her and walked over to the bound boy. Clarke tried her best to hold him back, but he was determined. "Bellamy, I didn't do it. Listen to me!" Murphy screamed through his gag, his voice filled with terror. As the noose tightened around Murphy's neck and the crowd hoisted him up, the harsh reality of our new world was laid bare for all to see. The line between justice and vengeance had blurred, and in that moment, the fragile semblance of order we had struggled to maintain threatened to collapse entirely.
The air was thick with tension as Bellamy locked eyes with Clarke. In those five seconds, a storm of unspoken words and emotions passed between them. With a heavy sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world, Bellamy made his decision and kicked the box out from under Murphy. The sight that followed was nothing short of harrowing. Murphy's body convulsed and twitched, a grotesque and disturbing display of human suffering. I had seen some terrible things in my life, but this was a whole new level of horror.
"Cut him down!" My voice broke through the stunned silence, a desperate plea amidst the chaos. Approaching Murphy, I spotted Charlotte in the crowd. She was just 13, far too young to witness such a brutal spectacle. Her face was a canvas of pain and conflict, as if she wanted to speak but was trapped in her own horror.
"Get out of here," I yelled at her, protective instincts kicking in. Octavia was holding her back, trying to prevent her from getting any closer to the gruesome scene.
"Cut him down!" I shouted again, my voice loud and urgent, as I reached for the rope.
Suddenly, an axe was pointed at my throat, stopping me dead in my tracks. Tension crackled in the air, thick enough to cut with a knife.
"Stop, okay!" Charlotte's voice, trembling with emotion, pierced the crowd's frenzy. "Murphy didn't kill Wells ...I did!" Her confession sent shockwaves through the assembled crowd.