Daylight |Bellamy Blake

Twenty-six

We all gather around the table, its surface strewn with a rough model of our camp—an attempt to make sense of the chaos closing in on us. Bellamy stands at the head of the group, his arms crossed over his chest, frown etched deep into his features. His voice is low and controlled, but the tension is clear as he lists what we have. My stomach twists with each item, a reminder of just how little stands between us and certain death.

"We've got 25 rifles with 20 rounds each, give or take. Roughly 500 rounds of ammo," Bellamy says, his words clipped, as if stating the cold hard numbers makes it less terrifying. "While you two were gone, we made some improvements. Thanks to Raven, the gully is mined."

I glance at the others, seeing the same mix of nervousness and dread. These improvements don't sound like enough. It's hard not to shift uncomfortably at the stark reality of our situation.

"Partially mined," Raven corrects, her voice bitter. "Thanks to Murphy." The mention of his name tightens something in my chest. As if we don't already have enough to deal with.

"Still," Bellamy continues, ignoring her, "it's the main route in. If the grounders use it, we'll know. She also built grenades." He gestures toward the small wooden box containing our pitiful supply of explosives.

"It's not many," Clarke mutters, barely audible, her eyes fixed on the box. Her disappointment mirrors my own.

"Again, thank you, Murphy," Raven bites out sarcastically, her voice dripping with venom. She shifts uncomfortably on the table, still weakened by her injury but clearly as frustrated as the rest of us.

"We'll make them count," Bellamy says, but I can hear the strain in his voice. He's trying to sound confident, but we all know how thin this plan is. "If the grounders make it through the front gate, guns and grenades should force them back."

I can't help but think of the sheer numbers of grounders out there. The image of them storming our fragile gates sends a cold wave of dread through me. And then what? I think, but Clarke is already asking the question out loud.

"And then?" Clarke's voice is steady, but I can hear the underlying fear in it.

Raven answers for Bellamy, her tone as bleak as our chances. "Then we close the door and pray."

The weight of her words crashes over me. Pray? That's it? My heart sinks, dread pooling in my stomach like lead. This can't be all we have.

"And pray what?" Clarke challenges, her voice cutting through the silence, frustration rising. "That the ship keeps them out? Because it won't." Her eyes are hard, as if daring someone to argue with her.

Bellamy straightens, his jaw clenched. "Then let's not let them get through the gate," he says, his voice firm and unyielding, as if sheer willpower alone can make it so. He grabs the walkie, ready to issue orders, but before he can, I find myself stepping forward, unable to hold back any longer.

"Sorry to say, but that's the worst plan I've ever heard," I blurt out, my voice harsher than I intended, but the sheer frustration and fear bubbling inside me spills over. There's a beat of stunned silence, and I can feel all eyes turn toward me, the tension thick in the air. But I don't regret saying it. Because this plan? It's suicide.

Bellamy's eyes lock onto mine, his gaze hardening. I can tell my words hit him where it hurts, in that place where he's desperately trying to hold everything together. He doesn't respond right away, but the tightening of his jaw, the subtle shift in his stance, tells me he's fighting to keep control.

"You got a better idea?" he finally snaps, his voice sharp with frustration. He holds my gaze, his words not just a challenge but a plea. I can see it—the weight of leadership, the responsibility he never asked for but carries anyway. It's crushing him, and I just added to the burden.