Part 10 (1/2)

”No showering for twenty-four hours,” he warns.

My eyes grow round and I lean toward him. ”Is there a shower here?”

He laughs and shakes his head. ”It was a joke.” A hot breeze stirs the air, and Bowen shuts his eyes. ”Maybe we should sleep up here tonight. It's a lot cooler than downstairs. And with the cover of darkness a I'll grab our stuff.”

He stands. I watch him go, then make my way to the west windows in time to see the sun disappear behind distant mountains. Shadows creep into the world, filling every corner and hollow. And one shadow on the street below moves. I crouch down for a better look.

The shadow crouches, too, and for a moment I wonder if it has seen me. But then it picks something up from the ground. Something pale and limp. The bottom half of my pants.

Chapter 18.

I wake to the sound of a motor, and my eyes flutter open in confusion. The motor is right above me. Vibrations shatter the still morning. I lift my head in search of its source.

”No! Don't move!” Bowen whispers, pressing on my shoulder. ”Look.” He nods toward my cuffed and restrained ankles. Slowly I lift my head again and peer down the length of my body.

Above my stomach hovers a tiny bird, inspecting the crimson stain on my s.h.i.+rt. Its wings drone like a motor and I am filled with awe. This fragile hummingbird is the first living, wild animal I have seen since waking up in this dead world. Its bright-green chest and red-capped head are startlingly out of place.

”Where'd it come from?” I whisper, unable to take my eyes from it.

”The wall. There are hundreds of hummingbirds living inside of it. Every once in a while one gets out. It thinks your blood is a flower. It's probably on the verge of starving to death.”

The hummingbird, realizing my s.h.i.+rt isn't a flower, darts away, sweeping through an empty window and leaving the morning disturbingly silent.

Bowen points the remote at me, and my ankles release. I stretch my legs and think about going back to sleep.

After a moment, I hear another sound, reminiscent of the sound of a distant hoe sc.r.a.ping dirt. I open my eyes and look at Bowena”the source of the sound. A gleaming knife glides along his jaw line, sc.r.a.ping a thin lather of white foam and dark stubble from his skin. The scent of pine floats on the air. I stare, entranced, as he sc.r.a.pes all the cream off, and when he is done, his smooth face looks thirteen again. Almost.

”Here.” Bowen holds a water bottle out to me. I sit up, open it, and take a long drink. He smirks. ”That's for you s.h.i.+rt, Fotard. You need to wash the blood out of it.”

I open my mouth to ask him why, but before the words leave my tongue, he says, ”Blood draws beastsa”the smell.”

”Oh.” Horrified, I pull off my s.h.i.+rt. Bowen's smirk disappears, and his freshly shaved cheeks turn a shade pinker. He turns his back as if he's never seen me with just the binding that wraps my chest, as if the sight of me will make him go blind. ”Bowen, I've still got the rags binding my a never mind.” I turn the other way, hoping the back of my neck isn't as hot as it feels, and put my s.h.i.+rt on the ground. Pouring water on the blood, I start rubbing the fabric against itself. I pour more water and rub more, but the blood doesn't come out.

”I need soap or bleach,” I say over my shoulder.

”I don't have any. Just give it a good rinse for now.” Bowen's feet sc.r.a.pe on the ground, and he gasps. I turn and look up at him, every muscle in my body tensed for something bad. His eyes are fixed on my back, his mouth hanging open.

”What?” I ask.

”What happened to your back?”

I crane my neck to peer over my shoulder. ”What are you talking about?”

He crouches behind me and trails his warm fingers over my skin, from the base of the fabric wrapping my b.r.e.a.s.t.s to just above the waist of my jeans. I s.h.i.+ver as warmth floods my body. His fingers move to the skin between my shoulder blades, just above the bindings, and trail up to my neck, leaving goose b.u.mps in their wake.

”What is it?” I ask, my voice unsteady.

”You don't know?”

I shake my head.

”You have scars from here”a”he touches my necka””to here.” His finger trails over the binding and down to the top of my hip.

”Scars?”

”Yeah. They look like they're from a fingernails.” He presses three fingertips to my midback and drags them downward. His eyes meet mine. ”What happened to Jonah?” he asks, eyes guarded.

”He's a beast,” I say. The words scratch my throat.

”That's what I thought. He started the vaccine the same time you did, right?”

”Yes,” I answer without thinking, a fact I didn't realize I knew until this very moment.

Bowen taps his chin with his finger and studies me. And then he's standing, tugging his Sprite s.h.i.+rt over his head. My body temperature surges, searing my neck and cheeks. He doesn't notice, is too intent on his chest. I follow his gaze.

His skin is suntanned and smooth over muscles earned by hard work. Right down the middle of his chest are five white lines, like five lightning bolts. I stand and get a better look. ”Here, too.” He points to his shoulder. I take a step closer and study the white marks, tracing the jagged crescent with my finger.

”That looks like a”

”Teeth?”

I nod.

”A beast bit me. And the marks on my chest are from fingernails.” He pulls his s.h.i.+rt back on. ”We need to go back downstairs. We're sitting targets up here. Are you hungry?”

”What?” I'm still staring at his chest, imagining the five scar-streaks beneath his s.h.i.+rt.

”Hungry. Do you want something to eat?”

My stomach growls. I haven't eaten in more than a day. He picks up my sopping s.h.i.+rt and hands it to me. I pull it on and follow him downstairs.

”When did you get those scars?” I ask.

”Three years ago. I was fourteen.” The main level of the factory is dark and muggy compared to the second level. I can hardly see his face. ”They had just completed the second level of the wall and were admitting more people inside, offering protection. If.”

”If what?” I ask.

”If you qualified.”

”And you didn't?”

”No, I did. But my mom? She didn't qualify. They turned her away.”

An image wavers in my memory. A bathrobe and bunny slippers, and blood on snow.

Jonah and I were out front, taking turns pulling each other on a sled through the snow. It was my turn to be pulled, when a door slammed across the street.