Stung - By Bethany Wiggins Page 0,31

Bowen secures the cuffs on her arms. They lock into place, and he jumps off the writhing creature. Crouching by my legs, he removes my ankle cuffs, but before he has a chance to put them onto the beast, she throws the three men from her and is back on her feet.

She launches herself at me, mouth open, cuffed and fused hands reaching toward me. I lift my gloriously free arms and, using her momentum, push the female over the top of me.

A lone gun goes off and the beast hits the ground, skidding to a stop in the dirt. She does not move, does not blink her eyes. A pool of red forms beneath her and soaks into the dusty earth.

I look up in time to see Bowen lower his rifle.

“That,” he says, his voice trembling, “was a Level Ten.”

Chapter 15

I am shut away in a tent, one of the few that wasn’t ruined in the skirmish earlier that day. My forearms are covered with burn blisters, and the hair is singed completely off. But I am not restrained in any way for the first time since I entered the camp. And the armed guards are throwing a fit. Every time I so much as breathe too loudly, they panic.

But it feels so good to move that I stretch my legs, point my toes, and sigh. Late-afternoon sunlight blinds me as the tent flap is whipped aside and four guns are thrust inside, inches from my face. I don’t blink.

“Did he touch the flap?” someone asks, and if I had to guess, I’d say his voice is hopeful. They’ve been given strict orders from Bowen: shoot if I so much as touch the tent flap—shoot me.

“No, the flap didn’t move,” Tommy says. “Bowen?” he shouts, not taking his gun from my face. “You almost ready to put his cuffs back on? Because I can’t guarantee the Fec’ll live much longer if he isn’t restrained! The men are jumpy from the attacks!”

“I’ll take care of it,” Bowen calls.

The guns are moved aside and Bowen leans in. He pauses as uncertainty and fear dance across his face, but then he drops the tent flap behind him and crawls toward me, crouching at my side. He takes a small bottle out of his jacket.

“About your arms, the burns,” he says, his voice hardly more than a whisper. “I had to shock you. I didn’t know what else to do to stop her—the beast—from …” Face grim, he looks down, studying the tent floor.

From tearing my throat out with her teeth, I think. “I’m alive,” I answer, voice as quiet as his. “My arms hardly hurt.” My arms throb with every single beat of my heart and radiate fire that goes all the way to my stomach and makes me feel like I have the flu. Bowen holds the bottle out. I take it and open my mouth to ask him what it is, but he presses a finger to his lips.

“Aloe vera,” he mouths, glancing at the tent flap.

“For the burns?” I whisper. He presses his finger to his lips again and nods. “Did you steal it?” I mouth, silent.

The corner of Bowen’s mouth lifts, and he says softly, “For militia use only. Not for Fecs. Took me an hour to find.”

I open the bottle, squeeze green goo onto my palm, and slick it over my angry skin. Air hisses through my gritted teeth, but then I sigh. The fire in my arm seems to seep into the aloe. I slather the other arm and give the bottle back to Bowen. He tucks it into his jacket once more and pulls something else out. Ankle cuffs. I groan. Out loud. Feet scuffle outside the tent, rifles clatter to life, and then the tent flap is flung wide. The glossy black barrel of a gun jabs into the tent and hovers above my nose.

“You need me to shoot it, Bowen?” Tommy asks.

“Chill, Tommy. The kid’s just moaning about his arms,” Bowen says. Tommy drags the tip of his rifle over the burned flesh on my arm.

I whimper and jerk away. Liquid oozes from a popped blister and Tommy laughs. He swings the gun toward my other arm, but Bowen grabs it.

“Just leave the kid alone,” Bowen snaps. He shoves Tommy’s gun out of the tent.

“Whoa, man, you’re the one who needs to chill. You’re acting … sympathetic toward the Fec.” Tommy drops the tent flap and grumbles something I can’t quite make out.

Bowen