Stung - By Bethany Wiggins Page 0,43

teeth gnawing his shoulder, gnawing his chest to get to his heart. I am the source of his nightmares.

He gasps my name and whimpers. This time I can’t stop them. Tears fill my eyes and my heart constricts. I rest my forehead on my knees, listening to the agonizing sound of my name on his restless lips. Lips I have been studying for hours.

Something thumps. I jump, my heart jumps, my stomach jumps, and I look at Bowen. Something thumps again on the other side of the factory. A soft fist on the metal door? I stand and tiptoe to the door, pressing my ear against the sun-heated steel.

Deep voices, barely more than whispers, carry through to my ear. And scratching, the sound of a match against stone. I sprint to Bowen and touch his shoulder. His entire body lurches as if electricity has tensed every muscle in one swift jolt. Eyes wide, teeth bared, he digs the end of his gun into my chest right above my stuttering heart. I flinch and get ready to die.

Recognition softens his wild eyes, and the gun falls to his side.

“What’s wrong?” he whispers.

“The door. Someone’s here,” I answer, pressing a hand over my ballistic heart.

Bowen jumps to his feet and crams all our belongings into our backpacks—the empty cuffs, the sleeping bag, even the empty peach and Spam cans. He takes my hand in his, and we run to the stairs, but instead of going up, we go behind them. The wall below the stairs swings open, revealing a secret room.

Bowen throws the packs inside, then grabs my shoulder and turns me to face him, pushing me into the room until my back presses against something hard and uneven. He presses the length of his body against mine, his feet snug in between my feet, and pulls the secret door shut behind us.

“Sorry about the tight fit,” he whispers, his mouth against my temple. “I never thought I’d be stuck in here with another person.” Bowen shifts, his body moving against mine, and something clunks. “Ow!” he whispers.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I hit my forehead on the stairs.” His breath dances over my face and I breathe it in, inhaling deeply, my ribs expanding against his.

Outside our tiny room under the stairs, something explodes. The walls shudder, dust falls into my eyes, and I need to cough. I lean my face into Bowen’s shoulder and force myself to take slow, even breaths. His arm moves around me, pulling me a millimeter closer, cradling my head.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “We’ll be okay.” His chin bumps the crown of my head when he talks. “It’s the militia. They won’t find us in here. If it were a beast, or the …” His body shudders.

I turn my head to the side, pressing my ear against his chest, and listen to the sounds of his body. Breath moves quickly in and out of him, and his heart is like the hummingbird’s wings—frantic.

Boots pound the ground outside our room, go up the stairs, and unsettle more dust. I turn my face back against his shoulder and hold my breath. Most of the boots echo overhead, but one pair comes back down the stairs. Another shower of dust rains down. I press my face harder against him and take deep, slow breaths. The smell of him makes me think of cool mountain lakes and pine trees and sweat. I take a deeper breath, letting my body melt into the firm angles of his body, the safety of his physical presence, and loop my arms behind him.

“Bowen?” someone yells.

I jump, gripping the back of his shirt with my sweaty hands. The voice thunders through the factory and finds its way into our tiny shelter.

“We need the Fec!” I recognize the voice. Mickelmoore, the gray-haired man. “Bowen, this Fec might be the most important person alive. It is mandatory that you turn her over to me.”

Bowen’s arm tightens around me, pulling me more firmly against him, against the rise and fall of his chest.

Feet thump down the stairs again, shaking our shelter.

“Sir, he’s not here. Tommy might have given us false info. They were pretty tight,” a different voice says. “Marshall thinks he saw something in the factory across the street.”

“File out,” Mickelmoore orders. “And have your guns ready.”

Boots echo and fade as they leave. I lift my face from Bowen’s damp shirt, relieved that they’re gone, and dare a deep breath of the dusty air. “Why d—” His hand presses