Read Stung for Free Online

has horizontal stripes shaved into his scalp, and pinned over each of their hearts is a shiny silver star.
    Aside from having different colors of hair, they look like paper dolls, all symmetry and rhythm, even down to their staccato march. Tchaikovsky’s “March of the Wooden Soldiers” echoes in my head, and my fingers begin to move, playing imaginary notes. “Militia,” I whisper.
    Arrin tugs me away from the door and presses a finger to her lips. Her nails are ragged and caked with dirt and blood. The creases on her finger are dark-red stripes. I frown and look at her clothes—my old clothes. Blood is spattered on them, like crimson fireworks. She raises one eyebrow and points at me, and I look down. Blood coats my hands, clings to the pale hairs of my arms, and covers my clothing. I gag and my stomach heaves, but nothing comes up. I am too empty. Arrin clasps her hand over my mouth, and the smell of blood makes me dry heave again.
    Outside the building, the militia march past, their footsteps a fading cadence. When the evening grows quiet, Arrin removes her hand from my mouth. Silent, she stands and darts out the door. I follow on her heels.
    We cling to the shadows, hugging the bases of factories until the sun sets and the entire world is in darkness. And then something changes. My stomach growls, saliva fills my mouth, and I turn my face to the twilight sky and sniff. Images of roast turkey and grilled steak pop into my brain. Clutching my concave stomach, I whimper. I will do anything for food.
    Too focused on food to realize she’s stopped, I crash into Arrin. She gasps and hunches over.
    “Arrin? What’s wrong?” I put my hands on her shoulders and try to help her stand. She whimpers and pulls away, and my hand comes away wet. Even in the dusky light I can see my palm is coated with something dark. I squeeze my hand shut. When I open it, my fingers are sticky. “Blood,” I whisper, not so hungry anymore.
    “I’ll be fine. I’ve had worse,” Arrin says.
    “You have?”
    “Yeah,” she says, peering up at me with a gleam in her blue eyes. She chuckles and stands tall. “Lots worse. Those guys in the tunnels, they come down and prey on the Fecs all the time. I’ve dreamed about killing them for years. You have no idea how good it felt when I stabbed that one!”
    My stomach turns. “You stabbed him?”
    “Yep. One swift slice to the carotid artery.” She grins, and her face looks like it did when she was eating my crackers—filled with greedy satisfaction.
    “The
what
artery?” I ask, slightly sick to my stomach, slightly terrified of this …
child
.
    “Carotid? It’s in the neck. My dad’s a doctor, and he taught me how to kill. Where’d you think all the blood came from?” She looks pointedly at my blood-covered arms and hands, and I cringe. “Come on. We’re almost there.”
    Arrin cradles her arm as we continue down the dark street. The smell of food grows stronger, along with other smells that tickle my senses. Wood smoke. Laundry detergent. Sweat andsoap. And then the smells are accompanied by sound. Laughing. Singing. Talking. A dog barking.
    Suddenly something different floats on the air, and my heart skips a beat. I press my hands to my ears, wondering if my imagination is going wild, wondering if the sound I hear is trapped in my head. But with pressure on my ears, the melody dies. When I uncover my ears, the music returns—Beethoven’s Seventh—the same song I heard in the dripping water as I fell asleep the night before. Only this time, instead of remembering the tune as I played it on the piano, guitar strings sing the melody.
    We round the corner of a building and halt, and my eyes grow wide. A wall, taller than all of the factories we just passed, juts up from the sidewalk on the other side of the street, so long it disappears into the night. At the base of the wall sits a village, or rather a camp, swarming with men in brown uniforms. Fires glow orange, making shadows