Stung - By Bethany Wiggins Page 0,35

and the word Sprite on his shirt to remind me that green plants once grew in this dead place.

We have been walking less than an hour when Bowen, without a word, grabs the sleeve of my shirt and yanks me into a narrow alley between two brick buildings. He shoves me into the shadows and whispers, “Stay!” Balancing his rifle over his shoulder, he crouches at the alley’s entrance and takes aim at something I cannot see.

Above the torrent of blood rushing through my body, I hear rain, the pitter-patter of hundreds of drops thudding on the ground. I hold my hand up to the gray sky, but it remains dry. I look up. There is no rain. But the pitter-patter is louder than a moment before, a downpour.

I press my hand to my mouth and stare at Bowen’s back. The downpour is not rain. It’s footsteps. Lots of them. Running.

Bowen sets his gun down and tears the backpack from his shoulders. With trembling hands, he unzips it and starts pulling things out—dehydrated food, water bottles, a grenade—and stops. He holds the grenade in one shaky hand and places the fingers of his other hand on the pin. The muscles in his jaw pulse. I creep to his side and squat so that our shoulders touch.

The rifle is cold and much heavier than it looks. I pick it up, check the safety, balance it on my shoulder, rest my finger on the trigger, and point it out the alley in the direction of the stomping feet. And, side by side, we wait.

The pounding grows steadily louder. My hands begin to sweat, making the gun slippery, making it hard to aim. My shoulder trembles against Bowen’s, and I wonder if he can hear my heart trying to explode out of my chest. A lone bead of sweat trickles down my temple.

Bowen’s shoulder sags against mine, and he takes his fingers off the grenade pin. I look at him, thinking he must be crazy. He presses a finger to his lips and then touches his ear. I tilt my head to the side and listen. The footsteps are still there, still loud, but fading. To a drizzle. A sprinkle. Silence.

Bowen lets out a sigh and sits on the ground, still balancing the grenade in his hand. I sit beside him and set the rifle down.

“What was that?” I whisper.

“An entire hive is on the move,” he says.

“Hive?”

“The beasts. A lot of them. Heading in the direction of the camp.” Bowen carefully returns the grenade to his backpack and hands me a water bottle. I drink and pass it back. “I haven’t seen the beasts this stirred up in months. They attacked yesterday, and the day before…. Something’s bothering them.” He looks pointedly at me.

“You think it’s me causing this unrest?” I ask, stunned.

“Maybe. You’re sure creating a lot of unrest for me.” He puts his backpack on and peers out of the alley. “Come on. We’re almost there.”

With the gun now affixed to his shoulder, his finger looped through the trigger, we continue on. I follow a step behind him, my heart jumping at the echo of our feet against the ground, the jingling of his backpack, the scuff of a shoe behind us.

I stop and turn around. A wisp of gray, hardly more substantial than smoke, darts into a building half a block behind us.

“Bowen!” I whisper. Before his name has settled into the air, he is in front of me, gun pointed in the direction I am looking.

“What is it?” he whispers.

“Someone is following us.”

He sweeps the rifle left and right. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“How many did you see?”

“Just one. He darted into that building.” I point.

Bowen slowly lowers his gun, staring at the building.

“Whoever it was is more scared of us than we are of him,” he says. “Let’s go.” He takes my hand and pulls me down the street at a slow jog. I stare at our clasped hands, at the human contact, wondering why it almost makes me want to cry.

Without warning, Bowen yanks me between two buildings and, hand in hand, we start to sprint. Our backpacks thump against our backs, and our feet pound the ground. Within seconds, my legs feel too weak, and a clammy sweat breaks out on my brow. My stomach turns, and I feel as if I haven’t eaten in a year.

We round a corner, and Bowen pulls me to a stop in front of a metal door. Light flashes overhead and