Stung (17 page)

“So, you’re saying, in the midst of this monumental flu epidemic, we finally have something to celebrate?” another masked reporter asked
.

The man in the suit tugged at the collar of his white shirt, swallowed, and looked down. Slowly, he placed his hands, palms down, on the podium. “No,” he said, unable to meet the camera with his eyes. “We modified the bees. But the GenMod bees … they killed the other bees. All of them.”

Another reporter chimed in, “Well, that’s okay, right? As long as they reprod—”

“They’re the cause of the flu,” the man blurted
.

“What?” Lis said, dropping my hand. “How can bees be causing the flu?”

The reporters burst into a flood of questions, raising their hands, trying to be heard over each other
.

The man in the gray suit coughed into his balled fist before saying, “We genetically modified the bees’ sting to be more powerful, more deadly to its predators. Unfortunately, we discovered that when a human being is stung, the bee’s venom causes flu-like symptoms, followed by aggressive behavior and then death. The bee flu is highly contagious, spreading through bodily fluids—something as simple as a cough makes the germs airborne.”

Jonah’s face drained of color. “The bees? That’s why so many people have died? Because of your stupid bees?” he yelled at the television. Lis grabbed my hand once more, holding it tight
.

The man, his face turning a sickly shade of green, tugged on the collar of his shirt again and pointed to a reporter who stood frantically waving his hand. The reporter tore the surgical mask from his mouth. “So kill them! Exterminate them!” he cried, his voice rising to near panic
.

“We tried,” the man muttered, eyes full of misery, shoulders slumped
.

“And?”

He looked right into the camera again. Right into the eyes of America. “We modified them to withstand all known pesticides. We have come up with a new pesticide that kills them, but it is worse than the bee flu—a last resort. We’re not sure if anything will survive its effects.”

“They’re going to kill the whole country,” Dad whispered, knuckles white from his grip on his wheelchair wheels
.

“Use the pesticide!” a reporter yelled. More join in, chanting, “Pest-i-cide! Pest-i-cide!”

“Wait!” The man at the podium raised his hands over his head. “There’s hope. We’ve manufactured a vaccine, a sort of antivenin derived from the bees. There’s only a limited supply, so …”

“Fo?” Bowen is in front of me, his hand shaking my arm. “Are you all right?”

I blink away the memory and look at him. “The bees?” I whisper.

“Bees? What about them?”

“Are they dead?”

Bowen nods. “Yeah. They used some newly invented heavy-duty pesticide after they realized the vaccine was worse than the flu. Only problem was, it killed everything—bugs, birds, cattle, small animals, trees, grass, crops, even some people. That’s why everything is dead.”

My brain starts to freak out and I begin to tremble. My eyes search for a distraction, anything to take my mind off the bees, and lock on the piano. “I played the piano,” I whisper,
staring at the grand piano, swaying with the remembered pulse of music.

“I know,” Bowen says, his voice drawing my gaze to his face. His eyes grow far away, clouded over with memory. “I could hear you from my bedroom if I opened the window. That’s why I was always sick in the winter. My window was always open. And on summer nights when my dad was home yelling at my mom, I’d get my sleeping bag and pillow and put them on top of his semi, so I could fall asleep to your music. Remember in third grade? You hit me in the face with your backpack when we were walking home from school?”

A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. “Yeah. I remember you called me Fotard and said playing the piano was stupid. So I stomped on your foot and then hit you.”

He smiles. “Your mom made you write an apology letter to me, but you were too scared to deliver it, so you had Jonah bring it to my house. It said something like, ‘I’m sorry I hit you, but if you don’t stop teasing me about piano, I’ll hit you again.’ Did you know that when Jonah delivered the note he told me if I ever talked to you again, he and his friends would beat the crap out of me?”

My mouth falls open in surprise. “My brother stood up for me? Is that why you never talked to me again? Because of Jonah?”

He shrugs. “That and you were always walking around with your nose in the air, always acting better than everyone else.”

“I was not!” I snap, indignant.

He takes a step closer to me, so that there are only a couple of inches of air separating us. “The only reason I teased you in the first place …” He pauses, brushes my bangs out of my eyes,
and I am painfully aware of the lack of space between us. “I teased you because I didn’t know how else to talk to you.”

“Oh,” I whisper, at a loss for words.

He grins and puts a finger to his lips, nods toward a door at the far end of the lobby.

We pass the piano, and I reach toward the dusty keys.

Bowen’s hand clamps around my wrist. “No. We don’t know if this place is safe. Come on.” He slides his fingers from my wrist to my hand and loops them in mine.

With my hand in his, held safe, it seems like everything will be okay. I tighten my fingers in his, and we cross the silent lobby to a stairwell filled with sunlit windows and littered with dead mice and bugs, which crunch beneath my shoes. We go up and up and up, my legs growing weaker and weaker with each step. When we get to level fifteen, Bowen pauses, letting go of my hand. There’s a little window on the door leading to floor fifteen. Bowen peers through it and puts his hand on the doorknob.

“Don’t make a sound,” he whispers, and turns the knob, slipping through to the fifteenth floor. I follow and we creep down the dim hallway, past door after door—all closed—until we come to one that is barely cracked open, number 1513. Bowen presses his ear to the metal and closes his eyes. I count to thirty before his eyes open. He shakes his head and goes to the next door, 1515, also open a crack, and presses his ear to it. I wait again, adrenaline pumping, and after a solid sixty seconds, he pushes the door. It swings silently open with a breeze of warm air. Before the door comes to a stop the gun is on his shoulder, pointing into the bright room.

“Wait here,” he whispers, and walks into the room. Balanced on the balls of his feet, he swings his gun from side to side, finger on the trigger. Poised for attack.

A sickening panic settles over me as I watch him disappear around a corner. He’s not wearing a Kevlar vest, yet he’s the one at risk. The seconds draw out as I wait for him to come back. Or get attacked. Or shot. As I wait to lose the only familiar thing in this world, I can’t breathe.

He steps back into view and motions me in as he sets his gun on a mattress hanging halfway off a box spring. I step inside, but instead of shutting the door behind me, I stride over to Bowen and throw my arms around his neck, holding him close and pressing my face into his shoulder. He stiffens beneath my touch, and I remember.

I am his greatest fear
.

But then his arm loops around me, backpack and all, and he turns his face into the side of my neck, his breath on my skin, his touch leeching the panic from my muscles.

After a long minute he pulls away and looks at me, his eyes devouring mine. Without taking my arms from his neck I stare up at him.

“What was that for?” he asks.

“Watching you walk into the room, I thought of how I would feel if anything happened to you.” My voice trembles.

Bowen studies my face, his eyes moving from my eyes to my mouth and back again. “How
would
you feel?” he asks, his voice a whisper.

“I’ve already lost everything that I love. You’re all I have left.”
My face starts to burn as I realize what I’ve almost said. That I love him. I hide my face against his shoulder, too embarrassed to meet his eyes.

“You’re just tired.” He gently pries my arms from his neck. “You’ll feel different after some sleep,” he adds without meeting my eyes.

I know sleep won’t make a difference, but I don’t tell him. He steps from me and pushes the bare mattress back onto the box spring.

The room is covered in a layer of dust. The window is broken, and the curtains that once covered it are in a mouse-eaten pile on the floor. Bowen slips his arms out of his backpack and sets it beside the bed. I do the same, dropping my backpack to the floor with a clunk, and stretch my tight shoulders.

“Sleep,” Bowen says, taking the sleeping bag from my backpack and unzipping it. “I’ll keep watch.” He spreads it over the mattress, and I lie down. Next, he riffles through his backpack and brings out a can of something and a water bottle, then steps in front of a mirror affixed to the wall above a dust-coated dresser. Opening the water bottle, he splashes the left side of his head, the side with four vertical lines shaved into it. Next he squirts mint-green gel out of the can and rubs it over the four lines until it turns white and foamy. From his belt he takes a knife and drags it through the foam. The knife leaves bald skin in its wake.

“What are you doing?” I ask, climbing from the bed to stand beside him, staring with fascination.

“Shaving,” he answers, never taking his eyes from his reflection.

“I see that, but why?”

“I’m not part of the militia anymore. I’m on their most-wanted list, right up there with the raiders.” He looks at me and touches his injured shoulder. “I’m on the shoot-to-kill list. I can’t go back.”

“Well, then, what are you going to do?” I ask, wondering if he can hear the hope in my voice. If he can’t go back, maybe he’ll run. I want to run with him. And never come back. And be with him forever.

He sighs and splashes water over the pale bald patch above his ear. “After I get you safely to the lab, I’ll try to survive on my own. Try to make it to Wyoming.”

Mention of the lab makes my hope turn hard and cold, makes the soft flesh in the creases of my elbows hurt. I fold my arms, pressing on the fading bruises. “I don’t want to be the lab’s guinea pig. Let me come with you. We’ll survive together,” I plead, my voice quiet with desperation. “I’m good with a gun. I’ll learn to keep up. I’ll help you survive, become your ally.”

Bowen shakes his head. “Too dangerous,” he says, wiping his knife on the edge of the dusty dresser, leaving a glob of shaving cream and hair.

I grit my teeth and glare at my tattoo, hating it more than I’ve hated anything in my life. It is a representation of everything Bowen hates and fears. Which means me.

“I don’t think I’m going to turn into a beast, though,” I say, still staring at my hand. “And if I start to feel signs of it, I’ll leave. I swear. Please. Don’t take me to the lab. Take me with you.” I look up from my tattoo and stare at his reflection in the mirror as he slips the knife into a black sheath attached to his belt.

“It’s not too dangerous for
me
. It’s dangerous for
you
. What if I can’t protect you?” He won’t look at me. He turns and climbs onto the bed, knees bent, back pressed against the headboard. He picks up his gun and balances it on his knees. I climb onto the other side of the bed and curl up on my side, my arm beneath my head, my back to him, and stare out the broken window.

“I’m willing to take that risk,” I murmur. “Because I don’t want to leave you, Dreyden. I’d rather take my chances on the outside. With you.”

He shifts, the mattress sagging beneath his weight, making me roll into him. When he speaks, his mouth is right above my ear. “I shot my mother in the head. It took me two tries to kill her,” he whispers.

I turn and look up into his dead, cold eyes. His jaw muscles pulse.

“Why?” I ask, appalled.

“The raiders caught her. For two days I tried to get her free. For two nights, she screamed for someone to kill her. So on the third morning, when the sun rose, I finally got up the nerve.” Darkness haunts his eyes. “It’s not safe out there, Fo. I don’t want to have to kill you, too. Life in the lab will be a lot more pleasant. Trust me. And you never know. Maybe one day they’ll find a cure.”

He climbs off the bed and I close my eyes, trying to forget the horror of his words, his hopeless eyes.

I dream of grass and honey and flowers. Sunshine warms my skin and rose petals brush my lips, a feathery touch that makes me stir. I open my eyes, and Bowen’s finger pauses against my lower lip. Slowly, he pulls his hand from my mouth. I stare into his grass-green eyes and wait for my heart to burst.

“You were talking in your sleep,” he whispers. “Something about honey.” He is curled on his side facing me, our knees touching, our faces mere inches apart. I look at his lips and remember how they felt against mine—smooth as honey and just as sweet. They curve into a warm, lazy smile. “Fo.”

“What?” I look into his eyes again.

“You were staring at my mouth.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and cover my face with my hands, and Bowen laughs.

“I have a surprise for you,” he says, touching my cheek with cool fingers that smell like soap and bring heat to my skin. I open my eyes and stare at him. His hair is slightly damp, as if he’s just had a shower and he smells like shampoo. “Come here.”

I follow him into the bathroom and see nothing but a couple of dusty, sun-bleached suitcases that used to be some shade of purple and several empty water bottles. He points to the tub. Two inches of water shimmer in it—clean water, clear water. Bowen points to the sink next. A toothbrush and travel-size toothpaste are on the counter beside a full water bottle. And a comb.

“The water’s not warm, or anything …,” he says, rubbing his hand over the bald patch above his ear

“Does this place
have
running water?” I ask, staring at the grimy sink.

He shakes his head and his tan cheeks flush, a hint of pink beneath the healthy gold glow. “While you were sleeping I gathered water from the toilet tanks in the hotel and carried it here in water bottles. It’s not dirty or anything … I thought you’d like to get clean.”