Stung - By Bethany Wiggins Page 0,84
And it hits me. They all want me to die. Me! Who cowers at the side of the pool instead of inflicting pain and death. Not the violent female beast who is obviously insane. Me. The piano prodigy, daughter of a retired war veteran, gentle me.
Because I have the oval with ten marks on my hand.
I ask myself, as I stare up into those faces, Do I want to live? If I survive the pit, will I be forced to live in this world I see above me? From where I lie, it appears to be a world worth dying to avoid. And so I don’t care if I live or die.
Then a pair of brown boots steps onto the glass and stops directly above me. Someone dressed in militia brown falls to his knees, palms on the glass seal, looking down. His fist thumps the glass, and his mouth starts moving with a silent onslaught of angry words. And all of a sudden I remember something. I do want to live. Because if I am with the person kneeling on the glass above, I am home.
Bowen leans his forehead on the glass and looks right into my eyes. He opens his mouth and yells again. I cannot hear him, but I can see what he says, each movement of his lips forming meaning.
Fight! Don’t give up! No matter what!
Hands grip his arms and jerk him to his feet. He starts fighting, kicking, flailing as two men dressed in black drag him off the glass and aim weapons at his chest.
“Uh, folks, it seems we have a problem,” the commentator cries. He is standing at the side of the pool, hand rubbing his round belly, eyeing Bowen nervously. “The militia just opened the south gate and are on their way here. They’re insisting we stop the fight, so if you just remain in your seats …” The crowd groans.
The governor is on his feet and at the commentator’s side in a flash, whispering into his ear.
“Wait, folks, wait! The governor has given his special approval to continue the fight!” the commentator says, voice uneasy. Bowen, despite the guns pointed at his chest, starts fighting again. It is time for me to do the same.
Taking a deep breath, I roll onto my side, ready to stand, ready to be done with the pits. The female, her ankle still held fast by Jonah, growls at me. On unsteady legs I walk up to her, bend my arm, and swing my elbow into her face. She falls to the side and in the same movement, rams her foot into Jonah’s stomach, sending him flying to the other side of the pool. I jump onto her, ready to continue the fight, but she’s fast—her hands whip up to my neck faster than my eyes can follow, and rough and hot, they clamp down. My body is flipped over and the beast is atop me, the pool grinding into my back.
Above me, Bowen becomes frantic, tearing away from the black-clad guards. He climbs onto the pool seal again, screaming words I don’t hear. Pulling a handgun from his belt, he fires at the glass, but the seal holds fast.
I look away from him and stare at the female beast’s face. Her chipped teeth are bared, a slight smile on her foam-flecked mouth. I claw at her hands, kick at her legs, but her hold tightens, as if my attempt to fight back lends her strength. My lungs start to burn, want to collapse, beg me to inhale. And I can’t.
I look up at Bowen again, desperate, wondering if all the time we spent trying to stay alive, all the running and the hiding … was it all for nothing if it ends with my death? He quit the militia for nothing. He got shot for nothing. He fell in love with me for nothing.
His eyes meet mine and he takes something from his belt—a black grenade. He pulls the pin, sets it on top of the glass, and walks calmly to the side of the crowded arena.
“Folks! Folks! Look at this! Look at the male Ten!” the commentator shrieks, oblivious to the grenade. I turn my eyes to the side and meet Jonah’s. His face is swollen and bleeding, his body smeared with blood, but he’s standing on his cuffed feet. “By brute strength he’s pulled his wrist cuffs apart, in spite of his shattered elbow! That’s over five hundred pounds of force! Just think