Stung - By Bethany Wiggins Page 0,86
clasps Bowen’s hand, ready to hoist him up. But Bowen yanks. The man topples over the side of the pool and lands on his back at Bowen’s feet. He blinks, stunned, and the crowd—those who have braved the grenade to see what is going to happen next—gasps.
Bowen balls his fist and hits the man in the face. The commentator’s eyes roll back in his fleshy head, and his pudgy cheeks sag.
Placing his fingers on the commentator’s ample cheeks, Bowen pries open the man’s mouth and sticks his finger inside, removing a tooth-sized metal chip. He sticks it into his own mouth and glares up at the remaining people.
“Listen to me.” Bowen’s voice drones impossibly loud, vibrating my bones, just like the commentator’s. “My name is Dreyden Bowen. This is Fiona Tarsis.” He points at me without looking. “She’s a Level Ten. And she’s not a beast! She’s been cured!” The crowd goes utterly still, staring down at Bowen with wide eyes. “Now take a good look at the boy beside her. That’s Jonah Tarsis. Her brother! You all came here today to watch our only hope for survival, our first real hope for the future, be torn apart by her own brother! You disgust me!”
The crowd inches toward the pool, all eyes on Jonah and me. The low drone of whispers fills the room. Women blink back tears, hang their heads in shame, and leave. Some of the men shout apologies. Others shake their heads and follow the women out.
Bowen crouches beside me. “The militia should be here any minute, and doctors are on their way,” he says. He frowns and breaks eye contact, studies his hands. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know how else to save you.” He looks as if he’s about to be sick.
“What do you mean?” I whisper. The thought of medical help is a comfort to my throbbing body.
Without looking at me he says, “When they took you in the tunnels, I knew you were going to go to the pits. Tommy and I got back to south gate as fast as we could, but when we told them you were cured and needed to be rescued, they didn’t believe us—locked Tommy and me up as traitors. But when Micklemoore came back to the camp—he had been out searching for you—and found out that I had info about your location, he set us free and had us contact the lab with your whereabouts. Then Mickelmoore convinced the director of the lab to issue an order to open the gates for reinforcements, so the militia could help rescue you. So Tommy led the militia through the gate, and I came here through the tunnels.” Finally, he meets my eyes. “Fo. The only way I could get them to agree to help was by telling the lab your location. I couldn’t let you die in the pits. At least in the lab, you won’t feel anything when you die. They’re coming to take you.” His cheeks are pale and sunken, and blue shadows darken the skin under his eyes. A definite improvement from the last time I saw him, but still far from the glowing picture of health he used to be.
I reach a trembling hand to his face and trail my fingers over his bristly cheek. “How are you?” I ask. Hope that he will live a long, prosperous life burns in my chest. I don’t care if I have to go to the lab, as long as he survives.
He leans into my hand, and a hint of a smile touches his blue-tinged lips. “I tell you you’re going to the lab and you want to know how I am?” He tilts his head and kisses me so softly and so gently I could lean into his lips and fall asleep forever, but he pulls away and looks into my eyes. “I’m glad you’re alive.”
A door on the side of the pool opens. Bowen stands and grabs his gun, aiming it at a lone man wearing a long white jacket. The man puts up his hands and steps into the pool.
“Looks like the lab has arrived,” Bowen mutters, lowering his gun. His lips harden into a thin, straight line.
I look at the man in the white coat and my eyes narrow. He steps over Arris’s lifeless body and walks toward me. Dark brows frame pale blue eyes. My heart starts pounding and a memory floods my vision.
Chapter 36
Warm hands were on my icy skin, the first