Chapter 8 : THE HUNTING QUESTION
[Dropship Camp — Day 2, Dawn]
Hunger solved the leadership problem faster than any speech could have.
Ethan had expected it—empty stomachs had a way of replacing ideology with pragmatism—but the speed still caught him off guard. By sunrise, Bellamy's "whatever the hell we want" crowd had become ninety-six teenagers sitting in the dirt with nothing to eat, and the mood had shifted from carnival to crisis in the space of one missed meal.
Clarke called the meeting. Or rather, Clarke stood by the dead fire—Charlotte had kept it alive until 0400, when she'd finally collapsed asleep—and spoke loud enough that anyone within thirty feet stopped what they were doing.
"We have twenty-two ration packs. That's less than a quarter-meal each. After that, nothing."
Silence. The kind of silence that came from a hundred empty stomachs processing arithmetic.
"We need hunting parties, gathering parties, and water runs. Today. Now. Not this afternoon, not when we feel like it. Now."
Bellamy leaned against the dropship hull, arms crossed. His gun was tucked in his waistband—visible, intentional. The symbol of authority he'd claimed by violence. He didn't contradict Clarke. He was too hungry to argue with someone making sense.
"Who's organizing this?" he asked.
Clarke looked at Ethan.
"And there it is. The handoff. She can't do it alone—she's a medic, not a field commander. Bellamy won't organize; he'll lead a charge, but he won't build a schedule. That leaves the quiet logistics guy who's been keeping things running since they landed."
"Here's what we've got." Ethan stepped forward. No podium, no elevated ground. Level with everyone, talking the way he used to brief convoy teams—clear, specific, actionable. "Three groups. Hunting party: four people with weapons, heading south where the game trails run. Bellamy, you lead that."
Bellamy's eyebrow rose. Being given an assignment by a kid he barely knew—but it was the hunting party, the action team, the group that carried knives and mattered. His ego made the calculation and accepted.
"Gathering party: five people, northwest along the river. I'll lead that. We know there are edible plants within walking distance—nuts, berries, tubers. Monty, you're with me."
Monty scratched his poison ivy-covered forearm and grimaced. "Great. More nature."
"Water detail: two people, river and back, refill all containers. Wells."
Wells nodded from the back of the crowd.
"Everyone else stays in camp. Starts clearing debris, organizing the dropship interior, and collecting dry wood for tonight's fire. Charlotte—" He found her in the crowd. She looked up, startled at being named. "—you're fire chief. Nobody else touches it."
Charlotte's chin lifted. Purpose. Direction. Something to be instead of someone afraid.
The crowd didn't cheer. They didn't need to. They were hungry, and someone had just told them what to do about it. The relief of having a plan was louder than any applause.
Jasper pushed through the cluster. His eyes were bright with the particular energy of someone who'd been thinking about one thing all night and couldn't contain it anymore.
"What about Mount Weather? The Ark said there are supplies there—food, medicine, everything we need. It's right there." He pointed east, where the mountain's silhouette rose above the treeline like a gray tooth. "One trip and we could solve the food problem permanently."
Thirty heads turned toward the mountain. Ethan could feel the pull—the seductive logic of a treasure vault sitting on the horizon, promising salvation if someone just walked over and opened the door.
"Mount Weather. Where the Mountain Men live in sealed bunkers, harvesting Grounders for blood transfusions and eventually drilling into bone marrow for radiation resistance. The most dangerous place on this continent, dressed up as a rescue."
"Nobody goes to the mountain."
Jasper frowned. "Why not?"
"Because we don't know what's there. The Ark's information is ninety-seven years old. Anything could be in that facility—collapsed tunnels, toxic atmosphere, unstable ordinance. Or someone already living there who doesn't want visitors."
"Someone—you think people survived down here?"
Ethan looked at the treeline. The memory of what he knew, and the preview of what they'd discover tomorrow, pressed against his tongue. He swallowed both.
"I think we don't gamble with lives. Hunters go south. Gatherers go northwest. The mountain waits until we've scouted properly—armed, prepared, with a route mapped and a fallback plan."
Clarke stepped in. "He's right. We send scouts first. Nobody goes anywhere alone, and nobody crosses into territory we haven't mapped."
Jasper's face fell. Monty put a hand on his shoulder—the quiet restraint of a best friend who knew when to pull back.
"Tomorrow?" Jasper asked.
"When we're ready. Not before."
Bellamy pushed off the hull. "Enough talking. Hunting party, with me. Grab something sharp."
He walked toward the south treeline. Three kids followed—eager, armed with makeshift spears fashioned from dropship struts. Bellamy didn't look back. A leader who expected to be followed, and was.
---
The northwest forest gave up its resources in pieces.
Ethan led five into the trees—Monty, Wells (who'd finished the water run in record time and volunteered for double duty), and two others whose names he committed to memory: Dax, a wiry kid from Mecha Station, and Fox, a quiet girl who'd been studying the plant guide over Ethan's shoulder since last night.
The first find was a walnut grove. The trees were enormous—ninety-seven years of unchecked growth had turned them into columns of bark and branch that blocked the sunlight and carpeted the ground in decomposing leaves. Walnuts lay scattered in their green husks, half-rotted, but the meat inside was sound.
"Crack them on rocks," Ethan said. "Discard anything that smells sour or looks black inside."
They filled two satchels—improvised from emergency blankets and cord—in forty minutes. Monty found a patch of wild raspberries and dove in with the enthusiasm of someone who'd eaten nothing but reconstituted protein for seventeen years.
"These are incredible." Juice ran down his chin. "Is this what food is supposed to taste like?"
"Wait until you try a cheeseburger."
"A what?"
"Right. These kids have never seen a cow, let alone ground beef on a sesame bun. Add 'reintroduce basic cuisine' to the civilization-building list."
"Old Earth food. I'll explain later."
Monty scratched his forearm again. The poison ivy rash had spread overnight—angry red welts tracking up both arms like a topographic map of misery.
"Monty. Stop scratching. You're spreading the oil."
"It's like fire ants made of glass are living under my skin."
Ethan pulled a leaf from a nearby plant—jewelweed, if the book was right. "Crush this and rub it on. It's a natural antihistamine."
Monty looked skeptical but desperate enough to try anything. The jewelweed sap went on. Within a minute, his face changed.
"That's... actually working."
"The ground has pharmacy departments. You just need the right aisle."
Fox looked up from her gathering. "How do you know all this?"
"I read a lot in lockup. Not much else to do."
The answer satisfied her. People expected prisoners to be bored and odd. Reading survival manuals was eccentric but plausible—especially from the quiet kid who kept to himself in cell block seven.
[SYSTEM: Resource Discovery — Walnut Grove. +50 EXP]
[SYSTEM: Medicinal Plant Application — Jewelweed. +25 EXP]
[EXP: 400/500]
They returned to camp at midday carrying enough food for a real meal—nuts, berries, edible roots Ethan identified with careful cross-referencing against his memorized poison list. Not a feast. But enough to stop the shaking hands and the hollow-eyed stares that came from twenty hours without calories.
Bellamy's hunting party returned an hour later with a rabbit. One rabbit. For ninety-eight people, it was symbolic at best—but Bellamy carried it like a trophy, and the crowd's reaction told Ethan everything about the politics of survival: the man who brought meat was king, regardless of how much of it there was.
"Let him have it. The nuts and berries will actually feed people. The rabbit feeds Bellamy's authority. Both matter."
Jasper stood at the eastern edge of camp, staring at Mount Weather's silhouette. The mountain caught the afternoon light and held it, gray stone turning golden for an hour before shadow swallowed it again.
"Tomorrow?"
Ethan stood beside him. Looked at the mountain. Looked at Jasper—the optimism, the restless intelligence, the complete ignorance of what waited inside that rock.
"Not tomorrow. Not until we know what's between here and there."
Jasper's shoulders dropped. "You sound like Clarke."
"There are worse people to sound like."
Jasper kicked a stone into the clearing. "I just want to do something that matters. Something big."
"Keeping ninety-eight people alive isn't big enough?"
The question landed harder than Ethan intended. Jasper looked at him—startled, considering—then nodded once and walked back toward Monty and the raspberry juice stains.
"He'll push again. That's who Jasper is—the kid who runs toward the unknown because the known isn't exciting enough. In the show, it gets him a spear through the chest. Here, it just gets him my foot on the brake."
The fire crackled. Charlotte tended it with the diligence of a soldier on watch, adding wood at precise intervals. She hadn't looked at Wells once today.
One more day held.
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