Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 137131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
But my eyes finally focus on the small creature crawling up my arm.
…a bee?
Yes, a perfect little honeybee.
And I realize that droning buzz isn’t just in my head.
That buzzing, it’s—
Holy shit.
Bees!
My heart rockets straight to the sky, flooded with emotion.
Happiness. Relief. Awe.
I choke back a sob as I crawl on my hands and knees, closer to the buzzing sound, a lopsided smile twisting my face.
This is worth the agony. The achy limbs, the nausea, the impending death.
This is worth my very real fear of dying out here, because if I hadn’t come out all this way, I never would have known the bees made it.
Holden didn’t kill them by leaving them homeless when he scattered them to the winds.
They’re here, alive in the woods, safe and hidden.
The next sound that escapes me is guttural and raw.
I’m sobbing.
Real, rib-cracking sobs.
I curl up on the mossy ground and vent my feels in a messy explosion of sound that hurts to expel.
I can’t be certain, but I’m pretty sure these are the same bees from the bee boxes. There are never any guarantees bees will make it when they’re violently evicted from their old homes.
But I think these guys did.
They’re alive, busy, and so close.
Slowly, I clamber forward until I can just about make out the hive in the darkness.
It’s huge, built into a dark shape bigger than a tree. Some sort of ancient, half-collapsed shed or wooden hunting blind, I realize.
The air is thick with bees, and their loud droning echoes in my bones.
It reminds me of good things, of home, of Grandma, of Archer and his kisses, and it’s such a sweet relief I almost pass out.
But I won’t until I see them.
Closer, closer, until the noise surrounds me like dull static.
They’re dormant at night, but a few lazy blind bees tangle in my hair, landing on my arms before lifting off again.
I don’t care.
This is the miracle I needed.
Almost all the light has bled out now and we’re well into gloom and shadows.
My hand shakes as I reach the side of the shed, peeling back a piece of rotted board to take a piece of the honeycomb.
The buzzing turns deafening and the bees sound angry.
They really don’t like bandits coming for their goods at night.
Crap. I need to get out of here soon or I might win the most ironic death ever.
Even if I’m friendly, to them I’m a threat, and there’s nothing to protect me if they get riled up enough to attack.
No, they can’t see well in the dark, but a few hundred drones will find their target if I’m right on top of them.
Grunting with effort, I work quickly, breaking off a small chunk of honeycomb to take.
“I’m sorry, guys. You know I’ll get you back someday, I promise.”
The buzzing intensifies. A few bees flit past my head like screaming bullets.
But I stagger backward, retreating, whispering more apologies.
Maybe they’re still about as exhausted as I am from having fled their hives and built up busy new ones. Or maybe it’s just the dark.
Either way, they don’t chase me into the night.
I’m clumsy, though.
It takes too long to put some healthy distance between me and the hive. Finally, after a few parting stings for my trouble, I stumble off to safety.
I set the honeycomb on my lap and rip a couple leftover stingers out of my skin.
My fingers are sausages. I have to try several times before they’re out.
Six pulsing stings add to the cacophony of pain bouncing around my body. But I have the honeycomb, and that means I have precious food that won’t upset my stomach. A little sugar, simple to digest, which hopefully means the energy to avoid passing out.
When I run my tongue cautiously across it, I make another discovery—one which means almost as much as the bees.
This has to be the purple honey.
It’s too dark to see it, but the taste gives it away even before I notice that dim telltale glow.
I spent half the summer loving this flavor. There’s something distinct about it, rich and sweet without being overwhelming. It’s almost like fine wine or chocolate, and it cleans the foul taste from my mouth.
And I realize any healing properties it has won’t magically save me, but right now I need all the help I can get.
A little glucose to keep my brain working, plus whatever enzymes are in this stuff.
I will survive.
My hands are greedy as my nausea lifts and the hunger hits again. I break off large bits of honeycomb and cram them in my mouth. Soon, I go full hangry Pooh Bear, wiping honey off my chin and licking it off the back of my hand.
No, I’m not pretty right now.
I’m determined.
Luck hasn’t been on my side lately, but this tastes a little like destiny.
I’m feeling more lucid by the minute as my body pumps glucose into my blood, more aware of my surroundings than I have been since yesterday, even as the night gets denser and the woods turn eerie.