Stung. Part 19

"Needle, nurse. The sooner we sedate her, the sooner we can induce the coma." The doctor held out his latex-gloved hand, and a hefty syringe was placed into it. "I'm going to inject this directly into your spinal tissue, and then you'll go to sleep. It will only hurt for a minutea"a little pressure in your spinea"and then everything will go numb," he said to me.

I looked at the needle, twice as long as my index finger, and screamed. The doctor stepped up to me and put his icy, latex-gloved hand on my naked back, pressing it against my spine. Something p.r.i.c.ked my skin, like the sting of a bee, and then pressure built around my spine, hot and white, as if the needle were forcing its way between my vertebrae, wedging them apart. I screamed again and lurched, fighting against my restraints, making the needle dig against bone.

"No!" I shrieked. As if he could finally hear me, Jonah's eyes fluttered open and locked on mine, his ma.s.sive pupils instantly shrinking. "Help me, please," I whimpered to him. My legs were going numb, a warm tingling sensation spreading from my thighs to my knees to my feet. I couldn't feel the table beneath them, couldn't feel the metal's coldness seeping into my skin.

"Jonah," I cried. "Get me out of here."

His eyes, so wild, so foreign, seemed to clear for a moment as they focused on mine, as if there was a piece of him left inside. And then he grunted, long and low. A vein in his forehead popped to the surface. His face became red, his neck all sinew, and every single muscle in his body flexed. He trembled with effort, making the metal bed vibrate beneath him.

"Nurse, sedate him again," the doctor said. "Quickly!"

A hefty woman with graying hair and a syringe in her hand walked into my line of sight, intent on my brother. A pop echoed in the room, and the nurse stopped dead. The leather band around Jonah's shoulders fell to the floor, and the nurse took a step back. "Doctor, we have a problem," she said, backing away from Jonah until she crashed into my bed.

"Sedate him!" the doctor bellowed. "Now! I'm almost done with the girl!"

The leather holding Jonah's wrists popped, and then the straps tethering the small of his back and his ankles exploded simultaneously, until only the strap on his head remained whole. He tore it off, leaped from the table, and lunged for the doctor. They fell to the floor and Jonah lashed out at the doctor's face with his fingernails, smacking the doctor's head against the cold, hard floor.

I stared at Jonah's hands, gentle hands that built dinosaur models and did science experiments for fun; long, slender hands that played duets on the piano with me. Now, they were covered with blood.

The nurse screamed and huddled in a corner of the room.

Jonah leaped to his feet and tried to tear me off the metal table, his nails raking my back, my neck. I gasped at the pain, but then the tingly numb spread from my legs to my waist and oozed like warm honey along my spine, into my shoulders.

Red and blue lights started flashing overhead, and an alarm blared.

"Jonah. Run," I slurred. Even my mouth was turning numb, my tongue swelling with deadened warmth. My mouth sagged open, and drool trickled down my cheek. I forced my eyes to stay wide and watched Jonah ram the hospital door open with his shoulder.

And then he ran.

"You tried to save me," I whisper, staring into his feral eyes. At my words his eyes narrow and he grips the bars keeping us apart. The bars keeping me alive. His knuckles turn white, and the metal groans beneath his grasp, shifting a millimeter.

Oh c.r.a.p.

I look away, straight forward again, and don't touch my dinner. I'm starving, yet the thought of food makes bile rise in my throat. In an effort to calm myself, I start to hum under my breath, random notes that have no tune.

Across the room, Arrin stirs. She lifts her head, and her sharp nose wrinkles. And then, cracking her eyes open, she shoves her face into the pile of onions and meat. When her food is mostly gone, she notices me watching. She sits and grins a grimy, grease-covered grin, and drags her finger across her neck.

"I'm going to kill you," she mouths.

Oh yeah? Wait in line, I think, listening to the sounds of the beasts breathing into my cage on either side of me. I press my back harder against the wall of my cage, cradle my throbbing hand, and for the first time ever, can't think of a song to distract me from reality.

Chapter 32.

Somehow I sleep. I know because I lurch awake when my arms meld together and I topple sideways into a puddle of cold drool. Fingernails plunge into my cheek, and I'm yanked into the bars on the side of my cage.

The fingernails move, digging into my neck, cinching around my windpipe. My mouth opens, but no air enters my lungs. I stare across my cage at Jonah, my mouth gaping, struggling for air. He shrieks and throws his body into the bars separating us, straining to reach me.

I lurch against the claw-hold, but can't break free. Fire fills my air-starved lungs, and I wonder if this is how I'm going to die, before I ever see the pits.

"Taser! Cage eleven! Now! It's going to kill the Ten!" someone screams.

Electricity travels from the fingers gouging my flesh, into my blood, and heats the cuffs on my forearms. The fingers lose their power and fall away. The heat fizzles out of my body, but I'm too limp to move. I gasp and fill my burning lungs with air.

Somewhere, someone is screaming, "He's bending the bars! Taser thirteen!" Other voices call out orders and mingle with the scream. Cool hands find my neck and probe for a pulse.

"I'm not dead," I say, panting. My voice box hardly works.

Hands clasp my ankles and drag me out of the 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 handa"a sparkling, new-looking blade. The man holding the knife looks at me as I pa.s.s 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 pa.s.s rows and rows of cages. Those that are occupied hold muscular beasts or filthy, boney Fecs. No one else like mea"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 a womena"hairspray, lotion, perfume, powdera"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 mana"Lancea"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 bodya"both clothing and skina"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. "I'm norma""

Lance's hand slaps fire to my face. My head jolts to the side, my skin stings, and tears fill my eyes. "Don't cry," he orders, glaring at me. "Of course she's on the verge. She's a Ten!"

"Why are you doing this?" I ask, blinking the tears down my cheeks.

The guard folds his arms over his wide chest and steps in front of Lance. "This is wrong," he says.

"Shut up," Lance replies, glancing nervously at me. "You're getting paid a double ration of food for your family to keep your mouth shut, remember? And she's a Ten!"

"This is wrong," he says again. "And I can't let you pa.s.s."

Lance looks over the guard's shoulder and nods. The barrel of another guard's gun is slammed into the back of the guard's head, and he flops into a pile at my feet.

With a renewed urgency, Lance locks me into the chair and wheels me to the other side of the locker room and through a door. The three remaining guards follow. And now I know why this place is so familiar. I'm in the old recreation center. The swimming pool is through a gla.s.s door on my right. But the pool looks different. Rows of stadium bleachers are set up around it. And people, mostly men, are filing in, fighting over the front-row seats.

"Wow. Big crowd," Lance says, pushing my chair away from the pool.

"Who are you betting on?" a guard asks.

"The female," Lance says, as if it should be obvious.

"Her? The Ten?"

"No way I'd bet on her. She's going down first. I'm betting on the female Five."

I am wheeled into an elevator that smells like diesel exhaust and urine. The door slides shut with a rusty groan, the elevator hums, and we go down. When we come out, everything is dark, and the smell of chlorine stings my nose. The chair's metal restraints open, and I'm prodded forward. I stand. The chair is whisked away, and behind me a door slams. My cuffs spring apart and I can move again.

I am in the dark.

And I am alone.

Chapter 33.

The room is small and square, with a door at each end. A thin stream of light trickles around the frame of the door across from the one I came through, enough of a glow that I can barely see after my eyes have adjusted. The room holds nothing. It smells like urine and bleach and damp.

Overhead, the ceiling rumbles with the sound of pounding feet. Excited voices carry to my room, shouting and clapping and whistling. I plug my ears, lean against the wall, and start humming Maurice Ravel's "Pavane for a Dead Princess."

Time pa.s.ses, but I have no way to measure it. Cold from the cement wall bites through my wet shirt and seeps into my skin, making me shiver. My hollow stomach rumbles, and I need to use the bathroom. Judging by the smell, I could pee anywhere in this rooma"the whole thing is like a bathroom. But I don't. Because I am not a beast.

Overhead, the frenzy of feet grows louder, shakes the room around me. I push harder against my ears, hum louder, but nothing will drown out the sound.

I hear a deep, rumbling echoa"hear it way down in my chesta"and take my hands from my ears. The pounding feet and voices have grown quiet. Only one voice buzzes in my heada"the source of the rumbling.

"a a real treat. A twofer! A double match for the price of a single, two for one!" the voice booms. Noise explodes, cheering, and I cover my ears. After a minute the deep buzz of the broadcast voice is back. I drop my hands and listen.

"That's right. A double match, ladies and gents! We area"" The voice stops and the crowd goes silent. I wait a long moment, the only sound my own heart, before the commentator comes back on.

"We have a special visitor, folks. It looks like Governor Soneschen is going to be joining us for today's match! This is another firsta"a day of firsts! Let's clear out the front row for him and his personal guard!" The crowd cheers again, but not with as much enthusiasm. "Now, like I was saying before our ill.u.s.trious governor graced us with his presence, I'm going to start this twofer special with a matched fighta"Level Four versus Level Four. So make your bets, get your popcorn, find your seats, and enjooooy the show!" The crowd grows eerily silent without so much as a pair of feet walking overhead. I strain to hear what's going on, waiting.

Something happens. Something changes. The air around me shifts, a faint stirring that carries with it the scents of fresh popcorn and body odor. Through the cracks in my door frame, I hear guttural breathing. I creep to the door and press my eye to the crack. My knees grow weak and I cling to the wall, but I don't take my eye from the crack.

Two boy beasts, the baby fat barely gone from their cheeks, stand in a brightly lit pale-blue room. They are facing each other, circling, their muscular bodies tense. One leaps for the other, and a clap of noisea"cheeringa"vibrates my bones. The beasts throw their arms around each other, topple, and start rolling around on the floor. Scratching. Biting. Clawing. And people are cheering, like they're at a basketball game and their team just scored.

I shudder and move away from the door, swallowing down bile as I try to forget what I just saw. Yet, even over the thunderous cheering, sounds of the fight reach my earsa"wet, smacking sounds and grunting. I press my hands against my ears and hum Beethoven's Fifth as loud as I can. And all I can think is, Bowen, come and get me!

After I've hummed the entire song, the deep buzz of the voice echoes into my room. I cautiously take my damp hands from my ears, braced for the disturbing sounds of fighting.

"a in your seats! I know how eager you all are, but you need to wait to collect your winnings until after the second fight. Now, if you voted Beast One in this round, you a lose, lose, LOSE!" he yells. The crowd groans. "And now, we'll take a quick moment to clean up the pit before we get on to what you really came here for. So, use the bathroom, place more bets, or just hunker down in your seats and give us a moment to prepare the pit."

I mentally brace myself for something horrible and peer through the crack in the door again. Both beasts are in the bright room, one lying motionless on the floor, the other hunched over it and panting. Both are covered with streaks of blood.

My cuffs zing with a surge of electricity, and the sitting beast's arm and ankle cuffs snap together. He snarls and writhes, tipping over onto the floor. Two men come into view and approach the beast with their hands up, palms forward. The beast lunges to his feet, and I gag. His face is nothing but scratches with eyes peering out.

My cuffs fill with electricity again, and the beast topples to the floor, his body convulsing, his stringy hair standing straight up with electricity. When the electricity stops, his eyes are shut and he doesn't move. His unconscious body is lifted from the floor, placed into a wheelchair, and locked into place with metal bars identical to those that were on my wheelchair. His head lolls to the side as they push the chair out of the room.

The other beast, the one lying on the floor, is zipped into a black bag.

I have seen enough. Too much. So I lean against the wall and close my eyes. I have just witnessed my first pit fight. And now I understand. Unless Bowen shows up with his promised rescue, I am going to fight next. And I am going to die.

The door with the light seeping througha"my doora"swings open. I flinch and cover my eyes. The door behind me, the door I came in through, moves toward me. It presses against my back and I dig my shoes into the ground. I do not want to go into the pit! But it sweeps me, forces me out of my tiny room and into blinding light. I fall to my knees and stare at the floora"pale-blue cement smeared with streaks of brick red and brown.

The air explodes with cheering, and the commentator's booming voice echoes over the sound. "Isn't she a doozy? Our first Level Ten of the day! Of the year! Our first Level Ten a ever!" The crowd goes wild. "Don't be fooled by her submissive appearance, folks. She might be on her knees right now, but it is all an act. She's been living outside the wall. She's tough. She's a survivor. And she's a Ten. She's got the mark on her hand to prove it!"

I glance at my hand, at the oval with ten legs, and shudder. The cheering grows louder and I look up. I am in the bottom of the indoor swimming poola"the deep end where the diving boards and platforms used to be. Above me is a thick sheet of Plexiglas, a seal locking me in. Around the gla.s.s seal are stadium seats crammed with peoplea"sitting in laps, spilling over the edges, lining the walkways. And they are all staring at me and cheering.

In the front row sits a man dressed in a suit and tie, with a white-collared shirt. He is flanked on both sides by four short-haired men in black uniforms, with automatic weapons in their hands. I have seen this guarded man before. In a fire lit alley. The man who told the raiders to catch me and keep me, and kill me. His eyes are locked on mine. I stare into his narrowed eyes and slowly climb to my feet. He is the governor.

"Now that you've clapped eyes on this beastly sweetie, you might want to change your bets. Or increase them," the commentator says, the timbre of his voice niggling at my memory. I break eye contact with the governor and look around but can't see the commentator. The noise dies down as people scramble to give slips of paper to several men dressed in black, wearing black caps.

"And now. Brace yourselves! Men, cover your wives' eyes! The moment you've all been waiting for is here." Everyone leans forward in their seats. "It is time," the commentator continues in a quiet voice, "to introduce the other three before we open their doors. Door number one holds a Level Three male. Don't let his small size fool you, my friends. We've been trying to catch this wily Fec for years. He's the craftiest, fastest thing on two legs that has ever come from the tunnels. In fact, get this. He's the Fec that usually sells the other Fecs to the pits! What a cruel turn of fate for him." The commentator chuckles, and I recognize his voice. He is the man from the tunnels who always hid in the shadows. Shadow Man.

"Door number three," the commentator continues, "holds our second female. She's only a Five, but you know how female beasts area"they kill all other females so they can be queen bee. She's clawing at the door to get to our Ten as I speak!