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.
But it feels so good to move that I stretch my legs, point my toes, and sigh. Late-afternoon sunlight blinds me as the tent flap is whipped aside and four guns are thrust inside, inches from my face. I don’t blink.
“Did he touch the flap?” someone asks, and if I had to guess, I’d say his voice is hopeful. They’ve been given strict orders from Bowen: shoot if I so much as touch the tent flap—shoot me.
“No, the flap didn’t move,” Tommy says. “Bowen?” he shouts, not taking his gun from my face. “You almost ready to put his cuffs back on? Because I can’t guarantee the Fec’ll live much longer if he isn’t restrained! The men are jumpy from the attacks!”
“I’ll take care of it,” Bowen calls.
The guns are moved aside and Bowen leans in. He pauses as uncertainty and fear dance across his face, but then he drops the tent flap behind him and crawls toward me, crouching at my side. He takes a small bottle out of his jacket.
“About your arms, the burns,” he says, his voice hardly more than a whisper. “I had to shock you. I didn’t know what else to do to stop her—the beast—from …” Face grim, he looks down, studying the tent floor.
From tearing my throat out with her teeth, I think. “I’m alive,” I answer, voice as quiet as his. “My arms hardly hurt.” My arms throb with every single beat of my heart and radiate fire that goes all the way to my stomach and makes me feel like I have the flu. Bowen holds the bottle out. I take it and open my mouth to ask him what it is, but he presses a finger to his lips.
“Aloe vera,” he mouths, glancing at the tent flap.
“For the burns?” I whisper. He presses his finger to his lips again and nods. “Did you steal it?” I mouth, silent.
The corner of Bowen’s mouth lifts, and he says softly, “For militia use only. Not for Fecs. Took me an hour to find.”
I open the bottle, squeeze green goo onto my palm, and slick it over my angry skin. Air hisses through my gritted teeth, but then I sigh. The fire in my arm seems to seep into the aloe. I slather the other arm and give the bottle back to Bowen. He tucks it into his jacket once more and pulls something else out. Ankle cuffs. I groan. Out loud. Feet scuffle outside the tent, rifles clatter to life, and then the tent flap is flung wide. The glossy black barrel of a gun jabs into the tent and hovers above my nose.
“You need me to shoot it, Bowen?” Tommy asks.
“Chill, Tommy. The kid’s just moaning about his arms,” Bowen says. Tommy drags the tip of his rifle over the burned flesh on my arm.
I whimper and jerk away. Liquid oozes from a popped blister and Tommy laughs. He swings the gun toward my other arm, but Bowen grabs it.
“Just leave the kid alone,” Bowen snaps. He shoves Tommy’s gun out of the tent.
“Whoa, man, you’re the one who needs to chill. You’re acting … sympathetic toward the Fec.” Tommy drops the tent flap and grumbles something I can’t quite make out.
Bowen shakes his head and crawls to my feet. Without a word, he pushes the hem of my jeans up around my knees and attaches the cuffs to my calves.
“Bowen, please don’t—” Before I can beg him not to restrain me, electricity hums and my legs snap together, the cuffs clicking against each other as they lock into place.
“I’m not going to cuff your arms. You’re welcome,” he retorts.
With my fingers I comb my hair out of my eyes and glare at him. “Thanks,” I whisper. He nods and tosses a wafer onto the floor beside me. And then he’s gone.
Anger and frustration bring the sting of tears to my eyes. All I want is to be back in my house, the way it used to be, inside a thirteen-year-old body, with Jonah doing his homework in the music room while I practice the piano, and Dad in the kitchen cooking dinner, and Mom on her way home from work, and Lis coming home from college.
I glare at the wafer, feeling so sorry for myself I’m tempted to chuck it out of the tent and start the slow process of starving myself to death. But my stomach growls, feels concave, so I shove it into my mouth. It dissolves into the flavor of roast ribs and sweet potatoes and trickles down my throat. I close my suddenly heavy eyes and give in to the food-induced lethargy that steals the last bit of energy from my muscles and wipes the anger from me. My sated brain listens to the conversation going on outside the tent.
“Hey, guys. I’m going to try and get some sleep,” Bowen says, his voice spinning with my groggy thoughts. “The kid’s restrained again, and I gave him his ration.”
“Maybe you should double his dose,” Tommy says.
“Not funny, Tommy. The lab only pays for living beasts.”
“It was a joke, Bowen. Don’t worry. We’ll keep the camp safe from the kid,” Tommy says.
“Yeah. About that. Don’t let anyone in the tent, all right? And do not leave your posts.”
“You think he’s on the verge of turning?” Tommy asks, suspicious.
“Something like that,” Bowen says, his voice fading as sleep settles over me.
I am being touched, a warm hand caressing my cheek. The gentle touch reminds me of what I am missing—human contact—and leaves me wanting more, wanting my mother’s arms around me, my father’s hand patting my back, Jonah bumping his knuckles on mine, Lis painting my nails, Bowen …
I sigh and lean into the touch, letting it fill me with comfort, with longing, with sorrow. Tears sting my eyes. I am so starved for affection it hurts. But I’m so tired, I can’t bring myself to open my eyes. The trembling fingers move from my cheek to my mouth, gently tracing my bottom lip. And then they clamp down, crushing my teeth into my lips.
Tiredness forgotten, my eyes shoot open. Dark surrounds me, as if I’m in the tunnels again. A firm weight settles on my hips, and breath pants against my face.
More hands touch me, sliding over my body, groping my chest. The bottom of my shirt is lifted, and cold metal touches my stomach. In one swift slice, the T-shirt is cut from my body. A flashlight flickers on, shining on my bound chest, and someone gasps.
“I told you it was female!” The voice belongs to the person straddling me. I struggle against the weight, but my head is still groggy from sleep, my muscles filled with exhaustion. Plus, both of my tender arms are locked beneath a pair of knees. And my legs are locked in cuffs.
The flashlight goes dark.
“She’s been sedated, but hold her arms tight anyway!” the man atop me orders. Hands grip my arms, anchoring them to the tent floor. Again, I try to thrash, forcing a little more strength into my limbs, but I can’t get free.
Warm breath wafts over my face. “If you move, I’ll kill you,” a man whispers into my ear. I open my mouth and scream, but his hand tightens and holds the noise in, grinding my cheeks against my molars.
A nose prods my neck, sniffing, nuzzling. “It smells like a woman, even after living in the tunnels. Hold her tight. We’ve only got a few minutes to get her out of the camp.” The weight climbs off me and my mouth is released. I open it, ready to scream, but my head jerks to the side as something collides with my face, and pain explodes behind my eyes. My chin is pulled down, and fabric is shoved into my open mouth. I scream again, but it’s muffled.
“You grab her legs, Mac. Jerrold, you grab one arm, and I’ll grab the other.”
“How much do you think we can sell her for?” another man asks.
“Enough for all three of us to pay our way inside the wall. Governor Soneschen is always willing to let people in for the right price. She’ll bring in a bundle! On the count of three, we move her out. One … two …”
My blood surges, tightening my skin, making my breath come faster, devouring the exhaustion in my muscles and feeding them with strength. I growl and yank my arms from the men restraining them and sit up. My fingers curl into a fist and I throw all of my rage into swinging it toward the person closest to me. With an audible crunch, my fist contacts flesh, and the person plummets into the side of the tent.
The other two men curse and jump on me, slamming me back to the ground. “I knew this was a bad idea!” one man says.
I reach up and pull the wad of fabric from my mouth.
“Bowen!” My scream echoes through the quiet night before a hand is suffocating me. I wiggle against it, claw at the arm it belongs to, try to breathe.
Light flashes on the canvas roof and a pair of feet thumps outside.
“Dude! Let’s get out of here. Help me with Len,” one of the men says.
“Leave Len! This was his idea,” the other says, his voice panicked.
The hands leave my mouth and arms, and the two men scurry out of the tent. I sit again and hug my knees to my chest, trying to catch my breath. A steady noise is growing in the camp—voices. And then Bowen is in the tent, flashlight in hand, hair messed from sleep. His eyes travel over my bare shoulders. When he sees Len, unconscious at my feet, Bowen’s nostrils flare and he begins to tremble. Without a word he tugs his shirt off—a plain white T-shirt—and hands it to me. I pull the shirt over my head as Bowen crawls to Len.
“If you hurt her …” Bowen yanks Len by the front of his uniform, forcing him to sit. But Len’s head bobs like it is attached to a loose spring. Bowen drops him and presses his fingers to Len’s neck. He looks at me and says, “He’s dead. Did you do this?”
“He’s what?” I whisper, wondering if I could have possibly heard him right.
“Dead.”
I open and close my fingers, staring at them, wondering if my fist could have killed a man. It was just one hit. One punch. “I don’t know. I didn’t mean to kill him. I was just trying to stop him.” The air starts rushing in and out of my lungs too fast. I press my eyes against my knees and try to calm down. I killed a man.
A hand rests on top of my head. “Fo, are you all right?” When I don’t answer he says, “Fiona?”
My name, my whole name on his lips, is like the aloe on my arms. It leeches the pain and fear from me and gives me the courage to answer. “Yeah, I’m all right,” I say without looking up.
“I’ll be right back.” The hand leaves my head and I don’t move.
Within a minute Bowen’s returned with others.
“I bloody told you not to leave your post!” he yells.
“Len said—”
“Len is not your superior officer! I am!” Bowen retorts.
“Bowen, man, chill. Len said you wanted us to take fifteen, to drink some caffeine.” I recognize the voice—Tommy’s. “There were three of them. I thought they could handle the situation. Why you freaking so bad? Did the Fec escape?”
“Len’s. Dead. He—”
“Was killed by the Fec?” four voices ask at once, not letting Bowen finish. Guns click, feet scuffle, and the tent flap is thrown aside. The four guards peer in at me with scared eyes, their guns aimed at my heart.
“I don’t know what happened. Len was in the tent,” Bowen says, pushing between the guns and me. “But I’ve got to get the kid out of there. I’ll put him in my tent. You guys take care of Len.”
“Wait … you’re taking him to your tent? He killed Len! He’s on the verge! Have you lost your—” Tommy’s mouth snaps shut as his dark eyes move between Bowen and me. “Dude, Bowen. Is the Fec wearing your shirt?” he asks.
Bowen clears his throat and glances at his bare chest. “Yeah. I guess so.” He kneels beside me, releases my ankle cuffs, and helps me out of the tent.
“Whoa. You’re touching a Level Ten, Bo. And he’s not wearing wrist cuffs! It’s no wonder he killed Len. For the sake of the camp, get him fully restrained!”
Bowen glares at Tommy. “I’m the one who is in charge of the Fec. I’ll do what I deem necessary for the safety of the camp. Now, come on.” The armed guard follows us as he leads me to his tent. He holds the flap up while I crawl inside, and then I am alone, segregated from the others by fabric walls. “Do not leave your post! No matter what,” Bowen says to the men now standing outside his tent. “And if the kid does anything, Tase before you shoot. Tase to stun, not kill.”
“Where are you going?” Tommy asks.
“I’ve got a few things to do,” Bowen says, voice fading as he walks away.
I lie atop Bowen’s sleeping bag with my head on his soft pillow. Wrapping my tender arms around my chest, I roll onto my side and stare at the darkness, wondering what’s going to happen to me now. Now that I have killed one of the militia. Do they hang people for murder, even if it is self-defense? Are they going to stand me against the wall, line up, and shoot me?
My thoughts turn slowly from a tornado of fear and dread for my future to a gently swirling oblivion, and my eyes refuse to stay open.
Quiet footsteps make my heart race and pull me from a sleep filled with nightmares. When the tent flap swings aside, I open my mouth to scream.
“It’s me,” Bowen says. His voice is salve to my fear. My mouth snaps shut as he crawls into the tent, barely illuminated by the first hint of a gray dawn.
“Where’s your uniform?” I whisper. He’s wearing faded blue jeans and a tattered Sprite T-shirt.
“I hid it.” He stuffs some things into a backpack and slings it over his shoulder.
“Why would you do that?” I ask.
He looks at me, eyes troubled. “We’re going rogue. Until Sunday.”
“Rogue? You mean, we’re leaving the camp?”
He nods.
“Why?”
“I can protect the camp from you, no problem. But …” He takes an empty backpack from the corner of the tent and crams the sleeping bag into it. “… I can’t protect you from the camp. We’re going out on our own until I can get you to the lab.” He tosses the pack at me, and I catch it.
“What do you mean, protect me from the camp?” I ask, dread making me shiver.
“For starters, you killed Len with your bare hands. You’re a girl. You shouldn’t be strong enough to kill him. Extreme bursts of strength are one of the first signs of turning.” His eyes meet mine. “Once the camp finds out, they’ll think you’re on the verge.”
I swallow, wondering if I am on the verge. Am I about to morph into a bloodthirsty beast? I don’t feel any different than I did yesterday. Not physically, at least.
“What do you think,” I ask, searching Bowen’s face.
Bowen catches his lip in his teeth and stares at me for a long time. “I would have done the same thing if our roles were reversed. But that’s not the main problem.”
“Then what is?”
“They know you’re a girl.”
I frown, confused.
“Most of them haven’t set eyes on a woman in more than a year, Fo. Let alone a young, pretty woman.”
“What about you?” I ask.
“That includes me. But I know me. And I trust me. I can’t say the same for anyone else. We’ve got to get you out of here. Now. So put on the backpack.”