Stung - By Bethany Wiggins Page 0,76

His face became red, his neck all sinew, and every single muscle in his body flexed. He trembled with effort, making the metal bed vibrate beneath him.

“Nurse, sedate him again,” the doctor said. “Quickly!”

A hefty woman with graying hair and a syringe in her hand walked into my line of sight, intent on my brother. A pop echoed in the room, and the nurse stopped dead. The leather band around Jonah’s shoulders fell to the floor, and the nurse took a step back. “Doctor, we have a problem,” she said, backing away from Jonah until she crashed into my bed.

“Sedate him!” the doctor bellowed. “Now! I’m almost done with the girl!”

The leather holding Jonah’s wrists popped, and then the straps tethering the small of his back and his ankles exploded simultaneously, until only the strap on his head remained whole. He tore it off, leaped from the table, and lunged for the doctor. They fell to the floor and Jonah lashed out at the doctor’s face with his fingernails, smacking the doctor’s head against the cold, hard floor.

I stared at Jonah’s hands, gentle hands that built dinosaur models and did science experiments for fun; long, slender hands that played duets on the piano with me. Now, they were covered with blood.

The nurse screamed and huddled in a corner of the room.

Jonah leaped to his feet and tried to tear me off the metal table, his nails raking my back, my neck. I gasped at the pain, but then the tingly numb spread from my legs to my waist and oozed like warm honey along my spine, into my shoulders.

Red and blue lights started flashing overhead, and an alarm blared.

“Jonah. Run,” I slurred. Even my mouth was turning numb, my tongue swelling with deadened warmth. My mouth sagged open, and drool trickled down my cheek. I forced my eyes to stay wide and watched Jonah ram the hospital door open with his shoulder.

And then he ran.

“You tried to save me,” I whisper, staring into his feral eyes. At my words his eyes narrow and he grips the bars keeping us apart. The bars keeping me alive. His knuckles turn white, and the metal groans beneath his grasp, shifting a millimeter.

Oh crap.

I look away, straight forward again, and don’t touch my dinner. I’m starving, yet the thought of food makes bile rise in my throat. In an effort to calm myself, I start to hum under my breath, random notes that have no tune.

Across the room, Arrin stirs. She lifts her head, and her sharp nose wrinkles. And then, cracking her eyes open, she shoves her face into the pile of onions and meat. When her food is mostly gone, she notices me watching. She sits and grins a grimy, grease-covered grin, and drags her finger across her neck.

“I’m going to kill you,” she mouths.

Oh yeah? Wait in line, I think, listening to the sounds of the beasts breathing into my cage on either side of me. I press my back harder against the wall of my cage, cradle my throbbing hand, and for the first time ever, can’t think of a song to distract me from reality.

Chapter 32

Somehow I sleep. I know because I lurch awake when my arms meld together and I topple sideways into a puddle of cold drool. Fingernails plunge into my cheek, and I’m yanked into the bars on the side of my cage.

The fingernails move, digging into my neck, cinching around my windpipe. My mouth opens, but no air enters my lungs. I stare across my cage at Jonah, my mouth gaping, struggling for air. He shrieks and throws his body into the bars separating us, straining to reach me.

I lurch against the claw-hold, but can’t break free. Fire fills my air-starved lungs, and I wonder if this is how I’m going to die, before I ever see the pits.

“Taser! Cage eleven! Now! It’s going to kill the Ten!” someone screams.

Electricity travels from the fingers gouging my flesh, into my blood, and heats the cuffs on my forearms. The fingers lose their power and fall away. The heat fizzles out of my body, but I’m too limp to move. I gasp and fill my burning lungs with air.

Somewhere, someone is screaming, “He’s bending the bars! Taser thirteen!” Other voices call out orders and mingle with the scream. Cool hands find my neck and probe for a pulse.

“I’m not dead,” I say, panting. My voice box hardly works.

Hands clasp my ankles and drag me out of the