Stung (5 page)

“I’ll be fine. I’ve had worse,” Arrin says.

“You have?”

“Yeah,” she says, peering up at me with a gleam in her blue eyes. She chuckles and stands tall. “Lots worse. Those guys in the tunnels, they come down and prey on the Fecs all the time. I’ve dreamed about killing them for years. You have no idea how good it felt when I stabbed that one!”

My stomach turns. “You stabbed him?”

“Yep. One swift slice to the carotid artery.” She grins, and her face looks like it did when she was eating my crackers—filled with greedy satisfaction.

“The
what
artery?” I ask, slightly sick to my stomach, slightly terrified of this …
child
.

“Carotid? It’s in the neck. My dad’s a doctor, and he taught me how to kill. Where’d you think all the blood came from?” She looks pointedly at my blood-covered arms and hands, and I cringe. “Come on. We’re almost there.”

Arrin cradles her arm as we continue down the dark street. The smell of food grows stronger, along with other smells that tickle my senses. Wood smoke. Laundry detergent. Sweat and
soap. And then the smells are accompanied by sound. Laughing. Singing. Talking. A dog barking.

Suddenly something different floats on the air, and my heart skips a beat. I press my hands to my ears, wondering if my imagination is going wild, wondering if the sound I hear is trapped in my head. But with pressure on my ears, the melody dies. When I uncover my ears, the music returns—Beethoven’s Seventh—the same song I heard in the dripping water as I fell asleep the night before. Only this time, instead of remembering the tune as I played it on the piano, guitar strings sing the melody.

We round the corner of a building and halt, and my eyes grow wide. A wall, taller than all of the factories we just passed, juts up from the sidewalk on the other side of the street, so long it disappears into the night. At the base of the wall sits a village, or rather a camp, swarming with men in brown uniforms. Fires glow orange, making shadows dance on the wall, revealing triangular tents, releasing the scent of cooking meat, illuminating a lone man playing the guitar—playing the song I played a thousand times on the piano before … before everything changed. A spit of meat roasts above the guitar player’s fire, and the music combined with the food … he’s like the pied piper. And I’m a rat. Without thinking, I take a step forward.

“Idiot! You don’t even know the plan yet!” Arrin grabs my hand and stops me. She pulls me toward her and puts her mouth to my ear, explaining how I’m going to pay her back. With each whispered word, my pulse beats a little faster and my palms begin to sweat. When she stops speaking, I stare at her like she’s insane. And judging by the look in her eye, maybe she is.

“Are you serious?” I whisper, glancing at the camp again.

She nods. I look past the men in brown, past the tents and campfires, to two people slouching at the wall’s base, their backs pressed against it. One is small, a pile of bones in a heap of grimy clothes, the other is slightly bigger, a little more filled out but still scrawny. Firelight glints off metal shackles encasing the lower halves of their arms. I look at the men in brown again and realize almost every single one of them holds a gun.

“What if they shoot me?” I ask.

“Then you won’t owe me anymore. We’ll be even,” she says.

I try to take a step away, but she grabs my wrist in an iron-strong hand. “No. I’m not doing that,” I say. “I’ll find another way to pay you—” The tip of Arrin’s knife finds the soft flesh under my chin and all I can think is
carotid artery
. I don’t dare breathe.

“You can die right now, Fo, or you can help me and have a chance to live,” she warns, her voice a low growl.

Slowly, I put my hand on her wrist, soft and gentle, like I’m trying to pet a dog that wants to bite me. She pushes the knife a little harder so the tip digs into my skin, and I know if I’m not careful, she’ll kill me right here, right now. Releasing her wrist, my hands slowly go up in surrender. She moves the knife so it no longer touches my skin, but barely.

“So will you help me or not?” she asks.

“I’ll do it,” I whisper, my voice trembling. She nods and tucks the knife into a fold of her clothes. I turn and stare at the camp, take a deep breath, possibly my last, and take a step forward.

“Fo,” Arrin says. I jolt to a startled stop and look at her. “If they catch you, say you’re a boy. Since you don’t have the
mark, they’ll probably let you go. Might even let you inside the wall if you qualify.”

I glance at the back of my right hand. The mark is still covered, but by blood and grime as much as makeup. I run my ice-cold hands through my butchered hair and sigh.

“Which one’s your brother?” I ask, looking at the two handcuffed people with their backs against the wall.

“The little one. He’s eleven.”

“Wait. Eleven? I thought you said he was nine.”

She gnaws the skin on the side of her thumb and then swallows. “You obviously need to clean the wax out of your ears,” she retorts. “What are you waiting for?”

I clench my teeth and take a deep breath, brace myself to run and—

“Fo?”

I jump again and glare at Arrin. “What?”

“Thanks.”

I nod, like I had a choice in the matter. Facing the camp, I dig my toes into the pavement. And I sprint.

The funny thing is, what I am doing right now is exactly what I wanted to do the minute I saw the camp. In spite of the fact that I’m starving, my legs are strong and swift, stronger than they’ve been since the moment I awoke in my bed.

Reaching the closest fire, I tear a spit of meat out of a stunned militia man’s hands and keep running. At the second fire, I do the same … take the meat and run. Without slowing my pace, I press the hot meat to my mouth, burning my tongue and gums as my teeth tear into it, and swallow without chewing. And then I am passing the third fire. And people are yelling, swarming, aiming guns at me. A siren blares.

Before I reach the fourth fire, something catches my ankle and I crash to the ground in a heap of hot meat and dust. I don’t care. I’ve created the distraction Arrin wanted, and now I can
eat. With my eyes staring at the star-freckled sky, I gnaw half-cooked meat, letting the grease and blood coat my fingers, throat, cheeks. Until someone tears it from my hands.

I scramble to my feet and try to run, but a shock of pain freezes my muscles and shatters my world. My legs forget how to work, and I crumple to the ground as spasms rack my body. Someone yanks my hands behind my back and slings cool metal around my forearms. I blink through a haze of pain and find myself staring at the wall and a frenzy of men in brown. They’re running around like headless chickens, yelling, swinging their guns. And then I see Arrin and her little brother, tiny even compared to her, leaping over the fire at the farthest edge of the camp. The smaller shadow stumbles and Arrin grabs his shoulders to steady him. They keep running, are almost to the street. Nearly touching freedom.

“Stop them!” a man bellows. “He’s a Level Three on the verge of turning!”

Silence smothers the camp, like being dunked under water … one minute there’s noise; the next, nothing. Every single militia man has his gun to his shoulder and is taking aim. The night explodes in gunfire. Arrin’s brother just explodes.

My jaw drops and I’m too stunned to breathe—almost forget that my muscles are twitching with the aftermath of pain. The guns are lowered and sound returns to the camp. The militia pat each other on the backs, chuckling, sighing with relief. I press the balls of my hands against my eyes and try to forget the last image I have of Arrin’s brother, silently cursing the meat in my stomach that is about to come up.

Hands grip my biceps and I’m yanked to my feet.

“What’ve we got?” a deep, gravelly voice asks. A gray-haired man steps in front of me and frowns.

“By the smell of it, we’ve got us another Fec, sir.”

“What level?” the man with gray hair asks.

Someone behind me turns over my right hand. My legs tremble, and it has nothing to do with being Tasered a moment before.

“Huh. No level. He’s clean.” I can hear the wonder in his voice. My shoulders sag and my legs stabilize.

Gray Hair’s eyebrows shoot up. “You sure? I thought all Fecs were marked. Why else would they hide down there?”

The man behind me fiddles with my hand again, rubbing the spot where the tattoo is.

“No. No mark. He’s clean, sir.”

I peer at Gray Hair through my thick bangs. He studies me with eyes as mistrusting as Arrin’s, and his lips grow thin. “Bring him to central. I’m going to do a scan.”

A militia man escorts me through a throng of men with wary eyes, to the center of their camp and into a spacious wooden structure—a log cabin—with a row of empty tables and a paper-strewn desk. Overhead, lights hum and buzz.
Electrical
lights.

“Uncuff him, Rory, so I can get a pure read,” Gray Hair says. There are lines shaved into his hair above his left ear. Six of them. He has a star on his brown coat. Embroidered above the star is the name
Micklemoore
.

“Yes, sir.” My hands are lifted, along with my cuffs, and then the cuffs snap free of my arms. I let my hands hang casually at
my sides and try to appear like I am not searching for an escape. The other man, Rory, steps in front of me and aims a Taser at my chest. There are only three lines shaved into his blond hair.

Micklemoore walks to the desk and opens a drawer, removing a metal box the size of my palm. Rory turns from me, hand out held for the metal box. And I run.

Micklemoore yells. Rory turns and clutches my shirt, but I tear away from him. The outside darkness fills the log cabin’s door, and I know it’s my only hope.

I pass from light into dark and slam into something hard and warm. We topple to the ground, and the unpleasant smell of digesting garlic and onions tickles my nose. Rough hands grapple against my body and latch onto my hips, flinging me aside. The icy barrel of a gun finds my temple, and I squeeze my eyes shut. Instead of feeling my head explode, I hear a low, humorless chuckle.

“Len, you always seem to be in the right place at the right time,” Micklemoore says, still chuckling. He crouches beside me, lifts my right hand, and holds out the metal box. The box lights up, a cool, soothing blue that makes my skin crawl. And when the light touches my hand, my tattoo shines through the layers of dirt and blood and makeup like a bike reflector. The box wails a warning siren.

Micklemoore drops the box and lurches away from me faster than anyone with gray hair should be able to move. And then I can’t see anyone, because a hundred automatic weapons are pointed at every inch of my body, blocking my view.

Like Arrin’s brother, I wait to explode.

“Bowen!” The name echoes and I flinch, expecting gunfire. “Electromagnetic wrist cuffs and ankle cuffs! Now! We got us a Ten!” Micklemoore barks.

A moment later, a small section of guns part and a square-shouldered man fills the space. Darkness hides the features of his face, but his voice resonates deep and soft and soothing, just a tremor above a whisper. “I won’t hurt you if you hold still,” he says, kneeling beside me.

What he doesn’t know is that I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. My whole body has turned numb with fright, right down to my lips. He leans over me and an image of a high-mountain lake settles behind my eyes. Or, more accurately, the giant pine trees that encircle the lake and sway in the wind and smell … just
like this man. I stare at him and breathe, and a temporary calm settles over me.

“That’s it, kid. You got a name?” He lifts one of my arms and clamps something onto it, something that stretches from my wrist to just below my elbow and is cool against my skin. “I’m Bowen.” He takes my other wrist and clamps the same thing onto my forearm. I open my eyes and lift my head to look at my arms. Bowen leaps away from me, points something in my direction, and the devices on my arms hum to life and of their own will meet, like two magnets attracting each other. I try to pull my arms apart but can’t.

Bowen kneels beside me once more and lets out a deep breath of air. “Don’t. Move.” His voice has turned hard and cold. “I will kill you if you do.” With damp, unsteady hands, he lifts my ankle and pushes the pants up around my knee, then attaches a cool metal casing around my calf and shin. He puts one on the other leg, and when it clamps into place, he scrambles away from me like I’m liable to explode at any moment. From a few feet away, he points something at me again. My legs slide together and fuse into one.

The crowd sighs and gasps, and then some men start laughing, like they just witnessed a lion tamer caging his fiercest beast.

“That was awesome, man,” someone says, patting Bowen on the back. “First Ten we’ve ever caught! Must be beginner’s luck.” The hundred guns disappear, replaced by the starry sky, as men move away. But not Bowen.

“Kid, if you move I’ll release a current of electricity through
you that’ll stop your heart before it can finish a beat. Got it?” he warns.

I don’t dare answer. Don’t dare to move my jaw—just shift my eyes to stare at Bowen’s silhouette.

“Unless you need to talk. Or grunt, or whatever a Ten does,” Bowen says, like he can read my mind. He leans a little closer to me, body still tense. “Can. You. Understand. What. I’m. Saying?” He overenunciates each word.

My stomach growls. “I’m hungry,” I whisper.

Bowen jumps at the sound of my voice, and his pale eyes catch moonlight. “Whoa. You can
talk
?” He looks from side to side, then reaches into his pants pocket. “You bite me, I shock the crap out of you,” he says. “Open your mouth.”

I obey. Bowen places a large round disk on my tongue. It dissolves into foam, and I taste pork chops and gravy and green beans. I sigh and close my eyes, and the world wavers beneath me and disappears.