Chapter 19
By late afternoon, the air is so heavy that if I cry, I’m certain my tears will hang suspended before my face. I wipe the back of my hand over my forehead, pushing my bangs from my sweaty skin, and try to hold back the tears.
Bowen murmurs, thrashing about in his sleep. This has been going on for hours, since shortly after he fell asleep. And when his nightmares peak, he mumbles my name—Fiona, not Fo—and clutches the gun tighter to his chest, or spreads his palm over his chest, right above his heart. I can imagine his dreams—my claws in his skin, my teeth gnawing his shoulder, gnawing his chest to get to his heart. I am the source of his nightmares.
He gasps my name and whimpers. This time I can’t stop them. Tears fill my eyes and my heart constricts. I rest my forehead on my knees, listening to the agonizing sound of my name on his restless lips. Lips I have been studying for hours.
Something thumps. I jump, my heart jumps, my stomach jumps, and I look at Bowen. Something thumps again on the other side of the factory. A soft fist on the metal door? I stand and tiptoe to the door, pressing my ear against the sun-heated steel.
Deep voices, barely more than whispers, carry through to my ear. And scratching, the sound of a match against stone. I sprint to Bowen and touch his shoulder. His entire body lurches as if electricity has tensed every muscle in one swift jolt. Eyes wide, teeth bared, he digs the end of his gun into my chest right above my stuttering heart. I flinch and get ready to die.
Recognition softens his wild eyes, and the gun falls to his side.
“What’s wrong?” he whispers.
“The door. Someone’s here,” I answer, pressing a hand over my ballistic heart.
Bowen jumps to his feet and crams all our belongings into our backpacks—the empty cuffs, the sleeping bag, even the empty peach and Spam cans. He takes my hand in his, and we run to the stairs, but instead of going up, we go behind them. The wall below the stairs swings open, revealing a secret room.
Bowen throws the packs inside, then grabs my shoulder and turns me to face him, pushing me into the room until my back presses against something hard and uneven. He presses the length of his body against mine, his feet snug in between my feet, and pulls the secret door shut behind us.
“Sorry about the tight fit,” he whispers, his mouth against my temple. “I never thought I’d be stuck in here with another person.” Bowen shifts, his body moving against mine, and something clunks. “Ow!” he whispers.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I hit my forehead on the stairs.” His breath dances over my face and I breathe it in, inhaling deeply, my ribs expanding against his.
Outside our tiny room under the stairs, something explodes. The walls shudder, dust falls into my eyes, and I need to cough. I lean my face into Bowen’s shoulder and force myself to take slow, even breaths. His arm moves around me, pulling me a millimeter closer, cradling my head.
“It’s okay,” he whispers. “We’ll be okay.” His chin bumps the crown of my head when he talks. “It’s the militia. They won’t find us in here. If it were a beast, or the …” His body shudders.
I turn my head to the side, pressing my ear against his chest, and listen to the sounds of his body. Breath moves quickly in and out of him, and his heart is like the hummingbird’s wings—frantic.
Boots pound the ground outside our room, go up the stairs, and unsettle more dust. I turn my face back against his shoulder and hold my breath. Most of the boots echo overhead, but one pair comes back down the stairs. Another shower of dust rains down. I press my face harder against him and take deep, slow breaths. The smell of him makes me think of cool mountain lakes and pine trees and sweat. I take a deeper breath, letting my body melt into the firm angles of his body, the safety of his physical presence, and loop my arms behind him.
“Bowen?” someone yells.
I jump, gripping the back of his shirt with my sweaty hands. The voice thunders through the factory and finds its way into our tiny shelter.
“We need the Fec!” I recognize the voice. Mickelmoore, the gray-haired man. “Bowen, this Fec might be the most important person alive. It is mandatory that you turn her over to me.”
Bowen’s arm tightens around me, pulling me more firmly against him, against the rise and fall of his chest.
Feet thump down the stairs again, shaking our shelter.
“Sir, he’s not here. Tommy might have given us false info. They were pretty tight,” a different voice says. “Marshall thinks he saw something in the factory across the street.”
“File out,” Mickelmoore orders. “And have your guns ready.”
Boots echo and fade as they leave. I lift my face from Bowen’s damp shirt, relieved that they’re gone, and dare a deep breath of the dusty air. “Why d—” His hand presses against my mouth.
“Someone’s still here. They always leave one man behind, just in case,” he whispers, his lips soft against my temple. My body goes rigid again. Our hearts beat against each other’s, and his hand stays firm over my lips. The air in the shelter is suddenly so dense I can hardly breathe. Or maybe it’s being pressed against Bowen that steals my breath. For a long time we stand motionless. And then the solitary sound of boots resonates through the factory, fades, and drifts into nothing.
Bowen’s body grows slack, and he moves his hand from my mouth to the back of my neck. His breath cools the sweat on my face, and I lift my face toward his. He sighs and rests his forehead against mine. Our noses bump, and something soft touches my lips—his—an accidental, feathery touch. But then his hand tightens on the back of my neck, and his lips move, tracing a line of fire from my mouth, along my jaw, to the soft skin below my ear. He takes a deep breath and moves his lips back to mine. They press against mine again, soft and firm. And very deliberate. His lips part, and I don’t know what to do. I’ve never been kissed.
My stomach drops, and my knees forget how to stay straight. I grip Bowen’s shirt and let my lips melt against his. But he pulls his face from mine.
The door opens. Cooler, dry air takes Bowen’s place against my body, and he steps into the light. He runs his hands through his dark hair and curses.
“What?” I say, breathless. I lick my lips and taste salt.
He points to the door. Or what’s left of it—a gaping hole in the side of the factory, surrounded by rubble. The mangled door lies beneath the solitary window on the opposite side of the factory.
He turns back to me, pulls me out into the open, and takes my place in the shelter. Kneeling, he begins filling the backpacks with food and water. The shelter is crammed with cans. From floor to ceiling. Except a small space big enough to fit one body. I look at Bowen’s scowling profile and wonder, Did I imagine his lips on mine? I slide my tongue over my lips again and can still taste him.
“Take off your shirt,” he says, peering up at me.
My heart jumps into my throat. “What?”
His jaw muscles pulse. “Don’t ask questions. Just do it, Fo.”
I pull the stained shirt over my head. Bowen stands and puts his hands on my bare shoulders and looks down into my eyes. My knees tremble and I lean toward him. He frowns and flips me around so my back is to him, and pulls the shirt from my hand. It falls to the floor by my feet.
“Arms out,” he orders. I lift my arms. He slips something over my hand and up to my shoulder, the way my mother helped me put on my coat when I was four. The other arm is next and then he spins me back around to face him. He pulls a heavy black vest closed over my chest and zips it into place.
“Bulletproof?” I ask. His troubled eyes meet mine, and he nods. From the floor he takes my shirt and presses it into my hands. I pull it over my head, over the vest. The instant it’s in place, he thrusts a heavy, bulging pack at me and slings the other over his shoulders. Then, without a word, without a backward glance, he turns and leaves.
“What about you?” I say, running after him, thinking of his scarred chest and shoulder—the only things hidden beneath his shirt. “Aren’t you going to put on a vest?”
His stride doesn’t slow. “There’s only one.”
“So, you’re giving it to me? A Level Ten?” I ask, shocked, clumsily following him as I try to get my arms into the heavy backpack’s straps.
He yanks the straps of his backpack tighter. “I suppose I am.”
“Why?”
He slows and looks at me, and his eyes hold mine. I lick my lips again, wondering if I can still taste him. I can’t. He lets out a deep breath, looks at his watch, and curses. “Come on. It’s almost dusk. And shut up. We’ve got to be silent. And we’ve got to find somewhere to spend the night, fast.”