Stung - By Bethany Wiggins Page 0,68
as he reaches for the dropped mask.
I manage to put my feet beneath me and help Bowen to his. He presses the mask to my face with a trembling hand. I gasp air into my straining lungs, hand the mask back to Bowen, and we continue forward. We pass eight more men writhing on the floor, some of them crying, others talking gibberish.
And then the elevator comes into view, a sleek metal door covered with grimy fingerprints, open just wide enough for a small person to squeeze through. I peer through the gap and my hope falters. A narrow ledge leads to a metal ladder. There’s no way I can carry Bowen down that. I look at Bowen. His eyes meet mine, and he takes the mask from my mouth, pressing it to his and sucking in a breath of air. But the sorrow in his eyes tells me he knows what I’m thinking.
“Tommy will get you to the tunnels,” he says through the mask.
He puts the mask back on me. “I’m not leaving you here,” I say.
He shrugs and takes the mask from my mouth again, putting it back on his. “I’m not going to live much longer. You have to go without me.” He takes one more deep breath, a final breath, and places the mask back on my mouth. Tears fill my eyes—tears of frustration. Hopelessness.
Chapter 29
A high-pitched wail fills the smoky air. “Militia’s here,” Bowen whispers, sagging against me as if he’s already given up. A dark shadow looms up out of the green fog beside me, and I almost drop Bowen. Tommy steps past me and shoves the elevator door twelve inches wider. With a satisfied nod, he turns to me and my hope bursts back into existence. He holds a coiled rope. I look between the rope and Bowen and smile, my cheeks pressing against the mask.
“Take a breath, then come climb on my back, man,” Tommy says through his mask, which is strapped around the back of his head. Bowen hesitates. “What? You thought I was going to leave you? You’re my best friend. I’m tying you on, but hurry up before the militia get inside.”
I take the mask from my mouth and press it to Bowen’s. He takes a deep breath and then hands it to me. I strap it on behind my head.
“You take my mask off when you need air,” Tommy says. “You think you can manage that?”
Bowen nods and steps behind Tommy. Tommy removes his backpack and drops it down the elevator shaft, and then hoists Bowen up, like a dad giving his kid a piggyback ride. He swings the rope behind Bowen, just under his armpits, and ties him into place. Next he loops the rope under Bowen’s butt, then around his waist, careful not to put it directly over Bowen’s wound.
“That gonna work?” he asks.
Bowen, face covered with a sheen of sweat, gives him a trembling thumbs-up and then takes the mask from Tommy’s mouth for a breath of air.
Tommy steps up to the shaft and climbs over the side, working his way around the minuscule ledge to the ladder. Without hesitating, he starts down.
I follow, easing myself onto the inch-wide ledge, and cling to the wall, hoping that my heavy pack won’t pull me backward. Millimeter by millimeter, I start my slow way toward the ladder, wondering how Tommy did it so fast. When I get to the ladder I grip it, panting into my oxygen mask. Slowly, I start working my way to the bottom.
Four rungs down, the sound of pounding feet and men’s voices drift to me. I peer up through the gaping elevator door, into the smoky corridor, and see men in black uniforms, wearing oxygen masks, run past. The Inner Guard. I freeze and hold my breath, trying to blend in with the wall. When their voices fade to silence, I start climbing down once more.
Even though Tommy is burdened with Bowen, he’s far enough below me that I can’t see him or hear him. After a while, my sweaty palms begin to slip on the rungs and the muscles in my arms start to burn. Down and down I go into darkness, the ladder rubbing blisters on my palms, yet the shaft never ends. Twice I pass hotel floors with no elevator doors but never see another living person. Minutes drag by and my palms are rubbed raw, yet still I can’t see the bottom in the fathomless shadows below.
By the