Stung - By Bethany Wiggins Page 0,77

cage, through the pile of cold uneaten food. Outside the cage, I’m lifted into a chair. Metal cinches down on my wrists, ankles, and neck, pinning me immobile into the chair. My pinky throbs. My neck aches. My hair is plastered to the side of my face with saliva and cold onion slop.

I am wheeled past two clean-cut men talking to Arrin. One has a knife in his hand—a sparkling, new-looking blade. The man holding the knife looks at me as I pass and then hands the knife through the bars of the cage to Arrin. I crane my neck to see more, but someone smacks me on the back of the head.

“Face forward,” the person pushing the chair orders. So I do.

We pass rows and rows of cages. Those that are occupied hold muscular beasts or filthy, boney Fecs. No one else like me—no one normal. We come to a door at the end of the cage hallway. A young man, probably about my age, types something into a keypad and the door opens. I am wheeled into a tan-and-green-tiled room occupied by four muscle-heavy guards.

I sit a little taller. Something about this place is familiar, with its rows of lockers and shower stalls, automatic hand dryers and sinks, and toilets in separate stalls. The air smells like … women—hairspray, lotion, perfume, powder—and bleach. Seeing the toilets reminds me how badly I need to go to the bathroom.

“Can I use the toilet?” My throat hurts too much to talk louder than a whisper.

There’s a collective inhale of breath. “She talks,” someone whispers.

“Are they sure she’ll fight back?” another voice asks.

“Of course she will. Two Tens in one match? That’s never happened before. If she doesn’t fight she’ll be killed,” the young man, the one pushing my wheelchair, says.

My chair stops, and the metal bars release my neck and ankles. The young man walks to the front of my chair, followed by the four guards. From a hook on the wall, the young man takes a scrub brush affixed to the end of a ten-foot pole and examines me with nervous eyes.

“Do you want me to cuff her ankles, Lance?” one of the guards asks.

“I don’t think she needs them,” the young man—Lance—answers.

The guard ignores him and steps up to me, ankle cuffs in hand. “Better safe than dead,” he says, kneeling in front of me. “Don’t kick me or I’ll zap you,” he warns. He lifts my pants and slides the cuffs into place. They clink together and I’m immobile.

“Stand her up and hook her,” Lance orders.

The metal slides off my neck and wrists, and retracts into the wheelchair. I am hoisted from the chair by two of the guards, their hands clamped on my elbows. They carry me, my feet dragging on the floor, to a shower stall, and hook my wrist cuffs onto a meat hook attached to a chain hanging down from the ceiling. The ankle cuffs are attached to another meat hook that’s chained on the floor. I’m stretched tight between them, immobile. All I can do is turn my head from side to side and blink. My pinky finger pounds with building pressure, and my shoulders feel on the verge of dislocating.

Water turns on and falls onto me from above. Lance grips the ten-foot-long scrub brush, squirts something onto it, and swings it toward my head. He starts with my face, dragging the stiff bristles against my skin. Soap gets into my eyes, burning them, so I squeeze them shut. After a minute, Lance moves the scrubber to my hair and scrubs so hard I might go bald. When he’s satisfied with the cleanliness of my hair, he moves the brush over every inch of my body—both clothing and skin—rubbing me raw with his fervor.

“What are you doing?” I splutter, and swallow a mouthful of soap.

The scrub brush pauses and Lance looks at me. “Getting you ready to fight. We’ve discovered that people feel more sympathy for the fighters if they’re clean. And if they feel more sympathy, they make higher bets.”

The water stops and I’m released from the chains and, sopping wet, sat back in the chair. The metal bars lock me in.

“Please don’t put me in the pits,” I say, my eyes darting between Lance and the four burly guards. The guards look at each other, then at Lance.

“Are you sure she’s on the verge of turning?” one asks, his eyes worried.

“No, I’m not!” I blurt, staring at him with pleading eyes.