Stung. Part 7

"I'll tell you while we pollinate," he says. He slings one strap of the black backpack over his shoulder. Next, he gets a rifle and slings it over the other shoulder, making an X across his chest with the straps. He eases out of the tent, and I follow.

We walk past the campa"everyone stares at mea"and then go to the base of the wall. And I see the first living plant I have seen since I saw Jacqui's mom painting corn. Many plants, actually, in an a.s.sortment of mismatched potsa"terracotta, plastic, clay, a few even grow in dirt piled in the interior of old car tires, or in paint cans.

I step up to a plant and trail my fingers over the pulpy green leaves. Tears sting my eyes and my throat constricts. "It's beautiful," I whisper. "What kind of plant is it?"

"A tomato," Bowen says, looking at me like I'm nuts. "Are you crying?"

I sniffle and shrug. "It reminds me of a the world I used to know." The world I belong to, where I am thirteen and Jonah is normal and plants grow. And I have never seen a pair of electromagnetic cuffs, not to mention been forced to wear them.

"Here." Bowen holds out a fine-bristled paintbrush, and I take it. "We need to pollinate them or they won't produce any fruit."

Like Jacqui's mom painting the corn.

"What you do is stick the paintbrush into the little yellow flowers, like this." Instead of watching his little demonstration, I stare at his profile, wondering if he misses the old world as much as I do, wondering if he misses his family. "And then move to another flower. Until we've done it to all of the flowers. Got it?" He looks up and I nod.

I stick the fine bristles of my paintbrush into the flower. Tiny, pale grains of dust cling to ita"pollen. I move to the next flower and do the same, brushing the dust from the first flower into the second, while taking dust from the second to place in the third.

"You asked me what it means to turn," Bowen says, his voice warm and deep and grown-up. I pause and watch him move his paintbrush from flower to flower, his strong, callused hands gentle and precise. "Your tattoo. Do you remember getting it?"

I look at my hand and can remember the needle darting in and out of my skin faster than I could see. I remember the sound, a grinding buzza"like getting a tooth drilled. I remember crying. "A little," I say.

"Well, that tattoo was given to the kids who were lucky enough to get the bee flu vaccine," he says, looking at me. "Only problem was, they didn't know about the vaccine's long-term effect. So everyone who got it, even one dose, is infected. If they haven't turned into a beast, like the Fec you came here with, they will before long. But the Fec was a Level Three. You are a Ten."

I stare at the tattoo. "So what does Level Ten mean?"

"It means you were one of the special kids, one of the very first to get the vaccine. Our nation's hope for the future." He says this last part with bitter sarcasm. "Probably because of your father's military connections and your musical talent, you qualified for the earliest possible dose. And because of that, you got ten months of the vaccine. The highest dose given." Bowen points to my tattoo. "Each of those marks," he says, motioning to the legs coming out of the circle, "represents a dose of vaccine. Ten months was the longest anyone took it. Because after ten months, every kid who'd been lucky enough to qualify for the shots started showing signs of insanity."

My brother's animal-crazed face flashes into my mind. "What do you mean, insanity?" I whisper.

He takes a small step away from me, hand on the remote, eyes wary. "You know the thing that attacked you last night?"

I nod. My body still hurts.

"That was a Level Eight. Totally insane."

Anger flares in my chest. My brother can't be insane. "He didn't look insane to me. He looked like a wild animal," I snap.

"Yeah. Insane wild animals that ma.s.sacred their own families and neighbors and friends. And then ate them if they couldn't find anything else to eat!" Bowen glares at me, and his jaw muscles pulse.

I think of my brother trying to catch me as I slid through the bathroom window. Did he catch the rest of my family? My stomach starts to hurt, and I can hardly hold the paintbrush in my trembling fingers. "Dreydena""

"Don't call me that," he growls, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one's around.

I look at my feet. "Sorry. Bowen. What happened to my family?" Did my brother eat them or kill them? That is what I'm really asking. I stare at the scuffed toes of his brown army boots. When he doesn't answer, I look at him.

He studies me for a long minute, searching my face with his wary, uncertain eyesa"eyes that know more than a seventeen-year-old's should. "Lissa lives inside the wall. I saw her a couple of years ago. She looked good. Your mom a"

I hold my breath, my entire body tingling with hope. "Is she alive?"

He frowns and looks away. "I saw her once inside the wall. At least I think it was her. She was old, right? She had you and your brother when she was, what, forty?"

She couldn't get pregnant after she had Lis. After trying to have a baby for seven years, Jonah and I were her in vitro miracles. "She was thirty-nine."

"She'd be over the government-enforced age limit. Most likely she'sa"" His mouth snaps shut, and he begins furiously painting flowers.

"Can you take me to her? On Sunday?" My voice is desperate. I know that if I find her, she'll be able to fix everything. I ache for my mother.

He shakes his head, glaring at the paintbrush in his fingers. "No. She's gone by now. The Sunday after she turned fifty-five, theya"can we not talk about this?" he snaps, scowling at me.

I shake my head. "I need to know. What happened to my mom?" I whisper, sick with dread. Already I can tell what he knows isn't good.

"Are you sure you want to know?" he asks.

I nod.

"Life inside the wall has rules." His mouth puckers, as if the word rules leaves a bad taste on his tongue. "No one with physical disabilities is allowed inside the wall. No one's allowed inside who suffers from any type of mental illnessa"even depression. If you are an unmarried male age fifteen or older, you are a.s.signed to work in the militia unless you have an invaluable skill, like farming, engineering, or medical expertise. The inner-wall age limit is fifty-five. After that people are too old to be much worth, so they a" He sweeps his hand through his hair, moving it from his forehead. "After that they're either kicked out or a" Bowen mumbles something so fast I can't understand him.

"Kicked out or what?"

The color drains from his tan cheeks and he whispers, "Offered medically a.s.sisted suicide. Put to sleep. Terminated. They say it's painless."

Heavy numbness settles over me. My mother is dead. That's why he didn't want to tell me. "And my father? Would they let him inside the wall even though he was disabled?"

Bowen tilts his head to the side and frowns. "Your father? I thought that a" He clears his throat. "No wheelchairs inside."

I turn to the plants and quietly pollinate, letting the reality settle in, letting silent tears wash over my face. My mom and dad are dead.

A long time pa.s.ses, maybe hours. Bowen and I have pollinated nearly all the plants, and my tears have finally stopped falling. "What is the lab?" I ask, sticking my paintbrush into a flower.

"The lab is the place where they test different strains of antivenin in search of the cure. On, you know, the beasts. Sort of like animal testing."

My eyes grow round, and I look up from the tomato plant. "Wait a sec, I'm going to a lab to be their human guinea pig?"

"They test insane, beastly humans, Fo. Not regular people."

"But I am a regular person. I'm not a beast!" I say, panicked.

He studies the paintbrush in his hands as if it's the first time he's seen it. "You're a Ten. You could turn any second. Break my arms from my body. Shatter my skull with your bare hands."

"Tear your beating heart from your chest and eat it?" I say.

"Yeah. That, too. Charlie, my old friend, was torn in two by a beast."

I take a step toward him. He darts backward and holds the remote toward me, his eyes scared.

"I'm not like that, Bowen." My voice trembles.

"Well, you've got to cut me a little slack, here," he mutters, slowly lowering the remote. "Guardians don't live all that long."

"Guardians?"

"A guardian is the person in charge of taking the beasts to the lab. That's me. I'm the guardian at the south gate of the wall." He points to the lines shaved into the side of his heada"four of them. "Four lines mean I rank higher than anyone in that camp except Micklemoore. And it's because I'm a guardian."

"Are you my guardian? Or the militia's?"

"The militia's. I'm guarding them from you," he says as if I'm stupid for asking. As if it's obvious. But the way I see it, I need protection from them.

"How long have you been the south gate guardian?"

His mouth thins. "I've been guardian since Sunday."

"Only three days?"

"Two and a half days. It's Tuesday."

"So, why did you become a guardian on Sunday?"

He tilts his head to the side and frowns. "They shut the gate at eight p.m. like usual. And then, first time in the two and a half years since I've been posted at the wall, they rang the bell and opened the gate after eight p.m. Had a piece of paper signed by the chief medical officer dated that day, stating Dreyden Bowen was to become the new south gate guardian. I wasn't aware the CMO even knew my name. But get this. They appointed a new north gate guardian at the same time. Richard Kimball. Remember him? He was in a grade above us and lived a block away."

A boy's face flickers in my memory: blond hair, pale-blue eyes, and freckled skin. He tried to kiss me when I was in first grade and he was in second. "I remember him. So, what happened to the old guardians?"

Bowen shrugs. "I can't say for the guy at the north gate, but ours was thrilled. Not only is he relieved of the worst job in the world, but he gets to live inside the wall. He was a guardian for only four days."

"And the guardian before him?"

"Got his beating heart torn out of his chest. He lasted eighteen days."

"Seriously?" I say.

He glowers at me. "Do you think I'd joke about something like this?"

I shake my head. "Then why don't you resign? Or do a different job?"

"Because I am stuck in this job until I die. Or qualify to live within the wall."

I start dusting pollen again. Bowen does the same, careful to always stay two steps behind me, always have me within view, and always have the remote in his free hand.

After we've dusted four more plants, I turn to him. "Why don't you just run away?"

He looks over his shoulder, at the dead expanse of the world and abandoned buildings. "I have a better chance of surviving as a guardian than out there. And besides, I want to live inside the wall one day, even if they do terminate their population at fifty-five. From where I'm standing right now, living to fifty-five sounds ancient."

Pollen forgotten, I ask, "Then what are you waiting for? Go live inside the wall!"

He laughs, a dry, humorless laugh. "First of all, the gate is locked. You can't open it from the outsidea"a safety precaution. And then there's the fact that I'm not allowed to live there. Not until I either make enough money to buy my way in; get an education that makes me potentially useful; or meet some nice girl, get married, and start helping the effort to repopulate thea""

A siren wails. Before I can blink, Bowen jumps in front of me, rifle on his shoulder and aimed toward camp.

Chapter 14.

"Stay behind me," he orders. We run toward camp, a good half mile away, but when it comes into view, I stop, my feet frozen to the ground. If Bowen wants me to follow him a single step farther, he'll have to hit me upside the head again and carry me.

Bowen doesn't notice I've frozen in place, or he doesn't care. He throws himself into the middle of a swarm of brown-clad militia interrupted by patches of bare skin.

I crouch as low to the ground as I can get, an una.s.suming human rock, and stare.

Young, exceptionally healthy-looking men are tearing at the militia, flinging them, biting them, snapping their bones, splattering blood. They're like Jonah, these freakishly strong young mena"beasts. A gun goes off, and one beast staggers, looks down at its muscular chest, at the gaping bullet wound in it, and then jumps toward the man who shot him. The man shoots again, and the beast jerks to a stop, falling lifeless to the ground.

There are four other beasts. Three are men, dressed in tattered rags, but the fourth is female, wearing torn pants and a thin tank top that hangs to her thighs and barely covers her small b.r.e.a.s.t.s and bulging muscles.

The female beast turns her face to the sky, and her eyes slip shut. Her nose wrinkles and her chest expands as she takes a deep breath. And then her eyes pop open and slowly travel to mine. Her lips pull away from her teeth, and above the din of the fighting I can hear the deep, guttural rumble that comes from her throat.

The three male beasts freeze, look at the female, and follow the line of her glare. And then all four are staring at me. As one, they face me, crouch, and balance on the b.a.l.l.s of their feet. The militia surrounding them pause, their faces baffled.

The beasts lunge forward and sprint, flinging bodies out of the way to reach their target. I am their target. A target with fettered arms and nowhere to flee. But it doesn't matter. They move like the wind and whirl around me before I have time to stand. Finally, as if it is a sound I have been waiting my entire life to hear, guns go off, a sudden, deafening explosion of a hundred discharged bullets that topples three bodies to the ground beside me.

The fourth beast, the female, is already on top of me, crouched on my chest, flattening me to the ground, fingers forcing my chin up. She opens her mouth and lunges for my exposed neck. Electricity hums in my electromagnetic cuffs. My forearms grow hot and my body convulses, my jaw rattling with the force of it. The thing on top of me absorbs half of the current boiling through my flesh, leeching the heat away so it's almost bearable. Her back arches and the grip on my throat loosens. She is yanked from me and the electricity stops. I stare at the blue sky, my body numb.

The cuffs on my wrists separate and release, and my burning arms fall limp to my sides. Bowen is beside me, face freckled with crimson, straddling the female beast, my cuffs in his hands. The female writhes beneath him, and he slams a cuff into her face, making blood splatter from her nose. She growls and lunges at him, her b.l.o.o.d.y teeth barely missing his chin.

"I could use a little backup here!" he roars, smashing a cuff into her face again. Three more men throw themselves onto the beast, and Bowen secures the cuffs on her arms. They lock into place, and he jumps off the writhing creature. Crouching by my legs, he removes my ankle cuffs, but before he has a chance to put them onto the beast, she throws the three men from her and is back on her feet.

She launches herself at me, mouth open, cuffed and fused hands reaching toward me. I lift my gloriously free arms and, using her momentum, push the female over the top of me.

A lone gun goes off and the beast hits the ground, skidding to a stop in the dirt. She does not move, does not blink her eyes. A pool of red forms beneath her and soaks into the dusty earth.

I look up in time to see Bowen lower his rifle.

"That," he says, his voice trembling, "was a Level Ten."

Chapter 15.

I am shut away in a tent, one of the few that wasn't ruined in the skirmish earlier that day. My forearms are covered with burn blisters, and the hair is singed completely off. But I am not restrained in any way for the first time since I entered the camp. And the armed guards are throwing a fit. Every time I so much as breathe too loudly, they panic.