Stung - By Bethany Wiggins Page 0,37

think you brought enough food and water for four days.”

His eyebrows rise. “Don’t worry about it, Fo. I’ve got everything under control.” He leans his head against the wall again and closes his eyes.

“Bowen,” I say again.

“What?” he replies, sounding annoyed.

“Why did you do it?”

He opens his eyes. “Do what?”

“Leave the camp. With me.”

“To keep you safe.”

“I know, but you risked a lot. I might turn. I might kill you,” I say, yet even as I speak the words, I know I could never hurt him.

“You’re right. You might turn. And you might have been safe at the camp. But what if you don’t turn? What if you are the only person in the world who carries the mark who doesn’t go insane? But because of your mark, someone sells you to the black market and you die?” He looks at me for a long time before adding, “I want you to live to have a chance to make it to the lab. I mean, I know you—have known you my whole life, even if we were never really friends. I think you deserve a chance.” He shifts against the wall, sinking into the cement as if it were a pillow. “I need to sleep,” he says, shutting his eyes.

I lie down on my side, and the sleeping bag rustles. Bowen’s bleary eyes pop open. They’re filled with alarm. “I almost forgot,” he says. He unzips his backpack and reaches in. I groan when his hand comes out.

I shake my head. “No. Please,” I say.

Bowen’s jaw hardens. “Fo, the only way I’m ever going to be able to relax with you around is if you’re cuffed. I’ll just do your ankles.”

“I’m not a beast,” I whisper.

“If I’m going to protect you sufficiently for four days, I need to sleep. If I don’t have peace of mind, I won’t be able to sleep. And then we’ll both end up dead, because I won’t be able to do my job. I promise to release your legs when I wake up.”

“And if I refuse? Put up a fight?”

He looks at his gun and then back at me, and his eyes turn cold. “I could always kill you.”

I glare at him, and then roll onto my back and glower at the ceiling. Bowen points the remote at me, electricity hums, and the cuffs clink together.

He leans against the wall again, one hand resting on the gun in his lap, the other holding the remote, and is asleep in seconds. I put my hands behind my head and stare at the cobweb-covered ducts attached to the ceiling. My eyelids grow heavy, and I let them fall.

Rain patters outside, and the occasional thunder rumbles, making a fog of sleep settle around my weary, aching body. And then I hear something different. My eyes fly open, and I roll onto my side, wondering if I was dreaming. Every fiber in my body is tensed, right down to my eardrums. Waiting. I hear it again—the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard—and I know it was no dream.

The door shakes. The lock rattles against the metal, and dust floats from it. I look at Bowen to see if he heard it, but he’s snoring, head sunk to one side. I look back to the door and wait, but nothing happens.

Eventually, weariness overrides fear and I drift off to sleep.

Chapter 17

The alarm is ringing. My clock radio must have fallen to the floor, because the ringing is muffled. I open my eyes and stare at a rectangle of sunlight on a cement floor. No alarm. No carpet. Just cement with a patch of sunlight. And I can’t move my legs.

“What the …,” someone whispers. I roll onto my side. My shirt clings to my sweaty back. Bowen wipes sleep from his eyes and blinks. He clicks the remote at me and my legs are loose. “Come on.” He grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet, hurrying upstairs.

Late-day sunlight glints off water pooled on the floor at the base of the broken windows. A repeating gong, like a church bell, echoes in the humid air. Bowen strides up to a west window and sunlight drenches him, casting a long shadow at his feet.

“You gotta be kidding me,” he mutters.

“What is it?” I ask, standing behind him.

“They’ve opened the gate! For the first time in ever, they opened the gate on a Wednesday! And we’re here and not there.” He turns accusing eyes onto me. “I could have taken you