Chapter 8
“Bowen!” The name echoes and I flinch, expecting gunfire. “Electromagnetic wrist cuffs and ankle cuffs! Now! We got us a Ten!” Micklemoore barks.
A moment later, a small section of guns part and a square-shouldered man fills the space. Darkness hides the features of his face, but his voice resonates deep and soft and soothing, just a tremor above a whisper. “I won’t hurt you if you hold still,” he says, kneeling beside me.
What he doesn’t know is that I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. My whole body has turned numb with fright, right down to my lips. He leans over me and an image of a high-mountain lake settles behind my eyes. Or, more accurately, the giant pine trees that encircle the lake and sway in the wind and smell … just like this man. I stare at him and breathe, and a temporary calm settles over me.
“That’s it, kid. You got a name?” He lifts one of my arms and clamps something onto it, something that stretches from my wrist to just below my elbow and is cool against my skin. “I’m Bowen.” He takes my other wrist and clamps the same thing onto my forearm. I open my eyes and lift my head to look at my arms. Bowen leaps away from me, points something in my direction, and the devices on my arms hum to life and of their own will meet, like two magnets attracting each other. I try to pull my arms apart but can’t.
Bowen kneels beside me once more and lets out a deep breath of air. “Don’t. Move.” His voice has turned hard and cold. “I will kill you if you do.” With damp, unsteady hands, he lifts my ankle and pushes the pants up around my knee, then attaches a cool metal casing around my calf and shin. He puts one on the other leg, and when it clamps into place, he scrambles away from me like I’m liable to explode at any moment. From a few feet away, he points something at me again. My legs slide together and fuse into one.
The crowd sighs and gasps, and then some men start laughing, like they just witnessed a lion tamer caging his fiercest beast.
“That was awesome, man,” someone says, patting Bowen on the back. “First Ten we’ve ever caught! Must be beginner’s luck.” The hundred guns disappear, replaced by the starry sky, as men move away. But not Bowen.
“Kid, if you move I’ll release a current of electricity through you that’ll stop your heart before it can finish a beat. Got it?” he warns.
I don’t dare answer. Don’t dare to move my jaw—just shift my eyes to stare at Bowen’s silhouette.
“Unless you need to talk. Or grunt, or whatever a Ten does,” Bowen says, like he can read my mind. He leans a little closer to me, body still tense. “Can. You. Understand. What. I’m. Saying?” He overenunciates each word.
My stomach growls. “I’m hungry,” I whisper.
Bowen jumps at the sound of my voice, and his pale eyes catch moonlight. “Whoa. You can talk?” He looks from side to side, then reaches into his pants pocket. “You bite me, I shock the crap out of you,” he says. “Open your mouth.”
I obey. Bowen places a large round disk on my tongue. It dissolves into foam, and I taste pork chops and gravy and green beans. I sigh and close my eyes, and the world wavers beneath me and disappears.
Voices tug at my sleep, whispers dancing with my hazy dreams.
“Come on, man. I’ll keep him until Sunday and then take him to the lab. You can have the pay,” someone says, his voice hushed.
“Why?” another voice asks.
“I don’t know. ’Cause you’re new at this job? And I don’t want to see someone as young and healthy as you dead. How ’bout I give you eight ounces?”
“For a Fec? You want to buy him from me?” the other man answers, his voice deep and distinct. I know this voice—Bowen. I try to open my eyes, but my body is as unresponsive as stone.
“Sure,” the first voice says.
“Why?”
My dreams overpower the voices, dreams of a world lush with budding plants and birdsong, as if the dead summer has turned to spring.