Stung - By Bethany Wiggins Page 0,6
has their top scientists and biologists working on a solution.”
“Hello! Can you pay me back now or what?”
I shake the memory from my head. “No. I don’t have anything to give to you.”
“Whatever. You can pay me back with a favor. And when you complete it, then I’ll give you all the water you can drink,” it says.
“No. I need water now.”
The child sighs and mutters under its breath. The sound of water swishes, and my dry throat clamps tight with desire. A narrow container is pushed against my hands. I grab it, open the lid, and chug it down, but before my thirst is slaked the water is gone, leaving sand in my teeth and the taste of copper on my tongue.
The empty bottle is yanked from my hand. “I just saved your life twice now, idiot. You owe me double.” Fingers find my elbow and, clutching it a little too hard, guide me forward again.
My feet squelch against the floor, and my mouth is deliciously damp. I sigh, content. “I’ll repay you double,” I say, willing to do anything for more water. Not a smart thing to do when you haven’t been told the price.
When we finally stop walking, fatigue drags at my body. A scritch disturbs the silence, and a match sparks to life. I squint against the tiny flame and look around. I stand at the end of a tunnel surrounded on three sides by concrete. Above, pipes slowly drip water into waiting, dented pots. And above them, darkness.
The child lights a candle and grabs my right hand, big, hungry eyes examining the back of it. “So much for paying me back double,” it grumbles, shoving my hand away.
The child, slight and bony, wears baggy clothes a grimy shade of gray, the same color as its sickly skin. Its dark hair is short everywhere but in the front, where long greasy bangs cover most of its face, except for a pointy nose sticking out. I lean toward the child, trying to peer beneath the thick hank of hair. It sounds like a girl, is small like a girl, but there’s something masculine in the way she—he?—stands.
“Are you a boy or a girl?” I ask.
The child whips the bangs out of its face and grins at me with stained teeth. “Does it matter?”
I stare at the child’s dark, shifty eyes. “I guess not.”
The child gnaws on its thumbnail and studies me for a moment, eyes calculating. “I’m a girl. But when things get ugly, looking like a boy is more protection than a hidden knife.” The way she says it, she sounds way more grown-up than she looks. “Rest. You’ll need it. You’re paying me back tomorrow. Double.”
A pile of blankets are heaped in a corner where the cement walls meet. I walk toward them, but the girl steps in front of me and puts her hand against my shoulder. “Sorry, Flower. That’s where I sleep.”
“My name’s not Flower. It’s … Fo.”
“Arrin. Nice to meet you.” Arrin takes a blanket from the pile and chucks it at my feet. “And just so you know, Fo, if you try and ditch me while I sleep, the others will kiiiiiill you,” she says.
I peer over my shoulder, toward the dark tunnel. “Others?”
“Yeah. The others. You know, the people who’ve banded together and hide down here in order to survive. They kill wanderers before they ask questions. So don’t wander off if you ever want to see the sun again.” Arrin collapses onto the pile of blankets and blows out the candle. My eyes open wide and I swing my hand in front of them. I see nothing.
Reaching down, I spread the blanket on the cement floor and ease onto it. And gag. The blanket smells like vomit, moldy cheese, and urine. My stomach turns, and I scramble to my feet. Wadding up the blanket, I toss it away. Cold, hard cement over the smell of that? Any day.
I lie on my side with my arm under my head, but I don’t sleep. Not yet. Not with my body screaming for the water dripping into a pot not three feet away. When Arrin’s breathing grows deep and methodical, I roll onto my hands and knees and stick my face into the pan. Water drips onto the back of my head as I drink, but that doesn’t slow me down. I drink until my belly wants to pop. And then, finally satisfied, I lie on my back.
Arrin mumbles in her sleep,