THE FREE FALL ⇘ Bellamy Blake. [1]

| xxxii. NO WAY OUT

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CHAPTER THIRTY TWO;

NO WAY OUT.

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        CLAUSTROPHOBIA IS A ROTTEN FEAR—one that claimed its place at the forefront of Haven's list of intolerable horrors, rivaling even the unnerving prick of needles and the suffocating embrace of darkness. It marked a stark departure from the solace she once found in disappearing into the shadows as an adolescent. Perhaps being crammed into her prison cell for five years had unearthed it, or maybe it stemmed from the reluctance to be alone with herself anymore.

Yet, despite her festering unease, it failed to dissuade the Smith girl from volunteering for foxhole duty.

Every passing hour since the search party's return to camp had been consumed by labor in the dirt. Under Raven's watchful eye, half of the hundred toiled away at crafting landmines, using the gunpowder Jasper had painstakingly formulated in a desperate bid to blow the Grounders to hell. Meanwhile, the other half busied themselves with digging foxholes, creating covert pathways for swift, low-profile maneuvers, whether in a sprint or a crawl, to evade detection. Amidst this flurry of activity, the gunners stood as the sole stationary figures, their vigilant watch poised to defend against any encroaching threat.

Well...semi-vigilant.

Haven saw Sterling fall asleep. Twice.

But truthfully, she couldn't blame him; everybody was utterly, thoroughly exhausted, feeling their fatigue seep down to the marrow of their matchstick bones. Whether it was the relentless physical exertion or the mental acrobatics they were forced to endure on the daily—their resolve had plummeted to an all time low.

Despite their world teetering on the brink of collapse, work was the sole beacon that kept them moving forward, if only by sheer force of will. For Haven, it provided a semblance of purpose, keeping her hands busy and her mind preoccupied with anything other than the looming specter of the Mountain Men.

        The gas mask beside Monty's lone walkie only solidified their existence. As unsettling as it was to contemplate, it made a grim sort of sense; how arrogant, how naive they had been to assume that the Grounders were the only remaining civilization. If the tree-dwelling warriors could not only survive, but also pose a dire threat to the hundred—who's to say there weren't other factions out there, lurking in the shadows? And if even Lincoln, a warrior hardened by adversity, was compelled to flee in terror...

Camp was undeniably, irreversibly doomed.

Big time.

        But where did the Mountain Men come from? What sinister motives drove them to target a camp of teenage criminals? How did they have access to the resources to jam a radio frequency, and evade detection for so long? And most notably—why the fuck did they walk around in hazmat suits?