The 99

Chapter Nine: Clarke

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Maybe the man had been right; maybe she was insane.

Clarke took a steady breath, trying to listen for the sound of feet as the stranger slowly eased the locker door open and the box was flooded with a spectral light, momentarily blinding her. She blinked and looked at the man, whose brown eyes were narrowed at her in contempt.

He couldn't have been much older than her-a few years at most. Sweat beaded on his forehead and dampened his hair. Clarke's gaze fell to his wounded shoulder. The sleeve of his uniform was stained red, some parts darker, some lighter, with varying degrees of dried and wet blood.

She leaned forward, wanting to get a better look at it. Her fingers skimmed the material.

The man jolted back. "What are you doing?"

Clarke suppressed the urge to snap at him. "I'm trying to get a clear view of your injury so I can figure out what I'll need for it. Assuming it's a bullet wound..." She peered at the soaked material again, inspecting the small hole torn through it that confirmed her suspicions. "You should be grateful the guy who shot you had such poor aim," she said.

He glared at her. "Grateful? You think I should be grateful for this?"

"You could've been shot in the arm," she said, "which could have severed your brachial artery, which would have killed you in minutes."

He just moved farther away from her, a nearly impossible feat to do in the cramped spacing. "Lucky me," he said, before he pulled himself out of the storage locker, and Clarke didn't miss his grimace of pain as he moved his shoulder.

She followed suit, her senses electrifying again, too aware of everything around her, of the bleeding man swaying by her side. She was relieved that the common room was was still empty, but she knew it wouldn't stay that way for long.

"Come on," Clarke said, walking across the room and to the door on the opposite side of it.

He came up behind her and his hand snaked out, snatching her wrist again. At his touch, she stiffened.

"What's your plan for getting in there?" he asked, apprehension sounding in his voice.

Clarke tore out of his grip. "I'm going through the ventilation system," she said, checking the corridor before she started down it. "While you are going wait here and be as discreet as humanly possible."

"I don't take orders from you," he snarled.

Clarke drew up short, ignoring the sudden burst of annoyance she felt flare inside her. She raised her eyes to his. "Look, the only way this is going to work is if we cooperate with each other. And that entails you keeping an eye out as I steal supplies, which, need I remind you, is the only thing that is going to save your life."

Clarke saw the muscle in his jaw flex and she expected some retort; a sharp remark this man seemed so partial to, but he didn't. He just said, in bitten words, "Is there anything else that you've forgotten to mention?"

"Yeah, one other thing," she told him, giving him a final pointed look as she started back down the corridor again. "Try to stay on your feet. It wouldn't be good for either of us if you collapsed in the middle of this."

Even though she wasn't looking at him, Clarke could hear the derision in his voice, mocking, tantalizing.

"I'll do my best."

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Clarke had never felt more in need of a screwdriver in her life. For the technological advancements of the Ark, the ventilation system was, in comparison, archaic, its cover still held with bolts and screws instead of magnetic locks. It took time she didn't have to pry them up with her nails. She felt them break and blood bubbled around her fingers, making her grip slick but Clarke didn't stop until the frame of the vent was off.