Cured by Bethany Wiggins Page A

weapons. In half a heartbeat he’s diving at me, hand wrapping around the top of the flashlight as if that is the only thing he’s after, and everything turns dark.
    Warm flesh contacts mine, and I lash out with my knife. He struggles against me, but I’m faster. I have learned speed over strength in a world ruled by physical prowess. With one practiced move, I whip him over onto his stomach and wrench his arms behind his back. The flashlight clatters out of his hand, the beam lighting up the bushes like bright, hopeful encouragement.
    â€œThe light!” my attacker gasps, struggling. I wrench his arms more tightly against his back, making his shoulder blades strain, making him whimper. “The light! Turn it off!” he says again, then adds a beseeching, pain-filled, “Please.”
    I glance between him and the light.
    â€œYou have just broadcast your location to a whole group of raiders. If you want a chance to run before they get here, let go of me and turn off the light!” he growls.
    I am torn. If I let go, he might attack me. It’s the perfect story to make me release him. He grunts and thrashes and manages to throw me off of him, and then dives for the light andsmashes it into the ground. It goes dark as the glass shatters. And then he turns his back to me, falls to his knees, and puts his hands behind his back. For a moment, I stare at him, too stunned to react. Then I tackle him back to the ground, pinning his arms, but not quite as tightly as before. He lies perfectly still beneath me.
    â€œWhat are you doing out here?” I ask, my quivering voice belying my rigid tone.
    â€œI was getting water from the golf course pond.” He says it like it should be obvious.
    â€œWhat do you
want
?” I clarify.
    â€œI can tell you what I didn’t want,” the stranger says, deep voice muffled by the ground. “I didn’t want you to practically cut my arm off. Your bite is a lot worse than your bark. Here I am, trying to help you, and you cut the crap out of me! Every beast and carnivore within a mile is going to be coming over here to get a taste.”
    â€œWhat do you want?” I ask again.
    â€œFirst off, featherweight, I want my pride back. You’ve got to weigh eighty pounds max, and you took me down.” He makes a sound, a bumpy, weird sound from deep in his throat. It takes me a minute to realize what it is. Laughter. He’s laughing!
    I tighten my grip on his arms. “You’re insane. Will you shut up before you blow my cover?”
    His laughter stops. “Before
I
blow your cover?
Me?
First rule of desolation is
never use a light after sunset
! You can be spotted from ten miles away. You’re the crazy one, my friend. Not me.”
    One of my dogs back home is a Rottweiler-hound mix.When she senses danger, a Mohawk of fur rises on her back. The hair on the back of my neck bristles, and I let go of him, spinning in a circle, searching the darkness. “What have I done?” I whisper, and fall to my hands and knees, feeling around until I find my gun. Without waiting to see what the stranger does, I run.
    The dead grass is smooth and even under my feet. At the house, I take the deck steps two at a time and burst into the family room with the leather sofa. “We have to go. Now!” I blurt. “I totally messed up.”
    Fiona stands up from the sofa and steps in front of her brother. Bowen walks through the front door. Behind me, footsteps pound up the deck stairs. I whip around in time to see the silhouette of a man cross the deck and stop at the back door. From inside the house, two guns click and I know precisely where they are aimed.
    â€œPlease don’t shoot me. Please.” The man lifts his hands, a gesture barely visible in the dark. “The kid cut me and I’m bleeding pretty bad. I was wondering if you could help me out real quick.”
    â€œWho’re you?” Bowen asks.
    â€œMy name is