Read Stung for Free Online Page B

then I am passing the third fire. And people are yelling, swarming, aiming guns at me. A siren blares.
    Before I reach the fourth fire, something catches my ankle and I crash to the ground in a heap of hot meat and dust. I don’t care. I’ve created the distraction Arrin wanted, and now I caneat. With my eyes staring at the star-freckled sky, I gnaw half-cooked meat, letting the grease and blood coat my fingers, throat, cheeks. Until someone tears it from my hands.
    I scramble to my feet and try to run, but a shock of pain freezes my muscles and shatters my world. My legs forget how to work, and I crumple to the ground as spasms rack my body. Someone yanks my hands behind my back and slings cool metal around my forearms. I blink through a haze of pain and find myself staring at the wall and a frenzy of men in brown. They’re running around like headless chickens, yelling, swinging their guns. And then I see Arrin and her little brother, tiny even compared to her, leaping over the fire at the farthest edge of the camp. The smaller shadow stumbles and Arrin grabs his shoulders to steady him. They keep running, are almost to the street. Nearly touching freedom.
    “Stop them!” a man bellows. “He’s a Level Three on the verge of turning!”
    Silence smothers the camp, like being dunked under water … one minute there’s noise; the next, nothing. Every single militia man has his gun to his shoulder and is taking aim. The night explodes in gunfire. Arrin’s brother just explodes.
    My jaw drops and I’m too stunned to breathe—almost forget that my muscles are twitching with the aftermath of pain. The guns are lowered and sound returns to the camp. The militia pat each other on the backs, chuckling, sighing with relief. I press the balls of my hands against my eyes and try to forget the last image I have of Arrin’s brother, silently cursing the meat in my stomach that is about to come up.
    Hands grip my biceps and I’m yanked to my feet.
    “What’ve we got?” a deep, gravelly voice asks. A gray-haired man steps in front of me and frowns.
    “By the smell of it, we’ve got us another Fec, sir.”
    “What level?” the man with gray hair asks.
    Someone behind me turns over my right hand. My legs tremble, and it has nothing to do with being Tasered a moment before.
    “Huh. No level. He’s clean.” I can hear the wonder in his voice. My shoulders sag and my legs stabilize.
    Gray Hair’s eyebrows shoot up. “You sure? I thought all Fecs were marked. Why else would they hide down there?”
    The man behind me fiddles with my hand again, rubbing the spot where the tattoo is.
    “No. No mark. He’s clean, sir.”
    I peer at Gray Hair through my thick bangs. He studies me with eyes as mistrusting as Arrin’s, and his lips grow thin. “Bring him to central. I’m going to do a scan.”
    A militia man escorts me through a throng of men with wary eyes, to the center of their camp and into a spacious wooden structure—a log cabin—with a row of empty tables and a paper-strewn desk. Overhead, lights hum and buzz.
Electrical
lights.
    “Uncuff him, Rory, so I can get a pure read,” Gray Hair says. There are lines shaved into his hair above his left ear. Six of them. He has a star on his brown coat. Embroidered above the star is the name
Micklemoore
.
    “Yes, sir.” My hands are lifted, along with my cuffs, and then the cuffs snap free of my arms. I let my hands hang casually atmy sides and try to appear like I am not searching for an escape. The other man, Rory, steps in front of me and aims a Taser at my chest. There are only three lines shaved into his blond hair.
    Micklemoore walks to the desk and opens a drawer, removing a metal box the size of my palm. Rory turns from me, hand out held for the metal box. And I run.
    Micklemoore yells. Rory turns and clutches my shirt, but I tear away from him. The outside darkness fills the log cabin’s door, and I know it’s my only hope.
    I pass from light into dark and