Thursday 23 February 2012

scorch trials




ALSO BY JAMES DASHNER
The Maze Runner
The 13th Reality Series
The Journal of Curious Letters
The Hunt for Dark Infinity
The Blade of Shattered Hope

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents either are the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2010 by James Dashner
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by
Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House
Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc.,
New York.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the
colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Visit us on the Web! www.randomhouse.com/teens
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching
tools, visit us at www.randomhouse.com/teachers
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Dashner, James. The Scorch Trials / James Dashner.
— 1st ed.
p. cm.
Sequel to: The maze runner.
Summary: After surviving horrific conditions in the
Maze, Thomas is entrapped, along with nineteen other
boys, in a scientific experiment designed to observe
their responses and gather data believed to be
essential for the survival of the human race.
eISBN: 978-0-375-89611-8 [1. Survival—Fiction. 2.
Science fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.D2587Sc 2010
[Fic]—dc22
2010021189
Random House Children’s Books supports the First
Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
v3.1
For Wesley, Bryson, Kayla and Dallin. Best kids ever.

Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author

CHAPTER 1
She spoke to him before the world fell apart.
Hey, are you still asleep?
Thomas shifted in his bed, felt a darkness around
him like air turned solid, pressing in. At first he
panicked; his eyes snapped open as he imagined
himself back in the Box—that horrible cube of cold
metal that had delivered him to the Glade and the
Maze. But there was a faint light, and lumps of dim
shadow gradually emerged throughout the huge room.
Bunk beds. Dressers. The soft breaths and gurgly
snores of boys deep in slumber.
Relief filled him. He was safe now, rescued and
delivered to this dormitory. No more worries. No more
Grievers. No more death.
Tom?
A voice in his head. A girl’s. Not audible, not visible.
But he heard it all the same, though never could he
have explained to anyone how it worked.
Exhaling a deep breath, he relaxed into his pillow,
his razor-edged nerves settling down from that fleeting
moment of terror. He spoke back, forming the words
with his thoughts.
Teresa? What time is it?
No idea, she replied. But I can’t sleep. I probably
dozed for an hour or so. Maybe more. I was hoping
you were awake to keep me company.
Thomas tried not to smile. Even though she wouldn’t
be able to see it, it would be embarrassing all the
same. Didn’t give me much choice in the matter, did
you? Kind of hard to sleep when someone’s talking
directly into your skull.
Waa, waa. Go back to bed, then.
No. I’m good. He stared at the bottom of the bunk
above him—featureless and darkly fuzzy in the shadow
—where Minho was currently breathing like a guy with
ungodly amounts of phlegm lodged in his throat.
What’ve you been thinking about?
What do you think? Somehow she projected a jab
of cynicism into the words. I keep seeing Grievers.
Their disgusting skin and blubber bodies, all those
metal arms and spikes. It was way too close for
comfort, Tom. How’re we gonna get something like
that out of our heads?
Thomas knew what he thought. Those images would
never leave—the Gladers would be haunted by the
horrible things that had happened in the Maze for the
rest of their lives. He figured that most if not all of them
would have major psychological problems. Maybe
even go completely nutso.
And above it all, he had one image burned into his
memories as strongly as a branded mark from a
searing hot iron. His friend Chuck, stabbed in the
chest, bleeding, dying as Thomas held him.
Thomas knew he would never forget that. But what
he said to Teresa was: It’ll go away. Just takes a little
time, that’s all.
You’re so full of it, she said.
I know. How ridiculous was it that he loved hearing
her say something like that to him? That her sarcasm
meant things were going to be okay? You’re an idiot,
he told himself, then hoped she didn’t hear that thought.
I hate that they separated me from you guys, she
said.
Thomas understood why they had, though. She was
the only girl and the rest of the Gladers were teenage
boys—a bunch of shanks they didn’t trust yet. Guess
they were protecting you.
Yeah. I guess. Melancholy seeped into his brain with
her words, stuck to them like syrup. But it sucks being
alone after everything we went through.
Where’d they take you, anyway? She sounded so
sad that he almost wanted to get up and look for her,
but he knew better.
Just on the other side of that big common room
where we ate last night. It’s a small room with a few
bunks. I’m pretty sure they locked the door when they
left. See, told ya they wanted to protect you. Then he
quickly added, Not that you need protecting. I’d put
my money on you against at least half these shanks.
Only half?
Okay, three-quarters. Including me.
A long stretch of silence followed, though somehow
Thomas could still sense her presence. He felt her. It
was almost like how, even though he couldn’t see
Minho, he knew his friend lay only a few feet above
him. And it wasn’t just the snoring. When someone is
close by, you just know it.
Despite all the memories of the last few weeks,
Thomas was surprisingly calm, and soon sleep
overpowered him once more. Darkness settled on his
world, but she was there, next to him in so many ways.
Almost … touching.
He had no concept of time passing while in that
state. Half asleep, half enjoying her presence and the
thought that they’d been rescued from that horrible
place. That they were safe, that he and Teresa could
get to know each other all over again. That life could be
good.
Blissful sleep. Hazy darkness. Warmth. A physical
glow. Almost floating.
The world seemed to fade away. All became numb
and sweet. And the darkness, somehow comforting.
He slipped into a dream.
He’s very young. Four, maybe? Five? Lying in a bed
with blankets pulled to his chin.
A woman sits next to him, her hands folded in her
lap. She has long brown hair, a face just beginning to
show signs of age. Her eyes are sad. He knows this
even though she’s trying very hard to hide it with a
smile.
He wants to say something, ask her a question. But
he can’t. He’s not really here. Just witnessing it all from
a place he doesn’t quite understand. She begins to
talk, a sound so simultaneously sweet and angry it
disturbs him.
“I don’t know why they chose you, but I do know this.
You’re special somehow. Never forget that. And never
forget how much”—her voice cracks and tears run
down her face—“never forget how much I love you.”
The boy replies, but it’s not really Thomas speaking.
Even though it is him. None of it makes sense. “Are
you gonna be crazy like all those people on TV,
Mommy? Like … Daddy?”
The woman reaches out and runs her fingers through
his hair. Woman? No, he can’t call her that. This is his
mother. His … mommy.
“Don’t you worry about that, honey,” she says. “You
won’t be here to see it.”
Her smile has gone away.
Too fast the dream faded into blackness, leaving
Thomas in a void with nothing but his thoughts. Had he
seen another memory crawl up from the depths of his
amnesia? Had he really seen his mom? There’d been
something about his dad being crazy. The ache inside
Thomas was deep and gnawing, and he tried to sink
further into oblivion.
Later—how much later he had no idea—Teresa
spoke to him again.
Tom, something’s wrong.

CHAPTER 2
That was how it started. He heard Teresa say those
three words, but it seemed from far away, as if spoken
down a long and cluttered tunnel. His slumber had
become a viscous liquid, thick and sticky, trapping him.
He became aware of himself, but realized he was
removed from the world, entombed by exhaustion. He
couldn’t wake up.
Thomas!
She screamed it. A piercing rattle in his head. He felt
the first trickle of fear, but it was more like a dream. He
could only sleep. And they were safe now, nothing to
worry about anymore. Yeah, it had to be a dream.
Teresa was fine, they were all fine. He relaxed again,
let himself drown in slumber.
Other sounds snuck their way into his
consciousness. Thumps. The clang of metal against
metal. Something shattering. Boys shouting. More like
the echo of shouts, very distant, muted. Suddenly they
became more like screams. Unearthly cries of
anguish. But still distant. As if he’d been wrapped in a
thick cocoon of dark velvet.
Finally something pricked the comfort of sleep. This
wasn’t right. Teresa had called for him, told him
something was wrong! He fought the deep sleep that
had consumed him, clawed at the heavy weight pinning
him down.
Wake up! he yelled at himself. Wake up!
Then something disappeared from inside him. There
one instant, gone the next. He felt as if a major organ
one instant, gone the next. He felt as if a major organ
had just been ripped from his body.
It had been her. She was gone.
Teresa! he screamed out with his mind. Teresa! Are
you there?
But there was nothing, and he no longer felt that
comforting sense of her closeness. He called her
name again, then again, as he continued to struggle
against the dark pull of sleep.
Finally, reality swept in, washed away the darkness.
Engulfed in terror, Thomas opened his eyes and shot
to a sitting position on his bed, scooted out until he got
his feet under him and jumped up. Looked around.
Everything had gone crazy.
The other Gladers in the room were running around,
shouting. And terrible, horrible, awful sounds filled the
air, like the wretched squeals of animals being
tortured. There was Frypan, pointing out a window, his
face pale. Newt and Minho were running to the door.
Winston, hands held up to his frightened, acne-plagued
face like he’d just seen a flesh–eating zombie. Others
stumbling over each other to look out the different
windows, but keeping their distance from the glass.
Achingly, Thomas realized he didn’t even know most of
the names of the twenty boys who’d survived the Maze,
an odd thought to have in the middle of all that chaos.
Something at the corner of his eye made him turn to
look toward the wall. What he saw immediately wiped
away any peace and safety he’d felt talking to Teresa
in the night. Made him doubt such emotions could even
exist in the same world in which he now stood.
Three feet from his bed, draped by colorful curtains,
a window looked out into a bright, blinding light. The
glass was broken, jagged shards leaning against
crisscrossed steel bars. A man stood on the other
side, gripping the bars with bloody hands. His eyes
were wide and bloodshot, filled with madness. Sores
and scars covered his thin, sun–burnt face. He had no
hair, only diseased splotches of what looked like
greenish moss. A vicious slit stretched across his right
cheek; Thomas could see teeth through the raw,
festering wound. Pink saliva dribbled in swaying lines
from the man’s chin.
“I’m a Crank!” the horror of a man yelled. “I’m a
bloody Crank!”
And then he started screaming two words over and
over and over, spit flying with every shriek.
“Kill me! Kill me! Kill me! …”

CHAPTER 3
A hand slammed down on Thomas’s shoulder from
behind; he cried out and spun around to see Minho
staring past him at the maniac screaming through the
window.
“They’re everywhere,” Minho said. His voice had a
gloom to it that perfectly matched how Thomas felt. It
seemed as if everything they’d dared hope for the
previous night had dissolved to nothing. “And there’s
no sign of those shanks who rescued us,” he added.
Thomas had lived in fear and terror the past few
weeks, but this was almost too much. To feel safe only
to have that snatched away again. Shocking even
himself, though, he quickly set aside that small part of
him that wanted to jump back into his bed and bawl his
eyes out. He pushed away the lingering ache of
remembering his mom and the stuff about his dad and
people going crazy. Thomas knew that someone had
to take charge—they needed a plan if they were going
to survive this, too.
“Have any of them gotten in yet?” he asked, a
strange calm washing over him. “Do all the windows
have these bars?”
Minho nodded toward one of the many lining the
walls of the long rectangular room. “Yeah. It was too
dark to notice them last night, especially with those
stupid frilly curtains. But I’m sure glad for ’em.”
Thomas looked at the Gladers around them, some
running from window to window to get a look outside,
others huddling in small groups. Everyone had a look
of half disbelief, half terror. “Where’s Newt?”
“Right here.”
Thomas turned to see the older boy, not knowing
how he’d missed him. “What’s goin’ on?”
“You think I have a bloody clue? Bunch of crazies
want to eat us for breakfast, by the looks of it. We need
to find another room, have a Gathering. All this noise is
driving nails through my buggin’ skull.”
Thomas nodded absently; he agreed with the plan
but hoped Newt and Minho would take care of it. He
was eager to make contact with Teresa—he hoped her
warning had just been part of a dream, a hallucination
from the drug of deep and exhausted slumber. And that
vision of his mom …
His two friends moved away, calling out and waving
their arms to collect Gladers. Thomas took a tremulous
glance back at the shredded madman at the window,
then looked away immediately, wishing he hadn’t
reminded his brain of the blood and torn flesh, the
insane eyes, the hysterical screaming.
Kill me! Kill me! Kill me!
Thomas stumbled to the farthest wall, leaned heavily
against it.
Teresa, he called out again with his mind. Teresa.
Can you hear me?
He waited, closing his eyes to concentrate.
Reaching out with invisible hands, trying to grasp some
trace of her. Nothing. Not even a passing shadow or
brush of feeling, much less a response.
Teresa, he said more urgently, clenching his teeth
with the effort. Where are you? What happened?
Nothing. His heart seemed to slow until it almost
stopped, and he felt like he’d swallowed a big hairy
lump of cotton. Something had happened to her.
He opened his eyes to see the Gladers gathered
around the green-painted door that led to the common
area where they’d eaten pizza the night before. Minho
was jerking on the round brass handle to no avail.
Locked.
The only other door was to a shower and locker
room, from which no other exits existed. There was
that, and the windows. All with those metal bars. Thank
goodness. Each one had raging lunatics screaming
and yelling on the other side.
Even though worry ate at him like spilled acid in his
veins, Thomas gave up momentarily on trying to
contact Teresa and joined the other Gladers. Newt was
having a go at the door, with the same useless result.
“It’s locked,” he muttered when he finally gave up, his
arms falling weakly to his sides.
“Really, genius?” Minho said, his powerful arms
folded and tensed, veins bulging all over the place.
Thomas thought for a split second he could actually
see the blood pumping through them. “No wonder you
were named after Isaac Newton—such an amazing
ability to think.”
Newt wasn’t in the mood. Or maybe he’d just learned
long ago to ignore Minho’s smart-aleck remarks. “Let’s
break this bloody handle off.” He looked around as if
he expected someone to give him a sledgehammer.
“I wish those shuck … Cranks would shut up!” Minho
yelled, turning to glower at the closest one, a woman
who looked even more hideous than the first man
Thomas had seen. A bleeding wound crossed her
face, ending on the side of her head.
face, ending on the side of her head.
“Cranks?” Frypan repeated. The hairy cook had
been silent until then, barely noticeable. Thomas
thought he looked even more frightened than when
they’d been about to battle the Grievers to escape the
Maze. Maybe this was worse. When they’d settled into
bed last night, everything had seemed good and safe.
Yeah, maybe this was worse, to have that suddenly
taken away.
Minho pointed at the screaming, bloody woman.
“That’s what they keep calling themselves. Haven’t you
heard it?”
“I don’t care if you call ’em pussy willows,” Newt
snapped. “Find me something to break through this
stupid door!”
“Here,” a shorter boy said, carrying a slender but
solid fire extinguisher he’d taken off the wall—Thomas
remembered seeing it earlier. Again, he felt guilty for
not even knowing this kid’s name.
Newt grabbed the red cylinder, ready to pile-drive
the door handle. Thomas stood as close as he could,
eager to see what was on the other side of the door,
though he had a very bad feeling that whatever it was,
they weren’t going to like it.
Newt lifted the extinguisher, then slammed it down
on the round brass handle. The loud crack was
accompanied by a deeper crunch, and it took only
three more whacks before the entire unit of the handle
crashed to the floor with a jangle of broken metal
pieces. The door inched outward, cracked open just
enough to show darkness on the other side.
Newt stood quietly, staring at that long, narrow gap
of blackness as if he expected demons from the
underworld to come flying through. Absently, he handed
the extinguisher back to the boy who’d found it. “Let’s
go,” he said. Thomas thought he heard the slightest
quaver in his voice.
“Wait,” Frypan called out. “We sure we wanna go out
there? Maybe that door was locked for a reason.”
Thomas couldn’t help but agree; something felt
wrong about this.
Minho stepped up to stand right next to Newt; he
looked back at Frypan, then made eye contact with
Thomas. “What else’re we gonna do? Sit here and
wait for those loonies to get in? Come on.”
“Those freaks aren’t breaking through the window
bars anytime soon,” Frypan retorted. “Let’s just think
for a second”
“Time for thinking’s done,” Minho said. He kicked out
with his foot and the door swung completely open; if
anything, it seemed to grow even darker on the other
side. “Plus, you should’ve spoken up before we
blasted the lock to bits, slinthead. Too late now.”
“I hate when you’re right,” Frypan grumbled under his
breath.
Thomas couldn’t quit staring past the open door, into
the pool of inky darkness. He felt a now-all-too-familiar
clench of apprehension, knowing that something had to
be wrong or the people who’d rescued them would’ve
come for them a long time ago. But Minho and Newt
were right—they had to go out there and find some
answers.
“Shuck it,” Minho said. “I’ll go first.”
Without waiting for a response he walked through
the open door, his body vanishing in the gloom almost
instantly. Newt gave Thomas a hesitant look, then
followed. For some reason Thomas thought it should
be up to him to go next, so he did.
Step by step, he left the dorm room and entered the
darkness of the common area, hands reaching out in
front of him.
The glow of light coming from behind didn’t do much
to illuminate things; he might as well have been walking
with his eyes squeezed shut. And the place smelled.
Horrible.
Minho yelped up ahead, then called back. “Whoa, be
careful. Something … weird’s hanging from the ceiling.

Thomas heard a slight squeak or groan, something
creaking. As if Minho had bumped into a low-hanging
chandelier, sending it swaying back and forth. A grunt
from Newt somewhere to the right was followed by the
squeal of metal dragging across the floor.
“Table,” Newt announced. “Watch out for tables.”
Frypan spoke up behind Thomas. “Does anyone
remember where the light switches were?”
“That’s where I’m heading,” Newt responded. “I
swear I remember seeing a set of them somewhere
over here.”
Thomas continued walking blindly forward. His eyes
had adjusted a little; where before, everything had
been a wall of blackness, now he could see traces of
shadows against shadows. Yet something was off. He
was still a little disoriented, but things seemed to be in
places they shouldn’t be. It was almost as if—
“Bluh-huh-huh,” Minho groaned, a shudder of
repulsion, like he’d just stepped in a pile of klunk.
Another creaking sound cut through the room.
Another creaking sound cut through the room.
Before Thomas could ask what had happened, he
bumped into something himself. Hard. Awkwardly
shaped. The feel of cloth.
“Found it!” Newt shouted.
A few clicks were heard; then the room suddenly
blazed with fluorescent lights, temporarily blinding
Thomas. He stumbled away from the thing he’d
bumped into, rubbing his eyes, ran into another stiff
figure, sent it swaying away from him.
“Whoa!” Minho yelled.
Thomas squinted; his vision cleared. He forced
himself to look at the scene of horror around him.
Throughout the large room, people hung from the
ceiling—at least a dozen. They’d all been strung up by
the neck, the ropes twisted and trenched into purple,
bloated skin. The stiff bodies swung to and fro ever so
slightly, pale pink tongues lolling out of their whitelipped
mouths. All of them had eyes open, though
glazed over with certain death. By the looks of it, they’d
been that way for hours. Their clothes and some of
their faces looked familiar.
Thomas dropped to his knees.
He knew these dead people.
They were the ones who’d rescued the Gladers. Just
the day before.

CHAPTER 4
Thomas tried not to look at any of the dead bodies as
he stood up. He half walked, half stumbled over to
Newt, who was still by the bank of light switches, his
terrified gaze darting between the corpses hanging
throughout the room.
Minho joined them, swearing under his breath. Other
Gladers were emerging from the dorm room, shouting
as they realized what they were seeing; Thomas heard
a couple of them throw up, gagging and spitting. He felt
the sudden urge himself, but fought it. What had
happened? How could everything be taken away from
them so fast? His stomach tightened up as despair
threatened to bowl him over.
Then he remembered Teresa.
Teresa! he called out with his mind. Teresa! Again
and again, mentally screaming it with his eyes closed
and jaw clenched. Where are you!
“Tommy,” Newt said, reaching out to squeeze his
shoulder. “What’s bloody wrong with you?”
Thomas opened his eyes, realized he was doubled
over, arms wrapped around his stomach. He slowly
straightened, tried to push away the panic eating him
inside. “What … what do you think? Look around us.”
“Yeah, but you looked like you were in pain or
something.”
“I’m fine—just trying to reach her in my mind. But I
can’t.” He wasn’t fine. He hated reminding the others
that he and Teresa could speak telepathically. And if all
these people were dead … “We’ve gotta find where
these people were dead … “We’ve gotta find where
they put her,” he blurted out, grasping urgently for a
task to clear his mind. He scanned the room, trying his
best not to focus on the corpses, looking for a door that
might lead to her room. She’d said it was across the
common area from where they’d all slept.
There. A yellow door with a brass handle.
“He’s right,” Minho said to the group. “Spread out,
find her!”
“Might’ve already.” Thomas was on the move,
surprised at how quickly he’d recovered his senses.
He ran toward the door, dodging tables and bodies.
She had to be in there, safe like they’d been. The door
was closed; that was a good sign. Probably locked.
Maybe she’d fallen into a deep sleep like him. That
was why she’d been quiet, unresponsive.
He had almost reached the door when he
remembered that they might need something to break
into the room. “Someone grab that fire extinguisher!”
he yelled over his shoulder. The smell in the common
area was horrendous; he gagged as he sucked in a
deep breath.
“Winston, go get it,” Minho ordered behind him.
Thomas reached the door first and tried the handle.
It didn’t budge, locked tight. Then he noticed a small,
clear-plastic display hanging on the wall to the right,
about five inches square. A sheet of paper had been
slipped into the thin slot, several words typed on its
surface.
Teresa Agnes. Group A, Subject Al .
The Betrayer.
Oddly, the thing that stood out the most to Thomas was
Teresa’s last name. Or at least, what appeared to be
her last name. Agnes. He didn’t know why, but it
surprised him. Teresa Agnes. He couldn’t think of
anyone within the splotchy knowledge of history floating
in his still-scarce memories who matched that name.
He himself had been renamed after Thomas Edison,
the great inventor. But Teresa Agnes? He’d never
heard of her.
Of course, all their names were more of a joke than
anything, probably a callous way for the Creators
—WICKED or whoever had done this to them—to
distance themselves from the real people they’d stolen
from real mothers and fathers. Thomas couldn’t wait
until the day he learned what he’d been called at birth,
what name lay stamped in the minds of his parents,
whoever they were. Wherever they were.
The sketchy memories he’d initially regained from
going through the Changing had made him think that
he didn’t have parents who loved him. That whoever
they were, they didn’t want him. That he’d been taken
from horrible circumstances. But now he refused to
believe it, especially after having dreamed about his
mom during the night.
Minho snapped his fingers in front of Thomas’s
eyes. “Hello? Calling Thomas? Not a good time to
daydream. Lots of dead bodies, smells like Frypan’s
pits. Wake up.”
Thomas turned to him. “Sorry. Just thought it was
weird that Teresa’s last name was Agnes.”
Minho clucked his tongue. “Who cares about that?
What’s this freakin’ stuff about her being the Betrayer?”
“And what’s ‘Group A, Subject A1’ mean?” This was
Newt, who handed over the fire extinguisher to
Thomas. “Anyway, your turn to break a buggin’ door
handle.”
Thomas grabbed it, suddenly angry at himself for
wasting even a few seconds thinking about the stupid
label. Teresa was in there, and she needed their help.
Trying not to be bothered by the word betrayer, he
gripped the cylinder and slammed it against the brass
knob. A jolt ran up his arms as the clang of metal
against metal rang through the air. He’d felt it give a
little, and two smashes later the handle fell off and the
door popped open an inch or two.
Thomas threw the extinguisher to the side and
grabbed the door, swung it all the way out. Itchy
anticipation mixed with dread at what he might find. He
was the first to step into the lighted room.
It was a smaller version of the boys’ dorm, just four
bunk beds, two dressers and a closed door,
presumably leading to another bathroom. All the beds
were made up nicely except one, its blankets tossed to
the side and a pillow hanging off the edge, the sheet
rumpled. But there was no sign of Teresa.
“Teresa!” Thomas called out, his throat straining with
panic as he yelled.
The swirly, swooshing sound of a toilet flushing came
through the closed door and a sudden relief burst
through Thomas. It was so strong he almost had to sit
down. She was here, she was safe. He steadied
himself and started walking toward the bathroom, but
Newt reached out and grabbed his arm.
“You’re used to living with a bunch of boys,” Newt
said. “I don’t think it’s polite to go stomping into the
bloody ladies’ room. Just wait till she comes out.”
“Then we need to get everybody in here and have a
Gathering,” Minho added. “It doesn’t stink in here, and
there aren’t any windows for Cranks to scream at us.”
Thomas hadn’t noticed the lack of windows until that
moment, though it should’ve been the most obvious
thing, considering the chaos of their own dorm room.
Cranks. He’d almost forgotten.
“I wish she’d hurry up,” he murmured.
“I’ll get everyone over here,” Minho said; he turned
and walked back into the common area.
Thomas stared at the bathroom door. Newt and
Frypan and a few other Gladers pushed their way into
the room and took seats on the beds, all of them
leaning forward, elbows on knees, rubbing their hands
together absently, the anxiety and worry evident in their
body language.
Teresa? Thomas said in his mind. Can you hear
me? We’re waiting for you out here.
No response. And he still felt that bubble of
emptiness, as if her presence itself had been
permanently taken away.
There was a click. The handle on the door to the
bathroom turned; then the door opened, swinging
toward Thomas. He stepped forward, ready to pull
Teresa into a hug—he didn’t care who was there to
see it. But the person who walked into the dorm room
wasn’t Teresa. Thomas stopped midstride and almost
tripped. Everything inside him seemed to fall.
It was a boy.
He wore the same kind of clothes they’d all been
given the night before—clean pajamas with a button-up
shirt and flannel pants, light blue. He had olive skin,
and his dark hair was cut surprisingly short. The look of
innocent surprise on his face was the only thing that
prevented Thomas from grabbing the shank by the
collar and shaking him until some answers came out.
“Who are you?” Thomas asked, not caring that the
words sounded harsh.
“Who am I?” the boy responded, somewhat
sarcastically. “Who are you?”
Newt had gotten back to his feet, actually standing
even closer to the new guy than Thomas was. “Don’t
bloody mess around. There are a lot more of us than
there are of you. Tell us who you are.”
The boy folded his arms, a defiance coming over his
whole body. “Fine. My name’s Aris. What else you
wanna know?”
Thomas wanted to punch the guy. Him acting all high
and mighty while Teresa was missing. “How’d you get
here? Where’s the girl who slept here last night?”
“Girl? What girl? I’m the only one here, and it’s been
that way since they put me here last night.”
Thomas turned to point back in the direction of the
door to the common area. “There’s a sign right out
there that says this is her room. Teresa … Agnes. No
mention of a shank named Aris.”
Something in his tone must’ve made the boy realize
this wasn’t a joke. He held out his hands in a
conciliatory gesture. “Look, man, I don’t know what
you’re talking about. They put me in here last night, I
slept in that bed”—he pointed to the one with the
rumpled sheet and blanket—“and I woke up about five
minutes ago and took a pee. Never heard the name
Teresa Agnes in my life. Sorry.”
The brief moment of relief Thomas had felt when
he’d heard the toilet flush officially shattered. He
shared a look with Newt, not knowing what to ask next.
Newt shrugged slightly, then turned back to Aris.
“Who put you in here last night?”
Aris threw his arms up in the air, then let them come
back down and slap against his sides. “I don’t even
know, man. A bunch of people with guns who rescued
us, told us everything would be okay now.”
“Rescued you from what?” Thomas asked. This was
getting weird. Really, really weird.
Aris looked down at the floor and his shoulders fell. It
looked as if a wave of some terrible memory had
washed over him. He sighed, then finally looked back
up at Thomas and answered.
“From the Maze, man. From the Maze.”

CHAPTER 5
Something softened in Thomas. This kid wasn’t lying
—he could just tell. The look of horror that had taken
hold of Aris was one he knew well. Thomas had felt it
himself and had seen it on too many other faces. He
knew exactly what kind of terrible memories made
someone look like that. He also knew that Aris had no
clue what had happened to Teresa.
“Maybe you should sit down,” Thomas said. “I think
we have a lot to talk about.”
“What do you mean?” Aris asked. “Who are you
guys? Where’d you come from?”
Thomas let out a slight laugh. “The Maze. The
Grievers. WICKED. You name it.” So much had
happened, where could he start? Not to mention that
worry over Teresa was making his head spin, making
him want to run out of the room and search for her
immediately, but he stayed.
“You’re lying,” Aris said, his voice having dropped to
a whisper, his face now a full shade paler.
“No, we’re not,” Newt responded. “Tommy’s right.
We need to talk. Sounds like we’ve come from similar
places.”
“Who’s that guy?”
Thomas turned around to see that Minho had
returned, a pack of Gladers standing behind him on the
other side of the doorway. Their faces were scrunched
up in disgust at the smell out there, their eyes still full of
the terror of seeing what filled the room just behind
them.
“Minho, meet Aris,” Thomas said, taking a step to
the side and gesturing toward the other boy. “Aris,
meet Minho.”
Minho stuttered out a few unintelligible words, as if
he couldn’t quite decide where to start.
“Look,” Newt said. “Let’s take down these top beds
and move them around the room. Then we can all sit
and figure out what’s bloody going on.”
Thomas shook his head. “No. First, we need to go
find Teresa. She must be in some other room.”
“Isn’t one,” Minho said.
“What do you mean?”
“I just checked this whole place out. There’s the big
common area, this room, our dorm room, and some
seriously shucked doors that lead outside—where we
came in from the bus yesterday. Locked and chained
from the inside. Doesn’t make any sense, but I don’t
see any other doors or exits.”
Thomas shook his head in confusion. It felt like a
million spiders had just spun cobwebs through his
brain. “But … what about last night? Where’d the food
come from? Didn’t anyone notice other rooms, a
kitchen, anything?” He looked around, hoping for an
answer, but no one said a word.
“Maybe there’s a hidden door,” Newt finally said.
“Look, we can only do one thing at a time. We need
to—”
“No!” Thomas shouted. “We’ve got all day to talk to
this Aris guy. The label by the door said Teresa should
be here somewhere—we need to find her!”
Without waiting for a response, he headed for the
door back to the common area, pushing his way past
boys until he was through. The smell hit him as if a
bucket of raw sewage had been spilled over his head.
The bloated and purple bodies hung like carcasses of
game set out by hunters to dry. Their lifeless eyes
stared back at him.
A familiar, sickening tickle of revulsion filled his
stomach and triggered his gag reflex. Closing his eyes
for a second, he willed his insides to settle. When they
finally did, he began his search for some sign of
Teresa, concentrating with all his might on not looking
at the dead people.
But then a horrible thought struck him. What if she …
He ran through the room, searching the faces of the
bodies. None of them was her. Relief dissolved the
fleeting moment of panic, and he focused on the room
itself.
The walls surrounding the common area were as
plain as could be; smooth plaster painted white, no
decoration of any kind. And for some reason, no
windows. He walked quickly around its entire
circumference, running his left hand along the wall as
he did so. He came to the door to the boys’ dorm
room, went past it, then made it to the big entrance
through which they’d come the day before. There had
been a torrential downpour at the time, which seemed
impossible now, considering the bright sun he’d seen
shining behind the crazy man earlier.
The entrance—or exit—consisted of two large steel
doors, their surfaces a shiny silver. And just like Minho
said, a massive chain—with links a full inch thick—had
been threaded through the handles on the doors and
pulled tight, two big key locks snapped shut to keep it
that way. Thomas reached out and pulled on the chains
to check their strength. The metal felt cool under his
hands, and it didn’t give at all.
He expected thumps from the other side—Cranks
trying to get in just as they were at the windows in the
dorm room. But the room remained silent. The only
sounds were muted and coming from the two dorms
—distant shouts and screams from the Cranks and
murmurs of conversation from the Gladers.
Frustrated, Thomas continued his trek along the
walls until he made it back to the room that was
supposed to be Teresa’s. Nothing, not even a crack or
seam to indicate another exit. The large room wasn’t
even a square—it was a big oval, round and
cornerless.
He was completely perplexed. He thought back to
the night before, when they’d all sat there and eaten
pizza like the starved people they’d been. Surely they’d
seen other doors, a kitchen, something. But the more
he thought about it, the more he tried to picture what
things had looked like, the fuzzier it became. An alarm
went off in his head—their brains had been tinkered
with before. Had it happened again? Had their
memories been altered or wiped?
And what had happened to Teresa?
Desperate, he thought about crawling across the
floor to look for a trapdoor or something—some clue to
what had happened. But he couldn’t spend another
minute with all those rotting bodies. The only thing left
was the new kid. He sighed and turned back to the
small room where they’d found him. Aris had to know
something that would help.
Just as Newt had ordered, the top beds had been
unhooked from the lower ones and placed around the
room against the walls, creating enough space for the
nineteen other Gladers and Aris to sit in a circle,
everyone facing each other.
When Minho saw Thomas, he patted an empty spot
next to him. “Told ya, dude. Have a seat and let’s talk.
We waited on you. But close that shuck door as much
as you can first—smells worse than Gally’s rotting feet
out there.”
Without responding, Thomas pulled the door shut,
then walked over and sat down. He wanted to sink his
head into his hands, but he didn’t. Nothing indicated for
sure that any kind of danger threatened Teresa.
Something weird was going on, but there could be a
million explanations, and plenty of them included her
being okay.
Newt was one bed to the right, sitting so far forward
that just the edge of his butt rested on the mattress. “All
right, let’s get started on the bloody storytellin’ so we
can get to the real problem—finding something to eat.”
Right on cue, Thomas felt a hunger pang, heard his
stomach growl. That problem hadn’t even occurred to
him yet. Water would be fine—they had the bathrooms
—but there was no sign of food anywhere.
“Good that,” Minho said. “Talk, Aris. Tell us
everything.”
The new boy was directly across the room from
Thomas—the Gladers sitting to each side of the
stranger had scooted to the far ends of the bed. Aris
shook his head. “No way. You guys go first.”
“Yeah?” Minho responded. “How about we all just
take turns beating the living klunk out of your shuck
take turns beating the living klunk out of your shuck
face? Then we’ll ask you to talk again.”
“Minho,” Newt said sternly. “There’s no reason—”
Minho pointed sharply at Aris. “Please, dude. For all
we know this shank could be one of the Creators.
Somebody from WICKED, here to spy on us. He
could’ve killed those people out there—he’s the only
one we don’t know and the doors and windows are
locked! I’m sick of him acting all snooty when we’ve got
twenty guys to his one. He should talk first.”
Thomas groaned on the inside. One thing he knew
was that the kid would never open up if Minho terrified
him.
Newt sighed and looked over at Aris. “He’s got a
point. Just tell us what you meant about coming from
the buggin’ Maze. That’s where we escaped from, and
we obviously haven’t met you.”
Aris rubbed his eyes, then met Newt’s gaze. “Fine,
listen. I was thrown into this gigantic maze made out of
huge stone walls—but before that my memory was
erased. I couldn’t remember anything about my life
from before. I just knew my name. I lived there with a
bunch of girls. There must’ve been fifty of them, and I
was the only boy. We escaped a few days ago—the
people who helped kept us in a big gym for a few days,
then moved me here last night—but no one explained
anything. What’s this stuff about you being in a maze,
too?”
Thomas barely heard the last few words of what Aris
had said over the sounds of surprise coming from the
other Gladers. Confusion swirled in his brain. Aris had
announced what he’d been through as simply and
quickly as describing a trip to the beach. But it seemed
crazy. Monumental, if true. Luckily someone voiced
exactly what Thomas was trying to sort out in his mind.
“Wait a minute,” Newt said. “You lived in a big maze,
on a farm, where walls closed every night? Just you
and a few dozen girls? Were there creatures called
Grievers? Were you the last one to arrive? And did
everything go buggin’ nuts when you did? Did you
come in a coma? With a note that said you were the
last one ever?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Aris was saying even before
Newt had finished. “How do you know all this? How …”
“It’s the same shuck experiment,” Minho said, the
earlier belligerence gone from his voice. “Or
same … whatever. But they had all girls and one boy,
we had all boys and one girl. WICKED must’ve built
two of those mazes, run two different tests!”
Thomas’s line of thinking had already accepted that.
He finally settled himself enough to speak. He looked
at Aris. “Did they call you the Trigger?”
Aris nodded, obviously as perplexed as anyone else
in the room.
“And could you …,” Thomas began, but hesitated.
He felt like every time he brought this up, he was
admitting to the world that he was crazy. “Could you
speak to one of those girls inside your mind? Ya know,
like telepathically?”
Aris’s eyes widened, staring deeply at Thomas as if
he’d understood a dark secret that only someone else
who shared it could understand.
Can you hear me?
The phrase appeared so clearly inside Thomas’s
mind that at first he thought Aris had spoken aloud. But
no—his lips hadn’t moved.
Can you hear me? the boy repeated.
Thomas hesitated, swallowed. Yes.
They killed her, Aris said back to him. They killed
my best friend.

CHAPTER 6
“What’s going on?” Newt asked, looking back and forth
between Thomas and Aris. “Why’re you guys looking at
each other like you just fell in love?”
“He can do it, too,” Thomas answered, not taking his
eyes off the new kid, seeing the others only in his
peripheral vision. That final statement by Aris had
terrified him; if they’d killed his telepathy partner …
“Do what?” Frypan asked.
“What do you think?” Minho said. “He’s a freak like
Thomas. They can talk in each other’s heads.”
Newt was glaring at Thomas now. “Serious?”
Thomas nodded and almost spoke to Aris in his
mind again, but said it out loud at the last second.
“Who killed her? What happened?”
“Who killed who?” Minho said. “No more of your
voodoo klunk while we’re around.”
Thomas, eyes watering now, finally broke his gaze
with Aris and looked over at Minho. “He had someone
he could do this with, just like I did. I mean … do. But
he said they killed her. I want to know who they are.”
Aris’s head had dropped; his eyes looked closed
from where Thomas sat. “I don’t really know who they
are. It’s too confusing. I couldn’t tell the bad guys from
the good guys. But I think somehow they made this girl
Beth … stab … my friend. Her name was Rachel.
She’s dead, man. She’s dead.” He covered his face
with both hands.
Thomas felt an almost painful prick of confusion.
Everything pointed to Aris’s having come from another
version of the Maze, set up in the same format except
with the ratio of girls to boys being switched. But that
would make Aris their version of Teresa. And this Beth
sounded like their version of Gally, who’d killed Chuck.
With a knife. Did that mean that Gally was supposed to
have killed Thomas instead?
But why was Aris here now? And where was Teresa?
Things that had almost started to click in his mind fell
apart again.
“Well, how’d you end up with us?” Newt asked.
“Where are all these girls you keep talking about? How
many of them escaped with you? Did they bring all of
you here or just you?”
Thomas couldn’t help but feel sorry for Aris. To get
grilled with all these questions after something like that
had happened. If the roles were switched, if Thomas
had seen Teresa get killed … Watching it happen to
Chuck had been bad enough.
Bad enough? he thought. Or was seeing Chuck die
worse? Thomas wanted to scream. At that moment,
everything in the world just sucked.
Aris looked up finally, wiped a couple of tears from
his cheeks. He did it without the slightest hint of
shame, and Thomas suddenly knew that he liked this
kid.
“Look,” the boy said. “I’m just as confused as
everyone else. About thirty of us survived, they took us
to that gym, fed us, cleaned us up. Then they brought
me to this place last night, saying I should be separate
since I’m a guy. That’s it. Then you sticks show up.”
“Sticks?” Minho repeated.
Aris shook his head. “Never mind. I don’t even know
what it means. Just a word they used when I got there.”
Minho exchanged a glance with Thomas, half
smiling. Looked like both groups had come up with
their own vocabulary.
“Hey,” one of the Gladers Thomas didn’t really know
called out. He was leaning against the wall behind Aris,
pointing at him. “What’s that on the side of your neck?
Something black, right below your collar.”
Aris tried to look down, but couldn’t bend his neck to
see that part of his body. “What?”
Thomas saw a dark splotch just above the back
neckline of the boy’s pajama shirt as he shifted around.
It appeared to be a thick line, stretching from the hollow
of his collarbone around to his back. And it was broken
up, like it might be lettering.
“Here, let me look,” Newt offered. He stood from the
bed and walked over, his limp—from something in the
past he’d never shared with Thomas—showing more
than usual. He reached out and pulled Aris’s shirt down
more so he could see the odd marking better.
“It’s a tattoo,” Newt said, squinting as if he didn’t
believe his eyes.
“What’s it say?” Minho asked, though he’d already
gotten up from the bed and approached to get his own
look.
When Newt didn’t answer right away, curiosity forced
Thomas to his feet, and soon he was right beside
Minho, leaning over to see the tattoo himself. What he
saw printed there in blocky letters made his heart skip
a beat.
Property of WICKED. Group B, Subject B1. The
Partner.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Minho asked.
“What does it say?” Aris asked, reaching around to
feel the skin of his neck and shoulders, pulling his shirt
collar down. “I swear it wasn’t there last night!”
Newt repeated the words to him, then said,
“Property of WICKED? I thought we’d escaped them.
Or you’d escaped them, too. Whatever.” He turned
around, visibly frustrated, and went back to sit down on
his bed.
“And why would it call you the Partner?” Minho said,
still staring at the tattoo.
Aris shook his head. “I don’t have a clue. I swear.
And there’s no way that was there before last night. I
showered, looked in the mirror. I would’ve seen it. And
someone would’ve noticed it back in the Maze for sure.

“You’re telling me they tattooed you in the middle of
the night?” Minho said. “Without you noticing? Come
on, dude.”
“I swear!” Aris insisted. Then he got up and went to
the bathroom, probably to try to see the words for
himself.
“I don’t believe a shuck word he says,” Minho
whispered to Thomas on his way back to his seat.
Then, just as he leaned forward to plop back down on
the mattress, his shirt shifted enough to reveal a thick
line of black on his neck.
“Whoa!” Thomas said. For a second, he was too
stunned to move.
“What?” Minho asked, looking at Thomas as if he’d
just sprouted a third ear on his forehead.
“Your—your neck,” Thomas finally got out. “You have
it on your neck, too!”
“What the shuck you talkin’ about?” Minho said,
pulling at his shirt, face scrunched up as he struggled
to see something he couldn’t.
Thomas ran over to Minho, slapped his hands away,
then pulled the neckline of the shirt back. “Holy … It’s
right there! Same thing, except …”
Thomas read the words to himself.
Property of WICKED. Group A, Subject A7. The
Leader.
“What, dude!” Minho yelled at him.
Most of the other Gladers had gathered in a tight
group behind Thomas, squeezing in to get a look.
Thomas quickly read the tattooed words out loud,
surprised he did it without stumbling on them.
“You’re kiddin’ me, man,” Minho said, standing up.
He pushed his way through the crowd of boys to follow
Aris to the bathroom.
And then the frenzy began. Thomas felt his own shirt
tugged down as he pulled at others. Everyone started
talking over everyone else.
“They all say Group A.”
“Property of WICKED, just like his.”
“You’re Subject A-thirteen.”
“Subject A-nineteen.”
“A-three.”
“A-ten.”
Thomas was slowly turning in a circle, dazed as he
watched the Gladers discover the tattoos on each
other. Most of them didn’t have the additional
designations like Aris and Minho, just the property line.
Newt was going from boy to boy, looking for himself,
his face set in stone as if he were concentrating on
memorizing the names and numbers. Then, quite by
accident, the two of them stood facing each other.
“What does mine say?” Newt asked.
Thomas pulled the neckline of Newt’s shirt to the
side, then leaned over to read the words etched into
his skin. “You’re Subject A-five and they called you the
Glue.”
Newt gave him a startled look. “The Glue?”
Thomas let go of his shirt and stepped back. “Yeah.
Probably because you’re kind of the glue that holds us
all together. I don’t know. Read mine.”
“I already did—”
Thomas noticed that an odd expression had come
over Newt’s face. One of hesitation. Or dread. Like he
didn’t want to tell Thomas what his tattoo said. “Well?”
“You’re Subject A-two,” Newt answered. Then he
lowered his eyes.
“And?” Thomas pushed.
Newt hesitated, then answered without looking at
him. “It doesn’t call you anything. It just says … ‘To be
killed by Group B.’ ”

CHAPTER 7
Thomas didn’t really have time to process what Newt
had said. He was actually trying to decide whether he
was more confused or scared when a clanging bell
began ringing throughout the room. He instinctively put
his hands to his ears and looked around at the others.
He noticed the perplexed recognition on their faces,
and then it hit him. It was the same sound he’d heard
back in the Maze right before Teresa had shown up in
the Box. That was the only time he’d heard it, and
trapped within the confines of a small room it was
different—stronger, laced with overlapping echoes.
Still, he was pretty sure it was the same. It was the
alarm used in the Glade to announce that a Newbie
had arrived.
And it wasn’t stopping; Thomas already felt a
headache forming behind his eyes.
The Gladers milled about the room, gawking at the
walls and the roof as if they were trying to figure out the
source of the noise. Some of them sat down on the
beds, hands pressed to the sides of their heads.
Thomas tried to find the source of the alarm as well,
but couldn’t see anything. No speakers, no heating or
air-conditioning vents in the walls, nothing. Just a
sound coming from everywhere at once.
Newt grabbed his arm, shouted in his ear. “It’s the
bloody Newbie alarm!”
“I know!”
“Why’s it ringing?”
Thomas shrugged, hoping his face didn’t betray how
annoyed he was. How was he supposed to know what
was going on?
Minho and Aris had reappeared from the bathroom,
both of them absently rubbing the backs of their necks
as they searched the room for answers. It didn’t take
long for them to realize that the others had similar
tattoos. Frypan had walked over to the door leading
back out to the common room and was just about to
touch the palm of his hand to the spot where the
broken handle used to be.
“Wait!” Thomas shouted on impulse. He ran over to
join Frypan at the door, sensing Newt right behind him.
“Why?” Frypan asked, his hand still hovering just
inches from the door.
“I don’t know,” Thomas replied, not sure if he could
even be heard over the clanging sounds. “It’s an alarm.
Maybe something really bad is happening.”
“Yeah!” Frypan yelled back. “And maybe we need to
get out of here!”
Without waiting to see what Thomas said, he
pushed the door. When it didn’t move, he pushed
harder. When it still didn’t budge, he leaned up against
it with his full weight, shoulder first.
Nothing. It was closed as tight as if it were bricked
shut.
“You broke the shuck handle!” Frypan screamed,
then slapped the door with the palm of his hand.
Thomas didn’t want to shout anymore; he was tired
and his throat hurt. He turned and leaned back against
the wall, folded his arms. Most of the Gladers seemed
as run-down as Thomas—sick of looking for answers
or a way out. All of them were either sitting on the beds
or standing around with blank expressions on their
faces.
Out of desperation more than anything, Thomas
called to Teresa again. Then several times more. But
she didn’t respond, and with all the blaring noise, he
didn’t know if he could have focused enough to hear
her anyway. He still felt her absence; it was like waking
up one day with no teeth in your mouth. You wouldn’t
need to run to the mirror to know they were gone.
Then the alarm stopped.
Never before had silence seemed to have its own
sound. Like a buzzing hive of bees, it settled on the
room with ferocity, making Thomas reach up and
wiggle a finger in each ear. Every breath, every sigh in
the room was like an explosion compared to the
bizarre haze of quiet.
Newt was the first one to speak. “Don’t tell me we’re
still gonna get bloody Newbies thrown in our laps.”
“Where’s the Box in this shuck place?” Minho
muttered sarcastically.
A slight creak made Thomas look sharply over at the
door to the common area. It had swung open several
inches, a slice of darkness marking where it now stood
ajar. Someone had turned off the lights on the other
side. Frypan backed up a step.
“Guessin’ they want us to go out there now,” Minho
said.
“Then why don’t you go first,” Frypan offered.
Minho had already started moving. “No problem.
Maybe we’ll have a new little shank to pick on and kick
in the butt when we got nothin’ else to do.” He made it
to the door, then paused and looked sideways at
Thomas. His voice turned surprisingly soft. “We could
Thomas. His voice turned surprisingly soft. “We could
use another Chuck.”
Thomas knew he shouldn’t have been upset. If
anything, Minho was trying—in his own strange way
—to show that he missed Chuck just as much as
everyone else. But being reminded of his friend, and at
such an odd moment, made Thomas angry. Instinct told
him to ignore it—he was having a hard enough time
dealing with the things going on around him. He
needed to separate himself from his feelings for a
while and just move forward. Step by step. Figure it all
out.
“Yeah,” he finally said. “You going through or you
need me to go first?”
“What did your tattoo say?” Minho responded quietly,
ignoring Thomas’s question.
“Doesn’t matter. Let’s go out there.”
Minho nodded, still not looking directly at him. Then
he smiled, and whatever had been troubling him so
deeply appeared to vanish, replaced by his usual laidback
attitude. “Good that. If some zombie starts eating
my leg, save me.”
“Deal.” Thomas wanted him to hurry and get on with
it. He knew they were on the edge of yet another great
change in their ridiculous journey, and he didn’t want to
draw it out any longer.
Minho pushed open the door. The single bar of
blackness became a wide swath of it, the common
area now as dark as it had been when they’d first left
the boys’ dorm. Minho stepped through the doorway,
and Thomas followed right on his heels.
“Wait here,” Minho whispered. “No need playing
bumper cars with the dead folks again. Let me find the
light switches first.”
“Why would they have turned them off?” Thomas
asked. “I mean, who turned them off?”
Minho looked back at him; the light from Aris’s room
spilled across his face, illuminating the smirk set firmly
there. “Why do you even bother asking questions,
dude? Nothing has ever made sense and it probably
never will. Now slim it and sit still.”
Minho was quickly swallowed by the darkness.
Thomas heard his soft footsteps on the carpet and the
swish sound of his hand running along the wall as he
walked.
“Here they are!” he shouted from the spot that
seemed about right to Thomas.
A few clicks sounded and then lights blazed
throughout the room. For the tiniest fraction of a
second, Thomas didn’t realize what was so starkly
different about the place. But then it hit him, and as if
that awakened his other senses as well, he realized
that the horrible smell of rotting corpses had vanished.
And now he knew why.
The bodies were gone, with no sign that they’d ever
been there in the first place.

CHAPTER 8
Several seconds passed before Thomas realized he’d
stopped breathing. Sucking in a deep pull of air, he
gaped at the now-empty room. No bloated, purpledskinned
bodies. No stink.
Newt nudged past him, walking forward with his
slight limp until he stood in the very center of the
room’s carpeted floor. “This is impossible,” he said,
turning in a slow circle, gazing up at the ceiling where
the corpses had hung from ropes only minutes earlier.
“Not enough time passed for someone to get them out.
And no one else even came into this buggin’ room. We
would’ve heard them!”
Thomas stepped to the side and leaned against the
wall as the other Gladers and Aris came out of the
small dorm room. A hushed sense of awe spread
across the group as one by one, each person noticed
the missing dead. As for Thomas, he once again felt a
numbness, like he just might be done feeling surprised
at anything.
“You’re right,” Minho said to Newt. “We were in there
with the door closed for, what, twenty minutes? No way
anyone could’ve moved all those bodies that quickly.
Plus, this place is locked from the inside.”
“Not to mention getting rid of the smell,” Thomas
added.
Minho nodded.
“Well, you shanks are right smart,” Frypan said
through a huff. “But take a look around. They’re gone.
So whatever you think, somehow they got rid of them.”
Thomas didn’t feel like arguing about it—or even
talking about it. So the dead bodies were gone. They’d
seen stranger stuff.
“Hey,” Winston said. “Those crazy people quit
screaming and yelling.”
Thomas put his weight back on his feet, listened.
Silence. “I thought we just couldn’t hear them from
Aris’s room. But you’re right—they stopped.”
Soon everyone was running for the larger dorm room
on the far side of the common area. Thomas followed,
intensely curious to look out the windows and see the
world outside. Before, with the Cranks screaming and
pressing their faces against the iron bars, he’d been
too horrified to get a good view.
“No way!” Minho yelled from up ahead, then, without
further explanation, disappeared inside the room.
As Thomas moved in that direction, he noticed that
every boy hesitated a second, wide-eyed at the
threshold of the door, then went ahead and entered the
dorm. He waited as each Glader and then Aris
funneled their way inside, then followed.
He felt the same shock he’d sensed from the other
boys. As a whole, the room looked much like it had
when they’d walked out of it earlier. But there was one
monumental difference: at each window, without
exception, a red brick wall had been erected just
outside the iron bars, completely blocking every inch of
open space. The only light in the room came from the
panels on the ceiling.
“Even if they were quick with those bodies,” Newt
said, “I’m pretty sure they didn’t have time to bloody
throw up some brick walls. What’s going on here?”
Thomas watched as Minho walked over to one of the
windows and reached through the bars, pressing his
hand against the red bricks. “Solid,” he said, then
slapped at it.
“It doesn’t even look fresh,” Thomas murmured,
stepping up to one himself to get a feel. Hard and cool.
“The mortar’s dry. Somehow they’ve tricked us, that’s
all.”
“Tricked us?” Frypan asked. “How?”
Thomas shrugged, that numbness returning. Still
wishing desperately that he could talk to Teresa. “I
don’t know. Remember the Cliff? We jumped into thin
air and went through an invisible hole. Who knows what
these people can do.”
The next half hour passed in a haze. Thomas
wandered about, as did everyone else, inspecting the
brick walls, looking for signs of anything else that had
changed. Several things had, each one just as strange
as the next. All the beds in the Gladers’ dorm room
were made, and there was no sign of the grungy
clothes they’d all worn before changing into the
pajamas provided the night before. The dressers had
been rearranged, though the difference was subtle and
some people disagreed that they’d been moved at all.
Either way, each one had been stocked with fresh
clothes and shoes, and new digital watches for each
boy.
But the biggest change of all—discovered by Minho
—was the sign outside the room where they’d found
Aris. Instead of saying Teresa Agnes, Group A,
Subject A1, The Betrayer, it now said:
Aris Jones, Group B, Subject B1
Aris Jones, Group B, Subject B1
The Partner
Everyone observed the new plaque, then wandered
away, but Thomas found himself standing in front of it,
unable to remove his eyes. To Thomas it felt like the
new label made it official—Teresa had been taken
from him, replaced by Aris. None of it made sense,
and none of it mattered anymore. He went back to the
boys’ dorm, found the cot he’d slept on during the night
—or at least, the one he thought he’d slept on—and
lay down, putting the pillow over his head, as if that
would make everyone else go away.
What had happened to her? What had happened to
them? Where were they? What were they supposed to
do? And the tattoos …
Turning his head to the side, then his whole body, he
squeezed his eyes shut and folded his arms tightly,
pulling his legs up until he lay in the fetal position. Then,
determined to keep trying until he heard back from her,
he called out with his thoughts.
Teresa? A pause. Teresa? A longer pause. Teresa!
He shouted it mentally, his whole body tensing with the
effort. Teresa! Where are you? Please answer me!
Why aren’t you trying to contact me? Ter—
Get out of my head!
The words exploded inside his mind, so vivid and so
strangely audible within his skull that he felt lances of
pain behind his eyes and in his ears. He sat up in bed,
then stood. It was her. It was definitely her.
Teresa? He pressed the first two fingers of both
hands against his temples. Teresa?
Whoever you are, get out of my shuck head!
Thomas stumbled backward until he sat down once
again on the bed. His eyes were closed as he
concentrated. Teresa, what are you talking about? It’s
me. Thomas. Where are you?
Shut up! It was her, he had no doubt, but her mental
voice was full of fear and anger. Just shut up! I don’t
know who you are! Leave me alone!
But, Thomas began, completely at a loss. Teresa,
what’s wrong?
She paused before answering, as if collecting her
thoughts, and when she finally spoke again, Thomas
sensed an almost disturbing calm in her.
Leave me alone, or I’ll hunt you down and cut your
throat. I swear it.
And then she was gone. Despite her warning, he
tried calling for her again, but the same emptiness he’d
felt since that morning returned, her presence having
vanished.
Thomas fell back on the bed, something horrible
burning through his body. He quickly buried his head in
the pillow again and cried for the first time since Chuck
had been killed. But the words from the label outside
her door—The Betrayer—kept popping up in his mind.
Each time, he pushed them away.
Amazingly, no one bothered him or asked him what
was wrong. His stifled sobs finally faded into an
occasional hitched breath, and eventually he fell
asleep. Once again, he dreamed.
He’s a little older this time, probably seven or eight. A
very bright light hovers above his head like magic.
People in strange green suits and funny glasses
keep peeking at him, their heads momentarily blocking
the brilliance that shines down. He can see their eyes
but nothing else. Their mouths and noses are covered
by masks. Thomas is somehow both himself at that
age and yet, as before, observing as an outsider. But
he feels the boy’s fear.
People are talking, voices muted and dull. Some are
men, some are women, but he can’t tell which is which
or who is who.
He can’t understand much of it at all.
Only glimpses. Fragments of conversation. All of it
terrifying.
“We’ll have to cut deeper with him and the girl.”
“Can their brains handle this?”
“This is so amazing, you know? The Flare is rooted
inside him.”
“He might die.”
“Or worse. He might live.”
He hears one last thing, finally something that
doesn’t make him shiver in disgust or fright.
“Or he and the others might save us. Save us all.”

CHAPTER 9
When he woke up, his head felt like several chunks of
ice had been hammered through his ears and into his
brain. Wincing, he reached up to rub his eyes and was
hit by a wave of nausea that sent the room tilting
around him. Then he remembered the terrible things
Teresa had said, then the short dream, and misery
engulfed him. Who had those people been? Was it
real? What had they meant when they’d said those
awful things about his brain?
“Glad to see you still know how to take a nap.”
Thomas peeked through a squint and saw Newt
standing next to his bed, staring down at him.
“How long’s it been?” Thomas asked, forcing
thoughts of Teresa and the dream—memory?—into a
dark corner of his mind to agonize over later.
Newt looked at his watch. “Couple hours. When
people noticed you lie down, it actually kind of relaxed
everyone. Not much we can do but sit and wait for
something new to happen. There’s no way out of this
place.”
Thomas tried not to groan as he scooted himself into
a sitting position, his back against the wall at the head
of his bed. “Do we even have any food?”
“No. But I’m pretty sure these people wouldn’t go
through all this trouble to bring us here, trick us or
whatever they’ve done, just to let us buggin’ starve to
death. Something will happen. Reminds me of when
they sent the first group of us to the Glade. The initial
group of me and Alby and Minho and some others. The
original Gladers.” He said that last part with a not-sosubtle
burst of sarcasm.
Thomas was intrigued, surprised he’d never before
dug into what that had been like. “How does this
remind you of that?”
Newt’s gaze was focused on the brick wall outside
the closest window. “We all woke up in the middle of
the day, lying on the ground around the doors to the
Box. It was closed. Our memories had been wiped, just
like yours when you came. You’d be surprised at how
quickly we pulled ourselves together and quit
panicking. There were about thirty of us. Obviously, we
had no bloody clue what had happened, how we’d
gotten there, what we were supposed to do. And we
were terrified, disoriented. But since we were all in the
same crappy situation, we organized ourselves and
figured out the place. Had the full farm running within
days, everybody with their own job.”
Thomas was relieved that the pain in his skull had
diminished. And he was intrigued to hear about the
start of the Glade—the scattered pieces of the puzzle
brought back by the Changing weren’t nearly enough to
form solid memories. “Did the Creators have
everything in place already? Crops, animals, all that?”
Newt nodded, still staring at the bricked-up window.
“Yeah, but it took a ton of work to get it going nice and
smooth. A lot of trial and error before we accomplished
anything.”
“So … how does this remind you of that?” Thomas
asked again.
Finally, Newt looked at him. “I guess back then we all
just had a sense that there was obviously a purpose to
us having been sent there. If someone had wanted to
kill us, why wouldn’t they have just killed us? Why would
they send us to a huge place with a house and a barn
and animals? And because we had no other choice,
we accepted it and started working and exploring.”
“But we’re already done exploring here,” Thomas
countered. “No animals, no food, no Maze.”
“Yeah, but come on. It’s the same concept. We’re
obviously here for a buggin’ purpose. We’ll figure it out
eventually.”
“If we don’t starve first.”
Newt pointed at the bathroom. “We’ve got plenty of
water, so it’ll be at least a few days before we drop
dead. Something will happen.”
Deep down Thomas believed it, too, and was only
arguing to solidify it in his own mind. “But what about all
those dead people we saw? Maybe they rescued us
for real, got killed, and now we’re screwed. Maybe we
were supposed to do something, but now it’s all been
messed up and we’ve been left here to die.”
Newt burst out laughing. “You’re one depressing
piece of klunk, slinthead. Nah, with all those corpses
magically disappearing and the brick walls, I’d say this
is something more like the Maze. Weird and
impossible to explain. The latest and greatest mystery.
Maybe our next test, who knows. Whatever’s going on,
we’ll have a chance, just like we did in the bloody
Maze. I guarantee it.”
“Yeah,” Thomas murmured, wondering if he should
share what he’d dreamed about. Deciding to save it
for later, he said, “Hope you’re right. As long as no
Grievers suddenly show up, we’ll be good.”
Newt was already shaking his head by the time
Thomas finished. “Please, man. Careful what you
buggin’ wish for. Maybe they’ll send something worse.”
The image of Teresa popped into Thomas’s mind
just then, and he lost all desire to talk. “Who’s the
cheerful one now?” he forced himself to say.
“You got me,” Newt replied, then stood up. “Guess I’ll
go bug somebody else till the excitement begins,
which better be bloody soon. I’m hungry.”
“Careful what you wish for.”
“Good that.”
Newt walked away, and Thomas scooted down to lie
on his back, staring at the bottom of the bunk above
him. He closed his eyes after a while, but when he saw
Teresa’s face in the darkness of his thoughts, he
opened them right up again. If he was going to get
through this, he’d have to try to forget about her for
now.
Hunger.
It’s like an animal trapped inside you, Thomas
thought. After three full days of not eating, it felt like a
vicious, gnawing, dull-clawed animal was trying to
burrow its way out of his stomach. He felt it every
second of every minute of every hour. He drank water
as often as possible from the sinks in the bathroom,
but it did nothing to drive the beast away. If anything, it
felt like he was making the thing stronger so it could
inflict more misery within.
The others felt it, too, even if most of them kept their
complaints to themselves. Thomas watched as they
walked around, heads hung low, jaws slack, as if every
step burned a thousand calories. People licked their
lips a lot. They grabbed at their stomachs, pushed on
them, as if trying to calm that gnawing beast. Unless
they were going to the bathroom to use it or to get a
drink, the Gladers didn’t move at all. Like Thomas, they
just lay there on the bunk beds, limp. Skin pale, eyes
sunken.
Thomas felt all this like a festering disease, and
seeing the others only made it worse, a stark reminder
that this wasn’t something he could just ignore. That it
was real, and death waited just around the corner.
Listless sleep. Bathroom. Water. Trudge back to
bed. Listless sleep—without any more of the memorydreams
he’d experienced. It became a horrendous
cycle, broken up only by thoughts of Teresa, her harsh
words to him the only thing that lightened the prospect
of death, even if only a little. She’d been the only thing
he could grasp for hope after the Maze and Chuck’s
death. And now she was gone, there was no food, and
three long days had passed.
Hunger. Misery.
He’d quit bothering to look at his watch—it only
made time drag and reminded his body how long it’d
been since he’d eaten—but he thought it was roughly
midafternoon of the third day when a humming sound
abruptly began from the common area.
He stared at the door leading out there, knew he
should get up and go check it out. But his mind had
already been slipping into another one of those hazy
half-naps, the world around him foggy.
Maybe he’d imagined it. But then he heard it again.
He told himself to get up.
He fell asleep instead.
He fell asleep instead.
“Thomas.”
It was Minho’s voice. Weak, but stronger than it had
been the last time he’d heard it.
“Thomas. Dude, wake up.”
Thomas opened his eyes, amazed he’d survived
another nap without dying. Things were blurry for a
second, and at first he didn’t believe that what he
thought was just a few inches from his face was real.
But then its image sharpened, and the red roundness
of it, with flecks of green scattered across its shiny
surface, made him feel like he was looking on heaven
itself.
An apple.
“Where’d you …” He didn’t bother to finish, those
two words alone sapping his strength.
“Just eat it,” Minho said, followed by a wet crunch.
Thomas glanced up to see his friend munching on
his own apple. Then, drawing the last remnants of
energy from somewhere deep inside himself, he
pushed himself up onto an elbow and grabbed the fruit
lying on the bed. He lifted it to his mouth and took a
small bite. The burst of flavor and juice was a glorious
thing.
Moaning, he attacked the rest of it and had eaten
down to its stumpy core before Minho had even
finished his—despite the head start.
“Slim yourself nice and calm,” Minho said. “Eat like
that and you’ll just throw it right back up. Here’s another
one—try slowing down this time.”
He handed a second apple to Thomas, who took it
without saying thank you and chomped a big bite. As
he chewed, resolving to swallow before stuffing
another chunk in his mouth, he realized he could
actually feel the first traces of energy trickling through
his body.
“This is so good,” he mumbled. “This is so shuckin’
good.”
“You still sound like an idiot when you use Glader
words,” Minho responded before taking another bite of
his apple.
Thomas ignored him. “Where’d these come from?”
Minho hesitated in the middle of chewing, then
resumed. “Found them out in the common room. Along
with … something else. Shanks who found it all claim
they’d just looked a few minutes earlier and nothing
had been there, but whatever, I don’t care.”
Thomas swung his legs off the bed and sat up.
“What else did they find?”
Minho took a bite, then nodded toward the door. “Go
look for yourself.”
Thomas rolled his eyes and slowly stood up. The
miserable weakness was still there, like most of his
insides had been sucked right out and all he had left
were a few bones and tendons to hold himself erect.
But he steadied, feeling even after a few seconds that
he was already better than the last time he’d made the
long, lifeless trek to the bathroom.
Once he thought he had his balance, he walked over
to the door and entered the common area. Only three
days before, the room had been filled with dead
bodies—now it was crowded with Gladers picking
things off a big pile of food that had seemingly been
dumped there without any order. Fruit, vegetables,
small packages.
small packages.
But he’d barely registered this when an even more
bizarre sight on the far side of the room caught his
attention. He reached out to steady himself on the wall
behind him.
A large wooden desk had been placed opposite the
door to the other dorm room.
Behind the desk, a thin man in a white suit sat in a
chair, his feet propped up and crossed at the ankles.
The man was reading a book.

CHAPTER 10
Thomas stood there for a full minute, staring at the man
casually sitting at the desk, reading. It was as if he’d
been reading that way and in that very spot every day
for his whole life. Thin black hair combed across a
pale, bald head; a long nose, twisted slightly to the
right; and shifty brown eyes darting back and forth as
he read—the man somehow looked relaxed and
nervous at the same time.
And the white suit. Pants, shirt, tie, coat. Socks.
Shoes. All white.
What in the world?
Thomas looked over at the Gladers munching on
fruit and a snack from a bag that looked like a mixture
of nuts and seeds. They seemed oblivious to the man
at the desk.
“Who is that guy?” Thomas called out to no one in
particular.
One of the boys looked up, stopped chewing for a
second. Then he quickly finished off his mouthful and
swallowed. “He won’t tell us anything. Told us we had to
wait till he’s ready.” The boy shrugged as if that wasn’t
a big deal and took another bite of a peeled orange.
Thomas returned his attention to the stranger. Still
sitting there, still reading. He turned a page with a
whispery scrape and continued scanning the words.
Baffled, and with a stomach rumbling for more food,
Thomas still couldn’t help but walk toward the man to
investigate. Of all the strange things to wake up to …
“Careful,” one of the Gladers called out, but it was
“Careful,” one of the Gladers called out, but it was
too late.
Just ten feet in front of the desk, Thomas slammed
into an invisible wall. His nose hit first, smashing
against what felt like a cold sheet of glass. The rest of
his body followed suit, bumping against the unseen
wall and making him stumble backward. He
instinctively reached up to rub his nose as he squinted
to see how he could’ve possibly missed a glass
barrier.
But no matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t see
anything. Not the slightest glare or reflection, not a
smudge anywhere. All he saw was air. All the while, the
man hadn’t bothered to move or give even the least
hint he’d noticed anything.
More slowly this time, Thomas approached the spot,
holding his hands out. Soon he made contact with the
wall of completely invisible … what? It felt like glass
—smooth, hard and cool to the touch. But he saw
absolutely nothing to indicate that something solid
stood there.
Frustrated, Thomas moved to the left, then the right,
feeling along the unseen yet solid wall. It spanned the
entire room; there was no way to approach the
stranger at the desk. Thomas finally pounded on it,
making a series of dull thumps, but nothing else
happened. Some of the Gladers behind him, Aris
included, remarked how they’d already tried that.
The strangely dressed man, just a dozen or so feet
in front of him, let out an exaggerated sigh as he pulled
his crossed feet from the desk and let them drop to the
floor. He placed a finger in his book to mark his place
and looked up at Thomas, making no effort to hide his
annoyance.
“How many times do I have to repeat this?” the man
said, his nasally voice a perfect match for his pale skin,
thin hair and skinny body. And that suit. That stupid
white suit. Oddly, his words weren’t muffled at all by the
barrier. “We still have forty-seven minutes before I’ve
been authorized to implement Phase Two of the Trials.
Please show your patience and leave me alone.
You’ve been given this time to eat and replenish
yourselves, and I strongly suggest you take advantage
of it, young man. Now, if you don’t mind …”
Without waiting for a response, he leaned back in
his chair and returned his feet to the desktop. Then,
opening his book to the spot he’d marked, he resumed
reading.
Thomas was truly speechless. He turned away from
the man and the desk and leaned against the invisible
wall, its hard surface pressing against his back. What
had just happened? Surely he was still asleep,
dreaming. For some reason, that thought alone
seemed to amplify his hunger, and he longingly
glanced over at the mound of food. Then he noticed
Minho at the door to the dorm room, leaning against its
frame with his arms folded.
Thomas jabbed a thumb over his shoulder and
raised his eyebrows.
“You met our new friend?” Minho responded, a smirk
flashing across his face. “Real piece of work, this guy. I
gotta get me one of those shuck suits. Fancy stuff.”
“Am I awake?” Thomas asked.
“You’re awake. Now eat—you look horrible. Almost
as bad as Rat Man over there, reading his book.”
Thomas was surprised at how quickly he could set
Thomas was surprised at how quickly he could set
aside the oddness of the guy in the white suit
appearing out of nowhere, and the invisible wall. Again
that numbness that had become so familiar. After the
initial shock, nothing was strange anymore. Anything
could become normal. Pushing it all away, he dragged
himself over to the food and started eating. Another
apple. An orange. A bag of mixed nuts, then a chewy
bar of granola and raisins. His body begged for water,
but he couldn’t get himself to move quite yet.
“You need to slim it,” Minho said from behind him.
“We’ve got shanks puking all over the place ’cause
they ate too much. That’s probably enough, dude.”
Thomas stood, relishing the feel of a full stomach.
Not missing at all that gnawing beast that had lived
inside him for so long. He knew Minho was right—he
had to slim it. He nodded at his friend before stepping
around him to go get a drink, the whole time wondering
what could possibly be in store for them when the man
in the white suit was ready to implement “Phase Two of
the Trials.”
Whatever that meant.
A half hour later, Thomas sat on the floor with the rest
of the Gladers, Minho to his right and Newt to his left,
all of them facing the invisible wall and the weasel of a
man sitting at the desk behind it. His feet were still
propped up, his eyes still flickering down the pages of
his book. Thomas felt the wonderful return of energy
and strength slowly building inside him.
The new kid, Aris, had given him a strange look in
the bathroom, as if he wanted to speak telepathically
with him but was afraid to do it. Thomas had ignored
him, and quickly walked to the sink and guzzled down
as much water as he could with his now-full stomach.
By the time he finished and wiped his mouth on his
sleeve, Aris had left. Now the boy sat over by the wall,
staring at the floor. Thomas felt sorry for him—as bad
as things were for the Gladers, Aris had it worse.
Especially if he’d been as close to the murdered girl
he’d mentioned as Thomas was to Teresa.
Minho was the first to break the silence. “I think
we’ve all gone psycho like those … what’d they call
themselves again? Cranks. The Cranks at the
windows. We’re all sitting here waiting for a lecture
from Rat Man like this is totally normal. Like we’re at
some kind of school. I can tell you this much—if he had
anything good to say, he wouldn’t need a freaking
magic wall to protect him from us, now, would he?”
“Just slim it and listen,” Newt said. “Maybe it’s all
gonna be over.”
“Yeah, right,” Minho said. “And Frypan’s gonna start
having little babies, Winston’ll get rid of his monster
acne, and Thomas here’ll actually smile for once.”
Thomas turned to Minho and exaggerated a fake
smile. “There, you happy?”
“Dude,” he responded. “You are one ugly shank.”
“If you say so.”
“Shut your bloody holes,” Newt whispered. “I think it’s
time.”
Thomas looked over to see that the stranger—Rat
Man, as Minho so kindly called him—had put his feet
on the floor and placed the book on the desk. He
scooted his chair back to get a better view of one of
the drawers, then pulled it out and rummaged through
things Thomas couldn’t see. Finally, he pulled out a
densely packed manila folder full of messy papers,
many of them bent and sticking out at odd angles.
“Ah, here it is,” Rat Man said in his nasally voice;
then he placed the folder on the desk, opened it up and
looked at the boys in front of him. “Thank you for
gathering in an orderly manner so I can tell you what
I’ve been … instructed to tell you. Please listen
carefully.”
“Why do you need that wall!” Minho shouted.
Newt reached around Thomas and punched Minho
in the arm. “Shut it!”
Rat Man continued as if he hadn’t heard the outburst.
“You’re all still here because of an uncanny will to
survive despite the odds, among … other reasons.
About sixty people were sent to live in the Glade. Well,
your Glade, anyway. Another sixty in Group B, but for
now we’ll forget them.”
The man’s eyes flickered to Aris, then went back to
slowly scanning the crowd. Thomas didn’t know if
anyone else had noticed, but he had no doubt that
there’d been a hint of familiarity in that quick look.
What did it mean …?
“Out of all those people, only a fraction survived to
be here today. I’m assuming you’ve figured this out by
now, but many of the things that happen to you are
solely for the purpose of judging and analyzing your
responses. And yet it’s not really an experiment as
much as it is … constructing a blueprint. Stimulating
the killzone and collecting the resultant patterns.
Putting them all together to achieve the greatest
breakthrough in the history of science and medicine.
“These situations inflicted upon you are called the
Variables, and each one has been meticulously
thought out. I’ll explain more soon. And though I can’t
tell you everything at this time, it’s vital that you know
this much: these trials you’re going through are for a
very important cause. Continue to respond well to the
Variables, continue to survive, and you’ll be rewarded
with the knowledge that you’ve played a part in saving
the human race. And yourselves, of course.”
Rat Man paused, apparently for effect. Thomas
looked over at Minho and raised his eyebrows.
“This dude’s shucked in the head,” Minho
whispered. “How would escaping a freaking maze
save the human race?”
“I represent a group called WICKED,” Rat Man
continued. “I know it sounds menacing, but it stands for
World In Catastrophe, Killzone Experiment
Department. Nothing menacing about it, despite what
you may think. We exist for one purpose and one
purpose only: to save the world from catastrophe. You
here in this room are a vital part of what we plan to do.
We have resources never known to any group of any
kind in the history of civilization. Nearly unlimited
money, unlimited human capital and technology
advanced beyond even the most clever man’s wants
and wishes.
“As you make your way through the Trials, you have
seen and will continue to see evidence of this
technology and the resources behind it. If I can tell you
anything today, it is that you should never, ever believe
your eyes. Or your mind, for that matter. This is why we
did the demonstration with the hanging bodies and the
bricked-up windows. All I will say is that sometimes
what you see is not real, and sometimes what you do
what you see is not real, and sometimes what you do
not see is real. We can manipulate your brains and
nerve receptacles when necessary. I know this all
sounds confusing and a little scary, perhaps.”
Thomas thought the man couldn’t have possibly
made a greater understatement. And the word killzone
kept bouncing around his head. His scarcely revived
memories couldn’t quite grasp what it meant, but he’d
first seen it on the metal plaque back in the Maze, the
one that had spelled out the words that made up
WICKED’s acronym.
The man slowly passed his eyes over every Glader
in the room. His upper lip shone with sweat. “The Maze
was a part of the Trials. Not one Variable was thrown at
you that didn’t serve a purpose for our collection of
killzone patterns. Your escape was part of the Trials.
Your battle against the Grievers. The murder of the boy
Chuck. The supposed rescue and subsequent trip in
the bus. All of it. Part of the Trials.”
Anger swelled in Thomas’s chest at the mention of
Chuck. He’d half risen to his feet before he knew what
had come over him; Newt pulled him back down to the
floor.
As if spurred by this, Rat Man quickly stood up from
his chair, sending it back against the wall behind him.
Then he placed his hands on the desk and leaned
toward the Gladers.
“All of it has been part of the Trials, you understand?
Phase One, to be exact. And we are still dangerously
short of what we need. So we’ve had to up the ante,
and now it’s time for Phase Two. It’s time for things to
get difficult.”

CHAPTER 11
The room lapsed into silence. Thomas knew he should
be upset by the absurd notion that up to this point
things had been easy for them. The idea should’ve
terrified him. Not to mention the stuff about
manipulating their brains. But instead, he was so
intensely curious to find out what the man was going to
tell them, the words had merely washed across his
mind.
Rat Man waited for an eternity, then slowly lowered
himself back into the chair and scooted forward to sit
behind the desk once more. “You may think, or it may
seem, that we’re merely testing your ability to survive.
On the surface, the Maze Trial could be mistakenly
classified that way. But I assure you—this is not merely
about survival and the will to live. That’s only part of this
experiment. The bigger picture is something you won’t
understand until the very end.
“Sun flares have ravaged many parts of the earth.
Also, a disease unlike any before known to man has
been ravaging the earth’s people—a disease called
the Flare. For the first time, the governments of all
nations—the surviving ones—are working together.
They’ve combined forces to create WICKED—a group
meant to fight the new problems of this world. You are
a big part of that fight. And you’ll have every incentive
to work with us, because, sad to say, each one of you
has already caught the virus.”
He quickly held up his hands to cut off the rumblings
that started. “Now, now! No need to worry—the Flare
takes a while to set in and show symptoms. But at the
end of these Trials, the cure will be your reward, and
you’ll never see the … debilitating effects. Not many
can afford the cure, you know.”
Thomas’s hand instinctively went up to his throat, as
if a soreness there were the first indicator that he’d
caught the Flare. He remembered all too well what the
woman on the rescue bus had told him after the Maze.
About how the Flare destroyed your brain, slowly
driving you insane and stripping you of the capacity to
feel basic human emotions like compassion or
empathy. About how it turned you into less than an
animal.
He thought of the Cranks he’d seen through the
dorm windows, and he suddenly wanted to run to the
bathroom and scrub his hands and mouth clean. The
guy was right—they had all the incentive they needed
to make it through this next phase.
“But enough of this history lesson and time-wasting,”
Rat Man continued. “We know you now. All of you. It
doesn’t matter what I say or what’s behind the mission
of WICKED. You’ll all do whatever it takes. Of this we
have no doubt. And by doing what we ask, you’ll save
yourselves by getting the very cure so many people
desperately want.”
Thomas heard Minho groan next to him and worried
about him throwing out another one of his smart-aleck
remarks. Thomas shushed him before he could do it.
Rat Man looked down at the messy stack of papers
lying in the open folder, picked up a loose piece of it,
then turned it over, barely glancing at its contents. He
cleared his throat. “Phase Two. The Scorch Trials. It
officially begins tomorrow morning at six o’clock. You’ll
enter this room, and in the wall behind me you will find
a Flat Trans. To your eyes the Flat Trans will appear as
a shimmering wall of gray. Each of you must step
through it by five minutes after the hour. So again, it
opens at six o’clock and closes five minutes after that.
Do you understand?”
Thomas stared at Rat Man, transfixed. It almost felt
as if he were watching a recording—as if the stranger
weren’t really there. The other Gladers must’ve felt the
same, because no one answered the simple question.
What was a Flat Trans, anyway?
“I’m quite certain you can all hear,” Rat Man said.
“Do … you … under … stand?”
Thomas nodded; a few boys around him murmured
quiet yeahs and yeses.
“Good.” Rat Man absently picked up another piece
of paper and turned it over. “At that point, the Scorch
Trials will have begun. The rules are very simple. Find
your way to open air, then head due north for one
hundred miles. Make it to the safe haven within two
weeks’ time and you’ll have completed Phase Two. At
that point, and only at that point, you’ll be cured of the
Flare. That’s exactly two weeks—starting the second
you step through the Trans. If you don’t make it,
eventually you’ll end up dead.”
The room should’ve erupted into arguments,
questions, panic. But no one said a word. Thomas felt
as if his tongue had dried up into an old, crusty root.
Rat Man quickly slammed the folder shut, bending its
contents even more than before, then put it away in the
drawer from which he’d retrieved it. He stood, stepped
to the side and pushed the chair underneath the desk.
Finally, he folded his hands in front of him and returned
his attention to the Gladers.
“It’s simple, really,” he said, his tone so matter-of-fact
one would think he’d just given them instructions on
how to turn on the showers in the bathroom. “There are
no rules. There are no guidelines. You have few
supplies, and there’s nothing to help you along the way.
Go through the Flat Trans at the time indicated. Find
open air. Go one hundred miles, directly north, to the
safe haven. Make it or die.”
The last word seemed to finally snap everyone out of
their stupor, all of them speaking up at once. “What’s a
Flat Trans?”
“How’d we catch the Flare?”
“How long till we see symptoms?”
“What’s at the end of the hundred miles?”
“What happened to the dead bodies?”
Question after question, a chorus of them, all
melding into one roar of confusion. As for Thomas, he
didn’t bother. The stranger wasn’t going to tell them
anything. Couldn’t they all see that?
Rat Man waited patiently, ignoring them, those dark
eyes darting back and forth between the Gladers as
they spoke. His gaze settled on Thomas, who sat
there, silent, staring back at him, hating him. Hating
WICKED. Hating the world.
“You shanks shut up!” Minho finally shouted. The
questions stopped instantly. “This shuck-face ain’t
answering, so quit wastin’ your time.”
Rat Man nodded once toward Minho as if thanking
him. Perhaps acknowledging his wisdom. “One
hundred miles. North. Hope you make it. Remember
—you all have the Flare now. We gave it to you to
provide any incentive you may be lacking. And
reaching the safe haven means receiving a cure.” He
turned away and moved toward the wall behind him, as
if he planned to walk right through it. But then he
stopped and faced them again.
“Ah, one last thing,” he said. “Don’t think you’ll avoid
the Scorch Trials if you decide not to enter the Flat
Trans between six and six-oh-five tomorrow morning.
Those who stay behind will be executed immediately in
a most … unpleasant manner. Better off taking your
chances in the outside world. Good luck to all of you.”
With that he turned away and once again started
inexplicably walking toward the wall.
But before Thomas could see what happened, the
invisible wall separating them started to fog up,
whitening to an opaque blur in a matter of seconds.
And then the whole thing disappeared, once again
revealing the other side of the common area.
Except there was no sign of the desk and its chair.
And no sign of Rat Man.
“Well, shuck me,” Minho whispered next to Thomas.

CHAPTER 12
Once again, the Gladers’ questions and arguments
filled the air, but Thomas left. He needed some space
and knew the bathroom was his only escape. So
instead of heading to the boys’ dorm, he went to the
one Teresa, then Aris, had used. He leaned back
against the sink, arms folded, staring at the floor.
Luckily, no one had followed him.
He didn’t know how to begin processing all the
information. Bodies hanging from the ceiling, reeking
of death and rot, then gone completely in a matter of
minutes. A stranger—and his desk!—appear out of
nowhere, with an impossible shield protecting them.
Then they disappear.
And these were by far the least of their worries. It
was clear now that the rescue from the Maze had been
a sham. But who were the pawns WICKED had used
to pull the Gladers from the Creators’ chamber, put
them on that bus and bring them here? Had those
people known they were going to be killed? Had they
even really been killed? Rat Man had said not to trust
their eyes or their minds. How could they believe
anything ever again?
And worst of all, this stuff about them having the
Flare disease, about the Trials earning them a cure …
Thomas squeezed his eyes closed and rubbed his
forehead. Teresa had been taken from him. None of
them had families. The next morning they were
supposed to start some ridiculous thing called Phase
Two, which by the sound of it was going to be worse
than the Maze. All those crazy people out there—the
Cranks. How would they deal with them? He suddenly
thought of Chuck and what he might say if he were
there.
Something simple, probably. Something like, This
sucks.
You’d be right, Chuck, Thomas thought. The whole
world sucks.
It had only been a few days since he’d seen his
friend get stabbed in the heart; poor Chuck had died
as Thomas held him. And now Thomas couldn’t help
but think that as horrible as it was, maybe that had
been the best thing for Chuck. Maybe death was better
than what lay ahead. His mind veered toward the tattoo
on his neck—
“Dude, how long’s it take to drop a load?” It was
Minho.
Thomas looked up to see him standing in the
doorway to the bathroom. “I can’t stand it out there.
Everyone talking over everybody else like a bunch of
babies. Say what they want, we all know what we’re
gonna do.”
Minho walked over to him and leaned his shoulder
against the wall. “Ain’t you Mr. Happy? Look, man,
those shanks out there are just as brave as you are.
Every last one of us will go through that … whatever he
called it … tomorrow morning. Who cares if they
wanna crack their throats yappin’ about it?”
Thomas rolled his eyes. “I never said jack about me
being braver than anybody. I’m just sick of hearing
people’s voices. Yours included.”
Minho snickered. “Slinthead, when you try to be
mean, it’s just freaking hilarious.”
“Thanks.” Thomas paused. “Flat Trans.”
“Huh?”
“That’s what the white-suit shank called the thing we
need to go through. A Flat Trans.”
“Oh yeah. Must be some kind of doorway.”
Thomas looked up at him. “That’s what I’m thinking.
Something like the Cliff. It’s flat, and it transports you
somewhere. Flat Trans.”
“You’re a shuck genius.”
Newt came in then. “What’re you two hiding for?”
Minho reached over and slapped Thomas on the
shoulder. “We’re not hiding. Thomas is just whining
about his life and wishin’ he could go back to his
mommy.”
“Tommy,” Newt said, not seeming amused, “you went
through the Changing, got some of your memories
back. How much of this stuff do you remember?”
Thomas had been thinking a lot about that. Much of
what had come back after being stung by the Griever
had turned cloudy. “I don’t know. I can’t really picture the
actual world outside or what it was like being involved
with the people I helped design the Maze. Most of it’s
either faded again or just gone. I’ve had a couple of
weird dreams, but nothing that helps.”
They then went off on a discussion about some of
the things they’d heard from their odd visitor. About the
sun flares and the disease and how different things
might be now that they knew they were being tested or
experimented on. About a lot of things, with no answers
—all of it laced with an unspoken fear of the virus
they’d supposedly been given. They finally lulled into
silence.
“Well, we’ve got stuff to figure out,” Newt said. “And I
need help to make sure the bloody food’s not gone
before we leave tomorrow. Something tells me we’re
gonna need it.”
Thomas hadn’t even thought of that. “You’re right. Are
people still chowing down out there?”
Newt shook his head. “No, Frypan took charge. That
shank’s religious about food—I think he was glad to
have something to be the boss about again. But I’m
scared people might get panicky and try to eat it
anyway.”
“Oh, come on,” Minho said. “Those of us who made
it this far got here for a reason. All the idiots are dead
by now.” He looked sideways at Thomas, as if worried
Thomas might think he’d included Chuck in that
assessment. Maybe even Teresa.
“Maybe,” Newt responded. “Hope so. Anyway, I was
thinking we need to get organized, get things back
together. Act like we did in the bloody Glade. Last few
days have been miserable, everybody moaning and
groaning, no structure, no plan. It’s driving me psycho.”
“What’d you expect us to do?” Minho asked. “Form
up in lines and do push-ups? We’re stuck in a stupid
three-room prison.”
Newt swatted at the air as if Minho’s words were
gnats. “Whatever. I’m just saying, things are obviously
going to change tomorrow and we gotta be ready to
face it.”
Despite all the talk, Thomas felt like Newt was failing
to make his point.
“What are you getting at?”
Newt paused while he looked at Thomas, then
Newt paused while he looked at Thomas, then
Minho. “We need to make sure we have a solid leader
when tomorrow comes. There can’t be any doubt
who’s in charge.”
“That’s the lamest shuck-faced thing you’ve ever
barked,” Minho said. “You’re the leader, and you know
it. We all know it.”
Newt shook his head adamantly. “Bein’ hungry make
you forget the bloody tattoos? You think they’re just
decorations?”
“Oh, come on,” Minho retorted. “You really think it
means anything? They’re just playin’ with our heads!”
Instead of answering, Newt stepped closer to Minho
and pulled back his shirt to reveal the tattoo there.
Thomas didn’t have to look—he remembered. It had
branded Minho as the Leader.
Minho shrugged off Newt’s hand and started his
usual rant of sarcastic remarks, but Thomas had
already tuned out, his heart’s pace having kicked in to
a rapid series of almost painful thumps. All he could
think about was what had been tattooed on his own
neck.
That he was to be killed.

CHAPTER 13
Thomas felt it getting late and knew they had to get
sleep that night and be ready for the morning. So he
and the Gladers spent the rest of the evening making
crude packs out of bedsheets for carrying the food and
the extra clothes that had appeared in the dressers.
Some of the food had come in plastic bags, and the
now-empty bags were filled with water and tied off with
material ripped from the curtains. No one expected
these poor excuses for canteens to last very long
without leaking, but it was the best idea anyone could
come up with.
Newt had finally convinced Minho to be the leader.
Thomas knew as well as anybody that they needed
someone to be in charge, so he was relieved when
Minho grudgingly agreed.
Around nine o’clock, Thomas found himself lying in
bed, staring at the bunk above him once again. The
room was strangely silent even though he knew no one
had fallen asleep yet. Fear surely gripped them as
much as it did him. They’d been through the Maze and
its horrors. They’d seen close up what WICKED was
capable of doing. If Rat Man was correct, and all that
had happened was part of some master plan, then
these people had forced Gally to kill Chuck, had shot a
woman at close range, had hired people to rescue
them only to kill them when the mission was
complete … the list went on and on.
Then, to top it all off, they gave them a hideous
disease, with the cure as bait to lure them to continue.
Who even knew what was true and what was a lie. And
the evidence continued to suggest that they’d singled
Thomas out somehow. It was a sad thought—Chuck
was the one who had lost his life. Teresa was the one
missing. But taking those two away from him …
His life felt like a black hole. He had no idea how he
would muster the will to go on in the morning. To face
whatever WICKED had in store for them. But he’d do it
—and not just to get a cure. He would never stop,
especially now. Not after what they’d done to him and
his friends. If the only way to get back at them was to
pass all their tests and trials, to survive, then so be it.
So be it.
With thoughts of revenge actually comforting him in a
sick and twisted way, he finally fell asleep.
Every Glader had set the alarm on his digital watch for
five o’clock in the morning. Thomas woke up well
before that and couldn’t go back to sleep. When beeps
finally started filling the room, he swung his legs off the
bed and rubbed his eyes. Someone turned on the light
and a yellow blast lit up his vision. Squinting, he got up
and headed for the showers. Who knew how long it’d
be before he could clean himself again.
At ten minutes till the time appointed by Rat Man,
every Glader sat in anticipation, most holding a plastic
bag full of water, the bedsheet packs at their sides.
Thomas, like the others, had decided he’d carry the
water in his hand to make sure it didn’t spill or leak.
The invisible shield had reappeared overnight in the
middle of the common area, impossible to pass
through, and the Gladers settled just on the boys’ dorm
side of it, facing where the stranger in the white suit
had said a Flat Trans would appear.
Aris was sitting right next to Thomas, and spoke for
the first time since … well, Thomas couldn’t remember
the last time he’d heard the boy’s voice.
“Did you think you were crazy?” the new kid asked.
“When you first heard her in your head?”
Thomas glanced at him, paused. For some reason,
up until that moment he hadn’t wanted to talk to this
guy. But suddenly the feeling vanished completely. It
wasn’t Aris’s fault that Teresa had disappeared. “Yeah.
Then when it kept happening, I got over it—only I
started worrying about other people thinking I was
crazy. So we didn’t tell anyone about it for a long time.”
“It was weird for me,” Aris responded. He looked
deep in thought as he stared at the floor. “I was in a
coma for a few days, and when I woke up, speaking
out to Rachel seemed the most natural thing in the
world. If she hadn’t accepted it and spoken back, I’m
pretty sure I would’ve lost it. The other girls in the group
hated me—some of them wanted to kill me. Rachel
was the only one who …”
He trailed off, and Minho stood up to address
everyone before Aris could finish what he was saying.
Thomas was glad for it, because hearing about the
trippy alternate version of what he himself had been
through only made him think of Teresa, and that hurt too
much. He didn’t want to think about her anymore. He
had to concentrate on surviving for now.
“We’ve got three minutes,” Minho said, for once
looking completely serious. “Everybody sure they still
wanna go?”
Thomas nodded, noticed others doing the same.
“Anybody change their mind overnight?” Minho
asked. “Speak now or never. Once we go wherever
we’re going, if some shank decides he’s a sissy pants
and tries to turn back, I’ll make sure he does it with a
broken nose and smashed privates.”
Thomas looked over at Newt, who had his head in
his hands and was groaning loudly.
“Newt, you got a problem?” Minho asked, his voice
surprisingly stern. Thomas, shocked, waited for Newt’s
reaction.
The older boy seemed just as surprised. “Uh … no.
Just admiring your bloody leadership skills.”
Minho pulled his shirt away from his neck, leaned
over to show everyone the tattoo there. “What does
that say, slinthead?”
Newt glanced left and right, his face blushing. “We
know you’re the boss, Minho. Slim it.”
“No, you slim it,” Minho retorted, pointing at Newt.
“We don’t have time for that kind of klunk. So shut your
hole.”
Thomas could only hope that Minho was putting on
an act to solidify the decision they’d made for him to
be the leader, and that Newt understood. Though if
Minho was acting, he was sure doing a good job of it.
“It’s six o’clock!” one of the Gladers shouted.
As if this proclamation had triggered it, the invisible
shield turned opaque again, fogging to a splotchy
white. A split second later it vanished altogether.
Thomas noticed the change in the wall opposite them
instantly—a large section of it had transformed into a
flat, shimmering surface of murky, shadowy gray.
“Come on!” Minho yelled as he pulled the strap of his
pack onto his shoulder. He was gripping a water bag in
his other hand. “Don’t mess around—we only have five
minutes to get through. I’ll go first.” He pointed at
Thomas. “You go last—make sure everyone follows me
before you come.”
Thomas nodded, trying to fight the fire burning
through his nerves; he reached up and wiped the
sweat off his forehead.
Minho walked up to the wall of gray, then paused
right in front of it. The Flat Trans seemed completely
unstable, impossible for Thomas to focus on. Shadows
and swirls of varying shades of darkness danced
across its surface. The whole thing pulsed and blurred,
as if it might disappear at any second.
Minho turned to look back at them. “See you shanks
on the other side.”
Then he stepped through, and the wall of gray murk
swallowed him whole.

CHAPTER 14
No one complained as Thomas herded the rest of
them behind Minho. No one even said anything, just
exchanged flickering, frightened looks as they
approached the Flat Trans and went through it. Without
fail, every Glader hesitated a second before taking the
final step into the murkiness of the gray square.
Thomas watched each of them, swatting them on the
back right before they disappeared.
After two minutes, only Aris and Newt were left with
Thomas.
You sure about this? Aris said to him inside his
mind.
Thomas choked on a cough, surprised by the flow of
words across his consciousness—that not-quiteaudible
yet somehow audible speech. He’d thought
—and hoped—that Aris had gotten the hint that he
didn’t want to communicate that way. That was
something for Teresa, not anybody else.
“Hurry,” Thomas muttered out loud, refusing to
answer telepathically. “We’ve gotta hurry.”
Aris stepped through, a hurt look on his face. Newt
followed right on his heels; just like that, Thomas was
alone in the big common room.
He glanced around one last time, remembered the
dead, swelling bodies that had hung there just a few
days earlier. Thought about the Maze and all the klunk
they’d been through. Sighing as loudly as he could,
hoping someone, somewhere could hear it, he gripped
his water bag and his bedsheet pack full of food and
stepped into the Flat Trans.
A distinct line of coldness traveled across his skin
from front to back, as if the wall of gray were a standing
plane of icy water. He’d closed his eyes at the last
second and opened them now to see nothing but
absolute darkness. But he heard voices.
“Hey!” he called out, ignoring the sudden burst of
panic in his own voice. “You guys—”
Before he could finish, he stumbled on something
and fell over, crashing on top of a squirming body.
“Ow!” the person yelled, pushing Thomas off. It was
all he could do to hold tight to the water bag.
“Everyone be still and shut up!” This was Minho, and
the relief that washed through Thomas almost made
him shout for joy. “Thomas, was that you? Are you in
here?”
“Yes!” Thomas regained his feet, blindly feeling
around him to make sure he didn’t bump into someone
else. He felt nothing but air, saw nothing but black. “I
was the last one to come through. Did everyone make
it?”
“We were lining up and counting off nice and easy till
you came stumbling through like a doped-up bull,”
Minho responded. “Let’s do it again. One!”
When no one said anything, Thomas yelled, “Two!”
From there, the Gladers counted off until Aris went
last and called out, “Twenty.”
“Good that,” Minho said. “We’re all here, wherever
here is. Can’t see a shuck thing.”
Thomas stood still, sensing the other boys, hearing
their breaths, but scared to move. “Too bad we don’t
have a flashlight.”
“Thanks for stating the obvious, Mr. Thomas,” Minho
replied. “All right, listen up. We’re in some kind of
hallway—I can feel the walls on both sides, and as far
as I can tell, most of you are to my right. Thomas,
where you’re standing is where we came in. We better
not take any chances of accidentally going back
through the Flat Trans thingamajiggy, so everyone
follow my voice and come toward me. Not much choice
but to head down this way and see what we find.”
He’d started moving away from Thomas as he said
those last few words. The whispers of shuffling feet and
rustling packs against clothes told him that the others
were following. When he sensed that he was the last
one remaining, and that he wouldn’t step on anybody
again, he moved slowly to his left, reaching his hand
out until he felt a hard, cool wall. Then he walked after
the rest of the group, letting his hand slide along the
wall to keep his bearings.
No one spoke as they moved forward. Thomas
hated that his eyes never adjusted to the darkness
—there wasn’t even the slightest hint of light. The air
was cool, but smelled like old leather and dust. A
couple of times he bumped into the person directly in
front of him; he didn’t even know who it was because
the boy didn’t say anything when they collided.
On and on they went, the tunnel stretching ahead
without ever turning to the left or right. Thomas’s hand
against the wall and the ground below his feet were the
only things that kept him tied to reality or gave him a
sense of movement. Otherwise, he would’ve felt as if
he were floating through empty space, making no
progress whatsoever.
The only sounds were the scrapes of shoes on the
The only sounds were the scrapes of shoes on the
hard concrete floor and occasional snatches of
whispers between Gladers. Thomas felt every thump of
his heart as they marched down the endless tunnel of
darkness. He couldn’t help but remember the Box, that
lightless cube of stale air that had delivered him to the
Glade; it had felt much like this. At least now he had a
portion of solid memory, had friends and knew who
they were. At least now he understood the stakes—that
they needed a cure and would probably go through
awful things to get it.
A sudden burst of intense whispering filled the
tunnel, seemed to come from above. Thomas stopped
dead in his tracks. It hadn’t been from any of the
Gladers, he was sure of it.
From up ahead, Minho shouted for the others to halt.
Then, “Did you guys hear that?”
As several Gladers murmured yeses and started
asking questions, Thomas tilted his ear toward the
ceiling, straining to hear something beyond those
voices. The flash of whispering had been quick, just a
few short words that had sounded as if they came from
a very old and very sick man. But the message had
been completely indecipherable.
Minho shushed everyone again, telling them to listen.
Even though it was perfectly dark and therefore
pointless, Thomas closed his eyes, concentrating on
his sense of hearing. If the voice came again, he
wanted to catch what it said.
Less than a minute passed before the same ancient
voice whispered harshly once more, echoing through
the air as if huge speakers were installed on the
ceiling. Thomas heard several people gasp, like they’d
gotten it this time and were shocked by what they’d
heard. But he still hadn’t been able to isolate even one
or two of the words. He opened his eyes again, though
nothing changed in front of him. Utter darkness. Black.
“Did anybody get what it said?” Newt called out.
“Couple of words,” Winston replied. “Sounded like
‘go back’ right in the middle.”
“Yeah, it did,” someone agreed.
Thomas thought about what he’d heard, and in
retrospect, it did seem like those two words had been
in there somewhere. Go back.
“Everybody slim it and listen real hard this time,”
Minho announced. The dark hallway lapsed into
silence.
The next time the voice came, Thomas understood
every single syllable.
“One-chance deal. Go back now, you won’t be
sliced.”
Judging by the reactions in front of him, everyone
else got it this time, too.
“Won’t be sliced?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He said we can go back!”
“We can’t trust some random shank whispering in
the dark.”
Thomas tried not to think about how ominous the last
four words had been. You won’t be sliced. That didn’t
sound good at all. And not being able to see anything
made it worse. Driving him crazy.
“Just keep going!” he shouted up to Minho. “I can’t
take this much longer. Just go!”
“Wait a minute.” Frypan’s voice. “The voice said this
was a one-chance deal. We have to at least think
about it.”
“Yeah,” someone added. “Maybe we should go
back.”
Thomas shook his head even though he knew no
one could see it. “No way. Remember what that guy at
the desk told us. That we’d all die horrible deaths if we
go back.”
Frypan pushed. “Well, what makes him any more in
charge than this whispering dude? How’re we
supposed to know who to listen to and who to ignore?”
Thomas knew it was a good question, but going
back just didn’t feel right. “The voice is just a test, I bet.
We need to keep going.”
“He’s right.” This was Minho from up in front. “Come
on, let’s go.”
He’d barely said the last word when the whispering
voice whooshed through the air again, this time laced
with an almost childish hatred. “You’re all dead. You’re
all going to be sliced. Dead and sliced.”
Every hair on Thomas’s neck stood up straight and a
chill tickled his back. He expected to hear even more
calls to go back, but once again the Gladers surprised
him. No one said a thing, and soon they were all
walking forward again. Minho had been right when
he’d said all the sissies had been weeded out.
They made their way deeper into the darkness. The
air warmed a bit, seemed to thicken with dust. Thomas
coughed several times and was dying to take a drink,
but he didn’t want to risk untying his water bag without
being able to see it. That was all he needed, to spill it
all over the floor.
Forward.
Warmer.
Thirsty.
Darkness.
Walking. Time passed ever so slowly.
Thomas had no idea how this hallway could even be
possible. They had to have journeyed at least two or
three miles since last hearing the creepy whisper of
warning. Where were they? Underground? Inside some
massive building? The Rat Man had said they needed
to find open air. How—
A boy screamed a few dozen feet in front of him.
It started out as an abrupt shriek, like simple
surprise, but then escalated into pure terror. He didn’t
know who it was, but the kid was now screaming his
throat raw, screeching and squealing like an animal at
the old Blood House in the Glade. Thomas heard the
sounds of a body thrashing on the ground.
He ran forward on instinct, pushing past several
Gladers who seemed frozen by fear, moving toward
the inhuman sounds. He didn’t know why he thought
he’d be able to help more than anyone else, but he
didn’t hesitate, not even taking care with his steps as
he sprinted through the darkness. After the long
insanity of walking blindly for so long, it was as if his
body craved the action.
He made it, could hear that the boy now lay right in
front of him, his arms and legs thrashing on the
concrete floor as he struggled against who knew what.
Thomas carefully set his water bag and shoulder pack
far to the side, then timidly reached forward with his
hands to find a grip on an arm or leg. He sensed the
other Gladers crowding behind him, a loud and chaotic
presence of shouts and questions that he forced
himself to ignore.
“Hey!” Thomas yelled at the squirming boy. “What’s
wrong with you?” His fingers brushed the kid’s jeans,
then his shirt, but the boy’s body convulsed all over the
place, impossible to catch, and his shrieks continued
to pierce the air.
Finally, Thomas went for broke. He dove forward,
launching himself fully onto the body of the thrashing
kid. With a jolt that knocked the breath out of him, he
landed, felt the squirming torso; an elbow dug into his
ribs, then a hand slapped his face. A knee came up
and almost got him square in the groin.
“Stop it!” Thomas shouted. “What’s wrong!”
The screams gurgled to a stop, almost like the kid
had just been pulled underwater. But the convulsing
didn’t ease in the slightest.
Thomas put an elbow and forearm on the chest of
the Glader for leverage, then reached out to grab his
hair or his face. But when his hands slid over what was
there, confusion consumed him.
There was no head. No hair or face. Not even a
neck. None of those things that should’ve been there.
Instead, Thomas felt a large and perfectly smooth
ball of cold metal.

CHAPTER 15
The next few seconds were beyond strange. As soon
as Thomas’s hand made contact with the odd metal
ball, the boy stopped moving. His arms and legs stilled
and the stiffness in his twitching torso went away in an
instant. Thomas felt a thick wetness on the hard
sphere, oozing up from where the kid’s neck should’ve
been. He knew it was blood, could smell the coppery
scent of it.
Then the ball slipped from under Thomas’s fingers
and rolled away, making a hollow grating sound until it
thumped into the closest wall and came to a stop. The
boy lying below him didn’t move or make a sound. The
other Gladers continued to shout questions into the
dark, but Thomas ignored them.
Horror filled his chest as he pictured the boy, what he
must look like. Nothing about it made sense, but the
kid was obviously dead, his head cut off somehow.
Or … turned into metal? What in the world had
happened? Thomas’s mind spun, and it took a
moment before he realized that warm fluid was flowing
over the hand he’d pressed to the floor when the ball
slipped away. He freaked.
Scooting backward away from the body, wiping his
hand on his pants, he shouted but wasn’t able to form
words. A couple of Gladers grabbed him from behind
and helped him to his feet. He pushed them away,
stumbled against a wall. Someone gripped his shirt at
the shoulder, pulled him closer.
“Thomas!” Minho’s voice. “Thomas! What
happened?”
Thomas tried to calm himself, take hold of things.
His stomach lurched; his chest tightened. “I … I don’t
know. Who was that? Who was down there
screaming?”
Winston answered, his voice shaky. “Frankie, I think.
He was right next to me, just making a joke, and then it
was like something yanked him away. Yeah, it was him.
Definitely him.”
“What happened!” Minho repeated.
Thomas realized he was still wiping his hands on his
pants. “Look,” he said before taking a long breath.
Doing all this in the dark was maddening. “I heard him
screaming, and ran up here to help. I jumped on him,
tried to pin his arms down, find out what was wrong.
Then I reached for his head to grab him by the cheeks
—I don’t even know why—and all I felt was …”
He couldn’t say it. Nothing could possibly sound
more absurd than the truth.
“What?” Minho shouted.
Thomas groaned, then said it. “His head wasn’t a
head. It was like a … a big … metal ball. I don’t know,
man, but that’s what I felt. Like his shuck head had
been swallowed by … by a big metal ball!”
“What’re you talking about?” Minho asked.
Thomas didn’t know how he could convince him or
anyone else. “Didn’t you hear it rolling away right after
he stopped screaming? I know it—”
“It’s right here!” someone shouted. Newt. Thomas
heard a heavy scrape again, then Newt grunting with
effort. “I heard it roll over here. And it’s all wet and
sticky—feels like blood.”
“What the klunk,” Minho half whispered. “How big is
it?” The other Gladers joined in with a chorus of
questions.
“Everybody slim it!” Newt yelled. When they quieted,
he said flatly, “I don’t know.” Thomas heard him
carefully handling the ball to get a feel for it. “Bigger
than a buggin’ head for sure. It’s perfectly round—a
perfect sphere.”
Thomas was baffled, disgusted, but all he could think
about was getting out of that place. Out of the
darkness. “We need to run,” he said. “We need to go.
Now.”
“Maybe we should go back.” Thomas didn’t
recognize the voice. “Whatever that ball thing is, it
sliced off Frankie’s head, just like the old shank
warned us.”
“No way,” Minho responded angrily. “No way.
Thomas is right. No more dinkin’ around. Spread out a
couple of feet from each other, then run. Hunch down,
and if something comes near your head, hit the living
crap out of it.”
No one argued. Thomas quickly found his food and
water; then some unspoken communication
permeated the group and they set off running, far
enough apart not to trip over each other. Thomas
wasn’t in the very back anymore, not wanting to waste
time to get back in order. He ran, ran as hard as he
remembered ever running in the Maze.
He smelled sweat. He breathed dust and warm air.
His hands grew clammy and gooey from the blood.
The darkness, complete.
He ran and didn’t stop.
A death ball got one more person. It happened closer
to Thomas this time—got a kid he’d never spoken one
word to. Thomas heard a distinct sound of metal
sliding against metal, a couple of hard clicks. Then the
screams drowned out the rest.
No one stopped. A terrible thing, maybe. Probably.
But no one stopped.
When the screams finally cut off with a gurgling halt,
Thomas heard a loud clonk as the ball of metal
crashed onto the hard ground. He heard it rolling,
heard it clank against a wall and roll some more.
He kept running. He never slowed.
His heart pounded; his chest hurt from deep, ragged
breaths as he desperately gulped the dusty air. He lost
track of time, had no sense of how far they’d gone. But
when Minho called for everyone to stop, the relief was
almost overwhelming. His exhaustion had finally won
out over the terror of the thing that had killed two
people.
Sounds of people panting filled the small space, and
it reeked of bad breath. Frypan was the first one to
recover enough to speak. “Why’d we stop?”
“’Cause I almost broke my shins on something up
here!” Minho shouted back. “I think it’s a stairway.”
Thomas felt his spirits lift, but immediately squashed
them back down. Getting his hopes up was something
he’d sworn never to do again. Not until all this was
over.
“Well, let’s go up ’em!” Frypan said far too cheerfully.
“Ya think?” Minho responded. “What would we do
without you, Frypan? Seriously.”
Thomas heard the heavy stomps of Minho’s
footsteps as he ran up the stairs—it made a highpitched
ringing like they were made of thin metal. Only
a few seconds passed before other footsteps joined
in, and soon everyone was following Minho.
When Thomas reached the first step, he tripped and
fell, banging his knee against the second one. He put
his hands down to regain his balance—almost bursting
his bag of water—then popped back up, skipping a
step every once in a while. Who knew when another
metal thing might attack, and hope or no hope, he was
more than ready to move on to a place that wasn’t
pitch-black.
A bang sounded from above, a deeper thump than
the footsteps, but it still sounded like metal.
“Ow!” Minho yelled. Then there were a few grunts
and groans as Gladers bumped into each other before
they could stop themselves.
“You okay?” Newt asked.
“What’d … you hit?” Thomas called up through heavy
breaths.
Minho sounded irritated. “The shuck top, that’s what.
We hit the roof, and there’s nowhere else …” He trailed
off, and Thomas could hear him sliding his hands along
the walls and ceiling, searching. “Wait! I think I found—”
A distinct click cut him off, and then the world around
Thomas seemed to ignite into pure flame. He cried out
as he covered his eyes with his hands—a blinding,
searing light shone down from above. He’d dropped
his water bag, but he couldn’t help it. After so long in
pitch-darkness, the sudden appearance of light
overpowered him—even through the protection of his
hands. Brilliant orange burst through his fingers and
eyelids, and a wave of heat—like a hot wind—swept
down.
Thomas heard a heavy scrape, then a clonk, and the
darkness returned. Warily, he dropped his hands and
squinted; spots danced across his vision.
“Shuck me,” Minho said. “Looks like we found a way
out, but I think it’s on the freaking sun! Man, that was
bright. And hot.”
“Let’s just open it a crack and let our eyes get used
to it,” Newt said. Then Thomas heard him walk up the
stairs to join Minho. “Here’s a shirt—wedge it in there.
Everybody shut your eyes!”
Thomas did as he was told and covered them with
his hands again. The glow of orange returned and the
process began. After a minute or so, he lowered his
hands and slowly opened his eyes. He had to squint,
and it still seemed like a million flashlights were
pointed at him, but it had become bearable. A couple
of minutes more and everything was bright but fine.
He could now see that he stood about twenty steps
down from where Minho and Newt crouched just
beneath the door in the ceiling. Three shining lines
marked the edges of the door, broken only by the shirt
they’d stuffed in the right corner to keep it open.
Everything around them—the walls, the stairs, the door
itself—was made of a dull gray metal. Thomas turned
around to look back in the direction from which they’d
come, saw that the stairs disappeared into darkness
far below them. They’d climbed up a lot more than he’d
imagined.
“Anybody blind now?” Minho asked. “I feel like my
eyeballs are roasted marshmallows.”
Thomas felt that, too. His eyes burned and itched,
kept tearing up. The Gladers around him were all
rubbing their eyes.
“So what’s out there?” someone asked.
Minho shrugged as he peeked through the slit of the
open door with a hand half-shielding his vision. “Can’t
really tell. All I can see is a lot of bright light—maybe we
are on the shuck sun. But I don’t think there’re any
people out there.” He paused. “Or Cranks.”
“Let’s get out of here, then,” Winston said; he was
two steps below Thomas. “I’d rather get a sunburn than
get my head attacked by some ball of steel. Let’s go!”
“All right, Winston,” Minho replied. “Keep your undies
on—I just wanted to let our eyes adjust first. I’ll throw
the door all the way open to make sure we’re okay. Get
ready.” He moved up a step so he could press his right
shoulder against the slab of metal. “One. Two. Three!”
He straightened his legs with a grunt and heaved
upward. Light and heat burst down the stairwell as the
door opened with a terrible squeal of grinding metal.
Thomas quickly looked toward the ground and
squinted. The brightness seemed impossible—even if
they had been wandering along in perfect darkness for
hours.
He heard some shuffling and pushing above him and
looked up to see Newt and Minho moving to get out of
the square of blinding sunlight coming through the nowopen
door. The whole stairwell heated up like an oven.
“Aw, man!” Minho said, a wince on his face.
“Something’s wrong, dude. It feels like it’s already
burning my skin!”
“He’s right,” Newt said, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I don’t know if we can go out there. We might have to
wait until the sun goes down.”
Groans of complaint sounded from the Gladers, but
then they were overcome by a sudden outburst from
Winston. “Whoa! Watch out! Watch out!”
Thomas turned to look at Winston down the stairs.
He was pointing at something right above him as he
backed up a couple of steps. On the ceiling, just a few
feet above their heads, a big glob of liquid silver was
coalescing, seeping out of the metal as if melting into a
large teardrop. It grew bigger and bigger as Thomas
stared at it, forming in a matter of seconds into a
wavering, slowly rippling ball of molten goop. Then,
before anyone could react, it detached from the ceiling
and fell away.
But instead of splatting on the steps at their feet, the
sphere of silver defied gravity and flew horizontally,
directly into Winston’s face. His horrific screams filled
the air as he fell and started tumbling down the stairs.

CHAPTER 16
Thomas had a sickening thought as he pushed his way
down the stairs after Winston. He didn’t know if he was
going because he wanted to help him or because he
couldn’t control his curiosity about this silvery monsterball.
Winston eventually thumped to a stop, his back
coming to rest by chance on one of the steps; they
were still nowhere close to the bottom. The brilliant light
from the open door up top illuminated everything with
perfect clarity. Both of Winston’s hands were at his
face, pulling at the silver liquid—the ball of molten
metal had already melded with the top of his head,
consuming the part above the ears. Now its edges
were creeping downward like thick syrup, lipping over
the ears and covering his eyebrows.
Thomas jumped over the boy’s body and spun
around to kneel on the step directly below him; Winston
pulled and pushed at the silver goop to keep it off his
eyes. Surprisingly, it seemed to be working. But the
boy was screaming at the top of his lungs, thrashing,
his feet kicking the wall.
“Get it off me!” he yelled, his voice so strangled that
Thomas almost gave up and ran away. If the stuff hurt
that bad …
It looked like a very dense silver gel. Persistent and
stubborn—like it was alive. As soon as Winston
pushed a portion of it up and off his eyes, some of it
would slip around his fingers from the side and try
again. Thomas could see glimpses of the skin on his
face when he did this, and it wasn’t pretty. Red and
blistering.
Winston cried out something unintelligible—his
tortured screams could have been in another language
altogether. Thomas knew he had to do something.
Time had run out.
He threw the pack off his shoulders and dumped the
contents; fruits and packages scattered and thumped
down the stairs. He took the bedsheet and wrapped it
around his hands for protection, then went for it. As
Winston swiped at the molten silver right above his
eyes again, Thomas grabbed for the sides that had
just gone over the boy’s ears. He felt heat through the
cloth, thought it might burst into flame. He braced his
feet, squeezed the stuff as hard as he could, then
yanked.
With a disturbing sucking sound, the sides of the
attacking metal lifted several inches before slipping out
of his hands and slapping back down onto Winston’s
ears. Impossibly, the boy screamed even louder. A
couple of other Gladers tried to move in to help, but
Thomas shouted for them to back off, thinking they’d
only get in the way.
“We have to do it together!” Thomas yelled at
Winston, determined to get a stronger hold this time.
“Listen to me, Winston! We have to do it together! Try
to get a grip on it and lift it off your head!”
The other boy didn’t show any sign of understanding,
his whole body convulsing as he struggled. If Thomas
hadn’t been on the step below him, he would’ve
tumbled down the rest of the way for sure by now.
“On the count of three!” Thomas yelled. “Winston! On
the count of three!”
Still no sign he’d heard. Screaming. Thrashing.
Kicking. Slapping at the silver.
Tears welled up in Thomas’s eyes, or maybe it was
sweat trickling down from his forehead. But it stung.
And he felt like the air had heated up to a million
degrees. His muscles tensed; lances of pain shot
through his legs. They were cramping.
“Just do it!” he yelled, ignoring it all and leaning in to
try again. “One! Two! Now!”
He gripped the sides of the stretching silver, felt its
odd combination of soft toughness, then yanked once
again up and away from Winston’s head. Winston
must’ve heard, or maybe it was luck, but at the same
time, he pushed at the goop with the heels of his
hands, like he was trying to rip off his own forehead.
The entire mess of silver came off, a wobbly, thick and
heavy sheet of the stuff. Thomas didn’t hesitate; he
flung his arms up and threw the junk over his head and
down the stairwell, then spun around on his heels to
see what happened.
As it flew through the air, the silver quickly formed
back into a sphere, its surface rippling for a moment,
then solidifying. It stopped just a few steps down from
them, hovered for a second, like it was taking a long
and lasting look at its victim, perhaps thinking over
what had gone wrong. Then it shot away, flying down
the stairway until it disappeared in the darkness far
below.
It was gone. For some reason, it hadn’t attacked
again.
Thomas sucked in huge gasps of air; every inch of
his body felt drenched with sweat. He leaned his
his body felt drenched with sweat. He leaned his
shoulder against the wall, scared to look back at
Winston, who was whimpering behind him. At least the
screams had stopped.
Thomas finally turned around and faced him.
The kid was a mess. Curled up into a ball, shaking.
The hair on his head had vanished, replaced with raw
skin and spots of seeping blood. His ears were cut
and ragged, but whole. He sobbed, surely from the
pain, probably also from the trauma of what he’d just
been through. The acne on his face looked clean and
fresh compared to the raw wounds on the rest of his
head.
“You okay, man?” Thomas asked, knowing it had to
be the dumbest question he’d ever spoken aloud.
Winston shook his head with a quick jerk; his body
continued to tremble.
Thomas looked up to see Minho and Newt and Aris
and all the other Gladers just a couple of steps above
them, all staring down in complete shock. The brilliant
glare from above shadowed their faces, but Thomas
could still see their eyes—wide like those of cats
stunned by a spotlight.
“What was that shuck thing?” Minho murmured.
Thomas couldn’t bring himself to speak, just shook
his head wearily.
Newt was the one to answer. “Magic goop that eats
people’s heads, that’s what it bloody was.”
“Has to be some kind of new technology.” This came
from Aris, the first time Thomas had seen him
participate in a discussion. The boy looked around,
obviously noticing the surprised faces, then shrugged
as if embarrassed and continued. “I’ve had a few
splotchy memories come back. I know the world has
some pretty advanced techno stuff—but I don’t
remember anything like flying molten metal that tries to
cut off body parts.”
Thomas thought about his own sketchy memories.
Certainly nothing like that came to mind for him, either.
Minho pointed absently down the stairwell past
Thomas. “That crap must keep gelling around your
face, then eat into the flesh of your neck until it cuts
clean through it. Nice. That’s real nice.”
“Did you see? Thing came right out of the ceiling!”
Frypan said. “We better get out of here. Now.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” Newt added.
Minho glanced down at Winston with a look of
disgust, and Thomas followed his gaze. The kid had
quit shaking, and his sobs had calmed to a stifled
whimper. But he looked awful, and was surely scarred
for life. Thomas couldn’t imagine hair ever growing
back on the red, raw mess of his head.
“Frypan, Jack!” Minho called out. “Get Winston on
his feet, help him along. Aris, you gather the klunk he
dropped, have a couple of guys help you carry it. We’re
leaving. I don’t care how bright or brutal that light is up
there—I don’t feel like having my head turned into a
bowling ball today.”
He turned around without waiting to see if people
followed his orders. It was a move that, for some
reason, made Thomas think the guy would end up
making a good leader after all. “Come on, Thomas and
Newt,” he called over his shoulder. “The three of us are
going through first.”
Thomas exchanged glances with Newt, who returned
a look that had a little fear in it but was mostly full of
a look that had a little fear in it but was mostly full of
curiosity. An eagerness to move on. Thomas felt it
himself, and hated to admit that anything seemed
better than dealing with the aftermath of what had
happened to Winston.
“Let’s go,” Newt said, his voice rising on the second
word, as if they had no choice but to do what they were
told. Though his face revealed the truth: he wanted to
get away from poor Winston just as much as Thomas
did.
Thomas nodded and carefully stepped over
Winston, trying not to look at the skin on his injured
head again. It was making him sick. He moved to the
side to let Frypan, Jack and Aris past him to do their
jobs, then started up the stairs, two at a time. Following
Newt and Minho to the top, where it seemed like the
sun itself waited just outside the open door.

CHAPTER 17
The other Gladers moved out of their way, seemingly
more than happy to let the three of them be the ones to
see what was outside. Thomas squinted and then
shielded his eyes as they got closer. It was getting hard
to believe they could actually step through the door into
that horrible brightness and survive.
Minho stopped on the last step, just short of the
direct line of the light. Then he slowly held his hand out
until it entered the square of brilliance. Despite the
boy’s olive complexion, it looked to Thomas as if
Minho’s skin shone like white fire.
After only a few seconds Minho pulled his hand back
and shook it at his side like he’d hit his thumb with a
hammer. “That’s definitely hot. Definitely hot.” He
turned to face Thomas and Newt. “If we’re gonna do
this, we better have something wrapped around us or
we’ll have second-degree sunburns in five minutes.”
“Let’s empty out our packs,” Newt said, already
taking his off his shoulder. “Wear these sheets like
buggin’ robes as we check things out. If it works well
enough, we can stuff the food and water into half our
sheets and use the other half for protection.”
Thomas had already freed his sheet to help Winston.
“We’ll look like ghosts—scare away any bad guys out
there.”
Minho didn’t take the same care as Newt; he just
upended his pack and let everything drop. The Gladers
closest to them scrambled on instinct to stop the stuff
from tumbling down the stairs. “Funny boy, that
Thomas. Let’s just hope we don’t have some nice
Cranks to greet us,” he said as he started untying the
knots he’d made in the bedsheet. “I don’t see how
anyone could just be hanging out in that heat. Hopefully
there’ll be trees or some kind of shelter.”
“I don’t know,” Newt said. “Then they might be hiding,
bloody waitin’ to get us or something.”
Thomas was just itching to check things out. Quit
making guesses and see for himself what they were up
against. “We won’t know till we investigate. Let’s go.”
He whipped out his sheet, then pulled it over himself
and wrapped it tightly around his face like an old
woman in a shawl. “How do I look?”
“Like the ugliest shanky girl I’ve ever seen,” Minho
responded. “You better thank the gods above you were
born a dude.”
“Thanks.”
Minho and Newt did as Thomas had done, though
both of them took more care to grip the sheet with their
hands under it so they were completely covered. They
also held it out to make sure their faces were shaded.
Thomas followed suit.
“You shanks ready?” Minho asked, looking at Newt,
then Thomas.
“Kind of excited, actually,” Newt responded.
Thomas didn’t know if that was quite the right word,
but he felt the same urge to act. “Me too. Let’s go.”
The remaining steps above them went all the way to
the top, like an exit from an old cellar, the last few
glowing with the brilliance of the sun. Minho hesitated,
but then ran up them, not stopping until he’d
disappeared, seemingly absorbed into the light.
“Go!” Newt yelled, smacking Thomas on the back.
Thomas felt a rush of adrenaline. Blowing out a deep
breath, he took off after Minho; he heard Newt right on
his heels.
As soon as Thomas emerged into the light, he
realized that they might as well have been draped in
see-through plastic. The sheet did nothing to block the
blinding light and searing heat beating down from
above. He opened his mouth to speak and a raw
plume of dry warmth shot down his throat, seeming to
obliterate any air or moisture in its path. He tried
desperately to pull in oxygen, but instead it felt like
someone had lit a fire in his chest.
Although his memories were few and scattered,
Thomas didn’t think the world was supposed to be like
this. With his eyes screwed shut against the white
brilliance, he bumped into Minho and almost fell down.
Regaining his balance, he bent his knees and
squatted, tenting the sheet entirely over his body as he
continued to fight for breath. He finally caught it,
sucking air in and puffing it out rapidly as he tried to
compose himself. That first instant after exiting the
stairway had really panicked him. The other two
Gladers were also breathing heavily.
“You guys all right?” Minho finally asked.
Thomas grunted a yes, and Newt said, “Pretty sure
we just arrived in bloody hell. Always thought you’d end
up here, Minho, but not me.”
“Good that,” Minho replied. “My eyeballs hurt, but I
think I’m finally starting to get kind of used to the light.”
Thomas opened his own eyes into a squint and
looked down at the ground just a couple of feet below
looked down at the ground just a couple of feet below
his face. Dirt and dust. A few gray-brown rocks. The
sheet lay draped completely around him, but it glowed
so white it was like some odd piece of futuristic light
technology.
“Who you hidin’ from?” Minho asked. “Get up, ya
shank—I don’t see anybody.”
Thomas was embarrassed that they thought he was
cowering there—he must look like a small child
whimpering under his blankets, trying not to be seen.
He stood up and very slowly lifted the sheet until he
could peek out at their surroundings.
It was a wasteland.
In front of him, a flat pan of dry and lifeless earth
stretched as far as he could see. Not a single tree. Not
a bush. No hills or valleys. Just an orange-yellow sea of
dust and rocks; wavering currents of heated air boiled
on the horizon like steam, floating upward, as if any life
out there were melting toward the cloudless and pale
blue sky.
Thomas turned in a circle, didn’t see much change
until he faced the opposite direction. A line of jagged
and barren mountains rose far in the distance. In front
of those mountains, maybe halfway between there and
where they now stood, a cluster of buildings sat
squatting together like a pile of abandoned boxes. It
had to be a town, but it was impossible to tell how big it
was from this distance. Hot air shimmered in front of it,
blurring everything close to the ground.
The white-hot sun above already lay far to Thomas’s
left, and seemed to be sinking toward that horizon,
which meant that way was west, which meant that the
town ahead and the range of black and red rock
behind it had to be due north. Where they were
supposed to head. His sense of direction surprised
him, as if a piece of his past had risen from the ashes.
“How far away do you think those buildings are?”
Newt asked. After the echoing, hollow sounds their
speaking had made in the long dark tunnel and
stairway, his voice was like a dull whisper.
“Could that be a hundred miles?” Thomas asked no
one in particular. “That’s definitely north. Is that where
we have to go?”
Minho shook his head under his sheet-hood. “No
way, dude. I mean, we’re supposed to go that way, but
it’s not even close to a hundred miles. Thirty at most.
And the mountains might be sixty or seventy.”
“Didn’t know you could measure distance so well
with nothing but your bloody eyeballs,” Newt said.
“I’m a Runner, shuck-face. You get a feel for stuff like
that in the Maze, even if its scale was a lot smaller.”
“The Rat Man wasn’t kidding about those sun flares,”
Thomas said, trying not to let his heart sink too much.
“Looks like a nuclear holocaust out here. I wonder if the
whole world is like this.”
“Let’s hope not,” Minho responded. “I’d be happy to
see one tree right about now. Maybe a creek.”
“I’d settle for a patch of grass,” Newt said through a
sigh.
The more Thomas looked, the closer that town
appeared. Thirty miles might even have been too
much. He broke his gaze and turned toward the others.
“Could this be any more different from what they put us
through in the Maze? There, we were trapped inside
walls, with everything we need to survive. Now we have
nothing holding us in, but no way to survive unless we
nothing holding us in, but no way to survive unless we
go where they told us to. Isn’t that called irony or
something like that?”
“Something like that,” Minho agreed. “You’re a
philosophizing wonder.” He nodded back toward the
exit from the stairway. “Come on. Let’s get those
shanks out here and start walking. No time to waste
letting the sun suck all the water out of us.”
“Maybe we should wait until it goes down,” Newt
suggested.
“And hang out with those shuck balls of metal? No
way.”
Thomas agreed that they should get moving. “I think
we’re okay. Looks like sunset’s only a few hours away.
We can be tough for a while, take a break, then go as
far as possible during the night. I can’t stand another
minute down there.”
Minho nodded firmly.
“Sounds like a plan,” Newt said. “For now, let’s just
make it to that dusty old town and hope it’s not full of
our Crank buddies.”
Thomas’s chest hitched at that comment.
Minho walked back to the hole and leaned over it.
“Hey, you bunch of sissy, no-good shanks! Grab all the
food and get up here!”
Not one Glader complained about the plan.
Thomas watched as each one of them did the same
things he’d done when he first exited the stairway.
Struggling gasps for breaths, squinty eyes, looks of
hopelessness. He bet that each one of them had
hoped the Rat Man was lying. That the worst times had
been back in the Maze. But he was pretty sure that
after the crazy head-eating silver things and then
seeing this wasteland, no one would ever have such
hopeful thoughts again.
They had to make some adjustments as they
readied for the journey—the food and water bags were
stuffed more tightly into half of the original packs; then
the free bedsheets were used to cover two people as
they walked. All in all, it worked surprisingly well—even
for Jack and poor Winston—and soon they were
marching across the hard, rock-strewn ground.
Thomas shared his sheet with Aris, though he didn’t
know how it had ended up that way. Maybe he was just
refusing to admit that he’d wanted to be with the boy,
that he might be the only possible connection to
figuring out what had happened to Teresa.
Thomas held one end of the sheet up with his left
hand and had a pack draped around his right shoulder.
Aris was to his right; they’d agreed to trade off the
now-much-heavier pack every thirty minutes. Step by
dusty step, they made their way toward the town, the
heat seeming to suck a full day of their life away every
hundred yards.
They didn’t talk for a long while, but Thomas finally
broke the silence. “So you’ve never heard the name
Teresa before?”
Aris looked sharply at him, and Thomas realized
he’d probably had a less-than-subtle hint of accusation
in his voice. But he didn’t back down. “Well? Have
you?”
Aris returned his gaze forward, but there was
something suspicious there. “No. Never. I don’t know
who she is or where she went. But at least you didn’t
see her die right in front of you.”
see her die right in front of you.”
That was a punch to the gut, but for some reason it
made Thomas like Aris more. “I know, sorry.” He
thought for a second before he asked the next
questions. “How close were you guys? What was her
name, again?”
“Rachel.” Aris paused, and for a second Thomas
thought the conversation might be over already, but
then he continued. “We were way more than close.
Things happened. We remembered stuff. Made new
memories.”
Thomas knew Minho would’ve laughed his face off at
that last comment, but to him it sounded like the
saddest three words he’d ever heard. He felt he had to
say something—offer something. “Yeah. I did see a
really good friend die, though. Every time I think about
Chuck I get ticked off all over again. If they’ve done the
same thing to Teresa, they won’t be able to stop me.
Nothing will. They’ll all die.”
Thomas stopped—forcing Aris to as well—shocked
that those words had just come out of his own mouth. It
was like something else had taken over him and said
those things. But he did feel it. Very strongly. “What do
you think—”
But before he could finish the thought, Frypan started
shouting. He was pointing at something.
It only took a second for Thomas to realize what had
gotten the cook all excited.
Far ahead, from the direction of the town, two
people were running toward them, their bodies like
ghostly forms of darkness in the heat mirage, small
plumes of dust rising from their feet.

CHAPTER 18
Thomas stared at the runners. He sensed that the other
Gladers around him had stopped as well, as if there’d
been an unspoken command to do so. Thomas
shivered, something that seemed completely
impossible in the sweltering heat. He didn’t know why
he felt the tickle of cold fear along his back—the
Gladers outnumbered the approaching strangers
almost ten times over—but the feeling was undeniable.
“Everyone pack in tighter,” Minho said. “And get
ready to fight these shanks the first sign of trouble.”
The blurry mirage of upward-melting heat obscured
the two figures until they were only a hundred yards or
so away. Thomas’s muscles tensed when they came
into focus. He remembered all too well what he’d seen
through the barred window just a few mornings ago.
The Cranks. But these people scared him in a different
way.
They stopped just a couple of dozen feet in front of
the Gladers. One was a man, the other a woman,
though Thomas could only tell this from the lady’s
slightly curvy figure. Other than that, they had the same
build—tall and scrawny. Their heads and faces were
almost completely covered in wrappings of tattered
beige cloth, small ragged slits cut for them to see and
breathe through. Their shirts and pants were a
hodgepodge of filthy clothing sewn together, tied with
ratty strips of denim in some places. Nothing was
exposed to the beating sun but their hands, and those
were red and cracked and scabby.
The two of them stood there, panting as they caught
their breath, a sound like sick dogs.
“Who are you?” Minho called out.
The strangers didn’t respond, didn’t move. Their
chests heaved in and out. Thomas observed them from
under his makeshift hood—he couldn’t imagine how
anyone could run so far and not die of heat exhaustion.
“Who are you?” Minho repeated.
Instead of answering, the two strangers split apart
and started walking in a broad circle around the
bunched-up Gladers. Their eyes, hidden behind the
slits in those odd mummy wrappings, stayed fixed on
the boys as they made their way in a wide arc, as if
sizing them up for a kill. Thomas felt the tension inside
him rise, hated when he could no longer see both of
them at once. He turned around and watched as they
met back up behind the group and once again faced
them, standing still.
“There are a whole lot more of us than there are of
you,” Minho said, his voice betraying his frustration. To
threaten them so soon seemed desperate. “Start
talking. Tell us who you are.”
“We’re Cranks.”
The two words came from the woman, a short burst
of guttural annoyance. For no discernible reason she
pointed across the Gladers back toward the town from
which they’d run.
“Cranks?” Minho said; he had pushed his way
through the crowd to be closest to the strangers again.
“Just like the ones that tried to break into our building a
couple days ago?”
Thomas cringed—these people would have no idea
what Minho was talking about. Somehow the Gladers
had traveled a long way from wherever that place had
been—through the Flat Trans.
“We’re Cranks.” This time from the man, his voice
surprisingly lighter and less gruff than the woman’s. But
there was no kindness in it. He pointed over the
Gladers just like his companion had done. “Came to
see if you’re Cranks. Came to see if you’ve got the
Flare.”
Minho turned to look at Thomas and then a few
others, his eyebrows raised. No one said anything. He
turned back. “Some dude told us we had the Flare,
yeah. What can you tell us about it?”
“Don’t matter,” the man responded; the strips of cloth
wrapped around his face jiggled with every word. “You
got it, you’ll know soon enough.”
“Well, what do you bloody want?” Newt asked,
stepping up to stand next to Minho. “What’s it matter to
you if we’re Cranks or not?”
The woman responded this time, acting as if she
hadn’t heard the questions. “How’d you get in the
Scorch? Where’d you come from? How’d you get
here?”
Thomas was surprised at the … intelligence evident
in her words. The Cranks they’d seen back at the dorm
had seemed absolutely insane, like animals. These
people were aware enough to realize that their group
had appeared out of nowhere. Nothing lay in the
opposite direction from the town.
Minho leaned over to consult with Newt, then turned
and stepped closer to Thomas. “What do we tell these
people?”
Thomas had no clue. “I don’t know. The truth? It can’t
Thomas had no clue. “I don’t know. The truth? It can’t
hurt.”
“The truth?” Minho said sarcastically. “What an idea,
Thomas. You’re freaking brilliant, as usual.” He faced
the Cranks again. “We were sent here by WICKED.
Came out of a hole just a little while that way, from a
tunnel. We’re supposed to go one hundred miles to the
north, cross the Scorch. Any of that mean a thing to
you?”
Once again, it was as if they hadn’t heard a word
he’d said.
“Not all Cranks are gone,” the man said. “Not all of
them are past the Gone.” He said that last word in a
way that made it sound like the name of a place.
“Different ones at different levels. Best you learn who to
make friends with and who to avoid. Or kill. Better learn
right quick if you’re coming our way.”
“What’s your way?” Minho asked. “You came from
that town, right? Is that where all these Cranks live? Is
there food and water there?”
Thomas felt the same urge as Minho—to ask a
million questions. He was half tempted to suggest they
capture these two Cranks and make them answer. But
for the moment the pair didn’t seem intent on helping at
all, and they split again to circle back around to the
side of the Gladers closest to the town.
Once they met up in the spot where they’d first
spoken, the distant town almost seeming to float
between them, the woman said one last thing. “If you
don’t have it yet, you’ll have it soon. Same with the
other group. The ones that’re supposed to kill you.”
The two strangers then turned around and ran back
toward the cluster of buildings on the horizon, leaving
Thomas and the other Gladers in stunned silence.
Soon, any evidence of the running Cranks was lost in a
blur of heat and dust.
“Other group?” someone said. Maybe Frypan.
Thomas was in too much of a trance staring at the
disappearing Cranks and worrying about the Flare to
notice.
“Wonder if they’re talking about my group.” This was
definitely Aris. Thomas finally forced himself to snap
out of his gaze.
“Group B?” he asked him. “You think they’ve already
made it to the town?”
“Hello!” Minho snapped. “Who cares? You’d think the
little part about them supposedly killing us would be the
attention getter. Maybe this stuff about the Flare?”
Thomas thought of the tattoo on the back of his neck.
Those simple words that scared him. “Maybe when
she said ‘you’ she didn’t mean all of us.” He jabbed a
thumb over his shoulder, pointing down at his
menacing mark. “Maybe she meant me specifically.
Couldn’t tell where her eyes were looking.”
“How’s she gonna know who you are?” Minho
retorted. “Plus, doesn’t matter. If someone tries to kill
you, or me, or anyone else, they might as well try to get
all of us. Right?”
“You’re so sweet,” Frypan said with a snort. “Go
ahead and die with Thomas. I think I’ll sneak away and
enjoy living with the guilt.” He cast his special look that
meant he was only kidding, but Thomas wondered if a
little truth might be hiding in there somewhere.
“Well, what do we do now?” Jack asked. He had
Winston’s arm around one of his shoulders, but the
former Keeper of the Blood House seemed to have
former Keeper of the Blood House seemed to have
recovered some of his strength. Luckily the sheet
covered the hideous parts of his head.
“What do you think?” Newt asked, but then he
nodded at Minho.
Minho rolled his eyes. “We keep going, that’s what.
Look, we don’t have a choice. If we don’t go to that
town, we’re gonna die out here of sunstroke or
starvation. If we do go, we’ll have some shelter for a
while, maybe even food. Cranks or no Cranks, that’s
where we’re going.”
“And Group B?” Thomas asked; he glanced over at
Aris. “Or whoever they were talking about. What if they
really do wanna kill us? All we have to fight with are our
hands.”
Minho flexed his right arm. “If these people are really
the girls Aris was hanging out with, I’ll show ’em these
guns of mine and they’ll go runnin’.”
Thomas kept pushing. “And if these girls have
weapons? Or can fight? Or if it’s not them at all but a
bunch of seven-foot-tall grunts who like to eat humans?
Or a thousand Cranks?”
“Thomas … no. Everybody.” Minho let out an
exasperated sigh. “Would everyone just shut their
holes and slim it? No more questions. Unless you have
an idea that doesn’t involve absolute certain death,
then quit your pipin’ and let’s take the only chance we
got. Get it?”
Thomas smiled, though he didn’t know where the
impulse came from. Somehow in a few sentences
Minho had cheered him up, or at least given him a little
hope. They just had to go, to move, to do. That was it.
“That’s better,” Minho said with a satisfied nod.
“Anybody else wanna pee their pants and cry for
Mommy?”
A few snickers broke out, but no one said anything.
“Good. Newt, you lead up front this time, limp and all.
Thomas, you in the back. Jack, get someone else to
help with Winston to give you a break. Let’s go.”
And so they did. Aris held the pack this time, and
Thomas felt as if he were almost floating along the
ground, it felt so good. The only hard part was holding
that sheet up, his arm growing weak and rubbery. But
on and on they went, sometimes walking, sometimes
jogging.
Luckily, the sun seemed to gain weight and drop
more quickly the closer it got to the horizon. By
Thomas’s wristwatch, the Cranks had only been gone
an hour when the sky turned a purplish orange and the
intense glare of the sun started to melt away into a
more pleasant glow. Not long after that, it disappeared
below the horizon altogether, pulling nighttime and
stars across the sky like a curtain.
The Gladers kept moving, heading toward the faint
twinkle of lights coming from the town. Thomas could
almost enjoy it now that he wasn’t holding the pack and
they’d put the sheet away.
Finally, when every last trace of dusk had gone, full
darkness settled on the land like a black fog.

CHAPTER 19
Soon after dark, Thomas heard a girl screaming.
At first he didn’t know what he was hearing, or if
maybe it was just his imagination. With the thumps of
dry footsteps, the rustling of the packs, the whispers of
conversation between heavy breaths, it was hard to
tell. But what had started as almost a buzz inside his
head soon became unmistakable. Somewhere ahead
of them, maybe all the way in the town but more likely
closer, a girl’s screams tore through the night.
The others had obviously noticed it, too, and soon
the Gladers quit running. Once everyone caught their
breath, it became easier to hear the disturbing sound.
It was almost like a cat. An injured, wailing cat. The
kind of noise that made your skin crawl and made you
press your hands to your ears and pray it went away.
There was something unnatural about it, something
that chilled Thomas inside and out. The darkness only
added to the creepiness. Whoever the source, she still
wasn’t very close, but her shrill screeches bounced
along like living echoes, trying to smash their
unspeakable sounds against the dirt until they ceased
to exist in this world.
“You know what that reminds me of?” Minho asked,
his voice a whisper with an edge of fear.
Thomas knew. “Ben. Alby. Me, I guess? Screaming
after the Griever sting?”
“You got it.”
“No, no, no,” Frypan moaned. “Don’t tell me we’re
gonna have those suckers out here, too. I can’t take it!”
Newt responded, just a couple of feet to the left of
Thomas and Aris. “Doubt it. Remember how moist and
gooey their skin was? They’d turn into a big dust ball if
they rolled around in this stuff.”
“Well,” Thomas said, “if WICKED can create
Grievers, they can create plenty of other freaks of
nature that might be worse. Hate to say it, but that ratlookin’
guy said things were finally going to get tough.”
“Once again, Thomas gives us a cheerful pep talk,”
Frypan announced; he tried to sound jovial, but it came
out more like a spiteful rub.
“Just saying it how it is.”
Frypan huffed. “I know. And how it is sucks big-time.”
“What now?” Thomas asked.
“I think we should take a break,” Minho said. “Fill our
little tummies and drink up. Then we should book it for
as long as we can stand it while the sun is still down.
Maybe get a couple hours’ sleep before dawn.”
“And the psycho screaming lady out there?” Frypan
asked.
“Sounds like she’s plenty busy with her own troubles.

For some reason that statement terrified Thomas.
Maybe the others, too, because no one said a word as
they slipped the packs off their shoulders, sat down
and began eating.
“Man, I wish she’d shut up.” It was about the fifth time
Aris had said that as they ran along in the darker-thandark
night. The poor girl, somewhere out there, getting
closer all the while, was still crying her fretful, highpitched
wails.
Their meal had been quiet and somber, the talk
drifting toward what the Rat Man had said about the
Variables and how their responses to them were all
that mattered. About creating a “blueprint,” about
finding the “killzone” patterns. No one had any
answers, of course, only meaningless speculations. It
was odd, Thomas thought. They now knew they were
being tested somehow, put through WICKED’s trials. In
some ways it felt like they should behave differently
because of this, and yet they just kept going, fighting,
surviving until they could get the promised cure. And
that was what they’d keep doing; Thomas was sure of
it.
It had taken a while for his legs and joints to loosen
up once Minho got everyone moving again. Above
them, the moon was a sliver, barely providing any more
light than the stars. But you didn’t need to see much to
run along flat and barren land. Plus, unless it was his
imagination, they were actually starting to reach the
lights from the town. He could see that they flickered
now, which meant they were probably fires. Which
made sense—the odds of having electricity in this
wasteland hovered around zero.
He wasn’t sure when it happened exactly, but
suddenly the cluster of buildings they were running
toward seemed a lot closer. And there were a lot more
of them than he or anyone else had thought. Taller, too.
Wider. Spread out and organized in rows and in an
orderly fashion. For all they knew, the place might’ve
once been a major city, devastated by whatever had
happened to the area. Could sun flares really inflict that
much damage? Or had other things caused it during
the aftermath?
Thomas was starting to think they’d actually reach
the first buildings sometime the next day.
Even though they didn’t need the cover of their sheet
at the moment, Aris still jogged right next to him, and
Thomas felt like talking. “Tell me more about your
whole Maze thing.”
Aris’s breaths were even; he seemed to be in just as
good shape as Thomas. “My whole Maze thing?
What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ve never really told us the details. What was it
like for you? How long were you there? How’d you get
out?”
Aris answered over the soft crunch, crunch, crunch
of their footsteps on the desert ground. “I’ve talked with
some of your friends, and it sounds like a lot of it was
exactly the same. Just … girls instead of guys. Some
of them had been there for two years, the rest had
shown up one at a time, once a month. Then came
Rachel, then me the next day, in a coma. I barely
remember anything, just those last few crazy days after
I finally woke up.”
He went on to explain what had happened, and so
much of it matched what Thomas and the Gladers had
been through, it was just plain bizarre. Almost
impossible to believe. Aris came out of his coma, said
something about the Ending, the walls quit shutting at
night, their Box stopped coming, they figured out the
Maze had a code, on and on and on until the escape.
Which went down almost the same as the Gladers’
terrifying experience, except less of the girl group died
—if they were tough like Teresa, this didn’t surprise
Thomas in the least.
In the end, once Aris and his group were in the final
chamber, a girl named Beth—who’d disappeared days
earlier, just like Gally had—killed Rachel, right before
rescuers came in and whisked them away to the gym
Aris had mentioned before. Then the rescuers took
him to the place where the Gladers had finally
discovered him—what had been Teresa’s room.
If that was what had happened. Who knew how
things worked anymore, after seeing what could
happen at the Cliff and the Flat Trans that had taken
them to the tunnel. Not to mention the bricked-up walls
and the name change on Aris’s door.
It all gave Thomas a big fat headache.
When he tried to think of Group B and imagine their
roles—how he and Aris were basically switched, and
how Aris was actually Teresa’s counterpart—it twisted
his mind. The fact that Chuck had been killed in the
end instead of him … that was the only major
difference that stood out in the parallels. Were the
setups meant to instigate certain conflicts or provoke
reactions for WICKED’s studies?
“It’s all kind of freaky, huh?” Aris asked after letting
Thomas digest his story for a while.
“I don’t know what the word for it is. But it blows me
away how the two groups went through these trippy
parallel experiments. Or tests, trials, whatever they
were. I mean, if they’re testing our responses, I guess it
makes sense that we were put through the same thing.
Weird, though.”
Right when Thomas stopped speaking the girl in the
distance let out a shriek even louder than her nowregular
cries of pain and he felt a fresh rush of horror.
“I think I know,” Aris said, so quietly Thomas wasn’t
sure he’d heard him correctly.
“Huh?”
“I think I know. Why there were two groups. Are two
groups.”
Thomas looked over at him, could barely see the
surprising look of calm on his face. “You do? What
then?”
Aris still didn’t seem very winded. “Well, actually I
have two ideas. One is I think these people
—WICKED, whoever they are—are trying to weed out
the best of both groups to use us somehow. Maybe
even breed us or something like that.”
“What?” Thomas was so surprised he almost forgot
about the screaming. He couldn’t believe anyone
would be so sick. “Breed us? Come on.”
“After going through the Maze and what we just saw
happen in that tunnel, you think breeding is farfetched?
Give me a break.”
“Good that.” Thomas had to admit that the kid had a
point. “Okay, so what was your other theory?” As he
asked it Thomas could feel the weariness brought on
by the run settling in; his throat felt like someone had
poured a glassful of sand down his gullet.
“Kind of the opposite,” Aris responded. “That instead
of wanting survivors from both groups, they only want
one group to live through to the end. So they’re either
weeding out people from the guys and the girls, or an
entire group altogether. Either way, it’s the only
explanation I can think of.”
Thomas thought about what he’d said for quite some
time before responding. “But what about the stuff the
Rat Man said? That they’re testing our responses,
building some kind of blueprint? Maybe it’s an
experiment. Maybe they don’t plan for any of us to
survive. Maybe they’re studying our brains and our
reactions and our genes and everything else. When it’s
all done, we’ll be dead and they’ll have lots of reports
to read.”
“Hmm,” Aris grunted, considering. “Possibly. I keep
trying to figure out why they had one member of the
opposite sex in each group.”
“Maybe to see what kind of fights or problems it
would cause. Study people’s reactions—it’s kind of a
unique situation.” Thomas almost wanted to laugh. “I
love how we’re talking about this—like we’re deciding
when we need to stop for a klunk.”
Aris actually did laugh, a dry chuckle that made
Thomas feel better—actually made him like the new
kid even more. “Man, don’t say that. I’ve had to go for
at least an hour.”
It was Thomas’s turn to snicker, and right on cue, like
he’d heard Aris calling for it, Minho yelled out for
everyone to stop.
“Potty break,” he said with his hands on his hips as
he caught his breath. “Bury your klunk and don’t do it
too close. We’ll rest for fifteen, then we’ll just walk
awhile. I know you shanks can’t keep up with Runners
like me and Thomas.”
Thomas tuned out—he didn’t need directions on
how to use the bathroom—and turned to get a look at
where they’d stopped. He took a deep, full breath, and
when he relaxed his eyes caught on something. A dark
shadow of a shape a few hundred yards in front of
shadow of a shape a few hundred yards in front of
them, but not directly in the path of their journey. A
square of darkness against the faint glow of the town
up ahead. It stood out so distinctly he couldn’t believe
he hadn’t noticed it until now.
“Hey!” he yelled, pointing toward it. “Looks like a little
building up there, just a few minutes away, to the right
some. You guys see it?”
“Yeah, I see it,” Minho responded, walking up to
stand next to him. “Wonder what it is.”
Before Thomas could respond, two things happened
almost simultaneously.
First, the haunted screams of the mystery girl
stopped, instantly, cut short as if a door had closed on
her. Then, stepping out from behind the dark building
up ahead, the figure of a girl appeared, long hair
flowing from her shadowed head like black silk.

CHAPTER 20
Thomas couldn’t help it. His first instinct was to hope it
was her, call out to her. To hope that against all odds
she was there, just a few hundred yards away, waiting
for him.
Teresa?
Nothing.
Teresa? Teresa!
Nothing. The abscess left when she disappeared
was still in his head—like an empty pool. But … it
could be her. Might be her. Maybe something had
happened to their ability to communicate.
Once the girl had stepped out from behind the
building, or more likely from inside the building, she
just stood there. Despite being obscured completely
by shadow, something about her stance made it
obvious she was facing them, staring at them with
arms folded.
“You think that’s Teresa?” Newt asked, as if he’d
read Thomas’s mind.
Thomas nodded before he knew what he was doing.
He quickly looked around to see if anyone had noticed.
Didn’t seem so. “No clue,” he finally said.
“You think she was the one screaming?” Frypan
asked. “It stopped right when she walked out.”
Minho grunted. “Better bet is she was the one
torturing somebody. Probably killed her and put her out
of her misery when she saw us coming.” Then for some
reason he clapped his hands once. “Okay, then, who
wants to go meet this nice young lady?”
How Minho could be so lighthearted at times like this
just baffled Thomas. “I’ll do it,” he said, way too loudly.
He didn’t want to make it obvious that he hoped it was
Teresa.
“I was just kidding, shuck-face,” Minho said. “Let’s all
go over there. She could have an army of psycho girl
ninjas hiding in that shack of hers.”
“Psycho girl ninjas?” Newt repeated, his voice
showing he was surprised, if not annoyed, by Minho’s
attitude.
“Yeah. Let’s go.” Minho started walking forward.
Thomas acted on a sudden and unexpected instinct.
“No!” He lowered his voice. “No. You guys stay here
—I’ll go talk to her. Maybe it’s a trap or something.
We’d be idiots to all go over there and fall right into it.”
“And you’re not an idiot for going by yourself?”
Minho asked.
“Well, we can’t just walk on by without checking it
out. I’ll go. If something happens or gets suspicious, I’ll
call for help.”
Minho paused for a long moment. “All right. Go. Our
brave little shank.” He whacked Thomas on the back
with his open palm and it stung.
“This is bloody stupid,” Newt interrupted, stepping
forward. “I’ll go with him.”
“No!” Thomas snapped. “Just … let me do this.
Something tells me we need to be careful. If I cry like a
baby, come save me.” And before anyone could argue,
he took off at a fast walk toward the girl and her
building.
He closed the distance quickly. His shoes crunched
against the gritty dirt and rocks, breaking the silence.
He sniffed the raw smells of the desert mixed with a
distant scent of something burning, and as he stared at
the silhouette of the girl next to the building, he
suddenly knew for sure. Maybe it was the shape of her
head or body. Maybe it was her stance, the way she
held her folded arms crooked to one side, her hip
jutting the other direction. But he knew.
It was her.
It was Teresa.
When he reached a point just a few feet from her,
right before the faint light would finally reveal her face,
she turned around and went through an open door,
disappearing inside the small building. It was a
rectangle, a slightly tilted roof tenting in the middle,
longways. As far as he could tell, it had no windows.
Large black cubes were hanging from the corners
—speakers, perhaps. Maybe the sound had been
broadcast, been a fake. That would explain why they
could hear it from so far away.
The door, a big slab of wood, stood all the way open
and rested against the wall. It was even darker inside
than out.
Thomas moved. He walked through the door,
realizing even as he did so how reckless and stupid it
might be. But it was her. No matter what had
happened, no matter the explanation for her
disappearance and refusal to speak with him through
their thoughts, he knew she wouldn’t hurt him. No way.
The air was noticeably cooler inside, almost moist. It
felt wonderful. Three steps in, he stopped and listened
in the complete darkness. He could hear her breathing.
“Teresa?” he asked aloud, pushing away the
“Teresa?” he asked aloud, pushing away the
temptation to ask for her in his mind again. “Teresa,
what’s going on?”
She didn’t respond, but he heard a short intake of
breath, followed by a halting sniff, as if she were crying
but trying to hide it from him.
“Teresa, please. I don’t know what’s happened or
what they did to you, but I’m here now. This is crazy.
Just talk to—”
He cut off when a light blazed to life with a quick flare
that then dulled to a small flame. His eyes naturally
went straight to it, to the hand holding a match. He
watched as it dropped, slowly, carefully, to light a
candle resting on a small table. When it caught, and
the hand flicked the match until it went out, Thomas
finally looked up and saw her. Saw that he’d been right
after all. But the short and almost overpowering thrill of
seeing Teresa alive was soon cut short, replaced by
confusion and pain.
She was clean, every part of her. He’d expected her
to be filthy like he must be after all this time in the dusty
desert. He’d expected her clothes to be ratty and torn.
He’d expected greasy hair and a smudged and
sunburned face. But instead she wore fresh clothes;
her clean hair cascaded to her shoulders. Nothing
marred the pale skin of her face or arms. She was
more beautiful than he’d ever seen her in the Maze,
than any memories he could pull from the murky goop
of what he’d recovered after the Changing.
But her eyes sparkled with tears; her lower lip
trembled with fear; her hands shook at her sides. He
saw recognition in her eyes, saw that she hadn’t
forgotten him again, but behind that there was pure
and absolute terror.
“Teresa,” he whispered, knotting up inside. “What’s
wrong?”
She didn’t respond, but her eyes flickered to the
side, then back to him. A couple of tears trickled out,
slipping down her cheeks, then falling to the floor. Her
lips trembled even more, and her chest lurched with
what could only be a stifled sob.
Thomas stepped forward, put his hands out to her.
“No!” she screamed. “Get away from me!”
Thomas stopped—it was like something massive
had just slammed him in the gut. He held his hands up.
“Okay, okay. Teresa, what …” He didn’t know what to
say or ask. Didn’t know what to do. But that terrible
feeling of something breaking inside him intensified,
threatened to choke him as it swelled in his throat.
He stilled, scared to set her off again. All he could do
was lock eyes with her, try to communicate how he felt,
beg her to tell him something. Anything.
A very long moment passed in silence. The way her
body shook, the way she almost seemed to struggle
against something unseen … it reminded him of …
It reminded him of how Gally had been acting, right
after they’d escaped from the Glade and he’d entered
the room with the woman in the white shirt. Right
before everything had gone crazy. Right before he’d
killed Chuck.
Thomas had to speak or he’d burst. “Teresa, I’ve
thought about you every second since they took you
away. You—”
She didn’t let him finish. Rushing forward, she was in
front of him in two long strides and reaching out,
grabbing his shoulders and pulling herself close to him.
grabbing his shoulders and pulling herself close to him.
Shocked, Thomas wrapped his arms around her and
squeezed, embracing her so tightly he suddenly
worried she couldn’t breathe. Her hands found the
back of his head, then the sides of his face, making
him look at her.
And then they were kissing. Something exploded
within his chest, burning away the tension and
confusion and fear. Burning away the hurt of seconds
earlier. For a moment it felt like nothing mattered
anymore. Like nothing would matter ever again.
But then she pulled away. She stumbled backward
until she hit the wall. The terror returned to her face,
possessed it like a demon. And then she spoke, her
voice a whisper but laced with urgency.
“Get away from me, Tom,” she said. “All of you need
to get … away … from me. Don’t argue. Just leave.
Run.” Her neck tensed with the effort to get those last
few words out.
Thomas had never hurt so badly. But he shocked
himself by what he did next.
He knew her now, remembered her. And he knew
that she was telling the truth—something wasn’t right
here. Something was terribly wrong—far worse than
he’d first imagined. Staying, arguing with her, trying to
force her to come with him would be a slap in the face
to the incredible amount of willpower it must’ve taken
her to break away and warn him. He had to do what
she said.
“Teresa,” he said. “I’ll find you.” Tears now welling in
his own eyes, he turned from her and ran from the
building.

CHAPTER 21
Thomas stumbled away from the now-dark building,
squinting through tear-blurred eyes. He went back to
the Gladers and refused to answer their questions.
Told them they had to go, run, get away as fast as
possible. That he’d explain later. That their lives were
in danger.
He didn’t wait for them. He didn’t offer to take the
pack from Aris. He just started toward the town,
sprinting till he finally had to slow down to a
manageable pace, blocking the others out, blocking
the whole world out. Running away from her was the
hardest thing he’d ever done, he had no doubt of it.
Showing up at the Glade with his memories wiped,
adapting to life there, being trapped in the Maze,
fighting Grievers, watching Chuck die—none of it
matched what he felt now.
She was there. She’d been in his arms. They’d been
together again.
They’d kissed and he’d felt something he would’ve
thought impossible.
And now he was running away. Leaving her behind.
Choked sobs burst from him. He groaned, heard the
miserable sound of his voice crack. His heart felt a
pain that almost made him stop, collapse to the ground
and give up. Sorrow consumed him, and more than
once he was tempted to go back. But somehow he
held true to what she’d ordered him to do, and he held
on to the promise he’d made to find her again.
At least she was alive. At least she was alive.
That was what he kept telling himself. That was what
kept him running.
She was alive.
His body could only take so much. At some point,
maybe two hours after he’d left her, maybe three, he
stopped, sure his heart would explode out of his chest
if he went one more step. Turning, he looked behind
him and he saw shadows moving far in the distance
—the other Gladers, way back. Breathing huge gulps
of dry air, Thomas knelt, planted his forearms on one
knee, then closed his eyes to rest until they caught up.
Minho reached him first, and their leader wasn’t
happy. Even in the faint light—dawn was just starting to
brighten the eastern sky—he visibly fumed as he
walked around Thomas three full times before he said
anything.
“What … Why … What kind of a shuck idiot are you,
Thomas?”
Thomas didn’t feel like talking about it. About
anything.
When he didn’t answer, Minho knelt down next to
him. “How could you do that? How could you just come
out of there and take off like that? Without explaining
anything? Since when is that how we do things? You
slinthead.” He let out a big sigh and fell back to sit on
his butt, shaking his head.
“Sorry,” Thomas finally muttered. “It was kinda
traumatizing.”
The other Gladers had reached them by now, half of
them doubling over to catch their breaths, the other half
pressing in to hear what Thomas and Minho were
talking about. Newt was right there, but he seemed
content to let Minho do all the digging to find out what
had happened.
“Traumatizing?” Minho asked. “Who did you see in
there? What did they say?”
Thomas knew he had no choice—this wasn’t
something he could or should keep from the others. “It
was … it was Teresa.”
He expected gasps, exclamations of surprise,
accusations of being a freaking liar. But in the silence
that followed, you could hear the morning winds scuttle
across the dusty lands surrounding them.
“What?” Minho finally said. “You’re serious?”
Thomas simply nodded, staring at a triangularshaped
rock on the ground. The air had brightened
considerably in just the last few minutes.
Minho was understandably shocked. “And you left
her there? Dude, you need to start talking and tell us
what happened.”
As much as it pained him, as much as the memory
of it tore at his heart, Thomas told the story. Seeing her,
how she trembled and cried, how she acted like Gally
—almost possessed—before he killed Chuck, the
warning she’d given. He told it all; the only thing he left
out was the kiss.
“Wow,” Minho said in a weary voice, somehow
wrapping it all up with that one simple word.
Several minutes passed. The dry wind scratched
across the ground, filling the air with dust as the bright
orange dome of the sun crested the horizon and
officially started the day. No one spoke. Thomas heard
sniffs and breaths and a few coughs. The sounds of
people drinking from their water bags. The town
seemed to have grown during the night, its buildings
stretching toward the cloudless, purple-blue sky. It
would only take another day or two to reach it.
“It was some kind of trap,” he finally said. “I don’t
know what would’ve happened, or how many of us
would’ve died. Maybe all of us. But I could see that
there wasn’t any doubt in her eyes when she broke
away from whatever restrained her. She saved us, and
I bet they make her …” He swallowed. “I bet they make
her pay for it.”
Minho reached out and squeezed Thomas’s
shoulder. “Dude, if those shuck WICKED people
wanted her dead, she’d be rottin’ under a big pile of
rocks. She’s just as tough as anybody else, maybe
tougher. She’ll survive.”
Thomas took in a deep pull of air and let it out. He
felt better. Impossibly, he felt better. Minho was right. “I
know. Somehow I know.”
Minho stood up. “We should’ve stopped a couple
hours ago to get some sleep. But thanks to Mr. Desert
Runner down here”—he lightly whacked Thomas in the
head—“we ran ourselves ragged till the freaking sun
came back up. I still think we need to rest for a while.
Do it under the sheets, whatever, but let’s try.”
It ended up being no problem at all for Thomas. The
brightening sun making the backs of his eyelids a
murky black-splotched crimson, he fell asleep instantly,
a sheet pulled all the way over his head to protect him
from sunburn—and from his troubles.

CHAPTER 22
Minho let them sleep for almost four hours. Not that he
had to wake many people up. The rising and
intensifying sun raged its heat down on the land, and it
became unbearable—impossible to ignore. By the
time Thomas was up and had the food repacked after
breakfast, sweat already drenched his clothes. The
smell of body odor hung over them like a stinky mist,
and he just hoped he wasn’t the worst culprit. The
showers back at the dorm seemed like pure luxury
now.
The Gladers remained sullen and quiet as they
readied for the journey. The more Thomas thought
about it, the more he realized that there wasn’t much to
be happy about. Still, two things kept him going, and
he hoped they did the same for the others. First, an
overwhelming curiosity to find out what was in that
stupid town—it looked more and more like a city as
they got closer. And second, the hope that Teresa was
alive and well. Maybe she’d gone through one of those
Flat Trans things. Maybe she was ahead of them now.
In the city, even. Thomas felt a swell of encouragement.
“Let’s go,” Minho said when everybody was ready.
Then they were off.
Across the dry and dusty land they walked. No one
needed to say it, but Thomas knew everyone was
thinking the same thing—they no longer had the energy
to run while the sun was up. And even if they did, they
didn’t have enough water to keep them alive at a faster
pace.
So they walked, sheets held over their heads. As
food and water dwindled, more of the packs became
available to use for protection from the sun, and fewer
Gladers had to walk in pairs. Thomas was one of the
first to be alone, probably because no one wanted to
talk to him after hearing the story about Teresa. He
certainly wasn’t going to complain—solitude was bliss
for now.
Walking. Breaks for food and water. Walking. Heat,
like a dry ocean through which they had to swim. That
wind, blowing stronger now, bringing more dust and
grit than relief from the heat. It whipped at the sheets,
made it harder to keep them in place. Thomas kept
coughing and rubbing chunks of accumulated grime
from the corners of his eyes. He felt as if every swallow
of water only made him want more, but their supplies
had reached dangerously low levels. If there wasn’t
fresh water in the city when they reached it …
There was no good way for him to finish that line of
thought.
They kept going, each step becoming just a little
more agonizing, and quiet set in. No one talked.
Thomas felt like even saying a couple of words would
expend too much energy. It was all he could do to put
one foot in front of the other, over and over and over,
staring lifelessly at their goal—the ever-nearing city.
It was as if the buildings were alive, growing right
before their eyes as they got closer. Soon Thomas
could see what had to be stone, windows glimmering
in the sunlight. Some seemed to be broken, but far
less than half. From Thomas’s vantage point, the
streets seemed empty. No fires burned during the day.
As far as he could tell, not one tree or any other kind of
plant existed in the place. How would it, in this climate?
How could people possibly live there? How would they
grow food? What would they find?
Tomorrow. It had taken longer than he’d thought, but
Thomas had no doubt they’d reach the city tomorrow.
And though they’d probably be better off going around
it, they had no choice. They needed to replenish their
supplies.
Walking. Breaks. Heat.
When nightfall finally came, the sun disappearing
below the far western horizon at a maddeningly slow
pace, the wind picked up even more, and this time
brought the slightest chill. Thomas enjoyed it, grateful
for any relief from the heat.
By midnight, however, when Minho finally called on
them to stop and get more sleep, the city and its nowburning
fires ever closer, the wind had become even
stronger. It blew in gales, whipping and curling with
increasing power.
Soon after they stopped, as Thomas lay on his back,
sheet tucked around him and pulled up tightly to his
chin, he looked up at the sky. The winds were almost
soothing, lulling him to sleep. Just as his mind got hazy
from exhaustion, the stars seemed to fade away, and
sleep brought him another dream.
He’s sitting in a chair. Ten or eleven years old. Teresa
—she looks so different, so much younger, yet it’s still
clearly her—sits across from him, a table between
them. She’s about his age. No one else is in the room,
a dark place with only one light—a dull square of yellow
in the ceiling directly overhead.
“Tom, you need to try harder,” she says. Her arms
are folded, and even at this younger age, it’s a look he
doesn’t find surprising. It’s very familiar. As if he has
already known her a long time.
“I am trying.” Again it’s him speaking, but not really
him. It doesn’t make sense.
“They’ll probably kill us if we can’t do this.”
“I know.”
“Then try!”
“I am!”
“Fine,” she says. “You know what? I’m not speaking
out loud to you anymore. Never ever again until you can
do it.”
“But—”
Not inside your mind, either. She’s talking in his
head. That trick that still freaks him out and he still can’t
reciprocate. Starting now.
“Teresa, just give me a few more days. I’ll get it.”
She doesn’t respond.
“Okay, just one more day.”
She only stares at him. Then, not even that. She
looks down at the table, reaches out and starts
scratching a spot in the wood with her fingernail.
“There’s no way you’re not gonna talk to me.”
No response. And he knows her, despite what he
just said. Oh, he knows her.
“Fine,” he says. He closes his eyes, does what the
instructor told him to do. Imagines a sea of black
nothingness, interrupted only by the image of Teresa’s
face. Then, with every last bit of willpower, he forms the
words and throws them at her.
You smell like a bag of crap.
Teresa smiles, then replies in his mind.
So do you.

CHAPTER 23
Thomas woke up to wind beating at his face and hair
and clothes. It felt like invisible hands were trying to rip
them off. It was still dark. And cold, too, his whole body
shivering from it. Getting up on his elbows, he looked
around, hardly able to see the huddled shapes
sleeping near him, their sheets pulled tightly against
their bodies.
Their sheets.
He let out a frustrated yelp, then jumped to his feet
—at some point in the night his own sheet had slipped
loose and flown off. With the tearing wind, it could be
ten miles away by now.
“Shuck it,” he whispered; the howl of the wind stole
the words before he could even hear them. The dream
came back to him—or was it a memory? It had to be.
That brief glimpse into a time when he and Teresa had
been younger, learning how to do their telepathy trick.
He felt his heart sink a little, missing her, feeling guilt
over yet more proof that he’d been part of WICKED
before going to the Maze. He shook it off, not wanting
to think about it. He could block it out if he tried hard
enough.
He looked up at black sky, then sucked in a hurried
breath as the memory of the sun vanishing from the
Glade came rushing back. That had been the
beginning of the end. The beginning of the terror.
But common sense soon calmed his heart. The
winds. The cool air. A storm. It had to be a storm.
Clouds.
Embarrassed, he sat back down, then lay on his
side and curled into a ball, his arms wrapped around
himself. The cold wasn’t unbearable, just a vast change
from the horrible heat of the last couple of days. He
probed his mind and wondered about the memories
he’d had lately. Could they be lingering results of the
Changing? Was his memory coming back?
The thought gave him mixed feelings. He wanted his
memory block finally cracked for good—wanted to
know who he was, where he came from. But that
desire was tempered by fear of what he might find out
about himself. About his role in the very things that had
brought him to this point, that had done this to his
friends.
He needed sleep desperately. The wind a constant
roar in his ears, he finally slipped away, this time to
nothing.
The light woke him to a dull, gray dawn that finally
revealed the thick layer of clouds covering the sky. It
also made the endless expanse of desert around them
look even more dreary. The city was so close now, only
a few hours away. The buildings really were tall; one of
them even stretched up and disappeared in a lowhanging
fog. And the glass in all those broken windows
was like jagged teeth in mouths open to catch food that
might be flying about in the stormy wind.
The gusty air still tore at him, and a thick layer of dirt
seemed forever baked onto his face. He rubbed his
head and his hair felt stiff with wind-dried grime.
Most of the other Gladers were up and about, taking
in the unexpected shift in the weather, deep in
conversations he couldn’t hear. There was only the roar
in his ears.
Minho noticed him awake and came over; he leaned
into the wind as he walked, his clothes flapping around
him. “’Bout time you woke up!” He was fully shouting.
Thomas rubbed the crust out of his eyes and got to
his feet. “Where’d this all come from!” he yelled back. “I
thought we were in the middle of a desert!”
Minho looked up at the roiling gray mass of clouds,
then back at Thomas. He leaned closer to speak
directly in his ear. “Well, guess it has to rain in the
desert sometime. Hurry and eat—we gotta get going.
Maybe we can get there and find a place to hide
before we’re soaked by the storm.”
“What if we get there and a bunch of Cranks try to kill
us?”
“Then we’ll fight ’em!” Minho frowned as if
disappointed that Thomas had asked such a stupid
question. “What else you wanna do? We’re almost out
of food and water.”
Thomas knew Minho was right. Plus, if they could
fight dozens of Grievers, a bunch of half-mad, starved
sicklings shouldn’t be too much of a problem. “All right,
then. Let’s go. I’ll eat one of those granola things while
we walk.”
A few minutes later, they were once again heading
for the city, the gray sky above them ready to burst and
bleed water at any moment.
They were only a couple of miles away from the
closest buildings when they came across an old man
lying in the sand on his back, wrapped in several
blankets. Jack had been the one to spot him first, and
soon Thomas and the others were packed in a circle
around the guy, staring down at him.
Thomas’s stomach turned as he studied the man
more closely, but he couldn’t look away. The stranger
had to be a hundred years old, though it was hard to
tell—the wear and tear of the sun might’ve made him
just look that way. Wrinkled, leathery face. Scabs and
sores where his hair should’ve been. Dark, dark skin.
He was alive, breathing deeply, but he gazed at the
sky with an emptiness in his eyes. As if he was waiting
for some god to come down and take him away, end
his miserable life. He showed no sign he’d even
noticed the Gladers approach.
“Hey! Old man!” Minho shouted, always the tactful
one. “What’re you doing out here?”
Thomas had a hard enough time hearing the words
over the ripping wind; he couldn’t imagine that the
ancient guy could make anything out. But was he blind
as well? Maybe.
Thomas nudged Minho out of the way and knelt
down right beside the man’s face. The melancholy
there was heartbreaking. He held his hand out and
waved it right above the old guy’s eyes.
Nothing. No blink, no movement. It was only after
Thomas pulled his hand back that the man’s eyelids
slowly drooped closed, then open again. Just once.
“Sir?” Thomas asked. “Mister?” The words sounded
strange to him, conjured up from the murky memories
of his past. He certainly hadn’t used them since being
sent to the Glade and the Maze. “Can you hear me?
Can you talk?”
The man did that slow blink again, but didn’t say
anything.
anything.
Newt knelt next to Thomas and spoke loudly over the
wind. “This guy’s a bloody gold mine if we can get him
to tell us stuff about the city. Looks harmless, probably
knows what to expect when we go in there.”
Thomas sighed. “Yeah, but he doesn’t even seem to
be able to hear us, much less have a long talk.”
“Keep trying,” Minho said from behind them. “You’re
officially our foreign ambassador, Thomas. Get the
dude to open up and tell us about the good ol’ days.”
For some odd reason Thomas wanted to say
something funny back, but he couldn’t think of anything.
If he’d been funny in his old life, every scrap of humor
had certainly vanished in the memory swipe. “Okay,” he
said.
He scooted as close to the man’s head as he could,
then positioned himself so their eyes were square, just
a couple of feet apart. “Sir? We really need your help!”
He felt bad for shouting, worried the old man might
take it the wrong way, but he had no choice. The wind
was gusting stronger and stronger. “We need you to tell
us if it’s safe to go inside the city! We can carry you
there if you need help yourself. Sir? Sir!”
The man’s dark eyes had been looking past him, up
at the sky, but now they shifted, slowly, until they
focused on his. Awareness filled them like dark liquid
poured slowly into a glass. His lips parted, but nothing
came out except a small cough.
Thomas’s hopes lifted. “My name is Thomas. These
are my friends. We’ve been walking through the desert
for a couple of days, and we need more water and
food. What do you …”
He trailed off when the man’s eyes flicked back and
forth, a sudden hint of panic there.
“It’s okay, we won’t hurt you,” Thomas quickly said.
“We’re … we’re the good guys. But we’d really
appreciate it if—”
The man’s left hand shot out from beneath the
blankets wrapped around him and clasped Thomas’s
wrist, gripping it with a strength far greater than
seemed possible. Thomas cried out in surprise and
instinctively tried to pull his arm free, but couldn’t. He
was shocked by the man’s strength. He could barely
budge against the man’s iron manacle of a fist.
“Hey!” he shouted. “Let go of me!”
The man shook his head, those dark eyes full more
of fear than any kind of belligerence. His lips parted
again, and a rough, indecipherable whisper rose from
his mouth. He didn’t loosen his grip.
Thomas gave up the struggle to free his arm;
instead, he relaxed and leaned forward to put his ear
close to the stranger’s mouth. “What’d you say!” he
shouted.
The man spoke again, a dry rasp that was unsettling,
spooky. Thomas caught the words storm and terror
and bad people. None of them sounded very inspiring.
“One more time!” Thomas yelled, his head still
cocked so his ear rested only inches above the man’s
face.
This time Thomas understood most of it, missing
only a few words. “Storm coming … full of
terror … brings out … stay away … bad people.”
The man shot up into a sitting position, his eyes full
and white around his irises. “Storm! Storm! Storm!” He
didn’t stop, repeating the word over and over; a
mucus-thick strand of saliva finally crested over his
bottom lip and swung back and forth like a hypnotist’s
pendulum.
He released Thomas’s arm, and Thomas scooted
back on his butt to get away. Even as he did so, the
wind intensified, seemed to go from strong gusts to
outright hurricane-strength gales of terror, just like the
man had said. The world was lost in the sound of
roaring, screaming air. Thomas felt as if his hair and
clothes might rip off at any second. Almost all of the
Gladers’ sheets went flying, flapping over the ground
and into the air like an army of ghosts. Food skittered
in all directions.
Thomas got to his feet, an almost impossible task
with the wind trying to knock him over. He stumbled
forward several feet until he leaned back into it;
invisible hands held him up.
Minho stood nearby, frantically waving his arms as
he tried to get everyone’s attention. Most saw and
gathered around him, including Thomas, who fought off
the panic creeping along his insides. It was only a
storm. Far better than Grievers or Cranks with knives.
Or ropes.
The old man had lost his blankets to the wind, and
he huddled now in the fetal position, his skinny legs
squeezed against his chest, eyes closed. Thomas had
the fleeting thought that they should carry him
someplace safe, save him for at least attempting to
warn them about the storm. But something told him the
man would fight tooth and nail if they tried to touch him
or pick him up.
The Gladers were now packed together. Minho
pointed at the city. The closest building was within a
pointed at the city. The closest building was within a
half hour if they ran at a good pace. The way the wind
tore at them, the way the clouds above thickened and
churned and bruised to a deep purple, almost black,
the way dust and debris flew through the air, reaching
that building seemed the only sane choice.
Minho started running. The others fell in, and
Thomas waited to bring up the rear, knowing that was
what Minho wanted him to do. He finally broke into a
brisk jog, glad they weren’t going directly into the wind.
Only then did a few of the words the old man had said
pop into his mind. They made him break into a sweat
that quickly evaporated, leaving his skin dry and salty.
Stay away. Bad people.

CHAPTER 24
As they approached the city, it became harder for
Thomas to actually see it. The dust in the air had
thickened into a brown fog, and he felt it in every
breath. It was crusting in his eyes, making them water
and turning into goop that he had to keep wiping away.
The large building they were shooting for had become
a looming shadow behind the cloud of dust, towering
taller and taller, like a growing giant.
The wind had gained a rough edge, pelting him with
sand and grit until it hurt. Every once in a while a larger
object would fly by, scaring him half out of his wits. A
branch. Something that looked like a small mouse. A
piece of roofing tile. And countless scraps of paper. All
swirling through the air like snowflakes.
Then came the lightning.
They’d halved the distance to the building—maybe
more than that—when the bolts came from nowhere,
and the world around him erupted in light and thunder.
They fell from the sky in jagged streaks, like bars of
white light, slamming into the ground and throwing up
massive amounts of scorched earth. The crushing
sound was too much to bear, and Thomas’s ears
began to go numb, the horrific noise fading to a distant
hum as he went deaf.
He kept running, almost blind now, unable to hear,
barely able to see the building. People fell and got
back up. Thomas stumbled but caught his balance. He
helped Newt regain his feet, then Frypan. Pushed them
forward as he kept on. It was only a matter of time
before one of the thick daggers of lightning struck
someone and fried them to a blackened char. His hair
stood on end despite the ripping wind, the static in the
air raging and prickly as flying needles.
Thomas wanted to scream, wanted to hear his own
voice, even if it was only the dull vibrations inside his
skull. But he knew the dust-riddled air would choke
him; it was hard enough to take short, quick breaths
through his nose. Especially with the storm of lightning
crashing to the ground all around them, singeing the
air, making everything smell like copper and ash.
The sky darkened further, the dust cloud thickened;
Thomas realized he couldn’t see everyone anymore.
Just those few directly in front of him. Light from the
strikes flashed against them, a short burst of brilliant
white illuminating them for the briefest instant. It all
added together to blind Thomas even more. They had
to reach that building. They had to get there or they
wouldn’t last much longer.
And where was the rain? he wondered. Where was
the rain? What kind of a storm was this?
A bolt of pure white zigzagged from the sky and
exploded on the ground right in front of him. He
screamed but couldn’t hear himself, squeezing his
eyes shut as something—some burst of energy or
wave of air—threw him to the side. He landed flat on
his back, the breath knocked from his chest, as a
spray of dirt and rocks rained down on him. Spitting,
wiping at his face, he gulped for air as he scrambled
onto his hands and knees, then his feet. The air finally
flowed, and he pulled it deep into his lungs.
He heard a ringing now, a steady, high-pitched buzz
that felt like nails in his eardrums. The wind tried to eat
his clothes, dirt stung his skin, darkness swirled around
him like living night, broken only by the flashes of
lightning. Then he saw it, a horrific image made even
spookier by the on-again-off-again source of light.
It was Jack. He lay on the ground, inside a small
crater, writhing as he clutched his knee. There was
nothing below that—shin, ankle, and foot obliterated by
the burst of pure electricity from the sky. Blood that
looked like black tar gushed from the hideous wound,
making a paste of horror with the dirt. His clothes had
been burned off, leaving him naked, injuries spreading
across his whole body. He had no hair. And it looked
like his eyeballs had …
Thomas spun around and collapsed to the ground,
coughing as he spit up everything in his stomach.
There was nothing they could do for Jack. No way.
Nothing. But he was still alive. Though the thought
shamed him, Thomas was glad he couldn’t hear the
screams. He didn’t know if he could bear to even look
at him again.
Then someone was grabbing him, pulling him to his
feet. Minho. He said something, and Thomas focused
enough to read his lips. We have to go. Nothing we
can do.
Jack, he thought. Oh, man, Jack.
Stumbling, his stomach muscles sore from throwing
up, his ears ringing painfully, in shock from the terrible
sight of Jack ripped to shreds by lightning, he ran after
Minho. He saw lumps of shadow to the left and right,
other Gladers, but only a few. It was too dark to see
very far, and the lightning came and went too fast to
reveal much. Only dust and debris and that looming
shape of the building, almost on top of them now.
They’d lost any hope of organization or staying
together. It was each Glader for himself now—they just
had to hope everyone could make it.
Wind. Explosions of light. Wind. Choking dust. Wind.
Ringing in his ears, pain. Wind. He kept going, his
eyes glued to Minho just a few steps ahead of him. He
didn’t feel anything for Jack. He didn’t care if he was
permanently deaf. He didn’t care about the others
anymore. The chaos around him seemed to siphon
away his humanity, turn him into an animal. All he
wanted was to survive, make it to that building, get
inside. Live. Gain another day.
Searing white light detonated in front of him,
throwing him through the air again. Even as he flew
backward, he screamed, tried to regain his footing
—the explosion had happened right where Minho was
running. Minho! Thomas landed with a jarring thump
that felt like every joint in his body came loose, then
popped back into place. He ignored the pain, got up,
ran forward, his vision full of darkness mixed with blurry
afterimages, amoebas of purplish light. Then he saw
flames.
It took a second for his brain to compute what he
was seeing. Rods of fire dancing about like magic, hot
tendrils whipping to the right from the wind. Then it all
collapsed to the ground, a heap of thrashing flame.
Thomas reached it and understood.
It was Minho. His clothes were on fire.
With a shriek that sent sharp pains through his head,
he fell to the ground next to his friend. He dug into the
earth—thankfully loose from the explosion of electricity
that hit it—and shoveled it on top of Minho with both
hands, scooping frantically. Aiming for the brightest
points of flame, he made progress as Minho helped by
rolling around and beating at his upper body with both
hands.
In a matter of seconds, the fire went out, leaving
behind charred clothing and countless angry wounds.
Thomas was glad he couldn’t hear the wails of agony
that appeared to be coming from Minho. He knew they
didn’t have time to stop, so Thomas grabbed their
leader by the shoulders and dragged him to his feet.
“Come on!” Thomas shouted, though the words felt
like a couple of noiseless throbs in his brain.
Minho coughed, winced again, but then nodded and
wrapped one of his arms around Thomas’s neck.
Together they moved as fast as they could toward the
building, Thomas doing most of the work.
All around them, the lightning continued to fall like
arrows of white fire. Thomas could feel the silent
impact of the explosions, each one rattling his skull,
shaking his bones. Flashes of light all around. Past the
building toward which they stumbled and struggled,
even more fires had sprung up; two or three times he
saw lightning make direct contact with the upper
reaches of a structure, sending a rain of bricks and
glass falling to the streets below.
The darkness began to take on a different tone,
more gray than brown, and Thomas realized that the
storm clouds must’ve really thickened and sunk toward
the ground, pushing the dust and fog out of their way.
The wind had lessened slightly, but the lightning
seemed stronger than ever.
seemed stronger than ever.
Gladers were to the left and right, all heading in the
same direction. They seemed fewer in number, but
Thomas still couldn’t see well enough to know for sure.
He did spot Newt, then Frypan. And Aris. All of them
looking as terrified as he felt, running, all eyes riveted
to their goal, now just a short distance away.
Minho lost his footing and fell, slipped from
Thomas’s grip. Thomas stopped, turned around, pulled
the burnt boy back to his feet, reset Minho’s arm
around his shoulder. Gripping him around the torso
with both arms now, he half carried, half pulled him
along. A blinding arc of lightning went right over their
heads, pummeled the earth behind them; Thomas
didn’t look, kept moving. A Glader fell to his left; he
couldn’t tell who it was, didn’t hear the scream he knew
must’ve come. Another boy fell to his right, got back up.
A blast of lightning, just ahead and to the right. Another
to the left. One straight ahead. Thomas had to pause,
blinking viciously until his sight came back. He started
up again, yanking Minho along with him.
And then they were there. The first building of the
city.
In the gripping darkness of the storm, the structure
was all gray. Massive blocks of stone, an arch of
smaller bricks, half-broken windows. Aris reached the
door first, didn’t bother to open it. It had been made of
glass that was mostly gone, so he carefully smashed
out the remaining shards with his elbow. He waved a
couple of Gladers past, then went in himself,
swallowed by the interior.
Thomas made it just as Newt did, and gestured for
help. Newt and another boy took Minho from him,
carefully dragged him backward over the threshold of
the open entrance, his feet hitting the sill as they pulled
him through.
And then Thomas, still in shock over the sheer power
of the lightning bursts, followed his friends, stepping
into the gloom.
He turned to look just in time to see the rain start
falling outside, as if the storm had finally decided to
weep with shame for what it had done to them.

CHAPTER 25
The rain fell in torrents, like God had sucked up the
ocean and spit it out over their heads in fury.
Thomas sat in the exact same place for at least two
hours as he watched it. He huddled against the wall,
exhausted and sore, willing his hearing to come back.
It seemed to be working—what had been a complete
throb of silence had decreased its pressure, and the
ringing had gone away. When he coughed, he thought
it was more than just a vibration he felt. He heard a
trace of it. And in the distance, as if from the other side
of a dream, came the steady drumming sound of the
rain. Maybe he wouldn’t be deaf after all.
The dull gray light coming from the windows did little
to fight off the cold darkness inside the building. The
other Gladers sat hunched up or lying on their sides
around the room. Minho was curled up in a ball at
Thomas’s feet, barely moving; it looked as if every shift
sent waves of burning pain through his nerves. Newt
was there, also, close, as was Frypan. But no one tried
to talk or get things organized. No one counted off the
Gladers or tried to figure out who was missing. They all
sat or lay as lifeless as Thomas, probably pondering
the same thing he was—what kind of messed-up world
could create a storm like that?
The soft thrum of the rain grew louder until Thomas
had no more doubt—he could really hear it. It was a
soothing sound, despite everything, and he finally fell
asleep.
* * *
By the time he woke up, his body so stiff it felt like glue
had dried in his veins and muscles, all the machinery in
his ears and head was back to fully functional. He
heard the heavy breaths of sleeping Gladers, heard the
whimpering moans from Minho, heard the nowpounding
deluge of water slamming into the pavement
outside.
But it was dark. Completely. At some point, night had
fallen.
Pushing away his discomfort, letting the exhaustion
take over, he shifted until he lay flat, his head propped
on someone’s leg—then he was asleep again.
Two things woke him up for good: the glow of sunrise
and a sudden rush of silence. The storm was over, and
he’d slept through the night. But even before he felt the
stiffness and soreness he expected, he felt something
much more overpowering.
Hunger.
The light came through the broken windows and
dappled the floor around him. He looked up to see a
ruin of a building, massive holes ripped in each floor all
the way to the roof dozens of stories toward the sky; it
seemed that only the steel infrastructure was keeping
the whole thing from coming down. He couldn’t
imagine what had caused it all to happen. But jags of
bright blue seemed to hover above, a sight that
seemed impossible last time he’d been outside.
Whatever horror that storm had been, whatever quirks
in the climate of the earth could cause such a thing, it
really did seem to be gone for now.
Sharp pains stabbed at his stomach, which
groaned, aching for food. He glanced around to see
most of the other Gladers still asleep, but Newt lay with
his back against the wall, staring sadly at a blank spot
in the middle of the room.
“You okay, there?” Thomas asked. Even his jaw felt
stiff.
Newt slowly turned to him; his eyes were distant until
he seemed to snap out of his thoughts and focus on
Thomas. “Okay? Yeah, I guess I’m okay. We’re alive
—guess that’s all that bloody matters anymore.” The
bitterness in his voice couldn’t have been stronger.
“Sometimes I wonder,” Thomas murmured.
“Wonder what?”
“If being alive matters. If being dead might be a lot
easier.”
“Please. I don’t believe for one second you really
think that.”
Thomas’s gaze had lowered while he’d delivered the
depressing sentiment and he looked up sharply at
Newt’s retort. Then he smiled, and it felt good. “You’re
right. Just trying to sound as miserable as you.” He
could almost convince himself that it was true. That he
didn’t feel as if dying would be the easy way out.
Newt gestured wearily toward Minho. “What bloody
happened to him?”
“Lightning strike somehow caught his clothes on fire.
How it did that without frying his brain I have no idea.
But we were able to beat it out before it did too much
damage, I think.”
“Before it did too much damage? I’d hate to see
what you think real damage looks like.”
Thomas closed his eyes for a second and rested his
head against the wall. “Hey, like you said—he’s alive,
right? And he still has clothes on, which means it
couldn’t have burned his skin in too many places. He’ll
be fine.”
“Yeah, good that,” Newt replied with a sarcastic
chuckle. “Remind me not to hire you as my buggin’
doctor anytime soon.”
“Ohhhh.” This came from Minho, a long, drawn-out
groan. His eyes fluttered open, then squinted as he
caught Thomas’s gaze. “Oh, man. I’m shucked. I’m
shucked for good.”
“How bad is it?” Newt asked him.
Instead of answering, Minho very slowly pushed
himself up to a sitting position, grunting and wincing
with every small move. But he finally did it, legs
crossed beneath him. His clothes were blackened and
ragged. In some places where skin was exposed, raw
red blisters peeked out like menacing alien eyeballs.
But even though Thomas wasn’t a doctor and had no
clue about such things, his instincts told him the burns
were manageable and would heal pretty quickly. Most
of Minho’s face had been spared, and he still had all
his hair—filthy as it was.
“Can’t be too bad if you can do that,” Thomas said
with a sly smile.
“Shuck it,” Minho responded. “I’m tougher than nails.
I could still kick your pony-lovin’ butt with twice this
pain.”
Thomas shrugged. “I do love ponies. Wish I could
eat one right now.” His stomach grumbled and gurgled.
“Was that a joke?” Minho said. “Did Thomas the
boring slinthead actually make a joke?”
“I think he did” was Newt’s response.
“I’m a funny guy,” Thomas said with a shrug.
“Yeah, you are.” But Minho obviously had already lost
interest in the small talk. He twisted his head around to
take in the rest of the Gladers, most of them asleep or
lying still with blank looks on their faces. “How many?”
Thomas counted them up. Eleven. After all they’d
been through, only eleven were left. And that included
the new kid, Aris. Forty or fifty had lived in the Glade
when Thomas first arrived, just a few weeks before.
Now there were eleven.
Eleven.
He couldn’t bring himself to say anything out loud
after this realization, and the lighter moment only
seconds earlier suddenly seemed like pure
blasphemy. Like an abomination.
How could I be part of WICKED? he thought. How
could I have been any part of this? He knew he
should tell them about his memory-dreams, but he just
couldn’t.
“There’s only eleven of us,” Newt finally said. There. It
was out.
“So, what, six died in the storm? Seven?” Minho
sounded completely detached, as if he were counting
how many apples they’d lost when the packs had
blown away.
“Seven,” Newt snapped, showing his disapproval of
the cavalier attitude. Then, in a softer tone, “Seven.
Unless people ran to a different building.”
“Dude,” Minho said. “How’re we gonna fight our way
through this city with only eleven people? There could
be hundreds of Cranks in this place for all we know.
Thousands. And we don’t have a clue what to expect
from them!”
Newt let out a big breath. “And that’s all you can
buggin’ think about? What about the people who died,
Minho? Jack’s missing. So is Winston—he never had
a chance. And”—he looked around—“I don’t see Stan
or Tim, either. What about them?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Minho held his hands up,
palms facing Newt. “Slim it nice and calm, brother. I
didn’t ask to be the shuck leader. You wanna cry all day
about what’s happened, fine. But that’s not what a
leader does. A leader figures out where to go and what
to do after that’s done.”
“Well, guess that’s why you got the job, then,” Newt
said. But then a look of apology washed over his face.
“Whatever. Seriously, sorry. I just …”
“Yeah, I’m sorry, too.” Minho rolled his eyes, though,
and Thomas hoped against hope that Newt didn’t
notice because his gaze had fallen to the floor again.
Luckily Aris scooted over to join them. Thomas
wanted the conversation to go in a different direction.
“Ever seen anything like that lightning storm?” the
new kid asked.
Thomas shook his head because Aris was looking
at him. “Didn’t seem natural. Even in my klunky
memories, I’m pretty sure stuff like that doesn’t happen
normally.”
“But remember what the Rat Man said and that lady
told you on the bus,” Minho said. “Sun flares, and the
whole world burning like hell itself. That’d screw up the
climate plenty enough to make crazy storms like that
climate plenty enough to make crazy storms like that
pop up. I have a feeling we’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”
“Not sure lucky’s the first word I’d think of,” Aris said.
“Yeah, well.”
Newt pointed at the broken glass of the door, where
the glow of sunrise had brightened into the same white
brilliance they’d grown accustomed to their first couple
of days out in the Scorch. “Least it’s over. We better
start thinking about what we’re gonna do next.”
“See,” Minho said. “You’re just as heartless as me.
And you’re right.”
Thomas remembered the image of the Cranks at the
windows back at the dorm. Like living nightmares,
missing only a death certificate to make them official
zombies. “Yeah, we better figure things out before we
have a bunch of those crazies show up. But I’m telling
you, we gotta eat first. We gotta find food.” The last
word almost hurt, he wanted some so badly.
“Food?”
Thomas pulled in a gasp of surprise; the voice had
come from above. He looked up just as the others did.
A face looked down at them from the shredded
remains of the third floor, that of a young Hispanic man.
His eyes were slightly wild, and Thomas felt a belt of
tension cinch inside him.
“Who’re you?” Minho shouted.
Then, to Thomas’s utter disbelief, the man jumped
through the jagged hole in the ceilings, falling toward
them. At the last second, he crumpled into a human ball
and rolled three times, then sprang up and landed on
his feet.
“My name is Jorge,” he said, his arms outstretched
as if he expected applause for his acrobatics. “And I’m
the Crank who rules this place.”

CHAPTER 26
For a second Thomas had a hard time believing that
the guy who’d dropped in—literally—was real. He was
so unexpected, and there was an odd silliness about
what he’d said and the way he’d said it. But he was
there, all right. And even though he didn’t seem quite
as gone as some of the others they’d seen, he’d
already confessed to being a Crank.
“You people forget how to talk?” Jorge asked, a
smile on his face that looked completely out of place in
the shattered building. “Or you just scared of the
Cranks? Scared we’ll pull you to the ground and eat
your eyeballs out? Mmm, tasty. I love a good eyeball
when the grub’s runnin’ short. Tastes like undercooked
eggs.”
Minho took it on himself to answer, doing a great job
of hiding his pain. “You admit you’re a Crank? That
you’re freaking crazy?”
“He just said he likes the taste of eyeballs.” This from
Frypan. “I think that qualifies as crazy.”
Jorge laughed, and there was a definite tone of
menace in it. “Come, come, my new friends. I’d only
eat your eyes if you were already dead. Course, I might
help you get that way if I needed to. Understand what
I’m saying?” All mirth vanished from his expression,
replaced with a look of stern warning. Almost as if he
was daring them to confront him.
No one spoke for a long moment. Then Newt asked,
“How many of you are here?”
Jorge’s gaze snapped to Newt. “How many? How
many Cranks? We’re all Cranks around here,
hermano.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Newt
replied flatly.
Jorge started pacing the room, stepping over and
around Gladers, taking everyone in as he spoke. “Lot
of things you people need to understand about how
things work in this city. About the Cranks and WICKED,
about the government, about why they left us here to rot
in our disease, kill each other, go completely and
utterly insane. About how there’s different levels of the
Flare. About how it’s too late for you—the ill is gonna
catch ya if you don’t already have it.”
Thomas had followed the stranger with his eyes as
he walked around the room making these horrible
statements. The Flare. He thought he’d gotten used to
the fear of having the disease, but with this Crank
standing right in front of him, he was more scared than
ever. And helpless to do anything about it.
Jorge stopped near him and his friends, his feet
almost touching Minho. He continued to talk.
“But that’s not the way it’s gonna work, comprende?
Those who are at a disadvantage are those who
speak first. I want to know everything about you. Where
you came from, why you’re here, what in God’s name
your purpose could be. Now.”
Minho let out a low, dangerous-sounding chuckle.
“We’re the ones at a disadvantage?” Minho swiveled
his head around mockingly. “Unless that lightning storm
fried my retinas, I’d say there are eleven of us and one
of you. Maybe you should start talking.”
Thomas really wished Minho hadn’t said that. It was
stupid and arrogant, and it could very well get them
killed. The guy obviously wasn’t alone. There could be
a hundred Cranks hiding out in the torn-up remains of
the upper floors, spying on them, waiting with whoknew-
what kind of horrific weapons. Or worse, the
savagery of their own hands and teeth and madness.
Jorge looked at Minho for a long time, his face
blank. “You didn’t just say that to me, did you? Please
tell me you didn’t just speak to me like a dog. You have
ten seconds to apologize.”
Minho looked over at Thomas with a smirk.
“One,” Jorge said. “Two. Three. Four.”
Thomas tried to shoot a look of warning to Minho,
nodded at him. Do it.
“Five. Six.”
“Do it,” Thomas finally said aloud.
“Seven. Eight.”
Jorge’s voice was rising with each number. Thomas
thought he caught a glimpse of movement somewhere
far above, just a blur of streaking shadow. Maybe
Minho noticed it, too; any arrogance drained from his
face.
“Nine.”
“I’m sorry,” Minho blurted out, with little feeling.
“I don’t think you meant that,” Jorge said. Then he
kicked Minho in the leg.
Thomas’s hands clenched into fists when his friend
cried out in pain; the Crank must’ve gotten him right in
a burnt spot.
“Say it with meaning, hermano.”
Thomas looked up at the Crank, hated him. Irrational
thoughts started swimming through his mind—he
wanted to jump up and attack, beat him like he’d
beaten Gally after escaping the Maze.
Jorge pulled his leg back and kicked Minho again,
twice as hard in the same spot. “Say it with meaning!”
He screamed the last word with a harshness that
sounded crazed.
Minho wailed, grabbing the wound with both hands.
“I’m … sorry,” he said between heavy breaths, his
voice strained and full of pain. But as soon as Jorge
smiled and relaxed, satisfied with the humiliation he’d
inflicted, Minho swung an arm out and slammed it into
the Crank’s shin. The man leaped onto his other foot,
then fell, crashing to the ground with his own yelp, a
shriek that was half surprise, half hurt.
Then Minho was on top of him, yelling a string of
obscenities Thomas had never heard come out of his
friend before. Their leader squeezed his thighs to trap
Jorge’s body, then started punching.
“Minho!” Thomas shouted. “Stop!” He got to his feet,
ignoring the stiffness in his joints, the soreness in his
muscles. He took a quick glance upward as he made
for Minho, ready to tackle him off Jorge’s body. There
was movement up there, in several places. Then he
saw people looking down, people readying to jump.
Ropes appeared, dangled over the sides of the jagged
holes.
Thomas rammed into Minho, sent him sprawling off
Jorge’s body; they crashed to the ground. Thomas
quickly spun to grab his friend, wrapped his arms
around his chest and squeezed against his struggles
to escape.
“There’s more of them up there!” Thomas screamed
in his ear from behind. “You have to stop! They’ll kill
you! They’ll kill all of us!”
Jorge had staggered to his feet, slowly wiping a thin
trail of blood from the corner of his mouth. The look on
his face was enough to ram a spike of fear straight
through Thomas’s heart. There was no telling what the
guy would do.
“Wait!” Thomas shouted. “Please, wait!”
Jorge made eye contact with him just as a few more
Cranks dropped to the ground from above. Some of
them did the jump-and-roll like Jorge had done; others
slid down ropes and landed squarely on their feet. All
of them quickly gathered in a pack behind their leader,
maybe fifteen of them. Men and women; a few were
teenagers. All filthy and dressed in tattered clothing.
Most of them skinny and frail-looking.
Minho had quit fighting, and Thomas finally loosened
his grip. By the looks of it, he had only a few seconds
before a dire situation turned into a slaughterhouse. He
pressed one hand firmly down on Minho’s back, then
held the other one up toward Jorge in a conciliatory
gesture.
“Please give me a minute,” Thomas said, urging his
heart and voice to calm down. “Won’t do you people
any good to … hurt us.”
“Won’t do us any good?” the Crank said; he spit a
wad of red goo from his mouth. “It’ll do me a lot of
good. That, I can guarantee, hermano.” He balled both
hands into fists at his sides.
Then he cocked his head, barely enough to be
noticed. But as soon as he did, the Cranks behind him
pulled all kinds of nasty things from within the hidden
depths of their ragged clothes. Knives. Rusted
machetes. Black spikes that had maybe once been in
a railroad somewhere. Shards of glass with red-tinged
smudges on their razor-thin tips. One girl, who couldn’t
have been more than thirteen years old, held a
splintered shovel, its metal scoop ending in a jagged
edge like the teeth of a saw.
Thomas had the sudden and absolute certainty that
he was now pleading for their lives. The Gladers
couldn’t win in a fight against these people. No way.
They weren’t Grievers, but there also wasn’t a magic
code to shut them down.
“Listen,” Thomas said, slowly getting to his feet,
hoping Minho wouldn’t be stupid enough to try
anything. “There’s something about us. We’re not just
random shanks who showed up on your doorstep.
We’re valuable. Alive, not dead.”
The anger on Jorge’s face lessened ever so slightly.
Maybe a spark of curiosity. But what he said was
“What’s a shank?”
Thomas almost—almost—laughed. An irrational
response that somehow would’ve seemed
appropriate. “Me and you. Ten minutes. Alone. That’s
all I ask. Bring all the weapons you need.”
Jorge did laugh at that, more of a wet snort than
anything. “Sorry to burst your bubble, kid, but I don’t
think I’ll need any.”
He paused, and it felt like the next few seconds
lasted a full hour.
“Ten minutes,” the Crank finally said. “Rest of you
stay here, watch these punks. If I give the word, let the
death games begin.” He held a hand out, gesturing to
a dark hallway that led from the room on the side
across from the broken doors.
“Ten minutes,” he repeated.
Thomas nodded. When Jorge didn’t move, he went
first, walking toward their meeting place and maybe
the most important discussion of his life.
And maybe the last.

CHAPTER 27
Thomas felt Jorge at his heels as he entered the dark
hallway. It smelled of mildew and rot; water dripped
from the ceiling, sending out creepy echoes that for
some awful reason made him think of blood.
“Just keep going,” Jorge said from behind. “There’s
a room at the end with chairs. Make even the slightest
move against me, everyone dies.”
Thomas wanted to turn and scream at the guy but
kept walking. “I’m not an idiot. You can quit the whole
tough-guy routine.”
The Crank only snickered in response.
After several minutes of quiet, Thomas finally
approached a wooden door with a round silver knob.
He reached out and opened it without hesitating, trying
to show Jorge that he still had some dignity. Once
inside, however, he didn’t know what to do. It was
pitch-black.
He sensed Jorge stepping around him; then there
was the loud flumping sound of heavy cloth being
whipped in the air. A hot, blinding light appeared, and
Thomas had to shield his eyes with his forearms. He
could only squint at first, then eventually dropped his
arms and was able to see okay; he realized that the
Crank had pulled a large sheet of canvas from a
window. An unbroken window. Outside, there was only
sunlight and concrete.
“Sit down,” Jorge said, his voice less gruff than
Thomas would’ve expected. He hoped it was because
the Crank had finally accepted that his new visitor was
going to take a rational and calm approach to their
situation. That maybe there really was something to
this discussion that could end up benefiting the current
residents of the dilapidated building. Of course, the
guy was a Crank, so Thomas had no idea how he’d
react.
The room had no furniture other than two small
wooden chairs and a table between them. Thomas
pulled out the one closer to him and took a seat. Jorge
sat down on the other side, then leaned forward and
put his elbows on the table, hands clasped. His face
was blank, his eyes glued on Thomas.
“Talk.”
Thomas wished he could take a second to sift
through all the ideas that had run through his mind back
in the larger room, but he knew there wasn’t any time
for that.
“Okay.” He hesitated. One word. So far, not so good.
He pulled in a breath. “Look, I heard you mention
WICKED back there. We know all about those guys.
It’d be really interesting to hear what you have to say
about them.”
Jorge didn’t budge; his expression didn’t change.
“I’m not the one talking right now. You are.”
“Yeah, I know.” Thomas scooted his chair a little
closer to the table. Then he pushed it back and put a
foot up on his knee. He needed to calm down and just
let the words flow. “Well, this is hard because I don’t
know what you know. So I guess I’ll just pretend like
you’re stupid to the whole thing.”
“I’d strongly advise you never to use the word stupid
with me again.”
Thomas had to force himself to swallow, his throat
tight with fear. “Just a figure of speech.”
“Get on with it.”
Thomas took another deep breath. “We used to be a
group of about fifty guys. And … a girl.” A prick of pain
stuck him at that. “Now we’re down to eleven. I don’t
know all the details, but WICKED is some kind of
organization that’s doing a whole load of nasty things
to us for some reason. We started in a place called the
Glade, inside a stone maze, surrounded by these
creatures called Grievers.”
He waited, searching Jorge’s face for any reaction
to his burst of strange information. But the Crank
showed no signs of confusion or recognition. Nothing
at all.
And so Thomas told him everything. What it had
been like in the Maze, how they’d escaped, how they
thought they were safe, how it ended up being just
another layer of the WICKED plan. He told him about
the Rat Man, and the mission he’d set them on: to
survive long enough to make it one hundred miles to
the north, to a place he referred to as the safe haven.
He related how they’d gone down the long tunnel, been
attacked by the flying silver goop, made the trek
across the initial miles of their journey.
He told Jorge the whole story. And the more he
talked, the crazier it seemed that he was sharing it. Yet
he kept talking because he couldn’t think of anything
else to do. He did it with the hope that WICKED was
just as much the Cranks’ enemy as it was theirs.
He didn’t mention Teresa, however—she was the
only thing he left out.
“So there must be something special about us,”
“So there must be something special about us,”
Thomas said, trying to wrap things up. “They can’t be
doing this just to be nasty. What’d be the point?”
“Speaking of points,” Jorge responded, the first he’d
spoken in at least ten minutes, the allotted time already
gone. “What’s yours?”
Thomas waited. This was it. His only chance.
“Well?” Jorge pushed.
Thomas went for it. “If you … help us … I mean, if
you, or maybe just a few of you, go with us and help us
make it to the safe haven …”
“Yeah?”
“Then maybe you’ll be safe, too. …” And this was
what Thomas had planned all along—had been
building toward—the hope strung out by the Rat Man.
“They told us we have the Flare. And that if we make it
to the safe haven, we’ll all be cured. They said they
have a cure. If you help us get there, maybe you can
get it, too.” Thomas stopped talking and looked at
Jorge earnestly.
Something had changed—slightly—in the Crank’s
face at that last thing he’d said, and Thomas knew he
had won. The look was brief, but it was definitely hope,
quickly replaced with a blank indifference. Yet Thomas
knew what he’d seen.
“A cure,” the Crank repeated.
“A cure.” Thomas was determined to say as little as
possible from here on out—he’d done his best.
Jorge leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking
as if about to break, and folded his arms. He lowered
his eyebrows in a look of contemplation. “What’s your
name?”
Thomas was surprised by the question. Felt sure, in
fact, that he’d already told him. Or at least it seemed
like he should have told him at some point. But then
again, this whole scenario wasn’t exactly your typical
get-acquainted affair.
“Your name?” Jorge repeated. “I’m assuming you
have one, hermano.”
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry. It’s Thomas.”
Another flash across Jorge’s face—this time
something like … recognition. Mixed with surprise.
“Thomas, huh. You go by Tommy? Tom, maybe?”
That last one hurt, made him think of his dream
about Teresa. “No,” he said, probably a little too
quickly. “Just … Thomas.”
“Okay, Thomas. Let me ask you something. Do you
have the slightest clue in that squishy brain of yours
what the Flare does to people? Do I look like someone
who has a hideous disease to you?”
That seemed an impossible question to answer
without getting your face beaten in, but Thomas went
with the safest bet. “No.”
“No? No to both questions?”
“Yes. I mean, no. I mean … yes, the answer to both
questions is no.”
Jorge smiled—nothing but an uptick of the right
corner of his mouth—and Thomas thought he must be
enjoying every second of this. “The Flare works in
stages, muchacho. Every person in this city has it, and
I’m not shocked to hear that you and your sissy friends
do, too. Someone like me is in the beginning, a Crank
in name only. I caught it just a few weeks ago, tested
positive at the quarantine checkpoint—government’s
trying their damnedest to keep the sick and the well
separate. Ain’t working. Saw my whole world go
straight in the crap hole. Was sent here. Fought to
capture this building with a bunch of other newbies.”
At that word, Thomas’s breath caught in his throat
like a mote of dust. It brought back too many memories
of the Glade.
“My friends out there with the weapons are all in the
same boat as me. But you go and take a nice stroll
around the city and you’ll see what happens as time
goes by. You’ll see the stages, see what it’s like to be
past the Gone, though you might not live to remember
it for very long. And we don’t even have any of the
numbing agent here. The Bliss. None.”
“Who sent you here?” Thomas asked, saving his
curiosity about this numbing agent for later.
“WICKED—same as you. Only we’re not special like
you say you are. WICKED was set up by the surviving
governments to fight the disease, and they claim that
this city has something to do with it. Don’t know much
else.”
Thomas felt a mixture of surprise and confusion, then
a hope for answers. “Who is WICKED? What is
WICKED?”
Jorge looked just about as confused as Thomas felt.
“I told you all I know. Why’re you asking me that,
anyway? I thought the whole point here was that you
were special to them, that they were behind this whole
story you told me.”
“Look, everything I told you is the honest truth. We’ve
been promised things, but we still don’t know much
about them. They don’t give us any details. Like they’re
testing us to see if we can make it through all this klunk
even though we have no idea what’s happening.”
“And what makes you think they have a cure?”
Now Thomas had to keep his voice steady, think
back to what he’d heard from the Rat Man. “The guy in
the white suit I told you about. He told us it’s why we
have to make it to the safe haven.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Jorge said, one of those noises that
sounded like a yes but meant exactly the opposite.
“And what in the world makes you think they’ll let us just
ride in on a horse with you and get the cure, too?”
Thomas had to keep playing it nice and calm.
“Obviously I don’t know that at all. But why not at least
try? If you help us get there, you have a small chance. If
you kill us, you have zero chance. Only a full-gone
Crank would choose the second option.”
Jorge gave that pathetic smile again, then let out a
small bark of a laugh. “There’s something about you,
Thomas. Few minutes ago I wanted to stab your friend
in the eyeballs and then do the same to the rest of ya.
But I’ll be licked if you haven’t half convinced me.”
Thomas shrugged, trying to keep his face calm. “All I
care about is surviving one more day. All I want is to
make it through this city, and then I’ll worry about what
comes next. And you know what else?” He braced
himself to act tougher than he felt.
Jorge raised his eyebrows. “What’s that?”
“If stabbing you in the eyeballs could get me to
tomorrow, I’d do it right now. But I need you. We all
need you.” Thomas wondered if he could ever actually
do such a thing even as he said it.
But it worked.
The Crank eyed Thomas for a drawn-out moment,
then stuck out a hand across the table. “I believe we
have ourselves a deal, hermano. For many reasons.”
Thomas reached out and shook. And even though he
was filled with relief, it took everything he had not to
show it.
But then Jorge brought it all crashing down. “I just
have one condition. That ratty kid who junked me on
the ground? Think I heard you call him Minho?”
“Yeah?” Thomas asked in a weak voice, his heart
thumping all over again.
“He dies.”

CHAPTER 28
“No.”
Thomas said it with every ounce of finality and
firmness he could muster.
“No?” Jorge repeated with a look of surprise. “I offer
you a chance to make it through a city full of vicious
Cranks ready to eat you alive, and you say no? To my
one little itsy-bitsy request? That does not make me
happy.”
“It wouldn’t be smart,” Thomas said. He had no idea
how he was able to maintain his calm expression,
where this bravery was coming from. But something
told him it was the only way he could survive with this
Crank.
Jorge leaned forward again, placed his elbows on
the table. But this time he didn’t clasp his hands;
instead, he balled them into fists. His knuckles
cracked. “Is it your goal in life to piss me off until I cut
your arteries open one by one?”
“You saw what he did to you,” Thomas countered.
“You know the guts that took. If you kill him, you lose the
skills he brings. He’s our best fighter, and he’s not
scared of anything. Maybe he’s crazy, but we need
him.”
Thomas was trying to sound so practical. Pragmatic.
But if there was a person other than Teresa on the
planet he could truly call a friend, it was Minho. And he
couldn’t handle losing him, too.
“But he made me angry,” Jorge said tightly; his fists
had not relaxed in the slightest. “He made me look like
a little girl in front of my people. And that’s
not … acceptable.”
Thomas shrugged like he didn’t care, like it was a
small and meaningless point. “So punish him. Make
him look like a little girl. But killing him doesn’t help us.
The more bodies we have that can fight, the better our
chances. I mean, you live here. Do I really need to tell
you this?”
Finally, finally, Jorge loosened his white-knuckled
grips. He also let out a breath that Thomas hadn’t
realized he’d been holding.
“Okay,” the Crank said. “Okay. But it has nothing to
do with your lame attempt to talk me into it. I’ll spare
him because I just made up my mind about something.
Because of two reasons, actually. One of which you
should have thought of yourself.”
“What?” Thomas didn’t mind his relief showing
anymore—the effort to hide things was exhausting him.
Plus, he was now too intrigued by what Jorge had to
say.
“First off, you don’t really know all the details behind
this test or experiment or whatever it is that WICKED is
putting you through. Maybe the more of you that make
it back—to that safe haven—the better chances you
have of getting the cure. Ever thought that this Group B
you mentioned are probably your competitors? I think
it’s in my best interests to make sure all eleven of you
make it now.”
Thomas nodded, but didn’t say anything. He didn’t
want to take the slightest chance of ruining the victory
here: Jorge believed him about the Rat Man and the
cure.
“Which leads to my second reason,” he continued.
“The thing I’ve made up my mind about.”
“And what’s that?” Thomas asked.
“I’m not taking all those Cranks out there with me.
With us.”
“Huh? Why? I thought the whole point was that you
guys could help us fight our way through the city.”
Jorge adamantly shook his head as he leaned back
in his chair and assumed a much less threatening
position, folding his arms across his chest. “No. If
we’re gonna do this, stealth will work way better than
muscle. We’ve been sneaking around this hellhole ever
since we got here, and I think our chances of making it
through—and getting all the food and supplies we
need—are way better if we take what we’ve learned
and use it. Tiptoe our way past the long-gone-crazy
Cranks instead of slashing through them like a bunch
of wannabe warriors.”
“You’re hard to figure out,” Thomas said. “Not to be
rude, but it sure seems like warriors are exactly what
you guys want to be. Ya know, based on all the ugly
outfits and sharp things.”
A long moment of silence passed, and Thomas was
just starting to think he’d made a mistake when Jorge
burst out laughing.
“Oh, muchacho, you’re one lucky sucker I like you.
Not sure why, but I do. Otherwise I would’ve killed you
three times already.”
“Can you do that?” Thomas asked.
“Huh?”
“Kill someone three times.”
“I’d figure out a way.”
“Then I’ll try to be nicer.”
Jorge slapped the table and stood up. “Okay. So
here’s the deal. We need to get all eleven of you punks
to your safe haven. To do it, I’m only taking one other
person—her name is Brenda, and she’s a genius. We
need her mind. And if we do make it, and it ends up
that there’s no cure for us, then I don’t think I need to tell
you what the consequences will be.”
“Come on,” Thomas said sarcastically. “I thought we
were friends now.”
“Pshh. We ain’t friends, hermano. We’re partners. I’ll
deliver you to WICKED. You get me a cure. That’s the
deal or there’s gonna be a lot of death.”
Thomas stood as well; his chair creaked against the
floor. “We already agreed on that, didn’t we?”
“Yeah. Yeah, we did. Now listen, don’t you dare say a
word out there. Getting away from those other Cranks
is gonna be … tricky.”
“What’s the plan?”
Jorge thought for a minute, his eyes glued to
Thomas as he did. Then he broke his silence. “Just
keep your tongue-hole shut and let me do my thing.” He
started to move toward the door to the hallway, but
stopped short. “Oh, and I don’t think your compadre
Minho is going to like it very much.”
As they walked down the hallway to join the others,
Thomas realized how achingly hungry he was. The
cramps in his stomach had spread to the rest of his
body, as if his internal organs and muscles were
starting to eat each other.
“All right, everybody listen!” Jorge announced when
they reentered the large torn-up room. “Me and the
bird-face here have come to a resolution.”
Bird face? Thomas thought.
The Cranks still stood at attention, nasty weapons
gripped tightly, glaring at the Gladers, all of whom sat
around the edges of the space, backs against the
walls. Light beamed through the shattered windows
and holes above.
Jorge came to a stop in the middle of the room and
slowly turned to address the whole group. Thomas
thought he looked ridiculous—like he was trying too
hard.
“First, we need to get these people food. I know it
seems crazy to share our hard-earned grub with a
bunch of strangers, but I think we could use their help.
Give ’em the pork and beans—I’m sick of that horse
crap anyway.” One of the Cranks snickered, a skinny
runt of a kid whose eyes darted back and forth.
“Second, being the grand gentleman and saint that I
am, I’ve decided not to kill the punk who attacked me.”
Thomas heard a few disappointed groans break out
and wondered just how far along some of these people
were with the Flare. But one girl, a pretty, older
teenager with long hair that was surprisingly clean,
rolled her eyes and shook her head as if she thought
the noise was idiotic. Thomas found himself hoping
she was the Brenda girl Jorge had mentioned.
Jorge pointed at Minho, who, not shockingly to
Thomas at all, smiled and waved at the crowd.
“Pretty happy, are you?” Jorge grunted. “That’s good
to know. Means you’ll take the news well.”
“What news?” Minho asked sharply.
Thomas glanced over at Jorge, wondering what was
about to come out of the guy’s mouth.
The Crank leader spoke matter-of-factly. “After we
get you stragglers fed so you don’t go dying of
starvation on us, you get to have your punishment for
attacking me.”
“Oh yeah?” If Minho was scared, he didn’t show any
sign of it. “And what’s that gonna be?”
Jorge just stared back at Minho—a blank
expression spread eerily across his face. “You
punched me with both of your fists. So we’re gonna cut
a finger off each hand.”

CHAPTER 29
Thomas didn’t understand at all how threatening to cut
off Minho’s fingers was going to set the groundwork for
them escaping from the rest of the Cranks. And he
certainly wasn’t stupid enough to trust Jorge after just
one brief meeting. He began to panic that things were
about to go terribly, horribly wrong.
But then Jorge looked at him, even as his Crank
friends started to hoot and holler, and there was
something there, in his eyes. Something that put
Thomas at ease.
Minho, on the other hand, was a different story. He’d
stood up as soon as Jorge had pronounced his
punishment, and would’ve charged if the pretty girl
hadn’t stepped right up to him and placed her blade
under his chin. It drew a drop of blood, bright red in the
daylight pouring through the busted doors. He couldn’t
even talk without risking serious bodily harm.
“Here’s the plan,” Jorge said calmly. “Brenda and I
will escort these moochers to the stash, let ’em eat up.
Then we’ll all meet on the Tower, let’s say one hour
from now.” He looked at his watch. “Make that noon on
the dot. We’ll bring up lunch for the rest of you.”
“Why just you and Brenda?” someone asked.
Thomas didn’t see who at first, then realized a man
had said it—probably the oldest person in the room.
“What if they jump you? There’s eleven of them to two
of you.”
Jorge squinted—a scoffing look. “Thanks for the
math lesson, Barkley. Next time I forget how many toes
I have, I’ll be sure and spend some counting time with
you. For now, shut your flappin’ lips and lead everybody
to the Tower. If these punks try anything, Brenda will
slash Mr. Minho to tiny bits while I beat the living hell out
of the rest of ’em. They can barely stand they’re so
weak. Now get!”
Relief swam through Thomas. Once separated from
the others, surely Jorge meant to run. Surely he didn’t
mean to go through with the punishment.
The man named Barkley was old but looked tough,
veined muscles stretching the sleeves of his shirt. He
held a nasty dagger in one hand and a big hammer in
the other. “Fine,” he said after a long stare down with
his leader. “But if they do jump you and slit your throat,
we’ll get along just fine without ya.”
“Thanks for the kind words, hermano. Now get, or
we’ll have double the fun on the Tower.”
Barkley laughed as if to salvage some dignity, then
started off down the same hallway Thomas and Jorge
had used. He waved his arm in a “follow me” gesture
and soon every last Crank was shuffling after him
except Jorge and the pretty girl with the long brown
hair. She still had her knife at Minho’s neck, but the
good part was that she had to be Brenda.
Once the main group of Flare-infected people left
the room, Jorge shared an almost relieved look with
Thomas; then he subtly shook his head, as if the others
might still be able to hear them.
Movement from Brenda grabbed Thomas’s
attention. He looked to see her drop the knife away
from Minho and step back, absently wiping the small
trace of blood there on her pants. “I really would’ve
killed you, ya know,” she said in a slightly scratchy
voice. Almost husky. “Charge Jorge again and I’ll sever
an artery.”
Minho wiped at his small wound with a thumb, then
looked at the bright red smear. “That’s one sharp knife.
Makes me like you more.”
Newt and Frypan groaned simultaneously.
“Looks like I’m not the only Crank standing here,”
Brenda responded. “You’re even more gone than me.”
“None of us are crazy yet,” Jorge added, walking
over to stand next to her. “But it won’t be long. Come
on. We need to get over to the stash and put some
food in you people. You all look like a bunch of starved
zombies.”
Minho didn’t seem to like the idea. “You think I’m just
gonna waltz over to have a sit-down with you psychos,
then let you cut my freaking fingers off?”
“Just shut up for once,” Thomas snapped, trying to
communicate something different with his eyes. “Let’s
go eat. I don’t care what happens to your beautiful
hands after that.”
Minho squinted in confusion, but seemed to pick up
that something was off. “Whatever. Let’s go.”
Brenda stepped in front of Thomas unexpectedly,
her face only a few inches from his. She had eyes so
dark it made the whites seem to glow brightly. “You the
leader?”
Thomas shook his head. “No—it’s the guy you just
nipped with your knife.”
Brenda looked over at Minho, then back at Thomas.
She grinned. “Well, then that’s stupid. I know I’m on the
verge of crazy, but I would’ve picked you. You seem
like the leader type.”
like the leader type.”
“Um, thanks.” Thomas felt a rush of embarrassment,
then remembered Minho’s tattoo. Remembered his
own, how he was supposed to be killed. He scrambled
to say something to hide his sudden mood shift. “I, uh,
would’ve picked you, too, instead of Jorge over there.”
The girl leaned forward and kissed Thomas on the
cheek. “You’re sweet. I really hope we don’t end up
killing you, at least.”
“All right.” Jorge was already motioning everyone
toward the broken doors that led outside. “Enough of
this lovefest. Brenda, we have a lot to talk about once
we get to the stash. Come on, let’s go.”
Brenda didn’t take her eyes off Thomas. As for him,
he still felt the tingle that had shot through his entire
body when she’d touched him with her lips.
“I like you,” she said.
Thomas swallowed, his mind empty of a comeback.
Brenda’s tongue touched the corner of her mouth and
she grinned, then finally turned away from him and
walked to the doors, slipping her knife into a pants
pocket. “Let’s go!” she yelled without looking back.
Thomas knew every single Glader was staring at
him, but he refused to make eye contact with any of
them. Instead, he hitched up his shirt and walked
forward, not caring about the slight smile on his face.
Soon the others fell into step behind him, and the
group exited the building and emerged into the white
heat of the sun beating down on the broken pavement
outside.
Brenda led while Jorge took up the rear. Thomas had a
hard time adjusting to the brightness, shielding his
eyes and squinting as they walked close to the wall to
stay in the scant shade. The other buildings and streets
around him seemed to shine with unearthly
luminescence, as if they were made of some sort of
magic stone.
Brenda moved along the walls of the structure they’d
just exited until they reached what Thomas thought
must be the back. There, a set of steps disappeared
into the pavement, reminding him of something in his
past life. An entrance to some kind of underground
train system, perhaps.
She didn’t hesitate. Without waiting to make sure the
others were behind her, she bounced down the stairs.
But Thomas noticed that the knife had reappeared in
her right hand, gripped tightly and held a few inches
from the side of her body—a stealthy attempt at being
ready to attack—or defend—on a moment’s notice.
He followed her, eager to get out of the sun and,
more importantly, make it to food. His insides ached
more strongly for sustenance with every step he took.
In fact, he was surprised he could still move; the
weakness was like a poisonous growth inside him,
replacing his vital parts with a painful cancer.
Darkness swallowed them eventually, welcome and
cool. Thomas followed the sound of Brenda’s footsteps
until they reached a small doorway, through which
shone a glow of orange. She went inside, and Thomas
hesitated at the threshold. It was a small, damp room
full of boxes and cans, with a single lightbulb hanging
from the center of the ceiling. It looked far too cramped
for all of them to enter.
Brenda must’ve sensed his thoughts. “You and the
others can stay out there in the hallway, find a wall and
others can stay out there in the hallway, find a wall and
sit. I’ll start bringing out some tasty delights for you in a
sec.”
Thomas nodded even though she wasn’t looking and
stumbled back out into the hallway. He collapsed next
to a wall down a ways from the rest of the Gladers,
deeper into the darkness of the tunnel. And he knew for
certain he’d never get back up unless he ate
something.
The “tasty delights” ended up being canned beans and
some type of sausage—according to Brenda, the
words on the label were in Spanish. They ate it cold,
but it tasted like the grandest meal ever to Thomas,
and he devoured every bite. They’d already learned it
wasn’t smart to eat quickly after such a long period of
fasting, but he didn’t care. If he threw it all up, he’d just
enjoy eating all over again. Hopefully a fresh batch.
After Brenda passed out the food to the starving
Gladers, she walked over to sit by Thomas, the soft
glow from the room illuminating the thin strands on the
fringes of her dark hair. She set down a couple of
backpacks—filled with more of the cans—at her side.
“One of these is for you,” she said.
“Thanks.” Thomas had already reached the bottom
half of his can, scooping out one bite after another. No
one spoke down the hall from them; the only sounds
were slurping and swallowing.
“Taste good?” she asked as she dug into her own
food.
“Please. I’d push my own mom down the stairs to eat
this stuff. If I still have a mom.” He couldn’t help thinking
of his dream and the brief glimpse he’d seen of her,
but did his best to forget it—it was too depressing.
“You get sick of it fast,” Brenda said, pulling Thomas
out of his head. He noticed the way she sat, her right
knee pressed against his shin, and his thoughts
jumped to the ridiculous idea that she’d moved her leg
like that on purpose. “We only have about four or five
options.”
Thomas concentrated on clearing his mind, bringing
his thoughts back to the present. “Where’d you get the
food? And how much is left?”
“Before this area got scorched by the flares, this city
had several food manufacturing plants, plus a lot of
warehouses to hold the food. Sometimes I think that’s
why WICKED sends Cranks here. They can at least tell
themselves that we won’t starve while we slowly go
crazy and kill each other.”
Thomas scooped out the last bit of sauce from the
bottom of his can and licked his spoon clean. “If there’s
plenty, why do you only have a few options?” He had
the thought that maybe they’d trusted her too quickly,
that they could be eating poison. But she was eating
the same food, so his worries were probably farfetched.
Brenda pointed toward the ceiling with her thumb.
“We’ve only scoured the closest ones. Some company
that specialized, not much variety. I’d kill your mother
for something fresh out of a garden. A nice salad.”
“Guess my mom doesn’t have much of a chance if
she’s ever standing between us and a grocery store.”
“Guess not.”
She smiled then, though a shadow mostly hid her
face. The grin still shone through, and Thomas found
himself liking this girl. She’d just drawn blood from his
best friend, but he liked her. Maybe, in small part,
because of that.
“Does the world still have grocery stores?” he asked.
“I mean, what’s it like out there after all this Flare
business? Really hot, with a bunch of crazy people
running around?”
“No. Well, I don’t know. The sun flares killed a lot of
people before they could escape to the north or south.
My family lived in northern Canada. My parents were
some of the first ones to make it to the camps set up
by the coalition between governments. The people who
ended up forming WICKED later.”
Thomas stared for a second, his mouth wide open.
She’d just revealed more to him about the state of the
world in those few sentences than anything he’d heard
since having his memory wiped.
“Wait … wait a second,” he said. “I need to hear all
this. Can you start from the beginning?”
Brenda shrugged. “Not much to tell—happened a
long time ago. The sun flares were completely
unexpected and unpredictable, and by the time the
scientists tried to warn anyone, it was way too late.
They wiped out half the planet, killed everything around
the equatorial regions. Changed climates everywhere
else. The survivors gathered, some governments
combined. Wasn’t too long before they discovered that
a nasty virus had been unleashed from some diseasecontrol
place. Called it the Flare right from the
beginning.”
“Man,” Thomas muttered. He looked down the hall at
the other Gladers, wondering if they’d heard any of this,
but none of them seemed to be listening, all absorbed
but none of them seemed to be listening, all absorbed
in their food. They were probably too far away anyway.
“When did—”
She shushed him, holding a hand up. “Wait,” she
said. “Something’s wrong. I think we have visitors.”
Thomas hadn’t heard anything, and the other
Gladers didn’t seem to notice, either. But Jorge was
already at Brenda’s side, whispering something in her
ear. She was just moving to stand up when a crash
exploded down the hall—from the stairs they’d used to
reach the stash. It was a horribly loud sound, the
crumple and cracking of a structure falling apart,
cement breaking, metal ripping. A cloud of dust fogged
its way toward them, choking off the scant light from the
food room.
Thomas sat and stared, paralyzed by fear. He could
just see Minho and Newt and all the others running
back toward the destroyed stairs, then turning down a
branching hallway he hadn’t noticed before. Brenda
grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him to his feet.
“Run!” she screamed, and started dragging him
away from the destruction and deeper into the
underground.
Thomas snapped out of his stupor and swatted at
her hand, though she didn’t let go. “No! We have to
follow my fr—”
Before he could finish, an entire section of the roof
came crashing down onto the floor in front of him,
blocks of cement falling on top of each other with
thunderous cracks. It cut him off from the direction his
friends had taken. He heard more fracturing of rock
above him and realized that he no longer had any
choice—or any time.
Reluctantly he turned and ran with Brenda, her hand
still clutching his shirt as they sprinted into the
darkness.

CHAPTER 30
Thomas didn’t notice his heart pounding, or have time
to contemplate what could possibly have caused the
explosion. All he could think about were the other
Gladers, now separated from him. Blind, he ran with
Brenda—forced to entrust his life to her completely.
“Here!” she yelled. They made a sharp turn to the
right; he almost stumbled and fell but she helped him
stay on his feet. Once he had a good pace, she finally
let go of his shirt. “Stick close to me.”
The sounds of destruction behind them faded as
they ran down this new path, and panic lit up inside
Thomas. “What about my friends? What if—”
“Just keep going! Better for everyone to split up
anyway.”
The air cooled as they moved farther down the long
hallway. The darkness deepened. Thomas felt his
strength slowly returning and he caught his breath
quickly. Behind them, the noises had almost stopped.
He worried about the Gladers, but instinct told him it
was okay to stay with Brenda—that his friends would
be able to fend for themselves if they’d gotten out. But
what if some of them had been captured by whoever
had set off the explosion? Or killed? And who had
attacked them? Concern seemed to bleed his heart
dry as they ran along.
Brenda took three more turns; Thomas had no idea
how she could know where she was going. He was just
about to ask when she stopped, putting a hand to his
chest to hold him back.
“You hear anything?” she said through huffs.
Thomas listened, but all he heard was their own
breathing. Everything else was silence and darkness.
“No,” he told her. “Where are we?”
“A bunch of tunnels and secret passages connect
the buildings on this side of town, maybe across the
whole city—we haven’t explored that far yet. They call it
the Underneath.”
Thomas couldn’t see her face, but she was close
enough that he felt and smelled her breath. It didn’t
reek, which surprised him, considering her living
conditions. It kind of had a nonscent, somehow
pleasant.
“The Underneath?” he repeated. “Sounds stupid.”
“Well, I didn’t name it.”
“How much of it have you explored?” He didn’t like
the idea of running around down there without knowing
what was ahead.
“Not much. We usually run into Cranks. The really
bad ones. Way past Gone.”
This made Thomas turn in a circle, searching the
darkness for he didn’t know what. His whole body
tensed with fear as if he’d just jumped into ice water.
“Well … are we safe? What happened with that
explosion, anyway? We need to go back and find my
friends.”
“What about Jorge?”
“Huh?”
“Shouldn’t we go find Jorge, too?”
Thomas hadn’t meant to offend her. “Yeah, Jorge, my
friends, all those shanks. We can’t leave them behind.”
“What’s a shank?”
“Never mind. Just … what do you think happened
back there?”
She sighed and stepped even closer to him,
pressing her chest against his. He felt her lips brushing
his ear as she spoke. “I want you to promise me
something.” She said it softly, in barely more than a
whisper.
Chills broke out all over Thomas’s body.
“Um … what?”
She didn’t pull back, just kept speaking into his ear.
“No matter what happens, even if we have to go alone,
you’ll take me all the way back. All the way to WICKED,
to that cure you promised Jorge—he told me about it in
the storage room. I can’t stay here and slowly go
insane. I can’t do it. I’d rather die.”
She grabbed both of his hands in hers, squeezed.
Then she rested her head on his shoulder, her nose
nestled against his neck—she had to be standing on
the tips of her toes. Each breath from her sent a new
wave of chills across his skin.
Thomas was enjoying her being so close, but it
seemed so bizarre and out of the blue. Then he had a
surge of guilt, thinking of Teresa. All this was stupid. He
was in the middle of a brutal and ruthless attempt to
make it across a wasteland, his life on the line, his
friends maybe dead. Teresa could even be dead. To sit
here and cuddle with some strange girl in the dark was
about the most absurd thing he could think of.
“Hey,” he said. He wiggled his hands from her grip
and grabbed her upper arms, pushed her away. He still
couldn’t see anything, but he imagined her there,
looking at him. “Don’t you think we need to figure
things out?”
things out?”
“You still haven’t promised me,” she replied.
Thomas wanted to scream, couldn’t believe how
strange she was acting. “Fine, I promise. Did Jorge tell
you everything?”
“Mostly, I think. Though I’d already guessed it the
second he told our group to go on without us and meet
at the Tower.”
“Guessed what?”
“That we were going to help you get through the city
in exchange for you taking us back to civilization.”
This made Thomas worry. “If you came up with that
so quickly, don’t you think some of your friends did,
too?”
“Exactly.”
“What do you mean exactly? Sounds like you
figured something out.”
She reached out and placed her hands on his chest.
“I think that’s what happened. At first I worried it was a
group of longer-gone Cranks, but since no one chased
us, I think Barkley and a couple of his buddies rigged
an explosion at the Underneath entrance, tried to kill
us. They know they can get plenty of food somewhere
else, and there’re other ways to get down here.”
Thomas still didn’t understand why she was being so
touchy with him. “That doesn’t make sense. I mean, kill
us? Wouldn’t they want to use us, too? Come with us?”
“No, no, no. Barkley and the others are happy here. I
think they’re a little more gone than we are, starting to
lose their rational sides. I doubt the idea even occurred
to them. I bet they just thought we were all gonna gang
up and … eliminate them. That we were making plans
down here.”
Thomas let go of her, leaned his head back against
the wall. She pressed in again and wrapped her arms
around his middle.
“Uh … Brenda?” he asked. Something wasn’t right
with this girl.
“Yeah?” she mumbled against his chest.
“What are you doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you think it’s a little weird how you’re acting?”
She laughed, such an unexpected sound that
Thomas thought for a second she’d succumbed to the
Flare—become a full-blown Crank or something. She
pulled away from him, still chuckling.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said through a schoolgirl snicker.
“Guess we came from different places, that’s all. Sorry.

“What do you mean?” He suddenly found himself
wishing she’d hug him again.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said, her merriment at his
expense finally subsiding. “Sorry for being so forward.
It’s just … pretty normal where I come from.”
“No … it’s okay. I … I mean, good that. I’m good.” He
was glad she couldn’t see his face, because it must’ve
burned so red she’d start laughing all over again.
He thought of Teresa then. He thought of Minho and
the others. He had to take control. Now.
“Look, you said it yourself,” he said, trying to pump
confidence into his voice. “No one chased us. We
need to go back.”
“Are you sure?” She had a suspicious tone.
“What do you mean?”
“I could get you through the city. Find enough food to
“I could get you through the city. Find enough food to
take with us. Why don’t we leave all of them? Make it to
this safe haven place on our own?”
Thomas wasn’t going to have this conversation. “If
you won’t come back with me, fine. But I’m going.” He
put his hand against the wall to guide himself and
started walking in the direction from which they’d fled.
“Wait!” she called out, then caught up to him. She
grabbed his hand and intertwined their fingers, now
walking alongside him, hand in hand like old lovers.
“I’m sorry. Really. I just … I think it would be easier to
make it through with fewer people. I’m not really great
friends with any of those Cranks. Not like you and
your … Gladers.”
Had he said that word around her? He didn’t
remember, but anybody could’ve at some point without
his noticing. “I really think as many of us as possible
need to make it to the safe haven. Even if we do get
past the city, who knows what’ll be next. Maybe then
we’ll really want numbers.”
He thought about what he’d just said. Did he really
only care about having numbers in the end so they’d
have a better chance to be safe? Was he really that
detached?
“Okay” was all she said in response. Something had
changed in her. She seemed less confident. Less in
charge.
Thomas took his hand from her grip, coughing into it
as an excuse. He didn’t reach out for her again when
he finished.
They didn’t talk for the next few minutes. He followed
her, sensing her even though he still couldn’t see. After
several turns, a light appeared up ahead, brightening
quickly as they approached.
It turned out to be sunlight, pouring down from
jagged holes in the roof—the aftermath of the
explosion. Massive chunks of rock and twisted pieces
of steel and broken pipes blocked the way to where
the stairs had been—and it looked like climbing over
the wreckage would be dangerous. A haze of dust
clouded everything, making the rays of sunshine
appear thick and alive, motes dancing like gnats. The
air smelled of plaster and something burnt.
They were also blocked from the stash room with all
that food, but Brenda found the two backpacks she’d
brought out earlier.
“Doesn’t look like anybody’s here,” she said. “They
didn’t come back. Jorge and your friends might’ve
even gotten back up and outside somehow.”
Thomas didn’t really know what he’d been hoping to
find, but at least one piece of good news was obvious.
“No bodies, though, right? No one died in the
explosion?”
Brenda shrugged. “Cranks could’ve dragged their
bodies off. But I doubt it. No point.”
Thomas nodded, as if solidifying her statement,
holding on to it. But he had no idea what to do next.
Did they go through the tunnels—the Underneath
—searching for the other Gladers? Did they go out into
the streets? Back to the building where they’d ditched
Barkley and the others? Every idea sounded horrible.
He looked around, as if the answer would magically
present itself.
“We have to go through the Underneath,” Brenda
announced after a long moment; she’d probably been
contemplating their options just like Thomas. “If the
contemplating their options just like Thomas. “If the
others went up top, then they’ll be long gone by now.
Plus, they’ll pull any attention toward themselves and
away from us.”
“And if they’re down here we’ll find them, right?”
Thomas asked. “These tunnels all come back together
eventually, right?”
“Right. Either way, I know Jorge will have them
moving toward the other side of the city, toward the
mountains. We just have to make it so we can meet up
and keep going.”
Thomas looked at Brenda, thinking. Maybe only
pretending to think, because he really had no option
than to stick with her. She was probably his best
—maybe only—bet of accomplishing anything other
than a quick and horrible death at the hands of longgone
Cranks. What else could he do?
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”
She smiled, a sweet smile that shone through the
grime on her face, and Thomas unexpectedly longed
for that moment they’d had in the darkness together.
Almost as quickly as his thought formed, though, it was
gone. Brenda handed him one of the backpacks, then
reached into hers and pulled out a flashlight, clicked it
on. The beam shot through the dust as she shone it this
way and that, finally aiming it down the long tunnel
they’d already been down twice.
“Shall we?” she asked.
“We shall,” Thomas muttered. He still felt sick about
his friends, and he wondered if he was doing the right
thing sticking with Brenda.
But when she started walking, he followed.

CHAPTER 31
The Underneath was a dank, miserable place. Thomas
almost preferred the utter darkness to being able to
see what was around him. The walls and floors were
dull gray, nothing more than painted concrete, streaks
of water trickling down the sides here and there. They
passed a door every few dozen feet, but most of them
were locked when he tried them. Dust coated the longdark
light fixtures on the ceiling, at least half of them
busted, jagged glass screwed into rusty holes.
All in all, the place had the feel of a haunted tomb.
The Underneath was as good a name as any. He
wondered what the underground structure had been
built for in the first place. Walkways and offices for who
knew what kinds of jobs? Paths between buildings on
rainy days? Emergency routes? Escape routes for
things like massive sun flares and attacks from crazy
people?
They didn’t talk much as he followed Brenda through
tunnel after tunnel, sometimes turning left at
intersections or forks, sometimes turning right. His
body quickly consumed any energy provided by his
recent binge, and after walking for what felt like several
hours he finally convinced her to stop and eat another
meal.
“I’m assuming you know where we’re going,” he said
to her when they set off again. Everything they passed
looked exactly the same to him. Drab and dark. Dusty,
where it wasn’t wet. The tunnels were silent but for the
distant drops of water and the swishing of their clothes
as they walked. Their footsteps, dull thumps on the
concrete.
She suddenly stopped and whirled on him, shining
the light on her face from below. “Boo,” she whispered.
Thomas jumped, then pushed her away. “Cut that
crap,” he yelled. He felt like an idiot—his heart had just
about exploded from fright. “Makes you look like a. …”
She let the flashlight fall to her side, but her eyes
remained locked on his. “Look like a what?”
“Nothing.”
“A Crank?”
The word cut to Thomas’s heart. He didn’t want to
think of her that way. “Well … yeah,” he murmured.
“Sorry.”
She turned from him and started walking again, her
light shining forward. “I am a Crank, Thomas. Got the
Flare, I’m a Crank. You are, too.”
He had to run a few steps to catch up with her. “Yeah,
but you’re not full gone yet. And … me neither, right?
We’ll get the cure before we go nuts.” The Rat Man had
better have been telling the truth.
“Can’t wait. And yeah, by the way. I do know where
we’re going. Thanks for checking.”
They kept going, turn after turn, long tunnel after long
tunnel. The slow but steady exercise took Thomas’s
thoughts off Brenda and made him feel better than he
had in days. His mind drifted into a half-daze, thinking
about the Maze and his splotchy memories and
Teresa. Mostly about Teresa.
Eventually they entered a large room with quite a few
exits branching off to the left and right, more than he’d
seen previously. It almost seemed like it could be a
gathering place joined by tunnels from all the buildings.
“Is this the center of the city or something?” he
asked.
Brenda stopped to rest, sitting down on the ground
with her back to the wall; Thomas joined her.
“More or less” she answered. “See? Already made it
halfway to the other side of the city.”
Thomas liked the sound of that, but he hated to think
of the others. Minho, Newt, all the Gladers. Where were
they? He felt like such a shuck-face for not looking for
them, seeing if they were in trouble. Could they have
already made it safely outside of town?
A loud pop startled Thomas, like a glass bulb
breaking.
Brenda immediately shone her light back in the
direction from which they’d come, but the hallway
disappeared in shadow, empty except for a few ugly
streaks of water on the walls, black on gray.
“What was that?” Thomas whispered.
“An old light busting, I guess.” Her voice held no
concern. She put her flashlight on the ground so it
shone on the wall opposite them.
“Why would an old light just spontaneously break?”
“I don’t know. A rat?”
“I haven’t seen any rats. Plus, how would a rat walk
on the ceiling?”
She gazed at him, a look of total mocking on her
face. “You’re right. It must be a flying rat. We should
get the hell out of here.”
A small, nervous laugh escaped before Thomas
could stop it. “Hilarious.”
Another pop, this time followed by the tinkle of glass
sprinkling on the floor. It had definitely come from
behind them—Thomas was sure of it this time.
Someone had to be following them. And it couldn’t be
the Gladers—it sounded more like people trying to
freak them out. Scare them.
Even Brenda couldn’t hide her reaction. Her eyes
met his, and they were full of worry.
“Get up,” she whispered.
They both did it together, then quietly secured their
packs. Brenda shone the light once again back the
way they’d come. Nothing was there.
“Should we check it out?” she asked in a low voice.
She was whispering, but in the silence of the tunnel it
sounded way too loud—if anyone was close, they
could hear every word she and Thomas were saying.
“Check it out?” Thomas thought that was the worst
idea he’d heard in a long time. “No, we should get out
of here, just like you said.”
“What, you wanna just let whoever it is keep
following us? Maybe gather some of his or her buddies
to ambush us? Better to take care of it now.”
Thomas grabbed her hand holding the flashlight and
made it point to the ground. Then he leaned closer to
her so he could whisper in her ear. “It could totally be a
trap. There wasn’t any glass on the ground back there
—they had to have reached up and broken one of the
old lights. Why would someone do that? It has to be
someone trying to get us to go back there.”
She countered. “If they have enough people to
attack, why would they bait us? That’s stupid. Why not
just come in here and get it over with?”
Thomas thought about that. She had a point. “Well,
it’s even more stupid to sit here and talk about it all
it’s even more stupid to sit here and talk about it all
day. What do we do?”
“Let’s just—” She had started to raise the flashlight
as she spoke, but cut short her words, her eyes
widening in terror.
Thomas whipped his head around to see the cause.
A man stood there, just on the edge of her
flashlight’s range.
He was like an apparition—there was something
unreal about him. He leaned to the right, his left foot
and leg jiggling slightly, like he had a nervous tic. His
left arm also twitched, the hand clenching and
unclenching. He wore a dark suit that had probably
once been nice, though now it was filthy and tattered.
Water or something more foul soaked both knees of
the pants.
But Thomas took all that in quickly. Most of his
attention was drawn to the man’s head. Thomas
couldn’t help but stare, mesmerized. It looked like hair
had been ripped from his scalp, leaving bloody scabs
in its place. His face was pallid and wet, with scars and
sores everywhere. One eye was gone, a gummy red
mass where it should have been. He also had no nose,
and Thomas could actually see traces of the nasal
passages in his skull underneath the terribly mangled
skin.
And his mouth. Lips drawn back in a snarl, gleaming
white teeth exposed, clenched tightly together. His
good eye glared, somehow vicious in the way it darted
between Brenda and Thomas.
Then the man said something in a wet and gurgly
voice that made Thomas shiver. He spoke only a few
words, but they were so absurd and out of place that it
just made the whole thing that much more horrifying.
“Rose took my nose, I suppose.”

CHAPTER 32
A small cry escaped from deep within Thomas’s chest,
and he didn’t know if it was audible or something he
just felt inside, imagined. Brenda stood next to him,
silent—transfixed, maybe—her light still fixed on the
hideous stranger.
The man took a lumbering step toward them, having
to wave his one good arm to keep his balance on the
one good leg.
“Rose took my nose, I suppose,” he repeated; the
bubble of phlegm in his throat made a disgusting
crackle. “And it really blows.”
Thomas held his breath, waiting for Brenda to make
the first move.
“Get it?” the man said, his snarl trying to morph into
a grin. He looked like an animal about to pounce on its
prey. “It really blows. My nose. Taken by Rose. I
suppose.” He laughed then, a wet chortle that made
Thomas worry he might never sleep in peace again.
“Yeah, I get it,” Brenda said. “That’s some funny stuff.

Thomas sensed movement and looked over at her.
She had pulled a can from her bag, slyly, and now
gripped it in her right hand. Before he could wonder
whether it was a good idea and whether he should try
to stop her, she pulled her arm back and tossed the
can at the Crank. Thomas watched it fly, watched it
crash into the man’s face.
He let out a shriek that iced Thomas to the core.
And then others appeared. A group of two. Then
three. Then four more. Men and women. All dragging
themselves out of the darkness to stand behind the first
Crank. All just as gone. Just as hideous, consumed
fully by the Flare, raging mad and injured head to toe.
And, Thomas noticed, all missing their nose.
“That didn’t hurt so bad,” the leading Crank said.
“You have a pretty nose. I really want a nose again.” He
stopped snarling long enough to lick his lips, then went
right back to it. His tongue was a gruesomely scarred
purple thing, as if he chewed it when bored. “And so do
my friends.”
Fear pushed up and through Thomas’s chest, like
toxic gas rejected by his stomach. He now knew better
than ever what the Flare did to people. He’d seen it
back at the windows of the dormitory—but now he
faced it on a more personal level. Right in front of him,
with no bars to keep them away. The faces of the
Cranks were primitive and animalistic. The lead man
took another lurching step, then another.
It was time to go.
Brenda didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. After
she pulled out another can and flung it toward the
Cranks, Thomas turned around with her and they ran.
The psychotic shrill of their pursuers’ cries rose behind
them like the battle call of a demon army.
Brenda’s flashlight beam shakily crisscrossed left
and right, bouncing as they sprinted straight past the
slew of right and left turns. Thomas knew they had an
advantage—the Cranks looked half broken, riddled
with injury. Surely they wouldn’t be able to keep up. But
the thought that even more Cranks might be down
here, maybe even waiting for them up ahead …
Brenda pulled up and turned right, grabbing
Thomas’s arm to drag him along. He stumbled the first
few steps, got his feet under him, pushed himself back
to full speed. The angry shouts and catcalls of the
Cranks faded a bit.
Then Brenda turned left. Then right again. After this
second turn she flicked off the flashlight but didn’t slow.
“What’re you doing?” Thomas asked. He held a
hand out in front of him, sure he was going to smack
into a wall at any second.
A shush was the only response he got. He wondered
about how much he was trusting Brenda. He’d put his
life in her hands. But he didn’t see what other options
he had, especially now.
She pulled up again a few seconds later, stopping
completely. They stood in darkness, catching their
breath. The Cranks were distant but still loud enough,
coming closer.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Right about … here.”
“What?” he asked.
“Just follow me into this room. There’s a perfect
hiding spot in here—I found it while exploring once.
There’s no way they’ll stumble on it. Come on.”
Her hand tightened around his, pulled him to the
right. He sensed that they were passing through a
narrow door; then Brenda pulled him down to the floor.
“There’s an old table here,” she said. “Can you feel
it?”She pushed his hand out until he felt hard, smooth
wood.
“Yeah,” he answered.
“Just watch your head. We’re gonna crawl under it
and then through a small notch in the wall that leads to
and then through a small notch in the wall that leads to
a hidden compartment. Who knows what it’s for, but no
way those Cranks’ll find it. Even if they have a light,
which I doubt.”
Thomas had to wonder how they got around without
one, but he saved the question for later—Brenda was
already on the move, and he didn’t want to lose her.
Staying close, his fingers brushing her foot, he followed
her as she scooted on her hands and knees under the
table and toward the wall. Then they crawled through a
small square opening into the long, narrow
compartment. Thomas felt around, patting the surfaces
to get a sense of where he was. The ceiling was only
about two feet off the ground, so he continued to drag
himself farther into the crevice.
Brenda lay with her back against the far wall of the
hideout by the time Thomas awkwardly got himself in
position. They had no choice but to lie stretched out, on
their sides. It was a squeeze, but he fit, facing the
same direction she did, his back pressed against her
front. He felt her breath on his neck.
“This is real comfy,” he whispered.
“Just be quiet.”
Thomas scooted up a little so his head could rest
against the wall; then he relaxed. He settled in, taking
deep, slow breaths and listening for any sign of the
Cranks.
At first the silence was so deep it had a buzz to it, a
ringing in his ears. But then came the first traces of
Crank noises. Coughing, random shouts, lunatic
giggles. They came closer by the second, and Thomas
felt a moment of panic, worried that they’d been stupid
to trap themselves like this. But then he thought about
it. The odds of the Cranks finding the hidden cubbyhole
were slim, especially in the darkness. They’d move on,
hopefully going far away. Maybe even forgetting about
him and Brenda altogether. That was better than a
prolonged chase.
And if worse came to worst, he and Brenda could
easily defend themselves through the tiny opening into
the compartment. Maybe.
The Cranks were close now; Thomas had to fight the
urge to hold his breath. All they needed was for an
unexpected gasp for oxygen to give them away.
Despite the darkness, he closed his eyes to
concentrate on listening.
The swishes of shuffling feet. Grunts and heavy
breathing. Someone banged on a wall, a series of
deadened thumps against the concrete. Arguments
broke out, frantic exchanges of gibberish. He heard a
“This way!” and a “That way!” More coughing. One of
them gagged and spit violently, like he was trying to rid
himself of an organ or two. A woman laughed, so full of
madness the sound made Thomas shudder.
Brenda found his hand, squeezed it. Once again,
Thomas felt a ridiculous surge of guilt, like he was
cheating on Teresa. He couldn’t help that this girl was
so touchy-feely. And what a stupid thing to think when
you have—
A Crank entered the room right outside their
compartment. Then another. Thomas heard their
wheezy intakes of breath, the scrapes of their feet
against the floor. Another entered, those footsteps a
long slide and thump, long slide and thump. Thomas
thought it might be the first man they’d seen, the only
one who’d spoken to them—the one with the arm and
one who’d spoken to them—the one with the arm and
leg shaking and useless.
“Little booooooy,” the man said, a taunting and
creepy call. Definitely him—Thomas couldn’t forget that
voice. “Little girrrrrrrrl. Come out come out make a
sound make a sound. I want your noses.”
“Nothin’ in here,” a woman spat. “Nothin’ but an old
table.”
The creak of wood scraping against the floor sliced
through the air, then ended abruptly.
“Maybe they’re hiding their noses under it,” the man
responded. “Maybe they’re still attached to their sweet
little pretty faces.”
Thomas shrank back against Brenda when he heard
a hand or shoe scruff along the floor just outside the
entrance to their little hiding place. Just a foot or two
away.
“Nothin’ down there!” the woman said again.
Thomas heard her move away. He realized that his
whole body had tensed into a pack of taut wires; he
forced himself to relax, still careful to control his
breathing.
More shuffling of feet. Then a haunting set of
whispers, as if the trio had met in the middle of the
room to strategize. Were their minds still sound
enough to do such a thing? Thomas wondered. He
strained to hear, to catch any words, but the harsh puffs
of speech remained indecipherable.
“No!” one of them shouted. A man, but Thomas
couldn’t tell if it was the man. “No! No no no no no no
no no.” The words quieted into a murmured stutter.
The woman cut him off with her own chant. “Yes yes
yes yes yes yes yes yes.”
“Shut up!” the leader said. Definitely the leader.
“Shut up shut up shut up!”
Thomas felt cold inside, though sweat was beading
on his skin. He didn’t know if this exchange had any
meaning whatsoever or was just more evidence of
madness.
“I’m leaving,” the woman said, her words broken by a
sob. She sounded like a child left out of a game.
“Me too, me too.” This from the other man.
“Shut up shut up shut up shut up!” the leader yelled,
this time much louder. “Go away go away go away!”
The sudden repetition of words creeped Thomas
out. Like some control over language had snapped in
their brains.
Brenda was squeezing his hand so hard it hurt. Her
breath was cool against the sweat on his neck.
Shuffles of feet and swishing of clothes outside.
Were they leaving?
The sounds decreased sharply in volume when they
entered the hallway, tunnel, whatever. The other Cranks
in their party seemed to have left already. Soon it
became silent all over again. Thomas only heard the
faint sounds of his and Brenda’s breath.
They waited in the darkness, lying flat on the hard
ground, facing the small doorway, pressed together,
sweating. The silence stretched out, turned back into
the buzz of absent sound. Thomas kept listening,
knowing they had to be absolutely sure. As much as he
wanted to leave that little compartment, as
uncomfortable as it was, they had to wait.
Several minutes passed. Several more. Nothing but
silence and darkness.
“I think they’re gone,” Brenda finally whispered. She
“I think they’re gone,” Brenda finally whispered. She
flicked on her flashlight.
“Hello, noses!” a hideous voice yelled from the room.
Then a bloody hand reached through the doorway
and grabbed Thomas by the shirt.

CHAPTER 33
Thomas shrieked, started swatting at the scarred and
bruised hand. His eyes were still adjusting to the
brightness of Brenda’s flashlight; he squinted to see
the firm grip the man had on his shirt. The Crank
pulled, slamming Thomas’s body against the wall. His
face smashed into the hard concrete and a burst of
pain exploded around his nose. He felt blood trickling
down.
The man pushed him back a few inches, then pulled
him forward again. Pushed and pulled again. And
again, slamming Thomas’s face into the wall each
time. Thomas couldn’t believe the strength of the Crank
—it seemed impossible based on how he looked.
Weak and horribly injured.
Brenda had her knife out, was trying to crawl over
him, get in position to slash at the hand.
“Careful!” Thomas yelled. That knife was awfully
close. He grabbed the man’s wrist and wriggled it
back and forth, trying to loosen that iron grip. Nothing
worked, and the man kept pulling and pushing,
battering Thomas’s body as he hit the wall.
Brenda screamed and went for it. She swept across
Thomas and her blade flashed as she drove it right into
the Crank’s forearm. The man let out a demonic wail
and let go of Thomas’s shirt. His hand disappeared
through the doorway, leaving a trail of blood on the
floor. His shrieks of pain continued, loud with trailing
echoes.
“We can’t let him get away!” Brenda yelled. “Hurry,
get out there!”
Thomas, hurting all over, knew she was right and
was already squirming to get his body in position. If the
man reached the other Cranks, they’d all come back.
They might have heard the commotion and already be
turning around.
Thomas finally got his arms and head through the
opening; then it became easier. He used the wall for
leverage and pushed himself the rest of the way out,
his eyes glued to the Crank, waiting for another attack.
The man was only a few feet away, cradling his
wounded arm against his chest. Their eyes met, and
the Crank snarled like a wounded animal, bit at the air.
Thomas started to stand up but his head banged
into the bottom of the table. “Shuck!” he yelled, then
scrambled out from under the old slab of wood. Brenda
was right on his heels, and soon they were both
standing over the Crank, who lay on the ground in a
fetal position, whimpering. Blood dripped from his
wound onto the floor, already forming a small puddle.
Brenda held her flashlight in one hand, the knife in
the other, its point aimed at the Crank. “Should’ve gone
with your psycho friends, old man. Should’ve known
better than to mess with us.”
Instead of responding, the man suddenly spun on his
shoulder, kicking his good leg out with shocking speed
and strength. He hit Brenda first, sent her crashing into
Thomas, and they both crumpled to the floor. Thomas
heard the knife and flashlight clatter across the cement.
Shadows danced on the walls.
The Crank staggered to his feet, ran for the knife,
which had come to rest by the door to the hallway.
Thomas pushed himself up and dove forward, crashing
into the backs of the man’s knees and tackling him to
the ground. The man spun, swinging an elbow as he
did so. It connected with Thomas’s jaw; he felt another
explosion of pain as he fell, his hand naturally flying up
to his face.
Then Brenda was there. She jumped on the Crank,
hit him in the face twice, stunning him, by the looks of it.
She took advantage of the brief moment and somehow
yanked the man around again so that he lay on his
stomach, flat on the floor. She grabbed his arms and
pinned them behind him, pushing up in a way that
looked incredibly painful. The Crank wrenched and
thrashed, but Brenda had him pinned with her legs as
well. He started screaming, a horrific, piercing wail of
pure terror.
“We have to kill him!” she yelled over it.
Thomas had gotten to his knees and was looking on
in a stupor of inaction. “What?” he asked, drugged with
exhaustion, too stunned to process her words.
“Get the knife! We have to kill him!”
The Crank kept screaming, a sound that made
Thomas want to run as far away as possible. It was
unnatural. Inhuman.
“Thomas!” Brenda yelled.
Thomas crawled over to the knife, picked it up,
looked at the crimson goo on its sharp blade. He
turned back to Brenda.
“Hurry!” she said, her eyes lit with anger. Something
told him that her anger was no longer just for the Crank
—she was mad at him for taking so long.
But could he do this? Could he kill a man? Even a
crazed lunatic of a man who wanted him dead? Who
crazed lunatic of a man who wanted him dead? Who
wanted his shuck nose, for crying out loud?
He shambled back to her, holding the knife as if it
were tipped with poison. As if just holding it might
make him catch a hundred diseases and die a slow
and agonizing death.
The Crank, arms yanked behind him, pinned to the
floor, continued to scream.
Brenda caught Thomas’s gaze, spoke with
determination. “I’m gonna flip him—you need to stab
him in the heart!”
Thomas started to shake his head, then stopped. He
had no choice. He had to do this. So he nodded.
Brenda let out a cry of effort and fell to the right side
of the Crank, using her body and her grip on his arms
to make the man twist onto his side. Impossibly, his
shrieks grew even louder. His chest was now there for
the taking, arched and sticking up right in front of
Thomas, just inches away.
“Now!” Brenda yelled.
Thomas tightened his grip on the knife. Then he put
his other hand on it for more support, all ten fingers
clasped tightly around the handle, blade pointing
toward the floor. He had to do this. He had to do it.
“Now!” Brenda yelled again.
The Crank, screaming.
Sweat pouring down Thomas’s face.
His heart, pumping, thumping, rattling.
Sweat in his eyes. His whole body aching. The
terrible, inhuman screams.
“Now!”
Thomas used all his strength and plunged the knife
into the Crank’s chest.

CHAPTER 34
The next thirty seconds were a horrible, horrible thing
for Thomas.
The Crank struggled. Spasmed. Choked and spat.
Brenda held him while Thomas twisted the knife.
Pushed it deeper. Life took its time as it drained from
the man, as the light in his maddened eyes faded, as
the grunts and the physical strain to hold on slowly
quieted and stilled.
But finally, the Flare-infected man died, and Thomas
fell backward, his whole body a tense coil of rusty wire.
He gasped for breath, fought the sickening swell in his
breast.
He’d just killed a man. He’d taken the life of another
person. His insides felt full of poison.
“We need to go,” Brenda said, jumping to her feet.
“There’s no way they didn’t hear all that racket. Come
on.”
Thomas couldn’t believe how unaffected she was,
how quickly she’d moved on from what they’d done.
But then again, they didn’t have much choice. The first
sign of the other Cranks came echoing down the hall,
like the sounds of hyenas bouncing through a canyon.
Thomas forced himself to stand, pushed down the
guilt that threatened to consume him. “Fine, but no
more of this.” First the head-eating silver balls. Now
fighting Cranks in the darkness.
“What do you mean?”
He’d had enough of long black tunnels. Enough to
last a lifetime. “I want daylight. I don’t care what it
takes. I want daylight. Now.”
* * *
Brenda didn’t argue. She guided him through several
twists and turns and soon they found a long iron ladder
leading toward the sky, out of the Underneath. The
disturbing noises of Cranks lingered in the distance.
Laughs and shouts and giggles. An occasional
scream.
Moving the round manhole cover took some serious
pushing, but it gave way and they climbed out. They
found themselves standing in gray twilight, surrounded
by enormously tall buildings in every direction. Broken
windows. Garbage strewn over the streets. Several
dead bodies lying about. A smell of rot and dust. Heat.
But no people. None living, anyway. Thomas felt a
moment of alarm that some of the dead might be his
friends, but that wasn’t the case. The scattered bodies
were older men and women, and decay had already
set in.
Brenda slowly turned in a circle, getting her
bearings. “Okay, the mountains should be down that
street.” She pointed, but it was impossible to tell
because they didn’t have a clear view and the
buildings hid the setting sun.
“You sure?” Thomas asked.
“Yeah, come on.”
As they set off down the long and lonely street,
Thomas kept his eyes peeled, scanning every broken
window, every alley, every crumbled doorway. Hoping
to see some sign of Minho and the Gladers. And
hoping not to see any Cranks.
They traveled until dark, avoiding contact with anyone.
They did hear the occasional scream in the distance,
or the sounds of things crashing inside a building now
and then. Once, Thomas saw a group of people scurry
across a street several blocks away, but they seemed
not to notice him or Brenda.
Just before the sun disappeared completely for the
day, they turned a corner and came into full view of the
city’s edge, maybe another mile farther. The buildings
ended abruptly, and behind them the mountains rose in
all their majesty. They were several times bigger than
Thomas would’ve guessed upon first glimpsing them a
few days earlier, and were dry and rocky. No
snowcapped beauties—a hazy memory from his past
—in this part of the world.
“Should we go the rest of the way?” Thomas asked.
Brenda was busy looking for a place to hide.
“Tempting, but no. First off, it’s too dangerous running
around here at night. Second, even if we made it,
there’d be no place for cover out there unless we made
it all the way to the mountains. Which I don’t think we
could do.”
As much as Thomas dreaded spending another
night in this wretched city, he agreed. But the frustration
and worry over the other Gladers were eating away at
his insides. He weakly replied, “Okay. Where should
we go, then?”
“Follow me.”
They wound up in an alley that ended in a large brick
wall. At first Thomas thought it was a terrible idea to
sleep in a place that had only one way out, but Brenda
convinced him otherwise—Cranks would have no
reason to enter the alley since it didn’t lead anywhere.
Plus, she pointed out, there were several large, rusted
trucks in which to hide.
They ended up inside one that looked like it had
been torn apart for anything usable. The seats were
tattered but they were soft, and the cab was big.
Thomas sat behind the wheel, pushing the seat as far
back as it would go. Surprisingly, he felt somewhat
comfortable once settled. Brenda was just a couple of
feet to his right, settling in herself. Outside, the
darkness grew complete, and the distant sounds of
active Cranks came through the broken windows.
Thomas was exhausted. Sore. In pain. Had dried
blood all over his clothes. Earlier, he’d cleaned his
hands, scrubbing them until Brenda yelled at him to
quit wasting their water. But having the blood of that
Crank on his fingers, on his palms … he couldn’t take
it. His heart sank every time he thought of it, but he
could no longer deny a terrible truth: if he hadn’t had
the Flare before—a slim hope that Rat Man had lied
—he’d surely caught it by now.
And now, sitting in the darkness, his head propped
against the truck’s door, thoughts of what he’d done
earlier came storming into his mind.
“I killed that guy,” he whispered.
“Yeah, you did,” Brenda responded, her voice soft.
“Otherwise he would’ve killed you. Pretty sure that’s
doing the right thing.”
He wanted to believe it. The guy had been fully gone,
consumed by the Flare. He probably would’ve died
consumed by the Flare. He probably would’ve died
soon anyway. Not to mention he’d been doing
everything possible to hurt them. To kill them. Thomas
had done the right thing. But guilt still gnawed at him,
crept through his bones. Killing another human. It
wasn’t easy to accept.
“I know,” he finally responded. “But it was
so … vicious. So brutal. I wish I could’ve just shot him
from a distance with a gun or something.”
“Yeah. Sorry it had to go down that way.”
“What if I see his nasty face every night when I go to
sleep? What if he’s in my dreams?” He felt a surge of
irritation at Brenda for making him stab the Crank
—maybe unwarranted when he really considered how
desperate they’d been.
Brenda shifted in her seat to face him. Moonlight
illuminated her just enough that he could see her dark
eyes, her dirty but pretty face. Maybe it was bad,
maybe he was a jerk. But looking at her made him
want Teresa back.
Brenda reached out, took his hand and squeezed it.
He let her, but he didn’t squeeze back.
“Thomas?” She said his name even though he was
looking right at her.
“Yeah?”
“You didn’t just save your own skin, ya know. You
saved mine, too. I don’t think I could’ve beaten that
Crank by myself.”
Thomas nodded but didn’t say anything. He hurt
inside for so many reasons. All his friends were gone.
Dead, for all he knew. Chuck was definitely dead.
Teresa was lost to him. He was only halfway to the safe
haven, sleeping in a truck with a girl who would
eventually go crazy, and they were surrounded by a city
full of bloodthirsty Cranks.
“You asleep with your eyes open?” she asked him.
Thomas tried to smile. “No. Just thinking about how
much my life sucks.”
“Mine does, too. Sucks big-time. But I’m glad I’m
with you.”
The statement was so simple and so sweet it made
Thomas close his eyes, squeeze them shut. All the
pain inside him transformed into something for
Brenda, almost like what he’d felt for Chuck. He hated
the people who’d done this to her, hated the disease
that had made all this happen, and he wanted to make
it right.
He finally looked at her again. “I’m glad, too. Being
alone would suck even worse.”
“They killed my dad.”
Thomas lifted his head, surprised by the sudden shift
in conversation. “What?”
Brenda nodded slowly. “WICKED. He tried to stop
them from taking me, screamed like a lunatic as he
attacked them with … I think it was a wooden rolling
pin.” She let out a small laugh. “Then they shot him in
the head.” Tears glistened in her eyes, sparkling in the
faint light.
“You’re serious?”
“Yeah. I saw it happen. Saw the life go out of him
before he even hit the floor.”
“Oh, man.” Thomas searched for words. “I’m
really … sorry. I saw maybe my best friend in the world
get stabbed. He died right in my arms.” He paused
again. “What about your mom?”
“She hadn’t been around for a long time.” She didn’t
“She hadn’t been around for a long time.” She didn’t
elaborate, and Thomas didn’t push. Didn’t really want
to know.
“I’m so scared of going crazy,” she said after a long
minute of silence. “I can already feel it happening.
Things look weird, sound weird. Out of the blue I’ll start
thinking about stuff that doesn’t make any sense.
Sometimes the air around me feels … hard. I don’t
even know what that means, but it’s scary. I’m definitely
starting. The Flare’s taking my brain to hell.”
Thomas couldn’t handle the look in her eyes; he let
his gaze drop to the floor. “Don’t give up yet. We’ll
make it to the safe haven, get the cure.”
“False hope,” she said. “Guess that’s better than no
hope at all.”
She squeezed his hand. This time, Thomas
squeezed back.
And then, impossibly, they slept.

CHAPTER 35
A nightmare woke Thomas—something about Minho
and Newt being cornered by a bunch of Cranks past
the Gone. Cranks with knives. Angry Cranks. The first
spill of blood finally jerked Thomas awake.
He looked around, scared that he’d yelled or said
something. The cab of the truck still lay in the darkness
of night—he could barely see Brenda, couldn’t even tell
if her eyes were open. But then she spoke.
“Bad dream?”
Thomas settled himself, closed his eyes. “Yeah. I
can’t quit worrying about my other friends. I just hate it
so bad that we were separated.”
“I’m sorry that happened. I really am.” She shifted in
her seat. “But I seriously don’t think you need to worry.
Your Glader buddies seemed capable enough, but
even if they weren’t—Jorge is one tough monkey. He’ll
get them through the city just fine. Don’t waste the
stress on your heart. We’re the ones you should be
worried about.”
“You’re doing a terrible job of making me feel better.”
Brenda laughed. “Sorry—I was smiling when I said
that last part, but you couldn’t see me, I guess.”
Thomas looked at his backlit watch, then said, “We
still have a few hours before the sun comes up.”
After a short silence, Thomas spoke again. “Tell me
a little bit more about what life’s like now. They took
most of our memories—some of mine came back, but
they’re sketchy and I don’t know if I can trust them.
There isn’t much there about the outside world, either.”
Brenda sighed deeply. “The outside world, huh?
Well, it sucks. The temperatures are finally starting to
go down, but it’ll be forever before the sea levels do
the same. It’s been a long time since the flares, but so
many people died, Thomas. So many. It’s actually kind
of amazing how everyone who survived stabilized and
civilized so quickly. If it weren’t for the stupid Flare, I
think the world would pull through in the long run. But if
wishes were fishes … oh, I can’t remember.
Something my dad used to say.”
Thomas could hardly contain the curiosity that now
raced inside him. “What did happen? Are there new
countries, or just one big government? And how does
WICKED fit into it all? Are they the government?”
“There are still countries, but they’re more … unified.
Once the Flare started spreading like crazy, they
combined all their forces, technology, resources,
whatever to start up WICKED. They set up this crazy
elaborate testing system and have tried really hard to
have quarantined areas. They slowed the Flare down,
but they can’t stop it. I think the only hope is to find a
cure. Hope you’re right that they’ve done it—but if they
have, they sure haven’t shared it with the public yet.”
“So where are we?” Thomas asked. “Where are we
right now?”
“In a truck.” When Thomas didn’t laugh, she
continued. “Sorry, bad time for jokes. Judging by the
labels on the food, we think we’re in Mexico. Or what
used to be Mexico. It makes the most sense. Now it’s
called the Scorch. Basically any area between the two
Tropics—Cancer and Capricorn—is a complete
wasteland now. Central and South Americas, most of
Africa, the Middle East and southern Asia. Lots of
dead lands, lots of dead people. So, welcome to the
Scorch. Isn’t it nice of them to send us sweet Cranks
down here?”
“Man.” Thoughts raced through Thomas’s mind,
mostly related to how he knew he was a part of
WICKED—a huge part—and how the Maze and
Groups A and B and all the junk they were going
through were parts of it too. But he couldn’t remember
enough for it to make any sense.
“Man?” Brenda asked. “That’s the best you can
come up with?”
“I have too many questions—I can’t seem to latch on
to just one to ask.”
“Do you know about the numbing agent?”
Thomas looked over at her, wished he could make
out more of her face. “I think Jorge said something
about that. What is it?”
“You know how the world is. New disease, new
drugs. Even if it doesn’t do jack to the illness itself, they
still come up with stuff.”
“What does it do? Do you have any?”
“Ha!” Brenda shouted it with contempt. “You think
they’d give us any? Only the important people, the rich
people can get their hands on that junk. They call it the
Bliss. Numbs your emotions, numbs your brain
processes, slows you down to a drunken stupor so you
don’t feel much. Keeps the Flare at bay because the
virus thrives in your brain. Eats at it, destroys it. If
there’s not a lot of activity, the virus weakens.”
Thomas folded his arms. There was something very
important here, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
“So … it’s not a cure? Even though it slows the virus
down?”
“Not even close. Just delays the inevitable. The Flare
always wins in the end. You lose any chance of being
rational, having common sense, having compassion.
You lose your humanity.”
Thomas was quiet. Maybe more strongly than ever
before, he felt that a memory—an important one—was
trying to squeeze its way through the cracks in the wall
blocking him from his past. The Flare. The brain. Going
mad. The numbing agent, the Bliss. WICKED. The
trials. What Rat Man had said, that their responses to
the Variables were what this was all about.
“Did you fall asleep?” Brenda asked him after
several minutes of silence.
“No. Just too much information.” He felt dimly
alarmed at what she had said, but he still couldn’t put
anything together. “It’s hard to process it all.”
“Well, I’ll shut up, then.” She turned away, rested her
head against the door. “Push it out of your mind. Won’t
do you any good. You need rest.”
“Uh-huh,” Thomas mumbled, frustrated at having so
many clues but no real answers. But Brenda was right
—he could definitely use a good night’s sleep. He got
comfortable and did his best, but it took a long time
before he finally dozed off. And dreamed.
He’s older again, probably fourteen now. He and
Teresa are kneeling on the ground, their ears pressed
to the crack of a door, listening. Eavesdropping. A man
and a woman are talking inside, and Thomas can hear
them well enough.
The man first. “Did you get the additions to the
Variables list?”
“Last night,” the woman responds. “I like what Trent
added for the end of the Maze Trials. Brutal, but we
need it to happen. Should create some interesting
patterns.”
“Absolutely. Same with the betrayal scenario, if that
ever has to play out.”
The woman makes a noise that must be a laugh but
that sounds strained and humorless. “Yeah, I had the
same thought. I mean, good Lord, how much can these
kids take before they’ll go crazy on their own?”
“Not just that, it’s risky. What if he dies? We all agree
that by then he’ll surely be one of the top Candidates.”
“He won’t. We won’t let him.”
“Still. We’re not God. He could die.”
There’s a long pause. Then the man says, “Maybe it
won’t come to that. But I doubt it. The Psychs say it will
stimulate a lot of the patterns we need.”
“Well, there’s a lot of emotion involved with
something like that,” the woman answers. “And
according to Trent, some of the hardest patterns to
create. I think the plan for those Variables is just about
the only thing that will work.”
“You really think the Trials are going to work?” the
man asks. “Seriously, the scale and logistics of this
thing are unbelievable. Think of how much could go
wrong!”
“Could, you’re right. But what’s the alternative? Try it,
and if it fails, we’ll just be in the same spot as if we’d
tried nothing.”
“I guess.”
Teresa tugs on Thomas’s shirt; he looks to see her
pointing back down the hall. Time to go. He nods, but
leans back in to see if he can catch one last phrase or
two. He does. It’s the woman.
“Too bad we’ll never see the end of the Trials.”
“I know,” the man answers. “But the future will thank
us.”
The first purple traces of dawn were what woke up
Thomas the second time. He couldn’t remember
stirring once in his sleep since his middle-of-the-night
talk with Brenda—not even after the dream.
The dream. It had been the strangest one yet, lots of
things said that were already fading, too difficult to
grasp and fit into the pieces of his past that were
slowly, very slowly, beginning to come together again.
He allowed himself to feel a little hope that maybe he
wasn’t in on as much to do with the Trials as he’d
begun to think. Though he hadn’t understood much in
the dream, the fact that he and Teresa had been spying
meant they weren’t involved in every aspect of the
Trials.
But what could the purpose of all this be? Why would
the future thank those people?
He rubbed his eyes and stretched, then looked over
at Brenda—her eyes still closed, her chest moving with
slow and even breaths, her mouth slightly open.
Though his body felt even stiffer than the day before,
the restful slumber had done wonders for his spirit. He
felt refreshed. Invigorated. Somewhat perplexed and
brain-dead over his memory-dream and all the things
Brenda had told him about, but invigorated all the
same.
He stretched again and was just letting out a long
yawn when he saw something on the wall of the alley. A
large metal plaque, riveted to the wall. A sign that
looked very familiar.
He pushed the door open and stumbled out onto the
street and over to it. It was nearly identical to the sign in
the Maze that had said WORLD IN CATASTROPHE
—KILLZONE EXPERIMENT DEPARTMENT. Same dull metal,
same lettering. Except this one said something very
different. And he stared at it for at least five straight
minutes before he moved an inch.
It said:
THOMAS, YOU’RE THE REAL LEADER

CHAPTER 36
Thomas might’ve gone on looking at the plaque all day
if Brenda hadn’t come out of the truck.
“I was waiting for the right time to tell you,” she finally
said, completely snapping him out of his daze.
He jerked his head to look at her. “What? What’re
you talking about?”
She didn’t return his gaze, just kept staring at the
sign. “Ever since I found out what your name was.
Same with Jorge. It’s probably why he decided to take
his chances and go with you through the city and to this
safe haven of yours.”
“Brenda, what are you talking about?” Thomas
repeated.
She finally met his eyes. “These signs are all over
the city. All of them say the same thing. Exactly the
same thing.”
Thomas felt a weakening in his knees. He turned
around and sank to the ground, resting his back
against the wall. “How … how is this even possible? I
mean, it looks like it’s been there for a while. …” He
didn’t really know what else to say.
“Don’t know,” Brenda answered, joining him on the
ground. “None of us knew what it meant. But when you
guys showed up and you told us your name … well, we
figured it wasn’t a coincidence.”
Thomas gave her a hard stare, anger fighting its way
up inside him. “Why didn’t you tell me about this? You’ll
hold my hand, tell me about your dad being killed, but
not this?”
“I didn’t tell you because I was worried about how
you’d react. I figured you’d probably run off looking for
the signs, forget all about me.”
Thomas sighed. He was sick of all of it. He let the
anger go and blew out a long breath. “I guess it’s just
another part of this whole nightmare that makes no
sense.”
Brenda twisted to look up at the sign. “How could
you not know what it means? Could it be any simpler?
You’re supposed to be the leader, take over. I’ll help
you, earn my way in. Earn a spot at the safe haven.”
Thomas laughed. “Here I am in a city full of whackedin-
the-brain Cranks, there’s a group of girls who want
to kill me, and I’m supposed to worry about who the
real leader of my group is? It’s ridiculous.”
Brenda’s face wrinkled in confusion. “Girls who want
to kill you? What’re you talking about?”
Thomas didn’t respond, wondering if he really should
tell her the whole story from beginning to end.
Wondering if he had the heart to go over it all again.
“Well?” she pressed.
Deciding that it would be nice to get it off his chest,
and feeling like she’d gained his trust, he caved and
told her everything. He’d given her hints and small
parts, but now he took the time for details. About the
Maze, about being rescued, about waking up and
finding that it had all gone back to crappy. About Aris
and Group B. He didn’t linger on Teresa, but he could
tell she noticed something when he mentioned her.
Maybe in his eyes.
“So do you and this Teresa girl got a little somethin’
going?” she asked when he was done.
Thomas didn’t know how to answer. Did they have a
little something? They were close, they were friends,
he knew that much. Though he’d only gotten back
some of his memories, he sensed that he and she had
maybe even been more than friends before the Maze.
During that awful time when they’d actually helped
design the stupid thing.
And then there’d been that kiss …
“Tom?” Brenda asked.
He looked at her sharply. “Don’t call me that.”
“Huh?” she asked, obviously startled, maybe even
hurt. “Why?”
“Just … don’t.” He felt terrible for saying it, but
couldn’t take it back. That was what Teresa called him.
“Fine. Shall I call you Mr. Thomas? Or maybe King
Thomas? Or better yet, just Your Majesty?”
Thomas sighed. “I’m sorry. Call me whatever.”
Brenda let out a sarcastic laugh and then they both
grew silent.
Thomas and Brenda sat, backs against the wall, and
the minutes stretched on. It was almost a peaceful
quiet until Thomas heard an odd thumping sound that
alarmed him.
“Do you hear that?” he asked, now fully at attention.
Brenda had stilled, head cocked to the side as she
listened intently. “Yeah. Sounds like someone bangin’
on a drum.”
“I guess the fun and games are over.” He stood up,
then helped Brenda do the same. “What do you think it
is?”
“Chances are it’s not good.”
“But what if it’s our friends?”
The low bump-bump-bump suddenly seemed to
come from everywhere at once, the echoes bouncing
back and forth between the alley walls. But after a long
few seconds, Thomas grew certain the sound was
coming from a corner of the dead end. Despite the
risk, he ran in that direction to get a look.
“What’re you doing!” Brenda snapped at him, but
when he ignored her, she followed.
At the very end of the alley, Thomas reached a wall
of cracked and faded bricks, where four stairs led
down to a scratched and worn wooden door. Just
above the door, there was a tiny rectangle of a window,
its glass missing. One broken shard still hung at the
top, like a jagged tooth.
Thomas could hear music playing, much louder now.
It was intense and fast, the bass powerful, drums
banging and guitars screaming. Mixed in were the
sounds of people laughing and shouting and singing
along. And none of it sounded very … sane. There was
something creepy and disturbing about it.
It looked like the Cranks didn’t just look for peoples’
noses to bite off, and it gave Thomas a very bad
feeling—this noise had nothing to do with his friends.
“We better get out of here,” Thomas said.
“Ya think?” Brenda responded, standing right at his
shoulder.
“Come on.” Thomas turned to go just as she did, but
they both froze. Three people had appeared in the
alley while they’d been distracted. Two men and one
woman, now standing only a few feet away.
Thomas’s stomach dropped as he quickly observed
the new arrivals. Their clothes were tattered, their hair
messy, their faces dirty. But when he looked closer he
saw that they didn’t have any noticeable injuries, and
their eyes showed glints of intelligence. Cranks, but not
full-gone Cranks.
“Hi there,” the woman said. She had long red hair
pulled into a ponytail. Her shirt was cut so low that
Thomas had to force himself to keep his eyes focused
on hers. “Come to join our party? Lots of dancing. Lots
of lovin’. Lots of booze.”
There was an edge to her voice that made Thomas
nervous. He didn’t know what it meant, but this lady
wasn’t being nice. She was mocking them.
“Um, no thanks,” Thomas said. “We, uh, we were
just—”
Brenda cut in. “Just trying to find our friends. We’re
new here, just getting settled.”
“Welcome to WICKED’s very own Crankland.” This
was one of the men, a tall, ugly guy with greasy hair.
“Don’t worry, most of ’em down there”—he nodded
toward the stairs—“are half gone at worst. You might
get an elbow in the face, maybe kicked in the ’nads.
But no one’s gonna try to eat you.”
“’Nads?” Brenda repeated. “Excuse me?”
The man pointed at Thomas. “I was talkin’ to the boy.
Things might get a little worse for you if you don’t stick
close to us. You being female and all.”
This whole conversation was making Thomas ill.
“Sounds like fun. But we gotta go. Find our friends.
Maybe we’ll come back.”
The other man stepped forward. This one was short
but handsome, with blond hair in a crew cut. “You two
are nothin’ but kids. Time you got some lessons on life.
are nothin’ but kids. Time you got some lessons on life.
Time you had some fun. We’re officially inviting you to
the party.” He pronounced each word of the last
sentence carefully, and with no kindness whatsoever.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Brenda said.
Blondie pulled a gun from a pocket of his long
jacket. It was a pistol, silver but grimy and dull. Still, it
looked as menacing and deadly as anything Thomas
had ever seen.
“I don’t think you understood me,” the man said.
“You’re invited to our party. That’s not something you
turn down.”
Tall and Ugly pulled out a knife. Ponytail pulled out a
screwdriver, its tip black with what had to be old blood.
“What do you say?” Blondie asked. “Would you like
to come to our party?”
Thomas looked at Brenda, but she didn’t look back.
Her eyes were glued to the blond man, and her face
said she was about to do something really stupid.
“Okay,” Thomas said quickly. “We’ll go. Let’s do it.”
Brenda snapped her head around. “What?”
“He has a gun. He has a knife. She’s got a shuck
screwdriver! I’m not in the mood to have an eyeball
smashed into my skull.”
“Looks like your boyfriend’s not stupid,” Blondie
said. “Now let’s go have some fun.” He pointed his
pistol at the stairs and smiled. “Feel free to lead the
way.”
Brenda was clearly angry, but her eyes also revealed
that she knew they had no other choice. “Fine.”
Blondie smiled again; the expression would’ve
looked natural on a snake. “That’s the spirit. Fine and
dandy, nothing to worry about.”
“No one’s gonna hurt you,” Tall and Ugly added.
“Unless you get difficult. Unless you act like brats. By
the end of the party, you’ll wanna join our group. Trust
me on that.”
Thomas had to fight to keep the panic from
pounding through him. “Let’s just go,” he said to
Blondie.
“Waiting on you.” The man pointed at the stairs with
his gun again.
Thomas reached out and grabbed Brenda’s hand,
pulled her close to him. “Let’s go to the party,
sweetheart.” He put as much sarcasm into it as he
could. “This’ll be so much fun!”
“That’s very nice,” Ponytail said. “I get weepy when I
see two people in love.” She feigned wiping tears from
her cheeks.
With Brenda by his side, Thomas turned toward the
stairs, aware the whole time of the gun pointed at his
back. They made their way down the steps to the old
slab of a door, the space just wide enough for them to
go side by side. When they reached the bottom,
Thomas didn’t see a handle. Raising his eyebrows, he
looked back at Blondie, who stood two steps behind
them.
“Gotta do the special knock,” the man said. “Three
slow fist thumps, three fast ones, then two knuckle
taps.”
Thomas hated these people. He hated the way they
spoke so calmly and said mostly nice words, all of
them full of mockery. In a way these Cranks were
worse than the nose-missing guy he’d stabbed the day
before—at least with him they’d known exactly what
they were dealing with.
they were dealing with.
“Do it,” Brenda whispered.
Thomas balled his hand into a fist and did the slow
fist thumps, then the fast ones. Then he rapped the
wood twice with his knuckles. The door opened
immediately, the pounding music escaping like a
blasting wind.
The guy who greeted them was huge, ears and face
pierced several times, tattoos all over. His hair was
long and white, reaching well past his shoulders. But
Thomas barely had time to register this before the man
spoke.
“Hey, Thomas. We’ve been waiting for you.”

CHAPTER 37
The next minute or so was a stunned blur of the five
senses.
The welcome statement had shocked Thomas, but
before he could respond, the long-haired man
practically pulled him and Brenda inside, then started
ushering them through a tightly packed crowd of
dancing bodies, gyrating and jumping and hugging and
spinning. The music was deafening, each beat of the
drums like a hammer to Thomas’s skull. Several
flashlights had been strung from the ceiling; they
swayed back and forth as people swatted them,
sending beams of light slashing this way and that.
Long Hair leaned over and spoke to Thomas as they
slowly made their way through the dancers; Thomas
could barely hear him even though he was yelling.
“Thank God for batteries! Life’s gonna suck when
those run out!”
“How did you know my name?” Thomas yelled back.
“Why were you waiting for me?”
The man laughed. “We watched you all night! Then
this morning we saw your reaction to the sign through a
window—figured you had to be the famous Thomas!”
Brenda had both arms wrapped around Thomas’s
waist, clinging to him, probably just so they wouldn’t get
separated. Probably. But when she heard this, she
squeezed even tighter.
Thomas looked back, saw Blondie and his two
friends following on their heels. The gun had been put
away, but Thomas knew it could be brought right back
out again.
The music blared. The bass thumped and rattled the
room. People dancing and jumping all around them,
the swords of light crisscrossing the dark air. The
Cranks were slick and shiny with sweat, all that body
heat making the room uncomfortably warm.
Somewhere right in the middle, Long Hair stopped
and turned to face them, his odd white mane flopping.
“We really want you to join us!” he shouted. “There’s
gotta be something about you! We’ll protect you from
the bad Cranks!”
Thomas was glad they didn’t know more. Maybe this
wouldn’t be so bad after all. Play along, pretend to be a
special Crank, and maybe he and Brenda would get
through this long enough to slip away unnoticed at the
right time.
“I’ll go and get you a drink!” Long Hair called out.
“Enjoy yourselves!” Then he scuttled off, vanishing into
the thick, writhing crowd.
Thomas turned to see Blondie and his two friends
still there, not dancing at all—just watching. Ponytail
caught his attention with a wave of her hand.
“Might as well dance!” she yelled. But she didn’t
follow her own advice.
Thomas twisted around until he was fully facing
Brenda. They needed to talk.
As though she could read his mind, she brought her
arms up and wrapped them around his neck, pulling
him close until her mouth was right next to his ear, her
breath hot and tingling against his sweat.
“How did we get into this piece-of-crap situation?”
she asked.
Thomas didn’t know what to do but wrap his arms
around her back and waist. He felt her heat through her
damp clothes. Something stirred inside him, mixed
with guilt and longing for Teresa.
“I never could have imagined this an hour ago,” he
finally said, speaking through her hair. It was the only
thing he could think of to say.
The song changed, something dark and haunting.
The beat had slowed a bit, the drum somehow deeper.
Thomas couldn’t make out any words—it was as if the
singer were lamenting some horrible tragedy, the voice
wailing, high-pitched and sorrowful.
“Maybe we should just stay with these people for a
while,” Brenda said.
Thomas noticed then that the two of them were
dancing, without meaning to or thinking about it.
Moving with the music, slowly turning, their bodies
pressed tightly together, clasping each other.
“What’re you talking about?” he asked, surprised.
“You’re giving up already?”
“No. Just tired. Maybe we’d be safer here.”
He wanted to trust her, felt like he could. But
something about all this worried him—had she brought
him here on purpose? It seemed a stretch. “Brenda,
don’t quit on me yet. The only option we have is to get
to the safe haven. There’s a cure for this.”
Brenda shook her head slightly. “It’s just so hard to
believe it’s really true. Hard to hope for it.”
“Don’t say that.” He didn’t want to think it, and he
didn’t want to hear it.
“Why would they have sent all these Cranks here if
there was a cure? It just doesn’t make any sense.”
Thomas pulled back to look at her, worried about the
sudden change in attitude. Her eyes were wet with
tears.
“You’re talking crazy,” he said, then paused. He had
his own doubts, of course, but he didn’t want to
discourage her. “The cure is real. We have to …” He
trailed off, looked over at Blondie, who was still staring
at him. The guy probably couldn’t hear, but better safe
than sorry. Thomas leaned back in to speak directly in
Brenda’s ear. “We have to get out of here. You wanna
stay with people who pull guns and screwdrivers on
you?”
Before she could respond, Long Hair was back, a
cup in each hand, the brownish liquid inside sloshing
as he got bumped from all directions by the dancers.
“Drink up!” he called out.
Something inside Thomas seemed to wake up then.
Taking a drink from these strangers suddenly felt like a
very, very bad idea. Impossibly, everything about this
place and this situation had become even more
uncomfortable.
Brenda had already started reaching for a drink,
though.
“No!” Thomas yelled before he could stop himself,
then raced to cover his mistake. “I mean, no, I really
don’t think we should be drinking that stuff. We’ve gone
a long time without water—we need that first. We, um,
just wanna dance for a while.” He tried to act casual,
but was cringing on the inside, knowing he sounded
like an idiot—especially when Brenda gave him a
strange look.
Something small and hard pressed against his side.
He didn’t have to turn to see what it was: Blondie’s
He didn’t have to turn to see what it was: Blondie’s
pistol.
“I offered you a drink,” Long Hair said again, this
time any sign of kindness gone from his tattooed face.
“It would be very rude to turn such an offer down.” He
held the cups out again.
Panic swelled in Thomas. Any small doubt had gone
—something was wrong with the drinks.
Blondie pressed the gun into him even harder. “I’m
gonna count to one,” the man said into his ear. “Just
one.”
Thomas didn’t have to think. He reached out and
took the cup, poured the liquid in his mouth, swallowed
all of it at once. It burned like fire, searing his throat and
chest as it went down; he broke into a lurching,
wracking cough.
“Now you,” Long Hair said, handing the other cup to
Brenda.
She looked at Thomas, then took it and drank. It
didn’t seem to faze her in the least; there was just a
slight tightening of her eyes as it went down.
Long Hair took the empty cups back, a huge grin
now spread across his face. “That’s just fine! Back to
dancing ya go!”
Thomas already felt something funny in his gut. A
soothing warmth, a calmness, growing and spreading
through his body. He took Brenda back into his arms,
held her tightly as they swayed to the music. Her mouth
was against his neck. Every time her lips bumped
against his skin, a wave of pleasure shot through him.
“What was it?” he asked. He felt more than heard the
slur in his voice.
“Something not good,” she said; he could barely
hear her. “Something drugged. It’s doing funny things to
me.”
Yeah. Thomas thought. Something funny. The room
had begun to spin around him, far faster than their slow
turn should have caused it to. People’s faces seemed
to stretch when they laughed, their mouths gaping
black holes. The music slowed and thickened, the
singing voice deepened, grew drawn-out.
Brenda pulled her head away from him, clasped the
sides of his face with her hands. She stared at him,
though her eyes seemed to jiggle. She looked
beautiful. More beautiful than anything he’d ever seen
before. Everything around them faded to darkness. His
mind was shutting down, he knew it.
“Maybe it’s better this way,” she said. Her words
didn’t match her lips. Her face was moving in circles,
seemingly detached from her neck. “Maybe we can be
with them. Maybe we can be happy until we’re past the
Gone.” She smiled then, a sickening, disturbing smile.
“Then you can kill me.”
“No, Brenda,” he said, but his voice seemed a
million miles away, as if it were coming from an
endless tunnel. “Don’t …”
“Kiss me,” she said. “Tom, kiss me.” Her hands
tightened on his face. She started to pull him down
toward her.
“No,” he said, resisting.
She stopped, a hurt look washing over her face. Her
moving, blurring face.
“Why?” she asked.
The darkness almost had him fully now. “You’re
not … her.” His voice, distant. A mere echo. “You could
never be her.”
And then she fell away, and his mind did the same.

CHAPTER 38
Thomas awoke to darkness, and it felt as if he had
been put into some type of ancient torture device, nails
slowly driving into his skull from all directions.
He groaned, a halting, terrible sound that only
intensified the pain in his head. He forced himself
silent, tried to reach up to rub—
His hands wouldn’t move. Something held them
down, something sticky pressing against his wrists.
Tape. He tried to kick out with his legs, but they were
bound, too. The effort sent another wave of pain
crashing through his head and body; he went limp,
moaning softly. He wondered how long he’d been out.
“Brenda?” he whispered. No response.
A light came on.
Bright and stabbing. He squeezed both eyes shut,
then opened one just enough to squint through. Three
people stood in front of him, but their faces were in
shadow, the light source coming from behind.
“Wakey wakey,” a husky voice said. Someone
snickered.
“Want some more of that fire juice?” This came from
a woman. The same person snickered again.
Thomas finally grew accustomed to the light and
opened his eyes fully. He was in a wooden chair, wide
gray tape tightly securing his wrists to the armrests and
his ankles to the chair legs. Two men and one woman
stood in front of him. Blondie. Tall and Ugly. Ponytail.
“Why didn’t you just whack me out in the alley?”
Thomas asked.
“Whack you?” Blondie responded. His voice hadn’t
seemed husky before; it sounded like he’d spent the
last few hours yelling out on the dance floor. “What do
you think we are, some kind of twentieth-century mafia
clan? If we wanted to whack you, you’d already be
dead, bleeding in the streets.”
“We don’t want you dead,” Ponytail interrupted. “That
would spoil the meat. We like to eat our victims while
they’re still breathing. Eat as much as we can before
they bleed to death. You wouldn’t believe how juicy
and … sweet that tastes.”
Tall and Ugly laughed, but Thomas couldn’t tell
whether Ponytail was serious. Either way, it freaked
him out.
“She’s kidding,” Blondie said. “We’ve only eaten
other humans when it’s gotten completely desperate.
Man meat tastes like pig crap.”
Another burst of giggles from Tall and Ugly. Not
snickering, not laughing. Giggling. Thomas didn’t
believe they were serious—he was much more worried
about how their minds seemed … off.
Blondie smiled for the first time since Thomas had
met him. “Joking again. We’re not quite that Crankedout
yet. But I do bet people don’t taste very good.”
Tall and Ugly and Ponytail nodded.
Man, these guys are really starting to lose it.
Thomas thought. He heard a muffled groan to his left
and looked over. Brenda was in a corner of the room,
bound just as he was. But her mouth had been taped
shut as well, making him wonder if she’d put up more
of a fight before she passed out. It looked like she was
only now waking up, and when she noticed the three
Cranks, she shifted and wiggled in her chair, moaning
through the gag. Her eyes lit with fire.
Blondie pointed at her. His pistol had magically
appeared. “Shut up! Shut up or I’ll splat your brain on
the wall!”
Brenda stopped. Thomas expected her to start
whimpering or crying or something. But she didn’t, and
he immediately felt stupid for thinking it. She’d already
shown how tough she was.
Blondie dropped the gun to his side. “Better. Good
God, we should’ve killed her when she first started
screaming up there. And biting.” He looked at his
forearm, where the long arc of a welt shone red.
“She’s with him,” Ponytail said. “We can’t kill her yet.

Blondie pulled a chair from the far wall and took a
seat just a few feet in front of Thomas. The others
followed suit, looking relieved, as if they’d been waiting
hours for permission. Blondie rested the gun on his
thigh, its business end pointed straight at Thomas.
“Okay,” the man said. “We’ve got us quite a lot to talk
about. I’m not going through the normal bullcrap with
you, either. If you mess around or refuse to answer or
whatever, I’m gonna shoot you in the leg. Then the
other one. Third time, a bullet goes into your girlfriend’s
face. I’m thinking somewhere right between the eyes.
And I bet you can guess what happens the fourth time
you piss me off.”
Thomas nodded. He wanted to think he was tough,
think he could stand up to these Cranks. But common
sense won out. He was taped to a chair, no weapons,
no allies, nothing. Though honestly, he didn’t have
anything to hide. He’d answer whatever the guy asked
anything to hide. He’d answer whatever the guy asked
him. Whatever ended up happening, he didn’t want any
bullets in his leg. And he doubted the guy was bluffing.
“First question,” Blondie said. “Who are you and why
is your name on signs all over this piece of crap city?”
“My name is Thomas.” As soon as it came out,
Blondie scrunched up his face in anger. Thomas
realized his stupid mistake and hurried along. “You
already knew that. Well, how I got here is a really weird
story and I doubt you’ll believe it. But I swear I’m telling
the truth.”
“Didn’t you come on a Berg like the rest of us?”
Ponytail asked.
“Berg?” Thomas didn’t know what that meant, but he
just shook his head and went on. “No. We came out of
some underground tunnel about thirty miles or so to the
south. Before that we went through something called a
Flat Trans. Before that—”
“Hold it hold it hold it,” Blondie said, holding up a
hand. “A Flat Trans? I’d shoot you right now, but there’s
no way you just made that up.”
Thomas wrinkled his brow in confusion “Why?”
“You’d be stupid to try getting away with an obvious
lie like that. You came through a Flat Trans?” The
man’s surprise was obvious.
Thomas glanced at the other Cranks, both of whom
had similar looks of shock on their faces. “Yeah. Why’s
that so hard to believe?”
“Do you have any idea how expensive Flat
Transportation is? Before the flares, it had just been
revealed to the public. Only governments and
billionaires can afford to use it.”
Thomas shrugged. “Well, I know they have a lot of
money, and that’s what the guy called it. A Flat Trans.
Kind of a gray wall that tingles like ice when you walk
through it.”
“What guy?” Ponytail asked.
Thomas had barely started and already his mind
was jumbled. How could you tell a story like this? “I
think he was from WICKED. They’re running us through
some kind of experiment or test. I don’t really know
everything. We … had our memories wiped out. Some
of mine came back, but not a whole lot.”
Blondie didn’t react for a second, just sat there
staring at him. Almost through him, at the wall behind.
Finally, he said, “I was a lawyer. Back before the flares
and this disease ruined everything. I know when
someone’s lying. I was very, very good at my job.”
Oddly, Thomas relaxed. “Then you know I’m not—”
“Yeah, I know. I wanna hear the whole thing. Start
talking.”
Thomas did. He couldn’t say why, but it seemed
okay. His instincts told him these Cranks were just like
everybody else—sent here to live out their last horrible
years succumbing to the Flare. They were just trying to
find an advantage, find a way out, like anybody would.
And meeting a guy who had special signs about him all
over the city was an excellent first step. If Thomas had
been in their shoes, he’d probably have been doing the
same thing. Without the gun and bindings, hopefully.
He’d told most of the story to Brenda just the day
before, and related it much the same way now. The
Maze, the escape, the dorms. Being given the mission
to cross the Scorch. He took special care to make it
sound very important, stressing the part about the cure
waiting at the end. Since they’d lost the chance to have
Jorge’s help getting through the city, maybe he could
start over with these people. He also expressed his
concern over the other Gladers, but when he asked if
they’d seen them—or a big group of girls—the answer
was no.
Once again, he didn’t talk much about Teresa. He
just didn’t want to take any chances of endangering her
somehow, though he had no idea how talking about her
might do that. He also lied a bit about Brenda. Well, he
never really lied directly. He just kind of made it sound
like she’d been with him from the beginning.
When he finished, ending at the part where they’d
met the three people in front of him in the alley, he took
a deep breath and adjusted himself in the chair. “Can
you please take this tape off me now?”
A flick of Tall and Ugly’s hand caught his attention
and he looked to see that a very sharp, shiny knife had
appeared there. “What do you think?” he asked
Blondie.
“Sure, why not.” He’d held a stoic face throughout the
tale, giving no hint yet as to whether he believed the
story.
Tall and Ugly shrugged and got to his feet, walked
over to Thomas. He was just leaning over, knife
outstretched, when a commotion broke out above.
Hard thumps on the ceiling, followed by a couple of
screams. Then it sounded like a hundred people
running. Frantic footsteps, jumping, more thumps.
More screams.
“Another group must’ve found us,” Blondie said, his
face suddenly pale. He stood, motioned for the other
two to follow him. A few seconds later they were gone,
vanishing up a set of stairs into the shadows. A door
opened and closed. The chaos above continued.
All of this combined to scare Thomas nearly out of
his wits. He looked over at Brenda, who sat perfectly
still, listening. Her eyes finally met his gaze. Still
gagged, she could only raise her eyebrows.
He didn’t like their odds being left like this, taped to
chairs. There was no way any of the Cranks he’d met
that night had a chance against ones like Mr. Nose.
“What if a bunch of full-gone Cranks are up there?” he
asked.
Brenda mumbled something through the tape.
Thomas strained every muscle and started jumping
his chair in tiny steps toward where she sat. He’d
made it about three feet when the sounds of fighting
and rumbling suddenly stopped. He froze, looked up at
the ceiling.
Nothing for several seconds. Then a set of footsteps,
maybe two, shuffling across the floor above. A loud
thump. Another loud thump. Then another. Thomas
imagined bodies being thrown on the ground.
The door at the top of the stairs opened.
Then footsteps, hard and heavy, running down. It was
all in shadow, and a cold panic flooded Thomas’s body
as he waited to see who came down.
Finally, someone stepped into the light.
Minho. Dirty and bloody, burn marks on his face.
Knives in both hands. Minho.
“You guys look comfy,” he said.

CHAPTER 39
Despite everything he’d been through, Thomas
couldn’t remember the last time he’d been at such a
loss for words. “What … how …” He stammered, trying
to get something out.
Minho smiled, a very welcome sight. Especially
considering how horrible the guy looked. “We’d just
found you. Did you think we were gonna let these
bunch of shuck-faces do anything to you? You owe me.
Big-time.” He walked over and started cutting the tape.
“What do you mean you’d just found us?” Thomas
was so happy he wanted to giggle like an idiot. Not
only were they rescued, his friends were alive. They
were alive!
Minho kept cutting. “Jorge’s been leading us through
the city—avoiding Cranks, finding food.” He finished
up with Thomas and went to free Brenda, still talking
over his shoulder. “Yesterday morning, we kind of
spread out, spying here and there. Frypan was
peeking around the corner into that alley up there just
as those three shanks pulled a gun on you. He came
back, we got mad, started planning our ambush. Most
of those shucks were wasted or asleep.”
Brenda pushed her way out of the chair and past
Minho as soon as her tape was cut. She started
toward Thomas, but hesitated—he couldn’t tell if she
was mad or just worried. Then she came the rest of the
way, ripping the tape off her mouth as she reached his
side.
Thomas stood up, and immediately his head
pounded again, the room swaying, making him sick.
He plopped back into the chair. “Oh, man. Anybody got
some aspirin?”
Minho only laughed. Brenda had made her way to
the bottom of the stairs, where she stood with arms
folded. Something about her body language did make
her look angry. Then he remembered what he had said
to her right before passing out from the drug.
Oh, crap, he thought. He’d told her she could never
be Teresa.
“Brenda?” he asked sheepishly. “You okay?” No way
he was gonna bring up their odd dance and that
conversation in front of Minho.
She nodded, but didn’t look back at him. “I’m fine.
Let’s go. I wanna see Jorge.” Short clips for words. No
emotion in them.
Thomas groaned, glad to have the pain in his head
as an excuse. Yeah, she was mad at him. Actually,
mad might’ve been the wrong word. She looked more
hurt.
Or maybe he assumed too much and she didn’t care
at all.
Minho came up to him, offered a hand. “Come on,
dude. Headache or no headache, we need to go. No
telling how long we can keep the shuck prisoners up
there quiet and still.”
“Prisoners?” Thomas repeated.
“Whatever you wanna call them—we can’t risk letting
them go until we get out. We’ve got a dozen guys
holding more than twenty. And they aren’t too happy.
They might start thinking they can take us pretty soon.
Once they get rid of their hangovers.”
Thomas stood up again, this time much more slowly.
The pain in his head rocked and throbbed like a
steady drum, seeming to push on his eyeballs from
behind with every thud. He closed his eyes until things
quit spinning around him. He sucked in a deep breath,
looked at Minho. “I’ll be fine.”
Minho flashed him a smile. “Such a man. Come on.”
Thomas followed his friend to the stairs. He paused
beside Brenda but didn’t say anything. Minho peered
back at Thomas with an expression that said, What’s
up with her? Thomas just shook his head slightly.
Minho shrugged, then stomped his way up and out of
the room, but Thomas stayed back with Brenda for a
second. She didn’t seem to want to move just yet. And
she refused to meet his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said, regretting his harsh words right
before passing out. “I think I said something kinda
mean—”
Her eyes snapped up to meet his. “You think I give a
crap about you and your girlfriend? I was just dancing,
trying to have some fun before everything went bad.
What, you think I’m in love with you or something? Just
dying till the day you ask me to be your Crank bride?
Get over yourself.”
Her words were so full of rage that Thomas took a
step back, as hurt as if she’d slapped him. Before he
could respond, she disappeared upstairs, all heavy
footsteps and sighs. He’d never missed Teresa so
badly as at that moment. On a whim, he called out to
her with his mind. But she still wasn’t there.
The smell hit him before he even entered the room
where they’d danced.
Like sweat and vomit.
Bodies littered the floor, some sleeping, some
huddled together and shivering; some even looked
dead. Jorge, Newt and Aris were there, standing
guard, slowly turning in circles with knives drawn and
pointing.
Thomas saw Frypan and the other Gladers, too.
Though his head still throbbed, he felt a rush of relief
and excitement. “What happened to you guys! Where
have you been?”
“Hey, it’s Thomas!” Frypan roared. “As ugly and alive
as ever!”
Newt came up to him, gave a sincere smile. “Glad
you’re not bloody dead, Tommy. I’m really, really glad.”
“You too.” Thomas realized with a weird numbness
that this was what his life had become. This was how
you greeted people after a day or two apart. “Has
everyone made it so far? Where’d you guys go? How’d
you get here?”
Newt nodded. “Still eleven of us. Plus Jorge.”
Thomas’s questions came faster than anyone could
answer. “Any sign of Barkley and the rest of them?
Were they the ones who set off the explosion?”
Jorge answered—Thomas saw that he stood
closest to the door, holding a very nasty-looking sword
that was currently resting on the shoulder of Tall and
Ugly himself. Ponytail was next to him, and they were
both curled up on the ground. “Haven’t seen ’em since.
We got away pretty quickly, and they’re too scared to
come deeper into the city.”
The sight of Tall and Ugly had set off a small alarm
inside Thomas. Blondie. Where was Blondie? How
inside Thomas. Blondie. Where was Blondie? How
would Minho and the others have dealt with his gun?
He looked around but couldn’t find him anywhere in the
room.
“Minho,” Thomas whispered, then motioned for him
to come closer. Once he and Newt were both right next
to him, he leaned in. “The guy with really short blond
hair. Seemed like the leader. What happened to him?”
Minho shrugged and looked at Newt to answer.
“Must’ve got out,” Newt replied. “A handful did—we
couldn’t stop all of them.”
“Why?” Minho asked. “You worried about him?”
Thomas looked around, lowered his voice even
further. “He had a gun. He’s the only one I’ve seen with
something worse than a knife. And he wasn’t very nice.

“Who gives a klunk?” Minho said. “We’ll be out of
this stupid city in an hour. And we should go. Now.”
That sounded like the best idea Thomas had heard
in days. “Okay, I want to get out of here before he
comes back.”
“Listen up!” Minho called out as he stepped away,
walking through the crowd. “We’re leaving now. Don’t
follow us, you’ll be fine. Follow us, you’ll be dead. Pretty
easy choice, don’t ya think?”
Thomas wondered when and how Minho had taken
back the leadership role from Jorge. He looked over at
the older man and noticed Brenda standing silently
next to a wall, staring at the floor. He felt so bad about
what had happened the night before. He really had
wanted to kiss her. But for some reason he’d felt
disgusted at the same time. Maybe it was the drug.
Maybe it was Teresa. Maybe it was—
“Hey, Thomas!” Minho was yelling at him. “Dude,
wake up! We’re leaving!”
Several Gladers had already walked through the
door and into the sunlight. How long had he been out
from the drug? A full day? Or just a few hours, since
morning? He moved to follow, stopping by Brenda and
giving her a little push. He worried for a second that
she wouldn’t come with them, but she only hesitated a
moment before heading for the door.
Minho, Newt and Jorge waited, keeping guard with
their weapons, until everyone but Thomas and Brenda
were out. Thomas watched at the doorway as the three
Gladers backed away, slowly sweeping the tips of their
knives and swords back and forth as they did so. But it
didn’t look like anyone was going to put up a fuss. They
were all probably ready to move on, just glad to be
alive.
Everyone gathered in the alley away from the stairs.
Thomas stayed close to the top step, but Brenda made
her way to the other side of the group. He swore he’d
get her alone as soon as they were away and safe,
have a long talk. He liked her, wanted to be her friend if
nothing else. More importantly, he now felt about her
much the way he’d felt about Chuck. For some reason
a feeling of responsibility for her had overcome him.
“—make a run for it.”
Thomas shook his head, realizing that Minho had
been talking. Daggers of pain shot through his skull,
but he focused.
“There’s only about a mile left,” Minho continued.
“These Cranks aren’t so hard to fight after all. So let’
s—”
“Hey!”
“Hey!”
The shout came from behind Thomas, loud and
screechy, filled with more than a hint of lunacy. Thomas
spun around to see Blondie standing down on the
bottom step, by the open door, his arm extended. His
white-knuckled fingers held the gun, surprisingly steady
and calm. It was pointed directly at Thomas.
Before anyone could move he fired, an explosion
that rocked the narrow alley with a thunderous boom.
Pure pain ripped through Thomas’s left shoulder.

CHAPTER 40
The impact knocked Thomas back, spinning him
around so that he fell flat on his face, smacking his
nose on the ground. Somehow, through the pain and
muffled buzz in his ears, he heard the gun fire again,
then the sound of grunts and punches, followed by
metal clacking across the cement.
He rolled onto his back, hand clasped tight to where
he’d been shot; he searched for the courage to look at
the wound. The ringing in his ears grew louder, and he
barely noticed out of the corner of his eye that Blondie
had been tackled to the ground. Someone was
punching the living crap out of him.
Minho.
Thomas finally gazed down at the damage. What he
saw there made his heart double its pace.
A small hole in his shirt revealed a gooey red blob
right in the meaty part above his armpit, blood pouring
from the wound. It hurt. It hurt bad. If he’d thought his
headache downstairs had been tough, this was like
three or four of those, all smashed into a coil of pain
right there in his shoulder. And spreading through the
rest of his body.
Newt was at his side, looking down with worried
eyes.
“He shot me.” It just came out, a new number one on
the list of the dumbest things he’d ever said. The pain,
like living metal staples running through his insides,
pricking and scratching with their little sharp points. He
felt his mind going dark for the second time that day.
Someone handed a shirt to Newt, who pressed it
tightly against Thomas’s wound. This sent another
wave of agony through him; he cried out, not caring
how wimpy he sounded. It hurt like nothing he’d ever
felt before. The world around him faded another few
degrees.
Pass out, he urged himself. Please pass out, make
it go away.
Voices came from a distance again, just like his own
had on the dance floor after being drugged.
“I can get that sucker out of him.” This was Jorge, of
all people. “But I’ll need a fire.”
“We can’t do this here.” Was that Newt?
“Let’s get out of this shuck city.” Definitely Minho.
“All right. Help me carry him.” No idea.
Hands gripping him from underneath, grasping his
legs. The pain. Someone saying something about the
count of three. The pain. It really, really hurt. One. The
pain. Two. Ouch. Three!
He rose toward the sky, and the pain exploded
anew, fresh and raw.
Then his wish to pass out came true and darkness
washed his troubles away.
He awoke, his mind a haze.
Light blinded him; he couldn’t open his eyes all the
way. His whole body jostled and bumped, hands still
holding him tight. He heard the sounds of breathing,
heavy and fast. Feet pounding on pavement. Someone
shouting, though he couldn’t understand the words. In
the distance, the mad screams of Cranks. Close
enough that they might be pursuing.
Heat. The air was burning hot.
His shoulder, on fire. Pain tore through him like a
series of toxic explosions, and he fled to the darkness
once again.
* * *
He cracked his eyes.
This time the light was much less intense. The
golden gleam of twilight. He lay on his back, the ground
beneath him hard. A rock dug into his lower back, but it
felt heavenly compared to the rot in his shoulder.
People lumbered about him, talking in short and tight
whispers.
The cackle of Cranks had grown more distant. He
saw nothing but sky above him, no buildings. Pain in
his shoulder. Oh, the pain.
A fire licked and spit somewhere close. He felt the
heat wafting across his body, hot wind through hot air.
Someone said, “You better hold him down. Legs and
arms.”
Though his mind still floated in fog, those words
didn’t sound good.
A flash of light on silver in his vision, the fading sun’s
reflection on … a knife? Was it glowing red?
“This is gonna hurt somethin’ awful.” No idea who
said it.
He heard the hiss right before a billion pounds of
dynamite exploded in his shoulder.
His mind said goodbye for the third time.
He sensed that a long spell of time had passed this
go-around. When he opened his eyes again, stars like
pinpricks of daylight shone down from the dark sky.
Someone held his hand. He tried to turn his head to
look over, but it sent a fresh wave of agony shooting
down his spine.
He didn’t need to see. It was Brenda.
Who else would it be? Plus, the hand was soft and
small. Brenda for sure.
The intense pain of before had been replaced. In
some ways, he now felt worse. Something like an
illness crept through the inner workings of his body. A
gnawing, itching filthiness. Something foul, like
maggots squirming through his veins and the hollows
of his bones and between his muscles. Eating away at
him.
It hurt, but now it was more of an ache. Deep and
raw. His stomach, gurgly and unstable, fire in his veins.
He didn’t know how he knew, but he was sure of it.
Something was wrong.
The word infection popped up in his mind, then
stayed there.
He drifted off.
The sunrise woke Thomas in the morning. The first
thing he realized was that Brenda no longer held his
hand. Then he noticed the cool air of early morning on
his skin, which gave him the briefest moment of
pleasure.
Then he became fully aware of the throbbing pain
that consumed his body, dwelling in every last
molecule. It no longer had anything to do with his
shoulder and the bullet wound. Something terrible had
gone wrong with his entire system.
Infection. That word again.
He didn’t know how he’d make it through the next
five minutes. Or the next hour. How could he possibly
go through an entire day? Then sleep and start the
whole thing all over again? Despair sucked at him, an
empty, yawning void that threatened to pull him down
into an awful abyss. A panic-laced craziness struck
him. Suffusing it all, the pain.
That was when things got bizarre.
The others heard it before he did. Minho and
everyone else were suddenly scrambling, searching for
something, many of them scanning the sky. The sky?
Why would they be doing that?
Someone—Jorge, he thought—yelled the word
Berg.
Then Thomas heard it. A deep thrumming, full of
heavy thumps. It grew louder before he even realized
what was going on, and soon it felt as though the noise
were inside his skull, rattling his jaw and eardrums and
sluicing down his spine. A constant, steady pounding,
like the world’s largest drums; behind it all, the massive
hum of heavy machinery. A wind picked up, and at first
Thomas worried that a storm was starting again, but
the sky was perfectly blue. Not a cloud to be seen.
The noise worsened his pain, made him begin to
shut down again. But he fought it, desperate to know
the source of the sounds. Minho shouted something,
pointed to the north. Thomas hurt too much to turn and
look. The wind grew stronger, gusting across him,
ripping at his clothes. Dust flew and clouded the air.
Suddenly Brenda was beside him again, squeezing
his hand.
She leaned over until her face was only inches
above his. Her hair whipped all around.
“I’m sorry,” she said, though he barely heard her. “I
didn’t mean to—I mean, I know that you …” She
fumbled for words, looked away.
What was she talking about? Why didn’t she tell him
what was making that horrible noise! He hurt so bad.

A look of curious horror spread across her face,
eyes widening, mouth dropping open. And then she
was being pushed away by two …
Panic seized Thomas now. Two people, dressed in
the strangest outfits he’d ever seen. One-piece, baggy
and dark green—letters he couldn’t read scrawled
across the chest. Goggles covering their faces. No, not
goggles. Some kind of gas mask. They looked
hideous and alien. They looked evil, like giant,
demented, human-eating insects wrapped in plastic.
One of them grabbed his legs by the ankles. The
other put his hands under him, gripped him by the
armpits, and Thomas screamed. They lifted, and pain
went coursing through his body. He’d almost grown
used to the agony by now, but this felt even worse. It
hurt too much to struggle, so he went limp.
Then they were moving, carrying him, and for the first
time, Thomas’s eyes focused enough to read the
letters on the chest of the person at his feet.
WICKED.
Darkness threatened to take him again. He let it, but
the pain went with him.

CHAPTER 41
Once again, he woke to a blinding white light—this one
shining directly into his eyes from above. He knew
immediately it wasn’t the sun—it was different. Plus, it
shone from only a short distance away. Even as he
clenched his eyes shut again, the afterimage of a bulb
floated across the darkness.
He heard voices—more like whispers. He couldn’t
understand a word. Too soft, just out-of-reach enough
that they were impossible to decipher.
He heard the click and clack of metal against metal.
Small sounds, and the first thing he thought of was
medical instruments. Scalpels and those little rods with
mirrors on the end. These images swam up from the
murkiness of his memory bank, and combining them
with the light, he knew.
He’d been taken to a hospital. A hospital. The last
thing he could ever imagine existing anywhere in the
Scorch. Or had he been taken away? Far away?
Through a Flat Trans, maybe?
A shadow crossed the light, and Thomas opened his
eyes. Someone was looking down at him, dressed in
the same ridiculous outfit as those who’d brought him
here. The gas mask, or whatever it was. Big goggles.
Behind the protective glass, he saw dark eyes focused
on him. A woman’s eyes, though he didn’t know how he
could tell.
“Can you hear me?” she asked. Yes, a woman, even
though the mask muffled her voice.
Thomas tried to nod, didn’t know if he actually did or
not.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen.” She’d pulled her
head back a bit and looked away, which made
Thomas think she hadn’t meant that comment for him.
“How’d a working gun get in the city? You have any
idea the amount of rust and gunk must’ve been on that
bullet? Not to mention the germs.”
She sounded very angry.
A man replied. “Just get on with it. We have to send
him back. Quickly.”
Thomas barely had time to process what they were
saying. A new pain blossomed in his shoulder,
unbearable.
He passed out for the umpteenth time.
Awake again.
Something was off. He couldn’t tell what. The same
light shone from the same spot above; he looked to the
side this time instead of closing his eyes. He could see
better, focus more. Silver squares of ceiling tile, a steel
contraption with all kinds of dials and switches and
monitors. None of it made sense.
Then it hit him. Hit him with such shock and wonder
that he scarcely believed it could be true.
He felt no pain. None. Nothing at all.
No people stood around him. No crazy green alien
suits, no goggles, no one sticking scalpels in his
shoulder. He seemed to be alone, and the absence of
pain was pure ecstasy. He didn’t know it was possible
to feel this good.
It wasn’t. Had to be a drug.
He dozed off.
* * *
He stirred at the sound of soft voices, though it came
through the haze of his drugged stupor.
Somehow he knew enough to keep his eyes shut,
see if he could learn anything about the people who’d
taken him. The people who’d evidently fixed him up
and rid his body of the infection.
A man was talking. “Are we sure this doesn’t screw
anything up?”
“I’m positive.” This from a woman. “Well, as positive
as I can be. If anything, it may stimulate a pattern in the
killzone that we hadn’t expected. A bonus, possibly? I
can’t imagine it leading him or anyone else in a
direction that would prevent the other patterns we’re
looking for.”
“Dear God above, I hope you’re right,” the man
responded.
Another woman spoke, her voice high, almost
crystalline. “How many of the ones left do you think are
still viable Candidates?” Thomas sensed the capital
letter in that word—Candidates. Confused, he tried to
remain still, listen.
“We’re down to four or five,” the first woman
answered. “Thomas here is by far our greatest hope.
He responds really sharply to the Variables. Wait, I
think I just saw his eyes move.”
Thomas froze, tried to stare straight ahead into the
darkness of his eyelids. It was hard, but he forced
himself to breathe evenly, as if asleep. He didn’t know
exactly what these people were talking about, but he
desperately wanted to hear more. Knew he needed to
hear more.
“Who cares if he’s listening?” the man asked. “He
couldn’t possibly understand enough to affect his
responses one way or the other. It’ll do him good to
know we made a huge exception to get that infection
out of him. That WICKED will do what it has to when
necessary.”
The high-pitched-voice lady laughed, one of the
most pleasant sounds Thomas had ever heard. “If
you’re listening, Thomas, don’t get too excited. We’re
about to dump you right back where we took you from.”
The drugs coursing through Thomas’s veins seemed
to surge, and he felt himself fading into bliss. He tried
to open his eyes, but couldn’t. Before he drifted off he
did hear one last thing, from the first woman.
Something very odd.
“It’s what you would’ve wanted us to do.”

CHAPTER 42
The mysterious people were true to their word.
The next time Thomas woke up, he was hanging in
the air, strung tightly to a canvas litter with handles,
swaying back and forth. A large rope attached to a ring
of blue metal held him as he was lowered from
something huge, the whole time accompanied by the
same explosion of hums and heavy thumps that he’d
heard when they’d come to get him. He gripped the
sides of the litter, terrified.
Finally, he felt a soft bump, and then a million faces
appeared around him. Minho, Newt, Jorge, Brenda,
Frypan, Aris, the other Gladers. The rope holding him
detached and sprang up into the air. Then, almost
instantaneously, the vessel from which he’d been
lowered vaulted away, disappearing into the brilliance
of the sun directly overhead. The sounds of its engines
faded, and soon it was gone.
Then everyone spoke at once.
“What was that all about?”
“Are you okay?”
“What’d they do to you?”
“Who was that?”
“Have fun in the Berg?”
“How’s your shoulder?”
Thomas ignored it all and tried to get up, but realized
that the ropes holding him to the litter still bound him
tightly to it. He found Minho with his eyes. “A little help
here?”
As Minho and a couple of others worked on untying
him, Thomas had a disturbing thought. The people
from WICKED had shown up to save him pretty quickly.
From what they’d said, it was something they hadn’t
planned on, but they’d done it anyway. Which meant
they were watching and could swoop in to save them
whenever they wanted to.
But they hadn’t until now. How many people had died
in the last few days while WICKED stood by and
watched? And why did that change for Thomas, just
because he’d been shot by a rusty bullet?
It was too much to think about.
Once freed, he got to his feet and stretched out his
muscles, refusing to acknowledge the second volley of
questions flung his way. The day was hot, brutally hot,
and as he stretched, he realized that he felt no pain
other than the slightest of aches in his shoulder. He
looked down to see that he was wearing fresh clothes,
and that there was the bulge of a bandage under the
left sleeve of his shirt. But his thoughts immediately
went to something else.
“What are you guys doing out in the open? Your skin
is gonna bake!”
Minho didn’t answer, just pointed at something
behind him, and Thomas looked to see a very shabby
hut. It was made out of dry wood that seemed like it
might crumble to pure dust at any second, but it was
big enough to provide shelter for everyone there.
“We better get back under that thing,” Minho said.
Thomas realized that they must’ve run out just to see
him delivered from the huge flying … Berg? Jorge had
called it a Berg.
The group trekked over to the shelter; Thomas told
them a dozen times that he’d explain everything from
beginning to end once they were settled. Brenda found
him, walked right next to him. But she didn’t offer her
hand, and Thomas felt an uneasy relief. She also didn’t
say anything, and neither did he.
The miserable city of the Cranks lay a few miles
distant, huddling in all its decay and madness to the
south. No sign of the infected people anywhere. To the
north, the mountains loomed now, only a day or so
away. Craggy and lifeless, they sloped up higher and
higher until they ended in jagged brown peaks. Harsh
cuts in the rock made the whole range appear as
though a giant had hacked at it with a massive axe for
days and days, letting out all its giant frustration.
They reached the shelter, the wood dry as rotted
bone. It looked as if it had stood there for a hundred
years—maybe built by a farmer in the days before the
world was ravaged. How it had withstood everything
was a complete mystery. But one flick of a match and
the thing would probably burn down in three seconds.
“All right,” Minho said, pointing to a spot in the far
end of the shade. “You sit there, get yourself all nice
and comfy and start talking.”
Thomas couldn’t believe how good he felt—just a
dull ache in his shoulder. And he didn’t think he had any
trace of drugs in him anymore. Whatever doctors
WICKED had unleashed on him had been brilliant at
what they did. He took a seat and waited for everyone
to get situated in front of him, sitting cross-legged on
the hot and dusty ground. He was like a schoolteacher
readying to give a lesson—a blurry flash from his past.
Minho was the last to take a seat, right next to
Brenda. “Okay, tell us about your adventures with the
Brenda. “Okay, tell us about your adventures with the
aliens in their big bad spaceship.”
“You sure about this?” Thomas asked. “How many
days left to get over those mountains, to the safe
haven?”
“Five days, dude. But you know we can’t go
tramping around in this sun with nothing to protect us.
You’re gonna talk, then we’re gonna sleep, then we’re
all gonna bust our humps walking all night. Get on it.”
“Good that,” Thomas said, wondering what they’d
been doing while he was away, but realizing it didn’t
matter all that much. “Save all your questions till the
end, children.” When not a single person laughed, or
even smiled, he coughed and hurried on. “It was
WICKED that came and got me. I kept passing out, but
they took me to some doctors who totally fixed me up. I
heard them saying something about how it wasn’t
supposed to happen, how the gun had been a factor
they hadn’t expected. The bullet set off a nasty infection
in me, and I guess they felt pretty strongly that it wasn’t
time for me to die.”
Blank faces stared back at him.
Thomas knew it would be hard for them to accept
—even after he’d told the whole story. “Just telling you
what I heard.”
He went on to explain more. Every detail of what he
could remember, and about the odd bedside
conversation he’d listened in on. Things about killzone
patterns and Candidates. More about the Variables.
None of it had made much sense the first time around,
and it made even less now as he tried to recall it word
for word. The Gladers—plus Jorge and Brenda
—looked as frustrated as he felt.
“Well, that really cleared things up,” Minho finally
said. “Must have something to do with all those signs
about you in the city.”
Thomas shrugged. “Glad to know you’re so happy to
see me alive.”
“Hey, if you wanna be the leader, no skin off my
back. I am happy to see you alive.”
“No thanks. You keep it.”
Minho didn’t respond. Thomas couldn’t deny that the
signs weighed heavily on him—what did it really mean
that WICKED wanted him to be the leader? And what
should he do about it?
Newt got to his feet, his face in a deep scowl of
concentration. “So we’re all potential candidates for
something. And maybe the purpose of all the buggin’
klunk we’ve been through is to weed out those who
don’t qualify. But for some reason the whole gun-andrusty-
bullet thing wasn’t part of the … normal tests. Or
Variables, whatever. If Thomas is gonna croak and die,
it wasn’t supposed to come from a bloody infection.”
Thomas pursed his lips and nodded. Sounded like a
great summary to him.
“What this means is that they’re watching us,” Minho
said. “Just like they did in the Maze. Has anyone seen
a beetle blade running around anywhere?”
Several Gladers shook their heads.
“What the hell’s a beetle blade?” Jorge asked.
Thomas answered. “Little mechanical lizard things
that spied on us with cameras in the Maze.”
Jorge rolled his eyes. “Of course. Sorry I asked.”
“The Maze was definitely some kind of indoor
facility,” Aris said. “But there’s just no way we’re inside
something anymore. Though they could be using
satellites or long-range cameras, I guess.”
Jorge cleared his throat. “What is it about Thomas
that makes him so special? Those signs in the city
about him being the real leader, them swooping in here
and saving his butt when he got all sicky-sicky.” He
looked at Thomas. “I’m not trying to be mean,
muchacho—I’m just curious. What makes you better
than the rest of your buddies?”
“I’m not special,” Thomas said, even though he knew
he was hiding something. He just didn’t know what.
“You heard what they said. We have lots of ways to die
out here, but that gun shouldn’t be one of them. I think
they would’ve saved anybody who’d gotten shot. It
wasn’t about me—it was the bullet that messed things
up.”
“Still,” Jorge replied with a smirk. “I think I’ll stay
close to you from here on.”
A few more discussions broke out, but Minho didn’t
let them last long. He insisted that they all needed
sleep if they were planning on marching through the
night. Thomas didn’t complain—he’d grown more tired
with every passing second of sitting in that hot air on
that hot ground. Maybe it was his body healing, maybe
just the heat. Either way, sleep called to him.
They didn’t have blankets or pillows, so Thomas
curled up on the ground in the very spot where he’d
been sitting, resting his head on his folded arms.
Brenda somehow ended up right next to him, though
she didn’t say anything, and she certainly didn’t touch
him. Thomas didn’t know if he’d ever figure her out.
He sucked in a long, slow breath, closed his eyes,
then welcomed the rest, welcomed that heavy feeling
of slumber as it started pulling him into its depths. The
sounds around him seemed to fade away, the air to
thicken. A calm came over him, then sleep.
The sun was still blazing in the sky when a voice
sounded in his mind, waking him up.
A girl’s voice.
Teresa.
After days and days of utter silence, Teresa started
talking to him telepathically, all at once, a rush of
words.
Tom, don’t even try to talk back, just listen.
Something terrible is going to happen to you
tomorrow. An awful, awful thing. You’re gonna be hurt
and you’re gonna be scared. But you have to trust
me. No matter what happens, no matter what you
see, no matter what you hear, no matter what you
think. You have to trust me. I won’t be able to talk to
you.
She paused, but Thomas was so stunned and trying
so hard to understand what she’d said—make sure he
remembered it—that he couldn’t get a word in before
she started up again.
I have to go. You won’t hear from me for a while.
Another pause.
Not until we’re back together.
He fumbled for something to say, but her voice and
her presence slipped away, leaving him empty once
more.

CHAPTER 43
It took a long time for Thomas to find sleep again.
He had no doubt it had been Teresa. None at all.
Just like before when they’d spoken to each other, he’d
felt her presence, sensed her emotions. She’d been
with him, even if it had been for such a short time. And
when she left, it was like opening up that vast void
within all over again. As if during the days since her
disappearance a thick liquid had slowly seeped in and
filled that chamber, only to have it all sucked out again
when she came and went.
What had she meant, anyway? Something awful was
going to happen to him, but he needed to trust her? He
couldn’t wrap his mind around that enough for it to
make any sense. And as awful as her warning
sounded, his thoughts kept drifting to the last part,
about them being together again. Was that some string
of false hope? Or did it mean she thought he’d make it
through the bad thing and end up okay? Reunited with
her? Possibilities raced through his mind, but they all
seemed to hit a depressing dead end.
The day only got hotter and hotter as he tossed and
turned, haunted by his thoughts. He’d almost grown
used to Teresa’s being gone, which made him sick to
his stomach. To make it worse, he felt like he’d
betrayed her by letting Brenda become his friend, by
growing so close to her.
Ironically, his first instinct was to reach out and wake
Brenda, talk to her about it. Was that wrong? He felt so
frustrated and stupid he wanted to scream.
All great for someone trying to fall back asleep in the
miserable heat.
The sun had trudged halfway to the horizon before
he finally did.
He felt a little better in the late evening when Newt
shook him awake. Teresa’s brief visit to his mind
seemed like a dream now. He could almost believe it
had never happened.
“Sleep well, Tommy?” Newt asked. “How’s that
shoulder?”
Thomas sat up, rubbed his eyes. Though he couldn’t
have slept for more than three or four hours, his sleep
had been deep and undisturbed. He rubbed his
shoulder to test it and was surprised all over again.
“Feels really good, actually—aches a little, but not
much. Hard to believe I was hurtin’ so bad before.”
Newt looked around at the Gladers preparing to
leave, then back at Thomas. “Feels like we haven’t
talked much since leaving the bloody dorm. Not much
time to sit around and sip tea, I guess.”
“Yeah.” For some reason this made Thomas think of
Chuck, and all the pain of his death came rushing
back. Which just made him hate the people behind all
this all over again. The line from Teresa came back to
him. “I don’t see how WICKED can be good.”
“Huh?”
“Remember what Teresa had written on her arm
when she first woke up? Or did you even know about
that? It said WICKED is good. I’m just finding that hard
to believe.” The sarcasm in his voice wasn’t subtle.
Newt had a strange smile on his face. “Well, they just
saved your buggin’ life.”
“Yeah, they’re real saints.” Thomas couldn’t deny he
was confused. They had saved his life. He also knew
he’d worked for them. But what it all meant, he had no
idea.
Brenda, who had been stirring in her sleep, now
finally sat up, letting out a big yawn. “Morning. Or
evening. Whatever.”
“Another day alive,” Thomas answered, then realized
Newt might have no idea who Brenda was. He really
had no idea what had happened in the group since
he’d been shot. “I’m assuming you guys had time to get
to know each other? If not, Brenda, this is Newt. Newt,
Brenda.”
“Yeah, we know already.” Newt reached out and
shook her hand mockingly. “But thanks again for
making sure this bloody sissy didn’t get his butt killed
while you two were out partying.”
The barest hint of a smile flashed across her face.
“Partying. Yeah. I especially loved the part where we
had people trying to cut our noses off.” A look flashed
across her face, part embarrassment, part despair.
“Guess it won’t be long before I’m one of those
psychos.”
Thomas didn’t know how to respond to that. “You’re
probably not that much farther along than us.
Remember that—”
Brenda wouldn’t let him finish. “Yeah, I know. You
guys are gonna take me to the magical cure. I know.”
She got up then, the conversation obviously over.
Thomas looked at Newt, who shrugged. Then, as he
got to his knees, he leaned in and whispered, “She
your new girlfriend? I’m telling Teresa.” He snickered to
himself and was gone.
Thomas sat there for a minute, overwhelmed by it all.
Teresa, Brenda, his friends. The warning he’d
received. The Flare. The fact that they only had a few
days to cross those mountains. WICKED. Whatever
waited for them at the safe haven and in the future.
Too much. It was all too much.
He had to stop thinking. He was hungry, and that he
could solve. So he got up and went searching for
something to eat. And Frypan didn’t disappoint.
* * *
They set off just as the sun dipped below the horizon,
making the dusty orange land look almost purple.
Thomas was cramped and tired, itching to walk off
some steam and loosen his muscles.
The mountains slowly became jagged peaks of
shadow, growing taller and taller as they walked. There
were no real foothills to speak of; the flat valley just
stretched forward until the ground erupted toward the
sky in sheer cliffs and steep slopes. All brown and ugly,
lifeless. Thomas hoped an obvious path would present
itself once they’d made it that far.
No one spoke much as they marched along. Brenda
stayed close but quiet. She didn’t even talk to Jorge.
Thomas hated how it was now. How suddenly
everything was awkward between him and Brenda. He
liked her, probably more than he liked anyone else now
besides Newt and Minho. And Teresa, of course.
Newt approached him after darkness had fallen, the
stars and moon their only guides. Their light was
enough—you didn’t need much when the ground was
flat and all you had to do was walk toward the looming
wall of rock in front of you. The crunch crunch crunch
of their footsteps on the earth filled the air.
“Been thinkin’,” Newt said.
“About what?” Thomas didn’t really care; he was just
glad to have someone to talk to and get his mind off
things.
“WICKED. Ya know, they broke their own bloody
rules with you.”
“How’s that?”
“They said there were no rules. Said we had so
much time to get to the bloody safe haven and that was
that. No rules. People dying left and right, then they
come down in a buggin’ monster flying thing and save
your butt. Doesn’t make sense.” He paused. “Not that
I’m complaining—I’m glad you’re alive and all.”
“Gee, thanks.” Thomas knew it was a good point, but
he was tired of thinking about it.
“And then there were all those signs in the city.
Weird.”
Thomas looked over at Newt, barely able to see his
friend’s face. “What, you jealous or something?” he
asked, trying to make a joke out of it. Trying to ignore
the fact that the signs had to be a big deal.
Newt laughed. “No, you shank. Just dying to know
what’s really going on around here. What this is really
all about.”
“Yeah.” Thomas nodded. He couldn’t agree more.
“The lady said only a few of us were good enough to
be Candidates. And she did say I was the best
Candidate, and they didn’t want me dying from
something they hadn’t planned. But I don’t know what it
all means. Has something to do with all that klunk
about killzone patterns.”
They walked on for a minute or so before Newt
spoke again. “Not worth bustin’ our brains about, I
guess. What’s gonna happen’ll happen.”
Thomas almost told him then about what Teresa had
said in his mind, but for some reason it just didn’t feel
right.
He stayed silent, and eventually Newt drifted away
until once again Thomas walked alone in the dark.
A couple of hours passed before he had another
conversation, this time with Minho. A lot of words flew
back and forth between them, but in the end they hadn’t
really said much. Just passing time, rehashing the
same questions they’d all gone over in their minds a
million times.
Thomas’s legs were a little tired, but not too bad.
The mountains got ever closer. The air cooled
considerably, and it felt wonderful. Brenda remained
silent and distant.
And on they went.
* * *
When the first traces of dawn turned the sky a deep,
dark blue, the stars beginning to wink away for the
coming day, Thomas finally got the nerve to approach
Brenda and talk about something. Anything. The cliffs
loomed now, dead trees and chunks of scattered rock
coming into focus. They’d reach the foot of the
mountains by the time the sun popped over the
horizon, Thomas was sure of it.
“Hey,” he said to her. “How’re your feet holding up?”
“Fine.” It came out curt, but then she quickly spoke
again, maybe trying to make up for it. “How about you?
Your shoulder seem okay?”
“I can’t believe how fine it is. Doesn’t hurt much at all.

“That’s good.”
“Yeah.” He racked his brain, trying to think of
something to say. “So, um, I’m sorry about all the weird
stuff that happened. And … for anything I said. My
head’s all kinds of crazy and messed up.”
She looked over at him, and he could see a bit of
softness in her eyes. “Please, Thomas. The last thing
you need to do is apologize.” She returned her gaze up
ahead. “We’re just different. Plus, you have that
girlfriend of yours. I shouldn’t have tried to kiss you and
all that crap.”
“She’s not really my girlfriend.” He regretted saying it
as soon as it came out—didn’t even know where it had
come from.
Brenda huffed. “Don’t be dumb. And don’t insult me.
If you’re gonna resist this”—she paused and gestured
to herself with a sweep of her hands from head to toe
with a mocking smile—“then it better be for a good
reason.”
Thomas laughed—all the tension and awkwardness
had just vanished completely. “Point taken. You’re
probably a crappy kisser anyway.”
She punched him in the arm—luckily his good one.
“You couldn’t possibly be more wrong. Trust me on that
one.”
one.”
Thomas was just about to say something stupid
when he stopped dead in his tracks. Somebody
almost ran into him from behind, tripped around to his
side, but he couldn’t tell who—his eyes were glued in
front of him, his heart completely frozen.
The sky had lightened considerably, and the leading
edge of the mountains’ slope lay just a few hundred
feet away. Halfway between here and there, a girl had
seemingly appeared out of nowhere, rising from the
ground. And she was walking toward them at a brisk
pace.
In her hands she held a long shaft of wood with a
large, nasty-looking blade lashed to one end.
It was Teresa.

CHAPTER 44
Thomas didn’t quite know how to compute what he
saw. He felt no surprise or joy at Teresa’s being alive
—he’d already known that she was. She’d spoken to
his mind just the day before. But seeing her in the flesh
still lifted his spirits. Until he remembered her warning
that something bad was going to happen. Until he
thought about the fact she was holding a bladed spear.
The other Gladers noticed right after he did, and
soon everyone had stopped to gawk at Teresa as she
marched toward them, her hands gripping that
weapon, her face hard as stone. She looked ready to
start stabbing the first thing that moved.
Thomas took a step forward, not really sure what he
planned to do. But then more movement stopped him.
On both sides of Teresa, girls appeared; they, too,
seemed to come from nowhere. He turned to look
behind him. They were surrounded, by at least twenty
girls.
And they all held weapons, varying knives and rusty
swords and jagged machetes. Several of the girls had
bows and arrows, their menacing tips already aimed at
the group of Gladers. Thomas felt an uneasy slice of
fear. Regardless of what Teresa had said about
something bad happening, surely she wouldn’t let
these people hurt them. Right?
Group B popped into his mind. And his tattoo saying
how they were supposed to kill him.
His thoughts were cut short when Teresa stopped
about thirty feet away from the group. Her companions
did the same, forming a complete circle around the
Gladers. Thomas turned again to take it all in. Each
one of their new visitors stood stiffly, eyes squinted,
weapons held out in front and ready. The bows scared
him the most—he and the others would have no
chance to do anything before those arrows could fly
and find a home inside someone’s chest.
He stopped, facing Teresa. Her eyes were focused
on him.
Minho spoke first. “What’s this crap about, Teresa?
Nice way to greet your long-lost buddies.”
At the mention of the name Teresa, Brenda spun
and looked sharply at Thomas. He gave her a quick
nod, and the surprise on her face made him sad for
some reason.
Teresa didn’t answer the question, and an eerie
silence swept across the group. The sun continued to
rise, inching toward the point where its heat would beat
down on them unbearably.
Teresa walked toward them again, and stopped
about ten feet from where Minho and Newt stood side
by side.
“Teresa?” Newt asked. “What the bloody—”
“Shut up,” Teresa said. She didn’t snap or yell it. She
said it calmly and with conviction, which only made it
that much more frightening to Thomas. “And any of you
makes a move, the bows start shooting.”
Teresa brought her spear up to a better fighting
position, swept it back and forth as she stepped past
Newt and Minho and through the Gladers, acting as if
she was searching for something. She came to
Brenda, paused. Neither said a word, but the hatred
between them was visible. Teresa moved past her,
never dropping her icy stare.
And then she was in front of Thomas. He tried to tell
himself that she’d never use that weapon on him, but
believing it wasn’t easy when you were looking at the
blade’s sharp edge.
“Teresa,” he whispered before he could stop himself.
Despite the spear, despite the hard look on her face,
despite the way her muscles tensed as if she was
about to slash him, all he wanted was to reach out to
her. He couldn’t help but remember the kiss she’d
given him. The way it had felt.
She didn’t move, just kept staring at him, her face
unreadable except for the obvious anger there.
“Teresa, what’s—”
“Shut up.” That same voice of calm. Of utter
command. It didn’t sound like her.
“But what—”
Teresa reared back and swung the butt of her spear
at him, smashing it into his right cheek. An explosion of
pain shot through his skull, his neck; he crumpled to his
knees, a hand to his face where she’d hit him.
“I said shut up.” She reached down and grabbed him
by the shirt, jerked up until he stood once again. She
repositioned her hands on the wooden shaft, pointed it
at him. “Is your name Thomas?”
He gaped at her. His world was crashing in on him,
even though he told himself she’d warned him. Told him
that no matter what, he had to trust her. “You know who
I—”She swung the spear even more violently this time,
crashing the bladeless end into the side of his head,
right on his ear. The pain was twice as bad as the first
right on his ear. The pain was twice as bad as the first
hit; he cried out, clutching his head. But he didn’t fall
this time. “You know who I am!” he screamed.
“I used to, anyway,” she said in a voice that was both
soft and disgusted. “Now I’m going to ask you one
more time. Is your name Thomas?”
“Yes!” he yelled back at her. “My name is Thomas!”
Teresa nodded, then started to back away from him,
the tip of the blade once again aimed at his chest.
People got out of her way as she passed the group
and rejoined the circle of girls who surrounded them.
“You’re coming with us,” she called out. “Thomas.
Come on. Remember, anyone tries something, the
arrows fly.”
“No way!” Minho yelled. “You’re not taking him
anywhere.”
Teresa acted as if she hadn’t heard him, her eyes
riveted to Thomas in that strange squinty-eyed stare.
“This isn’t some stupid game. I’m going to start
counting. Every time I hit a multiple of five, we’ll kill one
of you with an arrow. We’ll do it until Thomas is the only
one left, then we’ll take him anyway. It’s up to you.”
For the first time, Thomas noticed that Aris was
acting strange. He stood just a few feet to Thomas’s
right, and he kept turning in a slow circle, staring at the
girls one by one as if he knew them each well. But
somehow he kept his mouth shut.
Of course, Thomas thought. If this really was Group
B, Aris had been with them. He did know them.
“One!” Teresa shouted.
Thomas wasn’t taking any chances. He walked
forward, pushing past people until he reached the
open, then went straight toward Teresa. He ignored the
comments from Minho and the others. He ignored
everything. Eyes on Teresa, trying to show no emotion,
he walked until he stood almost nose to nose with her.
It was what he wanted anyway, right? He wanted to
be with her. Even if she’d been turned against him
somehow. Even if she was being manipulated by
WICKED, like Alby and Gally had been. For all he
knew, her memory had been wiped again. Didn’t
matter. She looked serious, and he couldn’t risk having
someone shoot one of his friends with a bow and
arrow.
“Fine,” he said. “Take me.”
“I only made it to one.”
“Yeah. I’m really brave that way.”
She hit him with the spear, so hard that he couldn’t
help but drop to the ground again. His jaw and head
ached like smoldering fire. He spit, saw blood splatter
on the dirt.
“Bring the bag,” Teresa said from above.
In his peripheral vision he saw two girls walking
toward him, their weapons hidden away somewhere.
One of them—a dark-skinned girl with hair cut almost
to her scalp—held a large frayed burlap sack. They
stopped two feet from him; he got back to his hands
and knees, scared to do anything more for fear of
getting pummeled again.
“We’re taking him with us!” Teresa yelled. “If anybody
follows, I’ll hit him again and we’ll start shooting you.
We won’t really bother aiming. Just let the arrows fly
any old way they feel like.”
“Teresa!” Minho’s voice. “You catch the Flare that
quickly? Your mind’s obviously gone already.”
The butt of the spear smashed into the back of
The butt of the spear smashed into the back of
Thomas’s head; he collapsed onto his stomach, black
stars swimming in the dirt inches from his face. How
could she do this to him?
“Anything else you wanna say?” Teresa asked. After
a long moment of silence, she said, “Didn’t think so.
Put the bag over him.”
Hands roughly grabbed his shoulder and spun him
onto his back—their grip dug into his bullet wound
enough to send a deep ache flashing through his upper
body for the first time since WICKED had fixed him up.
He moaned. Faces—they didn’t even look angry
—hovered over him as two girls held the open end of
the sack directly above his head.
“Don’t resist,” the dark-skinned girl said, her face
shining with sweat. “Or it’ll just get worse.”
Thomas was perplexed. Her eyes and voice held
genuine sympathy for him. But her next words couldn’t
have been more different.
“Better just to go along and let us kill you. Doesn’t do
you any good to have a lot of pain along the way.”
The bag slipped over his head, and all he could see
was ugly brown light.

CHAPTER 45
They shifted him around on the ground till they got the
bag slipped entirely over his body. Then they tied the
open end at his feet with a rope, knotting it tight and
wrapping its ends up and around the rest of him,
pinning him inside the bag, cinching another knot just
over his head.
Thomas felt the bag going taut; then his head was
pulled up. He imagined girls holding either end of this
impossibly long rope. Which could only mean one thing
—they were going to drag him. He couldn’t take it
anymore, started squirming even though he knew what
it’d get him.
“Teresa! Don’t do this to me!”
This time a fist hit him right in the stomach, making
him howl. He tried to double over, tried to clutch his
middle, but couldn’t because of the stupid bag.
Nausea swept through him; he fought it, kept his food
down.
“Since you obviously don’t care about yourself,”
Teresa said, “talk again and we’ll start shooting your
friends. That sound good to you?”
Thomas didn’t respond; he heaved a silent sob of
agony. Had he really been thinking things were looking
up in the world only yesterday? His infection cured and
his wound healed, away from the city of Cranks,
nothing but a swift and hard hike through the mountains
between them and the safe haven. He should’ve known
better after everything he’d been through.
“I meant what I said!” Teresa yelled at the Gladers.
“There won’t be a warning. Follow us and the arrows
start flying.”
Thomas saw her outline as she knelt next to him,
heard her knees crunching on the dirt. Then she
grabbed him through the material of the bag, put her
head against his, her mouth just half an inch from his
ear. She started whispering, so faintly he had to strain
to hear, concentrating to separate her words from the
breeze.
“They’re blocking me from talking to you in our
heads. Remember to trust me.”
Thomas, surprised, had to fight to keep his mouth
shut.
“What’re you saying to him?” This came from one of
the girls holding the rope attached to the bag.
“I’m letting him know just how much I’m enjoying this.
How much I’m enjoying my revenge. Do you mind?”
Thomas had never heard such arrogance from her.
She was either a really good actress or had started
going crazy. Gained a split personality or two.
“Well,” the other girl responded. “Glad you’re having
so much fun. But we need to hurry.”
“I know,” Teresa said. She gripped the sides of
Thomas’s head even harder, squeezed and shook it.
Then she pressed her mouth against the rough
material, pushing on his ear. When she spoke, again
with that hot whisper, he could feel her hot breath
through the weave of the burlap. “Hang in there. It’ll be
over soon.”
The words numbed Thomas’s brain; he had no idea
what to think. Was she being sarcastic?
She released him and stood back up. “Okay, let’s
get out of here. Make sure you hit as many rocks as
you can along the way.”
His captors started walking, dragging him along
behind them. He felt the rough ground below him as he
was dragged across it, the big sack providing
absolutely no protection. It hurt. He arched his back,
putting all his weight on his feet, letting his shoes bear
the brunt of the impacts. But he knew his strength
couldn’t hold out forever.
Teresa walked right beside him as they pulled his
body along. He could just make her out through the
burlap.
Then Minho started yelling, his voice already fading
with distance, the sound of being dragged against the
dirt making it that much harder to hear. What Thomas
did hear, however, gave him little hope. Between
garbled unflattering names, Thomas heard the words
“we’ll find you” and “time is right” and “weapons.”
Teresa slammed her fist into Thomas’s stomach
again, shutting Minho up.
And across the desert they went, Thomas bouncing
over the dirt like a sack of old clothes.
Thomas imagined horrible things as they went along.
His legs were weakening every second, and he knew
he’d have to lower his body to the ground soon. He
pictured the bleeding wounds, the permanent scars.
But maybe it wouldn’t matter. They planned on killing
him anyway.
Teresa had said to trust her. And even though he had
a hard time doing it, he was trying to believe her. Could
all the stuff she’d done to him since reappearing with
the weapons and Group B really be an act? If it wasn’t,
why would she keep whispering to him to trust her?
His mind turned it all over in circles until he couldn’t
concentrate anymore. His body was being rubbed raw,
and he knew he needed to figure out how to prevent
every inch of skin from being scratched off.
The mountains saved him.
When they started going up the steep slope, it
obviously became difficult for the girls to drag his body
the way they’d done across flat ground. They tried
pulling him in quick jerks—slipping and letting him
slide several feet back down, then hauling him back up
only to let him slip again. Teresa finally said it’d
probably be easier to carry him by the shoulders and
ankles. And that they should do it in shifts.
An idea hit Thomas then that was so obvious he
thought surely he’d missed something. “Why don’t you
just let me walk!” he called through the burlap, his voice
muffled and cracking from thirst. “I mean, you do have
weapons. What am I gonna do?”
Teresa kicked him in the side. “Shut up, Thomas.
We’re not idiots. We’re waiting until your Glader
buddies can’t see us anymore.”
He’d done his best to stifle his groan when her foot
crashed into his rib cage. “Huh? Why?”
“Because that’s what we were told to do. Now shut
up!”
“Why’d you tell him that?” one of the other girls
whispered harshly.
“What does it matter?” Teresa responded, not even
trying to hide what she was saying. “We’re gonna kill
him anyway. Who cares if he knows what we were told
to do?”
Told to do, Thomas thought. By WICKED.
A different girl spoke up. “Well, I can barely see them
now. Once we reach that crevice up there, we’ll be out
of sight, and they’ll never find us after that. Even if they
do follow.”
“All right, then,” Teresa said. “Let’s just get him that
far.” Hands were soon gripping Thomas on all sides,
lifting him into the air. From what he could see through
the sack, Teresa and three of her new friends were
carrying him. They picked their way through boulders
and around dead trees, going up and up and up. He
heard their heavy breaths, smelled their sweat, hated
them more with each jolting step. Even Teresa. He
tried one last time to reach her mind, to salvage his
trust in her, but she wasn’t there.
The trudge up the mountain went on for maybe an
hour—with stops here and there for girls to switch off
carrying duties—and it had been at least twice that
long since they’d left the Gladers. The sun was
reaching a point where it would become dangerous,
the heat stifling. But then they rounded a massive wall,
the ground leveling a bit, and entered shade. The
cooler air was a relief.
“All right,” Teresa said. “Drop him.”
Without ceremony, they did what she said and he
slammed into the ground with a heavy grunt. It knocked
the wind out of him, and he lay there gasping for air as
they started untying the ropes. By the time he caught
his breath, the bag had been taken off.
He blinked, looking up at Teresa and her friends.
They all had their weapons pointed at him, which just
seemed ridiculous.
From somewhere he found a trace of courage. “You
guys must think a lot of me, twenty of you with knives
and machetes, me with nothing. I feel so special.”
Teresa reared back with her spear.
“Wait!” Thomas cried, and she stopped. He held his
hands up in deference, slowly got to his feet. “Look, I’m
not gonna try anything. Just take me wherever we’re
going and then I’ll let you kill me like a good boy. I don’t
have any shuck thing to live for anyway.”
He looked directly at Teresa when he said this, tried
to put as much spite into his words as possible. He still
held on to a little hope that somehow this would end up
making sense, but either way, after how he’d been
treated, he wasn’t in such a hot mood.
“Come on,” Teresa said. “I’m sick of this. Let’s get to
the inside of the Pass so we can sleep the day off.
Tonight we’ll start heading through.”
The girl with dark skin who’d helped put him in the
sack spoke next. “And what about this guy we’ve been
hauling around for the last few hours?”
“Don’t worry, we’ll kill him,” Teresa replied. “We’ll kill
him just the way they told us to. It’s his punishment for
what he did to me.”

CHAPTER 46
Thomas couldn’t figure out what Teresa meant by her
last statement. What had he done to her? But his mind
went numb as they walked and walked and walked,
apparently heading back to Group B’s camp. A steady
climb uphill, the effort burning his legs. A sheer cliff to
their left kept them in the shade as they hiked, but
everything was still red and brown and hot. Dry. Dusty.
The girls gave him a few sips of water, but he was sure
that every drop evaporated before it hit his stomach.
They reached a large indentation in the east wall just
as the noon sun broke out overhead, a golden ball of
fire bent on burning them to ashes. The shallow cave
went about forty feet into the mountain face; it was
obvious that this was their camp, and it looked like
they’d been there for a day or two. Blankets strewn
about, the remains of a fire, some trash piled on the
edge. Only three people were there when they arrived
—girls just like the others—which meant they’d felt they
needed almost everyone to kidnap Thomas.
With the bows and arrows, the knives and
machetes? It seemed almost silly. A few of them
would’ve done just as well.
Along the way, Thomas had learned some things.
The dark-skinned girl’s name was Harriet, and the one
who was always with her, with the reddish blond hair
and white, white skin, was named Sonya. Though he
couldn’t tell for certain, he guessed that those two had
mostly been in charge until Teresa had arrived. They
acted with some authority, but always deferred to her in
the end.
“Okay,” Teresa said. “Let’s tie him to that ugly tree.”
She pointed at the bone-white skeleton of an oak, its
roots still clinging to the rocky soil even though it had to
have been dead for years and years. “And we might as
well feed him so he doesn’t moan and groan all day
and keep us awake.”
Laying it on a little thick, isn’t she? Thomas thought.
Whatever her true intentions, her words had started to
get a little ridiculous. And he couldn’t deny it anymore
—he was really starting to hate her, no matter what
she’d said in the beginning.
He didn’t fight as they tied his torso to the trunk,
leaving his hands free. Once they had him good and
secure they gave him a few granola bars and a bottle
of water. No one spoke to him or met his gaze. And
strangely, if he wasn’t mistaken, he noticed that
everyone looked a little guilty. He started eating, and
as he did he carefully took in everything around him.
His thoughts wandered all over the place as the rest of
them began settling in to sleep out the remaining
daylight. Something wasn’t right about all this.
Teresa’s display certainly didn’t seem like an act. It
never had. Was it possible that she was doing the
exact opposite of what she’d told him—making him
think he should trust her when her real plan had been
and was to—
With a jolt he remembered the tag outside her door
back in the dorm. The Betrayer. He’d completely
forgotten about it until that moment. Things started to
make more sense.
WICKED was the boss, here. They were the groups’
only hope of surviving. If they’d really told her to kill him,
would she do it? To save herself? And what was that
line she’d spit out about his having done something to
her? Could they even be manipulating her thoughts?
Making her not like him anymore?
Then there was his tattoo and the signs in the city.
The tattoo had warned him; the signs had told him he
was the real leader. The label next to Teresa’s door
had been another warning.
Still—he had no weapons and he was tied to a tree.
Group B outnumbered him by more than twenty and
they all had weapons. Real easy.
Sighing, he finished up his food and felt a little better
physically. And though he didn’t quite know how
everything added up, he had a new confidence that he
was closer to understanding. And that he couldn’t quit.
Harriet and Sonya had pallets laid out nearby; they
kept sneaking looks at him as they readied for sleep.
Again Thomas noticed those odd expressions of
shame or guilt. He saw it as an opportunity to fight for
his life with words.
“You guys don’t really wanna kill me, do you?” He
asked it in a tone that said he’d caught them in a lie.
“Have you ever even killed anyone before?”
Harriet gave him a harsh glare, stopping just before
she laid her head down on a wad of blankets. She
propped herself up on her elbow. “Based on what
Teresa told us, we escaped our Maze three days faster
than your group did. Lost fewer people and killed more
Grievers to do it. I think knocking off one little
insignificant teenage boy won’t be too tough.”
“Think of the guilt you’ll feel.” He could only hope the
thought would dig at them.
“We’ll get over it.” She stuck her tongue out at him
—actually stuck her tongue out!—then put her head
down and closed her eyes.
Sonya sat cross-legged, looking about as far from
sleep as humanly possible. “We don’t have a choice.
WICKED said that was our only task. If we don’t do it,
they won’t let us in at the safe haven. We’ll die out here
in the Scorch.”
Thomas shrugged. “Hey, I understand. Sacrifice me
to save yourselves. Very noble.”
She stared at him for a long time; he had to fight not
to drop his gaze. She finally looked away and lay down
with her back to him.
Teresa walked over, her face twisted in annoyance.
“What are you talking about?”
“Nothing,” mumbled Harriet. “Tell him to shut up.”
“Shut up,” Teresa said.
Thomas huffed a sarcastic laugh. “What’re you
gonna do, kill me if I don’t?”
She didn’t say anything, just kept looking at him, her
face blank.
“Why do you hate me all of a sudden?” he asked.
“What did I do to you?”
Sonya and Harriet both had turned to listen, looking
back and forth between Thomas and Teresa.
“You know what you did,” Teresa finally said. “So
does everyone here—I told them all about it. But even
still, I wouldn’t have sunk to your level and tried to kill
you. We’re only doing that because we have no choice.
Sorry. Life’s tough.”
Did something just flash in her eyes? Thomas
wondered. What was she trying to tell him? “What are
you talking about, sink to my level? I’d never kill a
friend to save my own butt. Never.”
“Me neither. Which is why I’m glad we’re not friends.”
She started to turn away.
“So what’d I do to you?” Thomas asked quickly.
“Sorry, I’m kind of havin’ a memory lapse—ya know, we
have those a lot around here. Remind me.”
She twisted back around and glared at him with fiery
eyes. “Don’t insult me. Don’t you dare sit there and act
like nothing happened. Now shut up or I’ll give you
another bruise on that pretty face of yours.”
She stomped away, and Thomas kept silent. He
shifted until he was somewhat comfortable, his head
leaning back on the dead wood of the tree. Everything
about his current situation stank, but he was
determined to figure it out and survive.
Eventually he slept.

CHAPTER 47
Thomas slept fitfully for a few hours, tossing and
turning, trying to find a comfortable position on the hard
rock. He finally fell into a deep slumber, and then came
the dream.
Thomas is fifteen. He doesn’t know how he knows this.
Something to do with the timing of the memory. Is it a
memory?
He and Teresa are standing in front of a massive
bank of screens, each one showing various images
from the Glade and the Maze. Some of the views are
moving, and he knows why. These camera shots are
coming from beetle blades, and every once in a while
they have to change position. When they do, it’s like
looking through the eyes of a rat.
“I can’t believe they’re all dead,” Teresa says.
Thomas is confused. Once again he doesn’t quite
understand what’s happening. He’s inside this boy
who’s supposed to be him, but he doesn’t know what
Teresa’s talking about. Obviously not the Gladers—on
one screen he can see Minho and Newt walking
toward the forest; on another, Gally sitting on a bench.
Then Alby yelling at someone Thomas doesn’t
recognize.
“We knew it would happen,” he finally responds, not
sure why he said it.
“It’s still hard to take.” They aren’t looking at each
other, just analyzing the screens. “Now it’s up to us.
And the people in the barracks.”
“That’s a good thing,” Thomas says.
“I almost feel as sorry for them as I do for the
Gladers. Almost.”
Thomas wonders what this means as his younger
dream version clears his throat. “Do you think we’ve
learned enough? Do you really think we can pull this off
with all the original Creators dead?”
“We have to, Tom.” Teresa steps over to him and
grabs his hand. He looks down at her but he can’t read
her expression. “Everything’s in place. We have a year
to train the replacements and get ready.”
“But it’s not right. How can we ask them to—”
Teresa rolls her eyes and squeezes his hand so hard
it hurts. “They know what they’re getting into. No more
talking like that.”
“Yeah.” Somehow Thomas knows this version of
himself in the vision he’s seeing feels dead inside. His
words mean nothing. “All that matters now are the
patterns. The killzone. Nothing else.”
Teresa nodded. “No matter how many die or get hurt.
If the Variables don’t work, they’ll end up the same
anyway. Everyone will.”
“The patterns,” Thomas says.
Teresa squeezes his hand. “The patterns.”
When he woke up, the light dimming to a dull gray as
the sun sank to a horizon he couldn’t see, Harriet and
Sonya were sitting just a few feet from him. Both
staring at him strangely.
“Good evening,” he said with false enthusiasm, the
troubling dream still fresh in his mind. “Can I help you
ladies?”
“We want to know what you know,” Harriet said
quietly.
The lingering fog of sleep quickly vanished. “Why
should I help you?” He wanted to sit and think about
what he’d dreamed, but he knew something had
changed—he could see it in Harriet’s gaze—and he
couldn’t pass up the chance to save himself.
“I don’t think you have much choice,” Harriet said.
“But if you share whatever you’ve learned or figured
out, maybe we can help you.”
Thomas looked around for Teresa but couldn’t see
her. “Where is—”
Sonya interrupted him. “She said she wanted to
scout the area to see if your friends followed us. Been
gone for about an hour.”
In his mind, Thomas could see the Teresa of his
dream. Watching those screens, talking about dead
Creators and the killzone. Talking about patterns. How
did it all fit together?
“Forget how to talk?”
His eyes focused on Sonya. “No, um … does this
mean you guys are having second thoughts about
killing me?” The words sounded stupid to him, and he
wondered how many people in the history of the world
had ever asked a question like that.
Harriet smirked. “Don’t go jumping to conclusions.
And don’t think we’ve gone all righteous. Let’s just say
we have our doubts and want to talk—but your odds
are slim.”
Sonya picked up her line of thought. “The smartest
thing right now seems to be to do what we were told.
There are a lot more of us than you. I mean, come on. If
it was your decision, what would you do?”
“Pretty sure I’d choose the option of not killing
myself.”
“Don’t be a jerk. This isn’t funny. If you could choose,
and the two options were you die or all of us die, which
one would you pick? This is all about you or us.”
Her face showed she was very serious, and the
question hit Thomas like a thump to his chest. She was
right, on some level. If that really would happen—they’d
all die if they didn’t get rid of him—then how could he
expect them not to do it?
“You gonna answer?” Sonya pushed.
“I’m thinking.” He paused, wiped some sweat off his
forehead. Once again, the dream tried to creep to the
front of his mind and he had to push it back. “Okay, I’m
being honest here. I promise. If I were in your shoes, I’d
choose not to kill me.”
Harriet rolled her eyes. “Easy for you to say, since
it’s your life on the line.”
“It’s not just that. I think it’s some kind of test and
maybe you’re not really supposed to do it.” Thomas’s
heartbeat picked up—he really did mean what he said,
but he doubted they’d believe him even if he tried to
explain it. “Maybe we should share what we know,
figure something out.”
Harriet and Sonya exchanged a long look.
Sonya finally nodded; then Harriet said, “We’ve had
our doubts about this whole thing from the beginning.
Something about it isn’t right. So yeah, you better talk.
But let us get everybody over here first.” They stood up
to go rouse the others.
“Hurry, then,” Thomas said, wondering if he really did
have a chance to get out of this mess. “We better do
this before Teresa gets back.”

CHAPTER 48
It didn’t take long for them to gather everyone
—Thomas figured the intrigue of hearing what the
dead-guy-walking had to say was just too good to pass
up. The girls stood in a tight group in front of him; he
remained tied to the ugly, lifeless tree.
“All right,” Harriet said. “You talk first, then we will.”
Thomas nodded and cleared his throat. He began
talking even though he hadn’t totally planned what to
say yet.
“All I know about your group is what I learned from
Aris. And it seems like we all went through pretty much
the same thing inside the Maze. But since we
escaped, lots of things have been different. And I’m not
sure what you know about WICKED.”
Sonya cut in. “Not much.”
This encouraged Thomas, made him feel like he had
an advantage. And it seemed a big mistake for Sonya
to have admitted what she did. “Well, I’ve learned a lot
about them. All of us are special in some way—we’re
being tested or something because they have plans for
us.” He paused then, but no one showed much of a
reaction, so he went on.
“A lot of the things they’re doing to us don’t make
sense because they’re just part of the trials—what
WICKED calls the Variables. Seeing how we react in
certain situations. I don’t understand all of it, not even
close, but I think this whole thing about killing me is just
another layer. Or another lie. So … I think this is just
another Variable to see what we’ll all do.”
“In other words,” Harriet said, “you want us to risk
our lives because of this brilliant deduction.”
“Don’t you see? Killing me has no point. Maybe it’s
a test for you, I don’t know. But I do know that I can help
you if I’m alive, not if I’m dead.”
“Or,” Harriet replied, “we’re being tested to see if we
have the guts to kill our competitors’ leader. Isn’t that
the whole point? See which group succeeds? Weed
out the weak and leave the strong?”
“I haven’t even been the leader—Minho has.”
Thomas shook his head adamantly. “No, think about
this. How are you showing any strength by killing me?
I’m way outnumbered and you have all these weapons.
How does that prove who’s stronger?”
“Then what does it have to do with?” a girl from the
back called out.
Thomas paused, choosing his words carefully. “I
think it’s a test to see if you’ll think for yourself, change
plans, make rational decisions. And the more of us
there are, the better odds we have of making it to the
safe haven. Killing me makes no sense, does no one
any good. You’ve proven any power you needed to by
capturing me. Show them you won’t blindly take it all
the way.”
He stopped, relaxed back against the tree. He
couldn’t think of anything else. It was up to them now.
He’d given it his best shot.
“Interesting stuff,” Sonya said. “Sounds a lot like
something a person who’s desperate not to die would
say.”
Thomas shrugged. “I really feel like it’s the truth. I
think that if you kill me, you’ll have failed the real test
WICKED is throwing at you.”
“Yeah, I bet you think that,” Harriet said. She stood
up. “Look, to be honest, we’ve been thinking the same
types of things. But we wanted to see what you had to
say. Sun should be down soon, and I’m sure Teresa will
be back any minute. We’ll talk about it when she gets
here.”
Thomas spoke up quickly, worried that Teresa
wouldn’t be swayed. “No! I mean, she’s the one who
seems the most gung ho about killing me.” He said this
even though deep down he hoped he didn’t mean it. As
badly as she’d treated him, surely she wasn’t serious
about taking it all the way to murder. “I think you guys
should make the decision.”
“Calm down,” Harriet said, a half-smile on her face.
“If we decide not to kill you, there’s nothing she can
freaking do about it. But if we …” She stopped, a
strange look flashing across her face. Was she worried
she’d said too much? “We’ll figure it out.”
Thomas tried not to show his relief. He might have
appealed to their pride a little bit, but he tried not to let
his hopes get too high.
Thomas watched as the girls gathered their
belongings and packed them into
backpacks—Where’d they get those? he wondered
—readying for the night’s journey, to wherever that
might be. Murmurs and whispers of conversation
floated through the air as people kept glancing his way,
obviously discussing what he’d said.
The darkness grew deeper and deeper, and Teresa
finally appeared from the direction they’d come in
earlier that day. She noticed right away that something
was different, probably by the way everyone kept
looking between her and Thomas.
“What?” she asked, the same hard look on her face
she’d worn since the day before.
It was Harriet who answered. “We need to talk.”
Teresa looked confused, but went to the far side of
the recess in the cliff with the rest of the group. Furious
whispers immediately filled the air, but Thomas
couldn’t make out a word anybody said. His stomach
clenched in anticipation of the verdict.
From where he stood he could see that the
conversation had started to get passionate, and
Teresa looked as riled up as anyone. He watched her
expression intensify as she tried to make some point. It
seemed like it was her against the rest of them, which
made Thomas very nervous.
Finally, just as nightfall was almost complete, Teresa
turned, stomped from the group of girls, and started
walking away from the camp, heading north. She had
her spear slung over one shoulder, a backpack over
the other. Thomas watched her go until she
disappeared between the narrow walls of the Pass.
He glanced back at the group, many of whom looked
relieved, and Harriet came walking over. Without
saying a word, she knelt down and untied the rope
securing him to the tree.
“Well?” Thomas finally asked. “Did you guys decide
anything?”
Harriet didn’t answer until she’d completely freed
him; then she sat back on her heels and looked at him,
her dark eyes reflecting the faint light of the stars and
moon. “It’s your lucky day. We decided not to kill your
puny butt after all. It can’t be a coincidence that we’ve
puny butt after all. It can’t be a coincidence that we’ve
all been thinking the same things deep down.”
Thomas didn’t feel the expected rush of relief. In that
moment he realized that he’d known that was what they
would decide all along.
“But I tell you what,” Harriet said as she stood up,
holding a hand out to help him do the same. “Teresa
does not like you. I’d watch my back around her if I
were you.”
Thomas let Harriet pull him up, confusion and hurt
warring for dominance inside him.
Teresa really did want him dead.

CHAPTER 49
Thomas was quiet as he ate with Group B and
prepared to leave. Soon they started making their way
through the dark pass of the mountains, heading for the
safe haven that was supposed to wait on the other
side. It felt odd to suddenly be friendly with these
people after what they’d done to him, but they acted
like nothing unusual had ever happened. They treated
him like, well, like one of the girls.
But he did keep his distance a little, hanging toward
the back, wondering if he could fully trust their change
of heart about him. What was he supposed to do?
Even if Harriet and the others let him leave, should he
try to find his own group, Minho and Newt and
everyone else? He desperately wanted to be with his
friends and Brenda again. But he knew time was
running out, and he had no food or water to make it on
his own. He had to hope they’d find their own way to
the safe haven.
So he kept walking, staying close to Group B but not
too close.
A couple of hours went by, nothing but tall cliffs of
stone and the crunching of dirt and rock under his feet
to keep him company. It felt good to move again, to
stretch his legs and muscles. The deadline was fast
approaching, though. And who knew what obstacle
might spring up next? Or had the girls planned
something else for him? He thought a lot about the
dreams he’d been having, but still couldn’t put enough
together to truly understand what was going on.
Harriet drifted back until the two of them were
walking side by side.
“Sorry we dragged you through the desert in a bag,”
she said. He couldn’t see her face in the dimming light
very well, but he imagined a smirk there.
“Oh, no problem, it felt good to take a load off for a
while.” Thomas knew he had to play the part, show
some humor. He couldn’t trust the girls completely yet,
but he had no other options.
She laughed, a sound that put him at ease a bit.
“Yeah, well, the man from WICKED gave us very
specific instructions about you. But it was Teresa who
got all obsessed about it. Almost like killing you was
her idea.”
This dug at Thomas, but he finally had a chance to
learn some things and he wasn’t going to let that go.
“Did the guy have a white suit and kind of look like a rat
turned human?”
“Yeah,” she said without hesitating. “Same guy who
talked to your group?”
Thomas nodded. “What were the … specific
instructions he gave you?”
“Well, most of our trip has been through underground
tunnels. That’s why you didn’t see us in the desert. The
first thing we were supposed to do was that weird thing
where you and Teresa spoke in that building on the
south side of the city. Remember?”
Thomas’s stomach fell. She’d been with her group at
that point? “Uh, yeah, I remember.”
“Well, you’ve probably figured it out, but all of that
was an act. Kind of a prepper to give you some false
security. She even told us they somehow … controlled
her long enough to make her kiss you. Is that true?”
Thomas stopped walking, bent down and put his
hands on his knees. Something had sucked the breath
right out of him. That was it. He’d officially and
completely lost any trace of doubt. Teresa had turned
against him. Or maybe she had never really been on
his side.
“I know this sucks,” Harriet said softly. “It seems like
you used to feel really close to her.”
Thomas stood up again, slowly sucked in a long
breath. “I … just … I had hoped it was the other way
around. That they were forcing her to try to hurt us, that
she broke away long enough to … to kiss me.”
Harriet put a hand on his arm. “Ever since she joined
us, she’s made you out to be a monster who did
something really awful to her, only she’d never tell us
what it was. But I gotta tell ya—you’re not anything like
how she described you. That’s probably the real
reason we changed our minds.”
Thomas closed his eyes and tried to calm his heart.
Then he shook it off and started walking again. “Okay,
tell me the rest. I need to hear it. All of it.”
Harriet got in stride with him. “Everything else about
the instructions to kill you had to do with catching you in
the desert like we did and bringing you back here. We
were even told to keep you in the bag until we got out
of Group A’s sight. Then … well, then the big day was
supposed to be the day after tomorrow. There’s
supposed to be a place built into the mountain on the
north side. A special place to … kill you.”
Thomas wanted to stop again but kept his feet
moving. “A place? What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. He just told us we’d know what to do
when we got there.” She paused, then snapped her
fingers as if she’d just thought of something. “I bet
that’s where she went earlier.”
“Why? How close are we to the other side?”
“No idea, actually.”
They fell into silence and kept walking.
* * *
It took longer than Thomas would’ve thought. They
were in the middle of the second night of marching
when shouts up ahead announced that they’d reached
the end of the Pass. Thomas, who’d stayed at the back
of the group, broke into a run to catch up; he
desperately wanted to see what lay on the north side of
the range. One way or another, his fate waited there.
The group of girls had clustered in a wide swath of
broken rock that fanned out from the narrow canyon of
the Pass before dropping in a steep slope to the
bottom of the mountain far below. The three-quarter
moon shone down on the valley in front of them,
making it look dark purple and eerie. And very flat.
With nothing for miles and miles but sparse, dead land.
Absolutely nothing.
No sign of anything that could be a safe haven. And
they were supposed to be within a few miles of it.
“Maybe we just can’t see it.” Thomas didn’t know
who said it, but he knew every person there
understood exactly why she did. Trying to hold on to
hope.
“Yeah,” Harriet added, sounding upbeat. “It might just
be another entrance to one of their underground
tunnels. I’m sure it’s there.”
“How many more miles do you think we have left?”
Sonya asked.
“Can’t be more than ten, based on where we started
and how far the man said we had to go,” Harriet
answered. “Probably more like seven or eight. I thought
we’d come out over here and we’d see a nice big
building with a smiley face on it.”
Thomas had been searching the darkness the whole
time, but he couldn’t see anything, either. Just a sea of
black stretching to the horizon, where it seemed like a
curtain of stars had been pulled down. And no sign of
Teresa anywhere.
“Well,” Sonya announced. “Not much choice but to
keep heading north. We should’ve known better than to
expect something easy. Maybe we can make it to the
bottom of the mountain by sunrise. Sleep on flat
ground.”
The others agreed with her and were just about to
set off down a barely visible footpath leading from the
fan of rock when Thomas spoke up. “Where’s Teresa?”
Harriet looked back at him, the moonlight bathing
her face in a pale luminescence. “At this point, I don’t
really care. If she’s a big enough girl to go runnin’
around when she doesn’t get her way, she’s big
enough to catch up and find us when she gets over it.
Come on.”
They started off, heading down the switchback-laden
path, the loose soil and rock crunching underfoot.
Thomas couldn’t help but take a look behind him,
searching the mountain face and the narrow entrance
to the Pass for signs of Teresa. He was so confused
about everything, but still had a strange urge to see
about everything, but still had a strange urge to see
her. He gazed across the dark slopes, but saw only
dim shadows and reflections of the moonlight’s glow.
He turned and started walking, almost relieved he
hadn’t spotted her.
The group made their way down the mountain,
crisscrossing back and forth on the trail in silence.
Thomas lingered in the back again, surprised at how
blank his mind felt. How numb. He had absolutely no
idea where his friends were, no idea what dangers
might be waiting for him.
After an hour or so of traveling, his legs starting to
burn from the awkward downhill walk, the group came
across a pocket of dead trees that arrowed up the
mountain in a big swath. It almost looked as if at one
time a waterfall might have irrigated to the odd
formation of trees. Though if it had, the last drop had
long since surrendered to the Scorch.
Thomas, still last in line, was just passing the far side
of the trees when a voice spoke his name, startling him
so much he almost tripped. He turned sharply to see
Teresa step out from behind a thick knot of white wood,
spear gripped in her right hand, her face hidden in
shadow. The others must not have heard, because they
kept walking.
“Teresa,” he whispered. “What …” He didn’t even
know what to say.
“Tom, we need to talk,” she responded, almost
sounding like the girl he thought he knew. “Don’t worry
about them, just come with me.” She gestured to the
trees behind her with a quick jerk of her head.
He looked back to the girls of Group B, still heading
away from him, then turned to face Teresa again.
“Maybe we should—”
“Just come on. The act is over.” She turned away
without waiting for a response and stepped into the
lifeless forest.
Thomas thought hard for two whole seconds, his
mind spinning in confusion, instinct screaming at him
not to do it. But he followed her.

CHAPTER 50
The trees might have been dead, but their branches
still pulled on Thomas’s clothes and scratched at his
skin. The wood shone white in the moonlight, and the
streaks and pools of shadow across the ground gave
the whole place a haunted feel. Teresa kept walking in
silence, floating up the mountainside like an apparition.
Finally, he found the courage to speak. “Where’re we
going? And you really expect me to believe all that was
an act? Why didn’t you stop when everybody else
agreed not to kill me?”
But her reply was strange. Barely turning her head,
she asked, “You’ve met Aris, right?” She didn’t break
stride, just kept moving.
Thomas stopped for a second, completely taken
aback. “Aris? How do you even know about him?
What’s he got to do with this?” He hurried to catch up
with her again, curious but dreading the answer for
some reason.
She didn’t respond right away, picking her way
through a particularly tight pack of branches; one flew
back and smacked him in the face after she let it fly.
Once through, she finally stopped and turned to him,
right where a shaft of moonlight illuminated her face.
She looked unhappy.
“I happen to know Aris very well,” she said in a tight
voice. “Much better than you’re going to like. Not only
was he a big part of my life before the Maze, he and I
can speak in our minds, just like you and I used to do.
Even when I was in the Glade, we communicated all
the time. And we knew they’d eventually put us back
together.”
Thomas searched for a response. What she’d said
was so unexpected he thought it must be a joke.
Another trick by WICKED.
She waited, arms folded, as if she enjoyed seeing
him struggle to speak.
“You’re lying,” he finally said. “That’s all you do is lie. I
don’t understand why, or what’s going on, but—”
“Oh, come on, Tom,” she said. “How could you
possibly be so stupid? After all that’s happened to you,
how could anything surprise you anymore? Everything
about us was part of some ridiculous test. And it’s over.
Aris and I are going to do what we were told to do, and
life goes on. WICKED’s all that matters now. That’s it.”
“What are you talking about?” He couldn’t have felt
any emptier.
Teresa looked past him, over his shoulder. He heard
the snap of breaking twigs on the ground, and
somehow he held on to his dignity enough to not turn
around to see who had snuck up on him.
“Tom,” Teresa said. “Aris is right behind you, and he
has a very big knife. Try anything and he’ll slice your
neck. You’re coming with us and you’re gonna do
exactly what we tell you. Understand?”
Thomas stared at her, hoping the rage he felt inside
showed clearly on his face. He’d never felt so angry in
his life—what he could remember of it.
“Say hi, Aris,” she said. And then, the worst thing yet
—she smiled.
“Hi, Tommy,” the boy said from behind. It was
definitely him, just not as friendly as before. “Such a
thrill to be with you again.” The point of his knife just
touched Thomas’s back.
Thomas remained silent.
“Well,” Teresa said. “At least you’re acting like a
grown-up about this. Just keep following me—we’re
almost there.”
“Where are we going?” Thomas asked in a steely
voice.
“You’ll find out soon enough.” She turned and started
walking through the trees again, using her spear like a
staff.
Thomas hurried to follow before Aris got the
satisfaction of pushing him. The trees got thicker and
closer together, and the moonlight flitted away.
Darkness pressed in, sucking light and life right out of
him.
They reached a cave, the thick copse of trees serving
as a tight wall at its entrance. Thomas didn’t have any
warning—one minute they were picking their way
through prickly branches, the next they were in a tall,
narrow hole in the side of the mountain. A dull light
source shone from deep inside, a sickly green
rectangle that made Teresa look like a zombie when
she moved to the side for the other two to enter.
Aris stepped around him, his blade aimed like a gun
at Thomas’s chest as he backed to the wall opposite
Teresa and leaned against it. Thomas could do nothing
but look back and forth between them. Two people who
every instinct had told him were his friends. Until now.
“Well, we’re here,” Teresa said, looking at Aris.
He didn’t take his eyes off Thomas. “Yep, we’re
here, all right. You’re serious about him talking the
others into sparing him? What is he, some kind of
superpsychologist?”
“It kind of helped, actually. Made it easier to get him
here.” Teresa threw a condescending glance toward
Thomas, then crossed the cave to Aris. As Thomas
watched, she stood on her toes to kiss Aris on the
cheek and grinned. “I’m so glad we’re finally back
together.”
Aris smiled. He shot Thomas a look of warning, then
risked looking away long enough to tilt his head toward
Teresa. And kiss her on the lips.
Thomas tore his eyes away and closed them. Her
pleas for him to trust her, her quick whisper to hang in
there—it had all been to get him here. To bring him
more easily to this point.
So that she could fulfill some evil purpose concocted
by WICKED.
“Get it over with,” he finally said, not daring to open
his eyes again. He didn’t want to know what they were
doing, why they were quiet. But he wanted them to
think he’d given up. “Just get it over with.”
When they didn’t answer, he couldn’t help but take a
peek. They were whispering to each other, stealing
kisses between words. Something like burning oil filled
his stomach.
He looked away again, focusing on the odd source
of light in the back of the cave. A large rectangle of
pale green, set into the dark stone, pulsed with an
ethereal glow. It was as tall as an average man, maybe
four feet wide. Stains streaked across its dull surface
—a grimy window to something that looked like
radioactive sludge, glowing and dangerous.
radioactive sludge, glowing and dangerous.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Teresa step
away from Aris, their lovefest evidently over. He looked
at her, wondering if his eyes showed just how much
she had crushed him.
“Tom,” she said. “If it helps, I’m really sorry I hurt you. I
did what I had to do back in the Maze, and being all
buddy-buddy seemed like my best shot at getting the
memories we needed to figure out that code and
escape. And I didn’t have much choice here in the
Scorch. All we had to do was get you here to pass the
Trials. And it’s either you or us.”
Teresa paused for a second, and there was a
strange glint in her eye. “Aris is my best friend, Tom,”
she said calmly, evenly.
And that was what finally made Thomas crack.
“I … don’t … care!” he screamed, though nothing
could’ve been further from the truth.
“I’m just saying. If you care about me, then you
should understand why I’d be willing to do whatever it
takes to make it through this and keep him safe.
Wouldn’t you have done the same for me?”
Thomas couldn’t believe how far away he felt from
the girl he’d once thought was his best friend. Even in
all of his memories—it was always the two of them.
“What is this? Are you trying to come up with all the
ways possible in the universe to hurt me? Just shut
your shuck mouth and do whatever it is you brought me
here to do!” His chest heaved with angry breaths, his
heart thumping a deadly pace.
“Fine,” she replied. “Aris, let’s open the door. Time
for Tom to go.”

CHAPTER 51
Thomas was done talking, to either of them. But he
certainly wasn’t going down without a fight. He
resolved to wait and watch for the best opportunity.
Aris kept his knife pointed at him as Teresa made
her way toward the big rectangle of illuminated green
glass. Thomas couldn’t deny his curiosity about the
door.
She reached a point where the glow silhouetted her
whole body. It made her edges fuzzy, as if she were
dissolving. She walked across the cave until she’d left
the light completely, then reached for the stone wall,
started punching a finger on what had to be some sort
of keypad that Thomas couldn’t see.
She finished up and stepped back toward him.
“We’ll see if that actually works,” Aris said.
“It will,” Teresa replied.
A loud pop sounded, followed by a sharp hiss.
Thomas watched as the right edge of the glass began
to swing outward like a door. As it opened, wispy
streams of white mist swirled through the widening
crack, almost immediately evaporating into nothing. It
was like a long-abandoned freezer releasing its cold
air into the heat of the night. Darkness lurked inside
even as the rectangle of glass continued to emit its
strange green radiance.
So the door wasn’t a window at all, Thomas thought.
Just a green door. Maybe toxic waste wasn’t in his near
future. He hoped.
The door finally stopped, thumping with an icy
screech against the wall of jagged rock. A pit of black
now lay where the door had once been—there wasn’t
enough light to reveal what lay inside. The mist had
completely stopped as well. Thomas felt an abyss of
anxiety open up beneath him.
“Do you have a flashlight?” Aris asked.
Teresa put her spear on the ground, then pulled her
backpack off and dug through its contents. A moment
later she pulled out a flashlight and flicked it on.
Aris nodded back toward the opening. “Take a look
while I watch him. Don’t try anything, Thomas. I’m pretty
sure what they have planned for you is easier than
getting stabbed to death.”
Thomas didn’t answer, keeping his pathetic oath to
stay silent from here on out. He thought about the knife
and whether he could take it from Aris.
Teresa had stepped up right to the side of the
gaping rectangular hole; she shone her flashlight
inside. Swept it up and down, left to right. It cut through
a fine cloud of mist as she did so, but the dwindling
moisture was thin enough to reveal the interior.
It was a small room, only several feet deep. Its walls
appeared to be made of some silvery metal, their
surfaces broken up by small protrusions maybe an inch
high, each ending in a black hole. The little knobs or
spouts were set about five inches apart, making a
square grid across the walls.
Teresa turned to Aris, flicking off the flashlight as she
did so. “Looks about right,” she said.
Aris snapped his head back to look at Thomas, who
had been so focused on the strange room he’d missed
another chance to do something. “Exactly like they said
it would be.”
“So … I guess this is it?” Teresa asked.
Aris nodded, then switched his knife to the other
hand, holding it more tightly. “This is it. Thomas, be a
good boy and go on inside. Who knows, maybe this is
all a big test and once you’re in they’ll let ya go and we
can all have a happy reunion.”
“Shut up, Aris,” Teresa said. It was actually the first
thing she’d said in quite some time that didn’t make
Thomas want to punch her. She then turned back to
Thomas, avoiding his eyes. “Let’s get this over with.”
Aris waved his blade, indicating that Thomas should
walk forward. “Come on. Don’t make me drag you in.”
Thomas looked at him, struggling to keep a blank
expression as his mind spun in a million directions. A
surge of panic boiled inside him. It was now or never.
Fight or die.
He turned his gaze to the open doorway and started
slowly walking toward it. Three steps and he’d halved
the distance. Teresa had straightened, her arms
tensed in case he caused trouble. Aris kept his
weapon trained on Thomas’s neck.
Another step. Another. Now Aris stood directly to his
left, just two or three feet away. Teresa was behind him,
out of sight, the open doorway and the odd silver room
with walls covered in holes right in front of him.
He stopped, looked sideways at Aris. “What did
Rachel look like as she bled to death?” It was a
gamble, a pitch to throw him off.
Shocked and hurt, Aris froze, giving Thomas the split
second he needed.
He jumped toward the other boy and swung his left
arm in an arc to smack the knife out of his hand. It
arm in an arc to smack the knife out of his hand. It
clattered across the rocks. Thomas slammed his right
fist into Aris’s stomach, sending him to the ground,
desperately trying to suck in a breath.
The click of metal against rock stopped Thomas
from kicking the boy at his feet. He looked up to see
that Teresa had picked up her spear. They locked eyes
for an instant; then she charged him. Thomas threw his
hands up to protect himself but it was too late—the butt
of the weapon swung through the air and smacked him
on the side of the head. Stars floated before his eyes
as he fell, fighting to stay conscious. As soon as he hit
the ground, he scrambled to his hands and knees to
get away.
But he heard Teresa scream, and a second later the
wood came crashing down on the top of his skull. With
a thump Thomas collapsed again; something wet
oozed through his hair and trickled onto both temples.
Pain tore through his head, as if an axe had been
driven straight into his brain. It spread to the rest of his
body, making him nauseated. He somehow pushed off
the ground and flopped onto his back to see Teresa
with the weapon raised above her once more.
“Get in the room, Thomas,” she said through heavy
breaths. “Get in the room or I’ll hit you again. I swear I’ll
keep doing it till you pass out or bleed to death.”
Aris had recovered and gotten back to his feet; he
stood right next to her.
Thomas reared both legs back and kicked out,
connecting with a knee on both of them. They
screamed and crumpled, falling on top of each other.
The physical effort sent a horrible rush of pain raging
through Thomas. White flashes blinded him; the world
was spinning. He groaned as he struggled to move,
got back on his stomach, tried to get his hands under
himself. He’d barely pushed a few inches off the
ground when Aris landed on his back, slamming him
down. Soon the boy’s arm wrapped around Thomas’s
neck, squeezing.
“You’re going in that room,” Aris spit in his ear. “Help
me, Teresa!”
Thomas couldn’t find any strength to fight them off.
The double blow to his head had somehow sapped
him of everything, as if all his muscles had gone
dormant because his brain didn’t have enough energy
to tell them what to do. Soon Teresa had grabbed both
of his arms; she started dragging him toward the open
doorway, Aris pushing him. Thomas kicked feebly.
Rocks dug into his skin.
“Don’t do this,” he whispered, giving in to
desperation. Every word sent a surge of pain across
his nerves. “Please …” All he saw now were flashes of
white on black. A concussion, he realized. He had a
terrible, terrible concussion.
He was barely aware of his body crossing the
threshold, of Teresa resting his arms against the cool
metal of the back wall, stepping over him, helping Aris
flip his legs up and over so that he now lay in a heap,
facing the side. Thomas couldn’t even find the strength
to look at them.
“No,” he said, but it was merely a whisper. The
image of the sick boy, Ben, being Banished back in
the Glade swam into his brain. An odd time to think it,
but now he knew how that kid had felt in those last
seconds before the walls slammed shut, trapping him
in the Maze forever.
in the Maze forever.
“No,” he repeated; it was so quiet he couldn’t
imagine they heard him. He ached from head to toe.
“You’re so stubborn,” he heard Teresa say. “You had
to make it harder on yourself! Harder on all of us!”
“Teresa,” Thomas whispered. He dug through the
pain and tried to call out to her telepathically, even
though it hadn’t worked in a long time. Teresa.
I’m sorry, Tom, she answered back, in his mind once
again. But thanks for being our sacrifice.
He hadn’t realized the door was swinging closed,
but it slammed shut just as that last horrible word
floated across his darkening thoughts.

CHAPTER 52
The back of the door they’d shut on him glowed green,
turning the small room into a creepy, sickening prison.
He might’ve cried, might’ve gushed tears and snot and
wailed like a baby if his head didn’t hurt so much. The
pain drilled through his skull, and his eyes felt as if they
were boiling in lava.
But even then, through all that, the deeper ache of
truly losing Teresa gnawed away at his heart. He just
couldn’t let himself cry.
He lost all concept of time as he lay there. It was as if
whoever was behind it all wanted to give him a chance
to reflect on what had happened while he waited for the
end. On how Teresa’s message to trust her no matter
what had ended up being a cruel trick that only
magnified her two-faced treachery.
An hour passed. Maybe two or three. Maybe only
thirty minutes. He had no idea.
And then the hissing started.
The faint light of the glowing door revealed sprays of
mist shooting from the holes that dotted the metal walls
in front of him. He turned his head, sending a fresh
wave of pain across his skull, and saw that all the
openings were expelling similar jets of fog.
And it all hissed like a squirming nest of poisonous
vipers.
So this is it? he thought. After everything he’d been
through, after all the mysteries and fighting and fleeting
moments of hope, they were just going to kill him with
some kind of poison gas? Stupid, that was what this
was. Stupid. He’d battled Grievers and Cranks,
survived a gunshot and infection. WICKED. They were
the ones who’d saved him! And now they were just
going to gas him to death?
He sat up, actually crying out from the jolt of pain it
caused. He looked around, looked for anything he
might be able to …
Tired. So tired.
Something in his chest felt wrong. Sick.
The gas.
Tired. Hurt. Body exhausted.
Breathing in gas.
Couldn’t help himself.
So … tired …
Inside him. Wrong.
Teresa. Why did it have to end that way?
Tired …
Somewhere on the edge of his consciousness, he
was aware of his head thumping against the floor.
Betrayal.
So …
Tired …

CHAPTER 53
Thomas didn’t know if he was dead or alive, but it felt
like he was asleep. Aware of himself, but as if through
a haze. He slipped into yet another memory-dream.
Thomas is sixteen. He’s standing in front of Teresa and
some girl he doesn’t recognize.
And Aris.
Aris?
All three of them are looking at him with grim faces.
Teresa is crying.
“It’s time to go,” Thomas says.
Aris nods. “Into the Swipe, then into the Maze.”
Teresa does nothing but wipe away some tears.
Thomas reaches out a hand and Aris shakes it. Then
Thomas does the same with the girl he doesn’t know.
Then Teresa rushes forward and pulls him into an
embrace. She’s sobbing, and Thomas realizes that
he’s also crying. His tears wet her hair as he hugs her
tightly.
“You have to go now,” Aris says.
Thomas looks at him. Waits. Tries to enjoy this
moment with Teresa. His last moment of full memory.
They won’t be like this again for a very long time.
Teresa looks up at him. “It’s going to work. It’s all
going to work.”
“I know,” Thomas says. He feels a sadness that
makes every last bit of him ache.
Aris opens a door and beckons for Thomas to follow
him. Thomas does, but manages to look back at
Teresa one last time. Tries to look hopeful.
“See ya tomorrow,” he says.
Which is true, and it hurts.
The dream faded, and Thomas fell into the blackest
sleep of his life.

CHAPTER 54
Whispers in the dark.
That was what Thomas heard when he began
returning to consciousness. Low but harsh, like
sandpaper rubbing across his eardrums. He didn’t
understand any of it. It was so dark it took him a
second to realize that his eyes were open.
Something cool and hard pressed against his face.
The ground. He hadn’t moved since the gas had
knocked him out. Shockingly, his head didn’t hurt
anymore. In fact, nothing did. Instead, a feeling of
refreshed euphoria swam through him, almost made
him dizzy. Maybe he was just happy to be alive.
He got his hands under himself and pushed up into a
sitting position. A look around did nothing—not even
the faintest glimmer of light broke up the utter
darkness. He wondered what had happened to the
green glow of the door that Teresa had shut on him.
Teresa.
His elation drained away. Remembering what she’d
done to him. But then …
He wasn’t dead. Unless the afterlife was just a crappy
room of blackness.
He rested for a few minutes, letting his mind wake
up and settle before he finally got to his feet and
started feeling around. Three cool metal walls with
evenly spaced upraised holes. One smooth wall that
felt like plastic. He was definitely in that same little
room.
He pounded on the door. “Hey! Anybody out there?”
His thoughts started spinning. The memory-dreams,
several now—so much to process, so many questions.
The things that had first come back to him with the
Changing in the Maze were slowly starting to come into
focus, solidify. He’d been part of WICKED’s plans, part
of all this. He and Teresa had been close—best
friends, even. All of it had seemed right. Doing these
things for the greater good.
Only, Thomas didn’t feel so good about it now. All he
felt was anger and shame. How could anything justify
what they’d done? What WICKED—what they—were
doing? Though he certainly didn’t think of himself this
way, he and the others were just kids. Kids! He didn’t
like himself very much anymore. He wasn’t sure when
he’d reached this turning point. But something had
cracked within him.
And then there was Teresa. How could he ever have
felt so much for her?
Something cracked, then hissed, interrupting his line
of thinking.
The door started to open, slowly swinging outward.
Teresa stood there in the pale light of early morning,
her face streaked with tears. As soon as there was
enough room, she threw her arms around him,
pressing her face against his neck.
“I’m so sorry, Tom,” she said; her tears were wet
against his skin. “I’m so, so, so sorry. They said they’d
kill you if we didn’t do everything just like they told us.
No matter how horrible. I’m sorry, Tom!”
Thomas couldn’t answer, couldn’t bring himself to
hug back. Betrayal. The sign on Teresa’s door, the
conversation between the people in his dreams.
Pieces were falling into place. For all he knew, she
was just trying to trick him again. The betrayal meant
he couldn’t trust her anymore, and his heart told him he
couldn’t forgive her.
On some level, he realized that Teresa had kept her
initial promise to him after all. She had done those
awful things against her will. What she had said in the
shack had been true. But he also knew that things
could never, never be the same between them.
He finally pushed Teresa away. The sincerity in her
blue eyes did little to diminish his lingering doubt.
“Uh … maybe you should tell me what happened.”
“I told you to trust me,” she answered. “I told you that
bad, bad things would happen to you. But the bad stuff
was all an act.” She smiled then, and it was so pretty
Thomas longed to find a way to forget what she’d
done.
“Yeah, but you didn’t seem to struggle too much,
beating the klunk out of me with a spear and throwing
me into a gas chamber.” He couldn’t hide the mistrust
raging in his heart. He glanced at Aris, who looked
sheepish, like he’d intruded on a private conversation.
“I’m sorry,” the boy said.
“Why didn’t you tell me we knew each other before?”
Thomas responded. “What …” He didn’t know what to
say.
“It was all an act, Tom,” Teresa said. “You have to
believe us. We were promised from the very beginning
that you wouldn’t die. That this chamber thing had its
own purposes and then it’d be over. I’m so sorry.”
Thomas looked back at the still-gaping door. “I think I
need some time to process all this.” Teresa wanted
him to forgive her—for everything to be how it used to
be immediately. And instinct told him to hide his bitter
feelings, but it was hard.
“What happened in there, anyway?” Teresa asked.
Thomas returned his gaze to her. “How about you
talk first, then me. I think I earned that much.”
She tried to take his hand but he moved it,
pretending he had an itch on his neck. When he saw
the flash of hurt cross her face, he felt the slightest bit
of vindication.
“Look,” she said. “You’re right. You deserve an
explanation. I think it’s okay to tell you everything now
—not that we know too much of the why.”
Aris cleared his throat, an obvious interjection. “But,
um, we better do it while walking. Or running. We only
have a few hours left. Today is the day.”
Those words jarred Thomas completely out of his
stupor. He looked down at his watch. Only five and a
half hours remained if Aris was right that they’d
reached the end of the two weeks—Thomas had kind
of lost track himself, not knowing how long he’d been in
the chamber. And none of this other stuff mattered at all
if they didn’t make it to the safe haven. Hopefully Minho
and the others had already found it.
“Fine. Let’s just forget this for now,” he said, then
changed the subject. “Is anything different out there? I
mean, I saw it in the dark, but—”
“We know,” Teresa interrupted. “There’s no sign of a
building. Nothing. It looks even worse in the daylight.
Just forever and ever of flat wasteland. There isn’t a
tree or a hill, much less any safe haven.”
Thomas looked at Aris, then back at Teresa. “Then
what’re we supposed to do? Where do we go?” He
thought of Minho and Newt, the Gladers, Brenda and
Jorge. “Have you seen any of the others?”
Aris answered. “All the girls from my group are down
there, walking north like they’re supposed to, already a
couple miles out. We spotted your friends at the base
of the mountain a mile or two west of here. Can’t tell for
sure, but looks like no one new is missing, and they’re
heading in the same direction as the girls.”
Relief filled Thomas. His friends had made it
—hopefully all of them.
“We gotta get moving,” Teresa said. “Just because
nothing’s there doesn’t mean anything. Who knows
what WICKED is up to? We just have to do what they
told us. Come on.”
Thomas had been experiencing a brief moment of
wanting to give up, to sit down and forget it all—let
whatever was going to happen, happen. But almost as
fast as it came out, it disappeared. “Okay, let’s go. But
you better tell me everything you know.”
“I will,” she answered. “You guys up for running once
we’re out of these dead trees?”
Aris nodded, but Thomas rolled his eyes. “Please.
I’m a Runner.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Well, then, we’ll just have
to see who stops before who.”
In answer, Thomas stepped out of the small clearing
and into the lifeless forest first, refusing to dwell on the
storm of memories and emotions that tried to weigh
him down.
The sky didn’t lighten much as morning ticked on.
Clouds blew in, gray and thick, so thick that Thomas
wouldn’t have had any idea of the time if it weren’t for
his watch.
Clouds. Last time that had happened …
Maybe this storm wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe.
Once they left the dense pack of dead trees, they
didn’t pause. An obvious trail led toward the valley
below, switching back and forth like a jagged scar on
the mountain face. Thomas estimated it would take a
couple of hours just to get to the bottom—running on
the steep, slippery slopes looked like a good way to
break an ankle or leg. And if that happened, they’d
never make it.
The three agreed they’d hike quickly but safely, then
book it once they were on flat land. They started down
—Aris, then Thomas, then Teresa. The dark clouds
churned above them as wind gusted in seemingly
every direction. Just as Aris had said, Thomas could
see two separate packs of people in the desert below
—his Glader friends, not far from the base of the
mountain, then Group B, maybe a mile or two farther
out. Once again Thomas was relieved, and his step felt
lighter as he made his way.
After the third switchback, Teresa spoke up from
behind him. “So, guess I’ll start the story from where we
left off.”
Thomas just nodded. He couldn’t believe how good
he felt physically—his stomach miraculously full, the
pain from being beaten up gone, fresh air and brisk
wind to make him feel alive. He had no idea what was
in that gas he’d breathed, but it seemed far from
poisonous. Still, his mistrust of Teresa itched at him; he
didn’t want to be overly nice.
“It all started right when we were talking to each
other in the middle of the night—that very first one right
after the rescue from the Maze. I was kind of half
asleep and then these people were in my room, all
dressed funny. Creepy. Baggy jumpsuits and goggles.”
“Serious?” Thomas asked over his shoulder. They
sounded just like the people he’d seen after being
shot.
“Freaked me out—and I tried calling to you, but it
suddenly cut out. The telepathy thing, I mean. I don’t
know how I knew, but it just vanished. From then until
now it’s only come and gone in spurts.”
Then she spoke in his mind. You can hear me
perfectly now, right?
Yeah. Did you and Aris really talk while we were in
the Maze?
Well …
She trailed off, and when Thomas looked back at
her, she had a worried look on her face.
What’s wrong? he asked, turning his attention back
to the trail before he did something stupid like trip and
go tumbling down the mountain.
I don’t wanna go into that yet.
“Go—” He stopped himself before he said it out
loud. Go into what?
Teresa didn’t answer.
Thomas tried as hard as he could to shout inside her
mind. Go into what!
She stayed silent a few seconds longer before finally
answering.
Yeah, he and I have been talking since I first
showed up in the Glade. Mostly while I was in that
stupid coma.

CHAPTER 55
It took every ounce of Thomas’s willpower not to stop
and turn toward her. What? Why didn’t you tell me
about him back in the Maze? As if he needed another
reason to dislike either of them.
“Why’d you guys stop talking?” Aris suddenly asked.
“You yappin’ about me in those pretty little heads of
yours?” Impossibly, he didn’t seem the least bit sinister
at all anymore. It was almost as if everything that had
happened back in the dead forest had been a creation
of Thomas’s imagination.
Thomas let out a heavy breath that had been
building in his lungs. “I can’t believe this. You two’ve
been—” He stopped, realizing that maybe he wasn’t so
surprised after all. He’d seen Aris in the splotchy
memories of his most recent dream. He was a part of
this, whatever this was. And the way they’d acted
toward each other in that brief recall seemed to say
they were on the same side. Used to be, anyway.
“Shuck it,” Thomas finally said. “Just keep talking.”
“All right,” Teresa said. “There’s a lot of stuff to
explain, so from now on just keep quiet and listen. Got
it?” Thomas’s legs were starting to burn from their
steady pace on the slope. “Okay, but … how do you
know when you’re talking to me and when you’re
talking to him? How does that work?”
“It just does. That’s like me asking how you know
when you’re telling your right leg to move and when
you’re telling your left leg to move. I just … know. It’s
built into my brain somehow.”
“We’ve done it, too, man,” Aris said. “Don’t you
remember?”
“Of course I remember,” Thomas muttered, annoyed
and frustrated on so many levels. If only he could have
everything back—every last memory—he knew the
pieces would fall into place and he could just move
forward. He couldn’t fathom why WICKED felt it was so
important to keep their minds clean of memory. And
why the occasional leakage lately? Was that on
purpose or an accident? A lingering effect of the
Changing?
Too many questions. Too many shuck questions, all
without answers. “All right,” he finally said. “I’ll keep my
mouth and brain shut. Keep going.”
“We can talk about Aris and me later. I don’t even
remember what we spoke about—I lost almost
everything when I woke up. Our comas had to be part
of the Variables, so maybe we could communicate just
so we wouldn’t go crazy. I mean, we were part of
setting it all up, right?”
“Setting it all up?” Thomas asked. “I don’t—”
Teresa reached forward and swatted him on the
back. “Thought you were gonna be quiet?”
“Yeah,” Thomas grumbled.
“Anyway, these people came into my room dressed
in those creepy outfits and my telepathy with you cut
off. I was scared and only half awake. Part of me
thought it was just a bad nightmare. Then the next thing
I knew, they put something over my mouth that smelled
horrible and then I passed out. When I woke up I was
lying in a bed in a different room and a bunch of people
were sitting in chairs on the opposite side of this weird
glass wall. I couldn’t see it until I touched it—almost like
a force field or something.”
“Yeah,” Thomas said. “We had something like that,
too.”
“So then they started talking to me. That’s when they
told me this whole plan of what Aris and I had to do to
you—and they expected me to tell him. By, you know,
speaking in his mind, even though he was now with
your group. Our group. Group A. They took me from my
room and sent me to be with Group B; then they told us
about the mission to the safe haven, about having the
Flare. We were scared, confused, but we had no
choice. We went through these underground tunnels
until we got to the mountains—we avoided the city
altogether. When you and I met in that little building,
and then everything that happened from the time we
came down to you in the valley with all those weapons
—all of that was planned.”
Thomas thought about the sketchy memories he’d
had in his dreams. Something told him he’d known that
a scenario like this might need to happen before he
ever went to the Glade and the Maze. He had a
hundred questions to ask Teresa, but decided to hold
back for a little while longer.
They turned at another switchback; then Teresa
continued. “I only know two things for sure. One, they
said that if I did anything against their plan they’d kill
you. Said they ‘had other options,’ whatever that
means. The second thing I know is that the reason for
all this was that you had to truly and absolutely feel
betrayed. The whole purpose of what we did to you
betrayed. The whole purpose of what we did to you
was to ensure that that happened.”
Again Thomas thought of the memories. He and
Teresa had both used the word patterns right before he
left her. What did it mean?
“So?” Teresa asked after they’d walked in silence for
a while.
“So … what?” Thomas replied.
“So what do you think?”
“That’s it? That’s your whole explanation? I’m
supposed to feel all happy now?”
“Tom, I couldn’t take any chances. I was convinced
they’d kill you unless I went along. No matter what, in
the end you had to feel like I’d completely betrayed
you. That’s why I put so much into it. But why this was
all so important? I have no idea.”
Thomas realized suddenly that all this information
had started another headache. “Well, you sure were
good at it. What about in that building? When you
kissed me? And … why did Aris need to be involved in
all this?”
Teresa grabbed his arm and made him stop and turn
to face her. “They had everything calculated. All for the
Variables. I don’t know how it all fits together.”
Thomas slowly shook his head. “Well, none of this
crap makes any sense to me. And excuse me for
feeling a little ticked off.”
“Did it work?”
“Huh?”
“For some reason they wanted you betrayed, and it
worked. Right?”
Thomas paused, looked into her blue eyes for a long
time. “Yeah. It did.”
“I’m sorry for what I did. But you’re alive, and so am I.
And so is Aris.”
“Yeah,” he repeated. He really didn’t feel like talking
to her anymore.
“WICKED got what they want, and I got what I want.”
Teresa looked at Aris, who’d kept walking for a while
and now stood down on the next level of the path. “Aris,
turn around, face the valley.”
“What?” he replied. He looked confused. “Why?”
“Just do it.” She didn’t have the mean streak in her
voice anymore, hadn’t since the gas chamber, but if
anything, that made Thomas even more suspicious.
What was she up to now?
Aris sighed and rolled his eyes, but did what she
said, turning his back to them.
Teresa didn’t hesitate. She wrapped her arms
around Thomas’s neck, pulling him in. He didn’t have
enough will to resist.
They kissed, but nothing stirred inside Thomas. He
felt nothing.

CHAPTER 56
The wind intensified, whipping and swirling.
Thunder rumbled in the darkening sky, giving
Thomas an excuse to pull away from Teresa. He
decided again to hide his hard feelings. Time was
running out and they still had a long way to go.
Doing his best acting job, he gave Teresa a smile
and said, “Guess I got it—you did a bunch of weird
stuff, but you were forced to, and now I’m alive. That’s
it, right?”
“That’s about it.”
“Then I’m gonna quit thinking about it. We need to
catch up with the others.” The best chance he had to
make it to the safe haven was to work with Teresa and
Aris, so he would. He could think about Teresa and all
she’d done later.
“If you say so,” she said with a forced smile, as if she
sensed that something wasn’t quite right. Or maybe
she didn’t like the prospect of facing the Gladers after
what had happened.
“Are you guys done up there?” Aris yelled, still facing
the other direction.
“Yes!” Teresa called back. “And don’t expect me to
ever kiss you on the cheek again. I think my lips have a
fungus now.”
Thomas almost gagged at hearing that. He set off
down the mountain again, moving before Teresa tried
to hold his hand.
* * *
It took another hour to get to the bottom of the
mountain. The slope leveled a bit as they got closer,
allowing them to increase their pace. Eventually the
switchbacks stopped altogether, and they jogged the
last mile or so to the flat and desolate wasteland
stretching to the horizon. The air was hot, but the
overcast sky and the wind kept it bearable.
Thomas still couldn’t get a very good look at the
slowly converging Groups A and B up ahead,
especially now that he’d lost the bird’s-eye view and
dust had clouded the air. But both the boys and the
girls still moved in their own tight packs, heading north.
Even from his vantage point, they appeared to be
leaning into the stiffening wind as they walked.
Thomas’s eyes stung from the dirt flying through the
air. He kept wiping at them, which only made it worse,
made the surrounding skin feel raw. The world
continued to darken as the clouds thickened in the sky
above.
After a quick break to eat and drink—their remaining
supplies were dwindling fast—the three of them took a
moment to observe the other groups.
“They’re just walking up there,” Teresa said, pointing
ahead with one hand while shielding her eyes from the
wind with the other. “Why aren’t they running?”
“Because we still have over three hours until the
deadline,” Aris responded, looking at his watch.
“Unless we totally figured wrong, the safe haven should
be only a few miles from this side of the mountains. But
I don’t see anything.”
Thomas hated to admit it, but the hope that they
were just missing something from a distance had
faded away. “By the way they’re dragging, they
obviously can’t see it, either. It must not be there—they
don’t have anything to run to but more desert.”
Aris glanced at the gray-black sky. “Looks ugly up
there. What if we get another one of those nice
lightning storms?”
“We’d be better off staying in the mountains if that
happens,” Thomas said. Wouldn’t that be a perfect
way to end all this, he thought. Burned to a crisp by
bolts of electricity while searching for some safe haven
that had never been there in the first place.
“Let’s just catch up to them,” Teresa said. “Then we
can figure out what to do.” She turned to look at both
boys and put her hands on her hips. “You guys ready?”
“Yeah,” Thomas said. He was trying not to sink into
the pit of panic and worry that threatened to swallow
him. There had to be an answer to all this. Had to.
Aris just shrugged in response.
“Then let’s run,” Teresa said. And before Thomas
could answer she was already gone, with Aris close at
her heels.
Thomas took a deep breath. For some reason it all
reminded him of the first time he’d run out into the
Maze with Minho. Which worried him. He exhaled and
set off after the other two.
After maybe twenty minutes of running, the wind forcing
him to work twice as hard as he’d ever had to in the
Maze, Thomas spoke out to Teresa in his mind. I think
I’ve had some more memories come back to me
lately. In my dreams. He’d been wanting to tell her, but
not really in front of Aris. A test, more than anything, to
see how she responded to what he’d remembered.
See if he could find any clues to her true intentions.
Really? she answered.
He could sense her shock. Yeah. Weird, random
things. Stuff from when I was a little kid. And … you
were there, too. I had glimpses of how WICKED
treated us. A little about right before we went to the
Glade.
She paused before answering, maybe afraid to ask
the questions that eventually came to him. Does any of
it help us? Do you remember much of it?
Most of it. But there wasn’t enough there to really
mean a whole lot.
What did you see?
Thomas told her about each little segment of
memory—or dream—he’d seen over the last couple of
weeks. About seeing his mom, about overhearing
conversations about surgery, about him and her spying
on members of WICKED, hearing things that didn’t
make a whole lot of sense. About them testing and
practicing their telepathy. And, finally, about saying
goodbye right before he went to the Glade.
So Aris was there? she asked, but before he could
answer, she continued. Of course, I already knew that.
That the three of us were all part of this. But weird
about everyone dying, the replacements, all that.
What do you think it means?
I don’t know, he answered. But I feel like if we had
the time to just sit and talk about it we could help
each other bring it all back.
Me too. Tom, I’m really sorry. I can tell you’re
having a hard time forgiving me.
Would you be any different?
No. I kind of accepted it, in a way. That saving you
was worth losing what we might’ve had.
Thomas had no clue how to respond to that.
Not that they could’ve talked much more even if he
wanted to. With the wind howling and the dust and
debris flying through the air and the clouds churning
and blackening and the distance to the others getting
shorter …
There just wasn’t time.
And so they kept running.
* * *
The two groups ahead of them eventually met up in the
distance. More interesting to Thomas, though, was that
it didn’t appear to be an accident at all. The girls of
Group B had reached a point and stopped; then Minho
—Thomas could make him out now and was relieved
to see him alive and well—and the Gladers had
changed direction to go east to meet them.
And now, just a half-mile away, they all stood around
something Thomas couldn’t see, packing in a tight
circle to look at whatever it was.
What’s going on up there? Teresa asked Thomas in
his mind.
Don’t know, he answered.
The two of them, along with Aris, picked up the pace.
It only took another few minutes across the dusty windwhipped
plain before they reached Groups A and B.
Minho had stepped away from the larger pack of
people and stood facing them when they finally made
it. His arms were folded, his clothes filthy, his hair
greasy, his face still showing signs of his burns. But
somehow he was smiling. Thomas couldn’t believe
how good it felt to see that smirky grin again.
“It’s about time you slowpokes caught up with us!”
Minho yelled at them.
Thomas stopped right in front of him and doubled
over to catch his breath for a few seconds, then
straightened. “I thought you’d be fightin’ tooth and nail
with these girls after what they did to us. To me,
anyway.”
Minho looked back at the now-mingling group of
boys and girls, then returned his gaze to Thomas.
“Well, first of all, they have nastier weapons, not to
mention bows and arrows. Plus, some chick named
Harriet explained everything. We’re the ones who
should be surprised—that you’re still with them.” He
gave a nasty glare to Teresa, then Aris. “Never trusted
either one of those shuck traitors.”
Thomas tried to hide his mixed emotions. “They’re
on our side. Trust me.” And in a twisted, backward way
he really was starting to believe it. As sick as it made
him feel.
Minho laughed bitterly. “Figured you’d say something
like that. Let me guess, it’s a long story?”
“Yeah, very long story,” Thomas answered, then
changed the subject. “Why’d you all stop here? What’s
everybody looking at?”
Minho stepped to the side, sweeping his arm behind
him. “Have a peeky-peek yourself.” Then he yelled to
the two groups, “You guys make a path!”
Several Gladers and girls looked back, then slowly
shuffled to the side until a narrow break in the crowd
formed. Thomas immediately saw that the object that
held everyone’s attention was a simple stick poking
out of the arid ground. An orange strip of ribbon hung
from the top, whipping in the wind. Letters were printed
on the thin banner.
Thomas and Teresa exchanged a look; then Thomas
pushed ahead for a closer inspection. Even before he
got there, he could read the words printed on the
ribbon, black on orange.
THE SAFE HAVEN

CHAPTER 57
Despite the wind and the hubbub of people, the world
quieted around Thomas for a minute, as if his ears had
been stuffed with cotton. He fell to his knees and
numbly reached out to touch the flapping orange
ribbon. This was the safe haven? Not a building, a
shelter, something?
Then, as quickly as it had disappeared, sound
rushed back in, snapping him back to reality. Mostly
the rush of wind and the chatter of conversation.
He turned back to Teresa and Minho, who stood
side by side, Aris behind them peeking over their
shoulders.
Thomas glanced at his watch. “We have over an
hour left. Our safe haven is a stick in the ground?”
Confusion muddled his mind—he wasn’t quite sure
what to think or say.
“Wasn’t so bad, when you think about it,” Minho said.
“More than half of us made it here. Looks like even
more of the girlie group.”
Thomas stood up, trying to control his anger. “The
Flare turn you crazy already? Yeah, we got here. Safe
and sound. To a stick.”
Minho scoffed at him. “Dude, they wouldn’t send us
here for no reason. We made it in the time they gave
us. Now we just wait until the clock ticks down and
something’ll happen.”
“That’s what worries me,” Thomas said.
“Hate to say it,” Teresa added, “but I agree with
Thomas. After everything they’ve done to us, it’d be
way too easy to have a little sign here, and then they
come get us in a nice helicopter as a reward.
Something bad’s gonna happen.”
“Whatever you say, traitor,” Minho said, his face
hiding none of the hatred he felt for Teresa. “I don’t
want to hear another word from you.” He walked away,
angrier than Thomas had ever seen him.
Thomas looked at Teresa, who was visibly taken
aback. “You shouldn’t be surprised.”
She just shrugged. “I’m sick of apologizing. I did
what I had to do.”
Thomas couldn’t believe she was serious.
“Whatever. I need to find Newt. I want—”
Before he could finish, Brenda appeared out of the
crowd, glancing back and forth between him and
Teresa. The wind tore through her long hair, whipping it
frenziedly so that she kept pushing it behind her ears
only to have it fly out again.
“Brenda,” he said. For some reason he felt guilty.
“Hey there,” Brenda said, walking up to stand right in
front of him and Teresa. “This the girl you were tellin’
me about? When you and I were snuggling in that
truck?”
“Yeah.” The word popped out of Thomas’s mouth
before he could stop it. “No. I mean … yeah.”
Teresa held her hand out to Brenda, who shook it.
“I’m Teresa.”
“Nice to meet you,” Brenda replied. “I’m a Crank. I’m
slowly going crazy. I keep wanting to chew off my own
fingers and randomly kill people. Thomas here
promised to save me.” Though she was obviously
joking, she didn’t even crack a smile.
joking, she didn’t even crack a smile.
Thomas had to hide a wince. “Funny, Brenda.”
“Glad to see you still have a sense of humor about
it,” Teresa said. But her face could’ve turned water to
ice. Thomas looked down at his watch. Fifty-five minutes
left. “I, um, need to talk to Newt.” He turned and quickly
walked away before either girl could say anything. He
wanted to be as far away from both of them as
possible.
Newt was sitting on the ground with Frypan and Minho,
all three looking as if they were waiting for the end of
the world.
The tearing wind had gained a moisture to it, and the
billowing, churning clouds above them had lowered
considerably, like a dark fog dropping to swallow the
earth. Glimpses of light flashed here and there in the
sky, burning patches of purple and orange in the
grayness. Thomas hadn’t seen an actual lightning bolt
yet, but he knew they were coming. The first big storm
had begun just like this.
“Hey, Tommy,” Newt said when Thomas joined them.
He sat down next to his friend and wrapped his arms
around his knees. Two simple words with nothing
behind them. It was as if Thomas had just gone for a
leisurely walk instead of being kidnapped and almost
killed.
“Glad to see you guys made it here,” Thomas said.
Frypan snorted his usual animal-like bark of a laugh.
“Same back at ya. Looks like you had more fun,
though. Hangin’ with your love goddess. Guess you two
kissed and made up?”
“Not exactly,” Thomas said. “It wasn’t fun.”
“Well, what happened?” Minho asked. “How can you
trust her after all that?”
Thomas hesitated at first, but he knew he had to tell
them everything. And there was no better time than the
present. He sucked in a deep breath and started
talking. He told them about WICKED’s plan for him, the
camp, his talk with Group B, the gas chamber. Still
none of it made sense, but he felt a little better telling
his friends.
“And you forgave that witch?” Minho asked when
Thomas finally finished. “I won’t. Whatever those shuck
WICKED people wanna do, fine by me. Whatever you
wanna do, fine by me. But I don’t trust her, I don’t trust
Aris, and I don’t like either one of them.”
Newt seemed to consider it more deeply. “They went
through all that—all that planning and acting—just to
make you feel betrayed? Doesn’t make any bloody
sense.”
“Tell me about it,” Thomas muttered. “And no, I
haven’t forgiven her. But for now I think we’re in the
same boat.” He looked around—most people were
sitting down, staring off into the distance. Not much
conversation, and not a whole lot of mingling between
the two groups. “What about you guys? How’d you
make it here?”
“Found a gap through the mountains,” Minho
answered. “Had to fight through some Cranks camping
in a cave, but other than that, no problems. Food and
water’s almost out, though. And my feet hurt. And I’m
pretty sure another big bolt of shuck lightning’s about to
come down and make me look like a piece of Frypan’s
bacon.”
“Yeah,” Thomas said. He glanced back at the
mountains, guessed that all in all they’d probably come
about four miles from the base. “Maybe we should bag
this whole safe haven thing and try to find shelter.” But
even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t an option. At least
not until the time ran out.
“No way,” Newt replied. “We didn’t come this far to
go back now. Let’s just hope the buggin’ storm holds
off a little longer.” He looked up at the almost black
clouds with a grimace.
The other three Gladers had grown silent. The wind
had continued to pick up, and its rushing roars and
whips now made it hard to hear each other anyway.
Thomas looked at his watch.
Thirty-five minutes. No way this storm would hold for

“What’s that!” Minho shouted, jumping to his feet; he
pointed at a spot over Thomas’s shoulder.
Thomas turned to look as he stood up, alarm igniting
inside him. The terror on Minho’s face had been
unmistakable.
About thirty feet from the group, a large section of
the desert ground was … opening. A perfect square
—maybe fifteen feet wide—pivoted on a diagonal axis
as the dirt-packed side slowly spun away from them
and what had lain underneath rose up to replace it. The
sound of groaning, twisting steel pierced the air, louder
than the roaring wind. Soon the rotating square had
fully flipped, and where once had been desert ground
now lay a section of black material, with an odd object
sitting on top of it.
It was oblong and white with rounded edges.
It was oblong and white with rounded edges.
Thomas had seen something just like it before. Several
of them, in fact. After they’d escaped the Maze and
entered the huge chamber where the Grievers had
come from, they’d seen several of these coffinlike
containers. He hadn’t had much time to think about it
then, but seeing it now, he thought those must’ve been
where the Grievers stayed—slept?—when not hunting
humans in the Maze.
Before he had time to react, more sections of the
desert floor—surrounding their group in a large circle
—started to rotate open like dark, gaping jaws.
Dozens of them.

CHAPTER 58
The squeal of metal was deafening as the square
sections slowly spun on their axles. Thomas had his
hands to his ears, trying to keep the sound out. The
others in the group were doing the same. All around
them, scattered evenly and fully encircling the area in
which they stood, patches of desert ground rotated
until they disappeared, each one eventually replaced
with a large black square when it finally settled with a
loud clank, one of those bulbous white coffins resting
on top. At least thirty in all.
The scream of metal rubbing against metal stopped.
No one spoke. The wind ripped across the land,
blowing dust and dirt in streams across the rounded
containers. It made a gritty pinging sound. There was
so much of it, it blended into a noise that made
Thomas’s spine itch; he had to squint to keep stuff out
of his eyes. Nothing else had moved since the foreign,
almost alien objects had been revealed. There was
only that sound and wind and cold and stinging eyes.
Tom? Teresa called to him.
Yeah.
You remember those, right?
Yeah.
You think Grievers are inside?
Thomas realized that was exactly what he thought,
but he’d also finally accepted that he could never
expect anything. He reasoned it out for a second
before he answered. I don’t know. I mean, the Grievers
had really moist bodies—it’d be hard on them out
here. It seemed like a stupid thing to say, but he was
grasping for anything.
Maybe we’re meant to … get inside them, she said
after a pause. Maybe they are the safe haven, or
they’ll transport us somewhere.
Thomas hated the idea, but thought that maybe she
was right. He tore his eyes away from the large pods
and looked for her. She was already walking toward
him. Fortunately, she was alone. He couldn’t handle
both her and Brenda right then.
“Hey,” he said out loud, but the wind seemed to carry
the sound away before it even left his mouth. He
started to reach out for her hand but then pulled it back,
almost forgetting how things had changed. She didn’t
seem to notice as she walked over to Minho and Newt
and nudged both of them in greeting. They turned to
face her and Thomas moved closer to conference with
them.
“So what do we do?” Minho asked. He gave Teresa
an annoyed look like he didn’t want her to be any part
of the decision making.
Newt answered. “If those things have bloody
Grievers in ’em, we best start gettin’ ready to fight the
shuck buggers.”
“What’re you guys talking about?”
Thomas turned to see Harriet and Sonya—it’d been
Harriet who’d spoken. And Brenda stood right behind
them, with Jorge by her side.
“Oh, great,” Minho muttered. “The two queens of
glorious Group B.”
Harriet just acted like she hadn’t heard. “I’m
assuming you all saw those pods back in your
WICKED chamber, too. They had to be where the
Grievers charged up or whatever it was they did.”
“Yeah,” Newt said. “Gotta be that.”
In the sky above, thunder crackled and boomed, and
those flashes of light grew brighter. The wind tore at
everyone’s clothes and hair and everything smelled
wet but dusty—a strange combination. Thomas
checked the time again. “We’ve only got twenty-five
minutes. We’re either gonna be fighting Grievers or we
need to get inside those big coffins at the right time.
Maybe they’re the—”
A sharp hiss cut through the air from all directions.
The sound pierced Thomas’s eardrums and he
clamped his hands to the sides of his head again.
Movement on the perimeter surrounding them caught
his attention, and he watched carefully what was
happening with the large white pods.
A line of dark blue light had appeared on one side of
each container, then expanded as the top half of the
object began to move upward, opening on hinges like
the lid of a coffin. It made no sound, at least not enough
to be heard over the rushing wind and rumbling
thunder. Thomas sensed the Gladers and the others
slowly moving closer together, forming a tighter knot.
Everyone was trying to get as far away from the pods
as possible—and soon they were a coiled pack of
bodies encircled by the thirty or so rounded white
containers.
The lids continued moving until they’d all swung open
and dropped to the ground. Something bulky rested
inside each vessel. Thomas couldn’t make out much,
but from where he stood he couldn’t see anything like
but from where he stood he couldn’t see anything like
the odd appendages of the Grievers. Nothing moved,
but he knew not to let his guard down.
Teresa? he said to her mind. He didn’t dare try
talking loudly enough to be heard—but he had to talk to
someone or go nuts.
Yeah?
Someone should go take a look. See what’s in it.
He said it, but he really didn’t want to be the one to do
it.
Let’s go together, she said easily.
She surprised him with her courage. Sometimes
you have the worst ideas, he responded. He’d tried to
make it feel sarcastic, but he knew the truth of it far
more than he wanted to admit to himself. He was
terrified.
“Thomas!” Minho called. The wind, still wild, was
drowned out by the approaching thunder and lightning
now, cracking and exploding in brilliant displays above
them and on the horizon. The storm was about to fully
beat down its fury on them.
“What?” Thomas yelled back.
“You, me, and Newt! Let’s go check it out!”
Thomas was just about to move when something
slipped out of one of the pods. A collective gasp
escaped those closest to Thomas, and he turned for a
better look. Things were moving in all the pods, things
he couldn’t quite understand at first. Whatever they
were, they were definitely coming out of their oblong
homes. Thomas focused on the pod nearest to him,
strained his eyes to discern what exactly he was about
to face.
A misshapen arm hung over the edge, and its hand
dangled a few inches above the ground. On it were
four disfigured fingers—stubs of sickly beige flesh
—none of them the same length. They wiggled and
grasped for something that wasn’t there, as if the
creature inside was searching to get a grip to pull itself
out. The arm was covered with wrinkles and lumps,
and there was something completely strange right
where what passed for an elbow was located. A
perfectly rounded protrusion or growth, maybe four
inches in diameter, glowing bright orange.
It looked like the thing had a lightbulb glued to its
arm.
The monster continued to emerge. A leg flopped out,
its foot a fleshy mass, four knobs of toes wriggling as
much as its fingers. And on the knee, another one of
those impossible orange spheres of light, seemingly
growing right out of its skin.
“What is that thing?” Minho shouted over the noise of
the surging storm.
No one answered. Thomas was dazed, staring at
the creature—mesmerized and terrified at the same
time. He did finally look away long enough to see that
similar monsters were coming out of every pod—all at
the same pace—then returned his attention to the
closest one.
It had somehow gained purchase enough with its
right arm and leg to begin pulling the rest of its body
out. Thomas looked on in horror as the abominable
thing flopped and wiggled until it lurched over the edge
of the open pod and stumbled to the ground. Roughly
human-shaped, though at least a couple of feet taller
than anyone around Thomas, its body was naked and
thick, pockmarked and wrinkled. Most disturbing were
thick, pockmarked and wrinkled. Most disturbing were
more of those bulbous growths, maybe two dozen total,
spread over the thing’s body and glowing with brilliant
orange light. Several on its chest and back. One on
each elbow and knee—the bulb on the right knee had
busted in a flurry of sparks when the creature landed
on the ground—and several sticking out of a big lump
of … what had to be a head, though it didn’t have any
eyes, nose, mouth or ears. No hair, either.
The monster got to its feet, swayed a bit as it
balanced, then turned to face the group of humans. A
quick glance around showed that each pod had
delivered its creature, all of them now standing in a
circle around the Gladers and Group B.
In unison, the creatures raised their arms until they
pointed toward the sky. Then, all at once, thin blades
shot out of the tips of their stubby fingers, out of their
toes, out of their shoulders. The flashes of lightning in
the sky glittered off their surface, sharp and gleaming
silver. Though there was no sign of any kind of mouth, a
deathly, creepy moan emanated from their bodies—it
was a sound Thomas could feel more than hear. And it
had to be loud to be heard over the terrible thunder.
Maybe Grievers would’ve been better, Teresa said
inside Thomas’s mind.
Well, they’re enough alike that it’s obvious who
created these things, he said back, straining to stay
calm.
Minho turned quickly and faced the crowd of stillgaping
people surrounding Thomas. “There’s about
one for each of us! Grab whatever you got for a
weapon!”
Almost as if they’d heard the challenge, the lightbulb
creatures started moving, walking forward. Their first
couple of steps were lumbering, but then they
recovered, growing steady and strong and agile.
Coming closer with every step.

CHAPTER 59
Teresa handed Thomas a really long knife, almost a
sword. He couldn’t imagine where she’d been hiding
these things, but she now held a short dagger in
addition to her spear.
As the lighted giants stepped closer and closer,
Minho and Harriet spoke to their respective groups,
moving them around, positioning them, their shouts
and commands torn away by the wind before Thomas
could hear anything. He dared take his eyes off the
approaching monsters long enough to look at the sky.
Tendrils of lightning forked and arced across the
bottom of the dark clouds, which seemed to hang only
a few dozen feet above them. The acrid smell of
electricity permeated the air.
Thomas looked back down, concentrated on the
creature closest to him. Minho and Harriet had been
able to get the groups to stand together in an almost
perfect circle, facing outward. Teresa stood next to
Thomas, and he would’ve said something to her if he
could’ve thought of anything. He was speechless.
WICKED’s latest abominations were only thirty feet
away.
Teresa finally elbowed him in the ribs. He looked to
see her pointing at one of the creatures, telling Thomas
—making sure he knew—that she’d chosen her foe.
He nodded, then gestured toward the one he’d been
thinking was his all along.
Twenty-five feet away.
Thomas had the sudden thought that it was a
mistake to wait for them—that they needed to be
spread out more. Minho must’ve had the same idea.
“Now!” their leader yelled, a bare and distant bark
because of the storm’s sounds. “Charge them!”
A slew of thoughts spun through Thomas’s mind in
that instant. Worry for Teresa, despite the changes
between them. Worry for Brenda—standing stoically
just a few people down the line from him—and regret
over how they had barely spoken since being reunited.
He imagined her having come all this way only to be
killed by a vicious man-made creature. He thought of
the Grievers, and his and Chuck and Teresa’s charge
back in the Maze to get to the Cliff and the Hole, the
Gladers fighting and dying for them so they could
punch in the code and stop it all.
He thought of all they’d gone through to arrive at this
point, once again facing a biotech army sent by
WICKED. He wondered what it all meant, whether it
was worth trying to survive anymore. The image of
Chuck taking that knife for him popped into his head.
And that did it. Snapped him out of those nanoseconds
of frozen doubt and fear. Screaming at the top of his
lungs, he wielded his huge knife with both hands above
his head and rushed forward, straight for his monster.
To his left and right, the others also charged, but he
ignored them. He had to, forced himself to. If he
couldn’t take care of his own assignment, worrying
about others wouldn’t amount to anything.
He closed in. Fifteen feet. Ten feet. Five. The
creature had stopped walking, bracing its legs in a
fighting stance, hands outstretched, blades pointing
directly at Thomas. Those shining orange lights pulsed
now, flaring and receding, flaring and receding, as if
the hideous thing actually had a heart somewhere
inside. It was disturbing to see no face on the monster,
but it helped Thomas think of it as nothing more than a
machine. Nothing more than a man-made weapon that
wanted him dead.
Right before he reached the creature, Thomas made
a decision. He dropped to slide on his knees and
shins and swung the swordlike weapon in an arc
behind and around him, slamming the blade into the
monster’s left leg with a full and powerful two-handed
thrust. The knife cut an inch into its skin but then
clanked against something hard enough to send a jolt
shivering up both of Thomas’s arms.
The creature didn’t move, didn’t retract, didn’t let out
any sort of sound, human or inhuman. Instead it swiped
downward with both blade-studded hands where
Thomas now knelt before it, his sword embedded in
the monster’s flesh. Thomas jerked it free and lunged
backward just as those blades clattered against each
other where his head had been. He fell on his back and
scooted away from the creature as it took two steps
forward, kicking out with the knives on its feet, barely
missing Thomas.
The monster let out a roar this time—a sound almost
exactly like the haunted moans of the Grievers—and
dropped to the ground, thrashing its arms, trying to
impale Thomas. Thomas spun away, rolling three times
as he heard metal tips scraping along the dirt-packed
ground. He finally took a chance and jumped to his
feet, immediately sprinting several yards away before
turning around, sword gripped in his hands. The
creature was just getting to its own feet, slicing at the
creature was just getting to its own feet, slicing at the
air with its stubby bladed fingers.
Thomas sucked in huge gulps of air and could see
the others battling in his peripheral vision. Minho
jabbing and stabbing with knives in both hands, the
monster actually taking steps backward, away from
him. Newt scrambling across the ground, the creature
he fought lumbering after him, obviously injured.
Slowing. Teresa was the closest to him, jumping and
dodging and poking her foe with the butt of her spear.
Why was she doing that? Her monster seemed to be
badly hurt as well.
Thomas pulled his attention back to his own battle. A
blur of silver movement made him duck, a wisp of wind
in his hair from the swipe of the creature’s arm.
Thomas spun, crouched close to the ground, stabbing
at anything he could as the monster pursued him,
barely missing him with several more attacks. Thomas
connected with one of the orange bulb growths,
smashing it in a flash of sparks; the light died instantly.
Knowing his luck had to be running short, he dove
toward the ground, tucking and rolling again until he
sprang to his feet a couple of yards away.
The creature had paused—at least as long as it had
taken Thomas to make his escape move—but now it
came after him again. An idea formed in Thomas’s
mind, and it grew to clarity when he looked back at
Teresa’s fight, her creature now moving in jilted, slow
attacks. She kept after the bulbs, popping them as they
exploded in that same display of fireworks. She’d
destroyed at least three-fourths of the odd growths.
The bulbs. All he needed to do was destroy the
bulbs. Somehow they were linked to the creature’s
power or life or strength. Could it really be that easy?
A quick glance around the rest of the battlefield
showed that a few others had also gotten the idea, but
most hadn’t, fighting with bloody desperation to hack at
limbs, muscles, skin, missing the bulbs entirely. A
couple of people already lay on the ground, covered in
wounds, lifeless. One boy. One girl.
Thomas changed his whole method. Instead of
charging recklessly, he jumped in and took a jab at one
of the bulbs on the monster’s chest. He missed, slicing
into the wrinkled, yellowish skin. The creature swiped
at him, but he pulled back just as the very tips of the
blades ripped jagged holes in his shirt. Then he thrust
again, poking once more at the same bulb. He
connected this time, bursting it and sending out a
spray of sparks. The creature halted for a full second,
then snapped back to battle mode.
Thomas circled the creature, jumping in and back
again, poking, jabbing, thrusting.
Pop, pop, pop.
One of the monster’s blades sliced across his
forearm, leaving a long line of bright red. Thomas went
in again. And again. Again.
Pop, pop, pop. Sparks flying, the creature
shuddering and jerking with each break.
The pause got a little bit longer with every successful
stab. Thomas felt a few more scrapes and slices, but
nothing serious. He kept at it, attacking those orange
spheres.
Pop, pop, pop.
Every small victory sapped the creature’s strength,
and it gradually began to visibly slump, though it didn’t
stop trying to cut Thomas to pieces. Bulb by bulb, each
one easier than the one before it, Thomas attacked
relentlessly. If only he could quickly finish it off, make it
die. Then he could run around and help others. End this
thing once and for—
A blinding light flashed behind him, then a sound like
the entire universe exploding ripped away his brief
moment of exhilaration and hope. A wave of invisible
power knocked him over and he fell flat onto his
stomach, the sword clattering away from him. The
creature fell, too, and a burnt smell singed the air.
Thomas rolled onto his side to look, saw a massive
black hole in the ground, charred and smoking. A
bladed foot and hand from one of the monsters lay on
the hole’s edge. No sign of the rest of the body.
It’d been a lightning strike. Right behind him. The
storm had finally broken.
Even as he had the thought, he looked up to see
thick shards of white heat start falling from the black
clouds above.

CHAPTER 60
The lightning exploded all around him with deafening
cracks of thunder; plumes of dirt flew into the air from
every direction. Several people screamed—one was
cut off abruptly, a girl. And that burning smell.
Overwhelming. The strikes of electricity subsided as
quickly as they had begun. But light continued to flash
in the clouds, and rain started to pour down in sheets.
Thomas hadn’t moved during that first flurry of
lightning. There was no reason to think he’d be any
safer in another spot than where he lay. But after the
onslaught, he scrambled to his feet to look around, see
what he could do or where he could run before it
happened again.
The creature he’d been fighting was dead, half of its
body blackened, the other half gone. Teresa stood over
her foe, slamming the butt of her spear down and
smashing the last bulb; its sparks died with a hiss.
Minho was on the ground, but slowly getting to his feet.
Newt stood there, breathing in and out, deep heaving
breaths. Frypan doubled over and threw up. Some
were lying on the ground; others—like Brenda and
Jorge—still fighting the monsters. Thunder boomed all
around them and lightning glinted in the rain.
Thomas had to do something. Teresa wasn’t too far
away; she stood a couple of steps from her dead
creature, bent over, hands on her knees.
We have to find shelter! he said in her mind.
How much time do we have left?
Thomas squinted at his watch closely. Ten minutes.
We should get inside the pods. She pointed at the
closest one, which still lay open like a perfectly cut
eggshell, its halves surely full of water by this point.
He liked the idea. What if we can’t close it?
Got any better plans?
No. He grabbed her hand and started running.
We need to tell the others! she said as they
approached the pod.
They’ll figure it out. He knew they couldn’t wait
—more strikes could hit them at any second. They’d all
be dead by the time he and Teresa tried to
communicate with anyone. He had to trust his friends
to save themselves. Knew he could trust them.
They reached the pod just as several bolts of
electricity came zigzagging down from the sky, striking
in blistering explosions all around them. Dirt and rain
flew everywhere; Thomas’s ears rang. He looked
inside the left half of the container, saw nothing but a
small pool of dirty water. A horrible smell wafted up
from it.
“Hurry!” he yelled as he climbed in.
Teresa followed him. They didn’t need to speak to
know what to do next. They both got on their knees,
then leaned forward to grab the far end of the other half
—it had a rubbery lining, easy to grip. Thomas braced
his midsection on the lip of the pod, then pulled up,
straining with every bit of strength he had left. The other
half lifted and swung toward them.
Just as Thomas was repositioning himself to sit,
Brenda and Jorge ran up to them. Thomas felt a rush
of relief at seeing them okay.
“Is there room for us?” Jorge screamed over the
noise of the storm.
“Get in!” Teresa yelled back in answer.
The two of them slipped over the edge and splashed
into the large container, a tight fit but manageable.
Thomas scooted to the far end to give them more
room, holding the cover just barely open—the rain
drummed on its outer surface. Once everyone was
settled, he and Teresa ducked their heads and let the
pod close completely. Other than the hollow thrum of
the rain and the distant explosions of lightning and the
gasping of breaths, it grew relatively silent. Though
Thomas still heard that same ringing in his ears.
He could only hope his other friends had made it
safely to pods of their own.
“Thanks for letting us in, muchacho,” Jorge said
when everyone seemed to have caught their breath.
“Of course,” Thomas replied. The darkness inside
the container was absolute, but Brenda was right next
to him, then Jorge, then Teresa on the far end.
Brenda spoke up. “Thought you might’ve had
second thoughts about bringing us along. Would’ve
been a good chance to get rid of us.”
“Please,” Thomas muttered. He was too tired to care
how it sounded. Everyone had almost died, and they
might not be out of the woods yet.
“So is this our safe haven?” Teresa asked.
Thomas clicked the little light button on his watch;
they had seven minutes till the time was up. “Right now,
I sure hope so. Maybe in a few minutes these shuck
squares of land will spin around and drop us into some
nice comfy room where we can all live happily ever
after. Or not.”
Crack!
Thomas yelped—something had slammed into the
top of the pod and made the loudest sound he’d ever
heard, an earsplitting crash. A small hole—just a sliver
of gray light—had appeared in the ceiling of their
shelter, beads of water forming and dropping quickly.
“Had to be lightning,” Teresa said.
Thomas rubbed his ears, the ringing worse now.
“Couple more of those and well be right back where
we started.” His voice sounded hollow.
Another check of the watch. Five minutes. The water
drip-drip-dripped into the puddle; that horrible smell
lingered; the bells in Thomas’s head lessened.
“This isn’t quite what I imagined, hermano,” Jorge
said. “Thought we’d show up here and you’d convince
the big bosses to take us in. Give us that cure. Didn’t
think we’d be holed up in a stinking bathtub waiting to
be electrocuted.”
“How much longer?” Teresa asked.
Thomas looked. “Three minutes.”
Outside, the storm raged, bursts of lightning
slamming into the ground, the rain pounding.
Another boom and crack shook the pod, widened
the split in the ceiling enough that water began rushing
in, splashing all over Brenda and Jorge. Something
hissed and steam seeped in as well, the lightning
having heated up the outside material.
“We’re not gonna last much longer no matter what
happens!” Brenda shouted. “It’s almost worse sitting
here and waiting for it!”
“There’s only two minutes left!” Thomas yelled back
at her. “Just hold on!”
A sound started up outside. Faint at first, barely
discernible over the noises of the storm. A humming.
Deep and low. It grew in volume, seemed to vibrate
Thomas’s whole body.
“What is that?” Teresa asked.
“No idea,” Thomas answered. “But based on our
day, I’m sure it’s not good. We just have to last another
minute or so.”
The sound got louder and deeper. Overwhelming the
thunder and rain now. The walls of the pod vibrated.
Thomas heard a rushing wind outside, different
somehow from what had been blowing all day.
Powerful. Almost … artificial.
“There’s only thirty seconds left,” Thomas
announced, suddenly having a change of heart.
“Maybe you guys are right. Maybe we’re missing
something important. I … I think we should look.”
“What?” Jorge responded.
“We need to see what’s making that sound. Come
on, help me open this back up.”
“And if a nice big lightning bolt comes down and
fries my butt?”
Thomas put the palms of his hands on the ceiling.
“We gotta take a chance! Come on—push!”
“He’s right,” Teresa said, and she braced her hands
to help.
Brenda copied her, and soon Jorge joined them.
“Just about halfway,” Thomas said. “Ready?”
After getting a few positive grunts, he said,
“One … two … three!”
They all pushed toward the sky, and their strength
ended up being way too much. The lid flipped up and
over and crashed to the ground, leaving the pod fully
open. Rain pummeled them, flying horizontally,
captured by a ferocious wind.
Thomas leaned on the edge of the pod and gaped
at what hovered in the air just thirty feet off the ground,
lowering rapidly to land. It was huge and round, with
flickering lights and burning thrusters of blue flame. It
was the same ship that had saved him after he was
shot. The Berg.
Thomas glanced at his watch just in time to see the
last second tick down. Looked back up.
The Berg touched down on clawlike landing gear
and a huge cargo door in its metal belly began to
open.

CHAPTER 61
Thomas knew they couldn’t waste any more time. No
questions, no fear, no bickering. Only action.
“Come on!” he yelled, pulling Brenda’s arm as he
stepped out of the pod. He slipped and toppled over,
landing with a wet smush in the mud. He pushed
himself up, spitting the slimy stuff out of his mouth and
rubbing it from his eyes, and scrambled back to his
feet. The rain poured down, thunder cracked from all
directions, lightning bolts lit the air in ominous flashes.
Jorge and Teresa had made it out, Brenda helping
them. Thomas looked over at the Berg—maybe fifty
feet away—its cargo door now fully open, a gaping
maw of an entrance to warm light inside. Shadowy
forms stood there, holding guns, waiting. They
obviously didn’t intend to come out and assist anybody
onto the safe haven. The real safe haven.
“Run!” he screamed, already on the move. He held
his knife in front of him, gripped tightly, in case any of
those creatures were still alive and looking for a fight.
Teresa and the others kept pace next to him.
The rain-softened ground made it hard to get good
traction; Thomas slipped twice, fell down once. Teresa
grabbed his shirt and yanked until he was up and
running again. Others were around them, making the
same dash for the safety of the ship. The darkness of
the storm and the veil of rain and brilliant flashes of
lightning made it hard to see who was who. No time to
worry about it.
From the right side, lumbering around the back end
From the right side, lumbering around the back end
of the plane, a dozen of the bulb creatures appeared;
they headed for a spot cutting off Thomas and his
friends from the open cargo door. Their blades were
slick with rain, some stained crimson. At least half of
their creepy glowing bulbs had been busted, and their
jerky movements showed it. But they looked as
dangerous as ever. And still, the people in the Berg did
nothing, only watched.
“Go right through ’em!” Thomas yelled. Minho
appeared, along with Newt and a few other Gladers,
joining the charge. Harriet and a few of the Group B
girls, too. Everyone seemed to understand the plan, as
slight as it was: fight off these last few monsters and
get out of there.
Maybe for the first time since entering the Glade
weeks earlier, Thomas felt no fear. He didn’t know if
he’d ever feel it again. He didn’t know why, but
something had changed. Lightning exploded around
him, someone screamed, the rain intensified. Wind
tore through the air, pelting him with small rocks and
drops of water that hurt equally. The creatures swiped
their blades through the air, screaming their disturbing
roar as they waited for battle. Thomas ran on, knife
held above his head.
No fear.
Three feet from the center creature he jumped into
the air, kicking forward, both legs held tightly together.
He slammed his feet into one of the orange bulbs
protruding from the middle of the monster’s chest. It
burst and sizzled; the creature wailed something
hideous and fell backward, slamming to the ground.
Thomas landed in the mud and rolled to the side.
Immediately jumped up and danced around the
creature, slashing and poking, bursting the glowing
growths.
Pop, pop, pop.
Dodging and jumping away from the futile slashes of
the creature’s blades. Retaliating, stabbing. Pop, pop,
pop. Only three bulbs were left; it could barely move.
Thomas straddled the thing in a burst of confidence
and quickly threw down the final vicious thrusts to end
it.
The last bulb burst and fizzled out. Dead.
Thomas got up, spun around to see if someone else
needed help. Teresa had finished off hers. Minho and
Jorge as well. Newt was there, favoring his bad leg,
Brenda helping him stab out the remaining bulbs on his
foe.A few seconds later it ended. No creature moved.
No orange lights shone. It was over.
Thomas, breathing heavily, looked up at the entrance
to the ship, only twenty feet away. Even as he did, its
thrusters ignited and the ship started to lift off the
ground.
“It’s leaving!” Thomas screamed as loudly as he
could, pointing frantically at their only means of
escape. “Hurry!”
The word had barely escaped his mouth when
Teresa grabbed him by the arm, pulling as she ran for
the ship. Thomas stumbled, then righted himself,
pounding his feet in the mud. He heard the crack of
thunder behind them, saw a flash of lightning fill the sky.
Another scream. Others beside him, around him, in
front of him now, all running. Newt with his limp, Minho
next to him, eyeing him to make sure he didn’t fall.
The Berg had reached a point three feet off the
ground, slowly rising and turning at the same time,
ready at any second to shift those thrusters and zip
away. A couple of Gladers and three girls reached it
first, dove onto the platform of the open cargo door.
Still it rose. Others reached it, climbed on, scrambled
inside.
Then Thomas made it with Teresa. The open hatch
was chest-high now. He jumped and pushed his hands
down on the flat metal, arms stiff, stomach pressed
against the thick edge. Swung his right leg up, got
leverage, rolled his body fully onto the door. The ship,
still rising. Others climbing on, reaching to pull others
up. Teresa, halfway on, trying to find a handhold.
Thomas reached out and grabbed her hand, pulled
her in. She collapsed on top of him, shared a brief look
of victory. Then she was off, and both of them
approached the edge of the door to see if anyone
needed help.
The Berg was now six feet above the ground,
starting to tilt. Three people still hung from the edge.
Harriet and Newt were pulling a girl in. Minho was
helping Aris. But Brenda held on only with her hands,
her body dangling as she kicked her feet and tried to
pull herself up.
Thomas dropped to his stomach and scooted
closer, reached out and grabbed her right arm. Teresa
got the other one. The metal of the cargo door was wet
and slick; when Thomas pulled on Brenda he started
sliding out, but then stopped abruptly. A quick look
behind him revealed that Jorge had planted his butt
and feet, holding tightly to both Thomas and Teresa.
and feet, holding tightly to both Thomas and Teresa.
Thomas looked back at Brenda, started pulling
again. With Teresa’s help, she finally came over the
edge enough for her stomach to gain purchase; it was
easy from there. As she crawled on and farther in,
Thomas took another look outside at the ground, slowly
moving away. Nothing but those horrific creatures,
lifeless and wet, full of saggy pockets of flesh that had
once been full and brightly lit. A few dead human
bodies, but not many, and no one Thomas was close
to.
He scooted backward, away from the edge, feeling
an immense amount of relief. They’d made it, most of
them. They’d made it through Cranks and lightning and
hideous monsters. They’d made it. He bumped into
Teresa, turned toward her, pulled her in and hugged her
tightly, forgetting what had happened for a second.
They’d made it.
“Who are these two people?”
Thomas jerked away from Teresa to see who’d
shouted—it was a man with short red hair, holding a
black pistol pointed at Brenda and Jorge, who sat next
to each other, shivering and wet and bruised.
“Somebody answer me!” the man yelled again.
Thomas spoke up before he could think about it.
“They helped us get through the city—we wouldn’t be
here if it weren’t for them.”
The man snapped his head toward Thomas. “You …
picked them up along the way?”
Thomas nodded, not liking where this was going.
“We made a deal with them. Promised they’d get the
cure, too. We still have fewer people than we started
with.”
“Doesn’t matter,” the man said. “We didn’t say you
could bring citizens!”
The Berg continued to climb higher in the sky, but the
gaping door didn’t close. Wind whipped through the
wide hole; any one of them could go tumbling to their
death if they hit turbulence.
Thomas got to his feet anyway, determined to
defend the pact he’d made. “Well, you told us to come
here, and we did what we had to do!”
Their gun-toting host paused, seemed to consider
this line of reasoning. “Sometimes I forget how little you
people understand what’s going on. Fine, you can
keep one of ’em. The other goes.”
Thomas tried not to show the jolt this gave him.
“What do you mean … the other goes?”
The man clicked something on the gun, then held its
end closer to Brenda’s head. “We don’t have time for
this! You have five seconds to choose the one who
stays. Don’t choose and they both die. One.”
“Wait!” Thomas looked at Brenda, at Jorge. They
both stared at the floor, said nothing. Their faces pale
with fear.
“Two.”
Thomas suppressed the rising panic, closed his
eyes. There was nothing new here. No, he understood
things now. Knew what he had to do.
“Three.”
No more fear. No more shock. No more questioning.
Take what comes. Play along. Pass the tests. Pass the
Trials.
“Four!” The man’s face reddened. “Choose right
now or they both die!”
Thomas opened his eyes and stepped forward.
Thomas opened his eyes and stepped forward.
Then he pointed at Brenda and said the two most foul
words to ever pass through his lips.
“Kill her.”
Because of the odd pronouncement that only one
could stay, Thomas thought he understood, thought he
knew what would happen. That it was yet another
Variable and they’d take whomever he didn’t choose.
But he was wrong.
The man jammed his gun into the waistband of his
pants, then reached down and grabbed Brenda’s shirt
with two hands, yanking the girl to her feet. Without a
word, he moved toward open air, taking her with him.

CHAPTER 62
Brenda looked at Thomas with panicked eyes, her
face full of pain as the stranger dragged her across the
metal floor of the Berg. Toward the hatch and certain
death.
When he was halfway there, Thomas acted.
He jumped forward and slammed into the man’s
knees, tackling him to the floor; the gun clattered on the
ground next to him. Brenda fell to the side, but Teresa
was there to catch her, pull her back from the
dangerous edge of the door. Thomas put his left
forearm against the man’s throat and reached for the
gun with his other hand. His fingers found it, gripped it,
pulled it close to him. He jumped up and away and held
the pistol with both hands, pointing it at the stranger
sprawled on his back.
“No one else dies,” Thomas said, breathing heavily,
somewhat shocked at himself. “If we haven’t done
enough to pass your stupid tests, then we fail. The
tests are over.” As he said it, he wondered if this was
supposed to happen. But even that didn’t matter—he
meant every word he’d said. The senseless killing and
dying had to end.
The stranger’s face softened into the slightest hint of
a smile and he sat up and scooted backward until he
bumped into the wall. As he did so, the large cargo
door began closing, the squeak of its hinges like
squealing pigs. No one said anything until it clanked
shut, one last rush of wind surging through before it did.
“My name’s David,” the man said, his voice loud in
the new silence, broken only by the low hum of the
ship’s engines and thrusters. “And don’t worry, you’re
right. It’s over. It’s all over.”
Thomas nodded mockingly. “Yeah, we’ve heard that
before. This time we mean it. We’re not going to sit
back and let you treat us like rats anymore. We’re
done.”
David took a moment to scan the large cargo hold,
maybe seeing whether the others agreed with what
Thomas had just said. Thomas didn’t dare break his
gaze, though. He had to believe that they were all
behind him.
Finally, David looked back at Thomas, then slowly
got to his feet, raising a hand in conciliation as he did
so. Once he was standing, he put both hands in his
pockets. “What you don’t understand is that everything
has gone and will continue to go as planned. But you’re
right, the Trials are complete. We’re taking you to a
place of safety—a real place of safety. No more tests,
no more lies, no more setups. No more pretending.”
He paused. “I can only promise one thing. When you
hear why we’ve put you through this, and why it’s so
important that so many of you survived, you’ll
understand. I promise you’ll understand.”
Minho snorted. “That’s the biggest bunch of klunk
I’ve ever heard in my life.”
Thomas couldn’t help but feel a little relief that his
friend hadn’t lost his fire. “And what about the cure?
We were promised. For us and the two who helped us
get here. How can we believe anything you tell us?”
“Think what you want for now,” David said. “Things
will change from here out, and you’ll get the cure, just
like you were told. As soon as we get back to
headquarters. You can keep that gun, by the way—we’ll
even give you some more, if you’d like. There’ll be
nothing else for you to fight against, no tests or trials to
ignore or refuse. Our Berg will land, you’ll see that
you’re safe and cured, and then you can do what you
want. The only thing we’ll ever ask you to do again is to
listen. Only to listen. I’m sure you’re at least intrigued by
what’s behind all this?”
Thomas wanted to scream at the man but knew it’d
serve no point. Instead he answered in as calm a voice
as possible. “No more games.”
“First sign of trouble,” Minho added, “we start
fighting. If that means we die, then so be it.”
David smiled fully this time. “You know, that’s exactly
what we predicted you’d do at this point.” He motioned
with an arm toward a small door at the back of the
cargo hold. “Shall we?”
Newt spoke up this time. “What’s next on the bloody
agenda?”
“Just thought you’d like to eat something, maybe
take a shower. Sleep.” He started walking around the
crowd of Gladers and girls. “It’s a very long flight.”
Thomas and the others spent a few seconds
exchanging glances. But in the end they followed. They
really had no other option.

CHAPTER 63
Thomas tried hard not to think about things as the next
couple of hours passed.
He’d made a stand, but then all that tension and
courage and victory kind of trickled away as the group
went through the motions of the most ordinary of
activities. Hot food. Cold drinks. Medical attention.
Wonderfully long showers. Fresh clothes.
Through it all, Thomas recognized the chance that it
was all happening again. That he and the others were
being pacified, slowly being led to another shock like
the one they’d had when they awakened in the
dormitory after being rescued from the Maze. But
really, what else was there to do? David and the others
on his staff made no threats, did nothing to raise alarm.
Refreshed and full of food, Thomas ended up sitting
on a couch that ran along the narrow middle section of
the Berg, a vast room full of mismatched drab-colored
furniture. He’d been avoiding Teresa, but she came
over and sat next to him. He still had a hard time being
near her, a hard time talking to her or anyone else. His
insides burned with turmoil.
But he put it all away because there was nothing
else to do. He didn’t know how to fly a Berg and
wouldn’t know where to go even if he could take it over.
They’d go wherever WICKED took them, they’d listen,
they’d make their decision.
“What’re you thinkin’ about?” Teresa finally asked.
Thomas was glad she’d spoken aloud—he wasn’t
sure he wanted to communicate telepathically with her
anymore. “What am I thinking about? Mostly trying not
to.”
“Yeah. Maybe we should just enjoy the peace and
quiet for a while.”
Thomas looked at Teresa. She sat next to him as if
nothing had changed between them at all. As if they
were still best friends. And he couldn’t stand it
anymore.
“I hate that you’re acting like nothing happened.”
Teresa looked down. “I’m trying to forget just as
much as you probably are. Look, I’m not stupid. I know
that we can never be the same. But I still wouldn’t
change anything. It was the plan and it worked. You’re
not dead and that’s worth it to me. Maybe you’ll forgive
me someday.”
Thomas almost hated her for sounding so
reasonable. “Well, all I care about right now is stopping
these people. It’s not right what they’ve done to us. It
doesn’t matter how much I was a part of it. It’s wrong.”
Teresa stretched out a little so she could rest her
head against the arm of the couch. “Come on, Tom.
They might’ve erased our memories, but they didn’t
remove our brains. We were both part of this, and
when they tell us everything—when we remember why
we put ourselves through this—we’re going to do
whatever they tell us to.”
Thomas thought about that for a second and realized
he couldn’t possibly have disagreed more. Maybe at
one time he’d felt that way, but not now. Though
discussing it with Teresa was the last thing he wanted
to do. “Maybe you’re right,” he murmured.
“When’s the last time we slept?” she asked. “I swear
I can’t remember.”
Again with the act that all was well. “I do. For me,
anyway. It had something to do with a gas chamber
and you whacking me over the head with a big spear.”
Teresa stretched. “I can only say sorry so many
times. At least you got some rest. I didn’t sleep for one
second while you were out. I think I’ve been awake for
two full days.”
“Poor baby.” Thomas yawned. He couldn’t help
himself—he was tired, too.
“Mmmm?”
He looked over to see her eyes closed, her
breathing slowed. She’d fallen asleep just like that. He
glanced around at the other Gladers and Group Bs.
Most of them were zonked out, also. Except Minho
—he was trying to talk to some cute girl, but her eyes
were closed. Jorge and Brenda were nowhere to be
found—something that struck Thomas as strange, not
to mention at least a bit worrisome.
It was then that he realized he missed Brenda
terribly, but his own eyelids began to droop, and
weariness and fatigue crept in. As he sank deeper into
the couch, he decided he’d have time to look for her
later. Then he finally gave in and allowed the sweet
darkness of unconsciousness to take him.

CHAPTER 64
He awoke, blinked, wiped his eyes and saw nothing
but pure white. No shapes, no shadows, no variation,
nothing. Just white.
A flicker of panic until he realized he must be
dreaming. Strange, but a dream for sure. He could feel
his body, feel his fingers against his skin. Feel himself
breathing. Hear himself breathing. Yet he was
surrounded by a complete and seamless world of
bright nothing.
Tom.
A voice. Her voice. Could she talk to him while he
was dreaming? Had she done it before? Yes.
Hey, he responded.
Are you … okay? She sounded troubled. No, felt
troubled.
Huh? Yeah, I’m fine. Why?
Just thought you’d be a little surprised right now.
He felt a stab of confusion. What are you talking
about?
You’re about to understand more. Very soon now.
For the first time, Thomas realized the voice wasn’t
quite right. There was something off about it.
Tom?
He didn’t answer. Fear had crept into his gut. A
horrible, sickening, toxic fear.
Tom?
Who … who are you? he finally asked, terrified of
the answer.
A pause before she answered.
It’s me, Tom. It’s Brenda. Things are about to get
bad for you.
Thomas screamed before he knew what he was
doing. He screamed and screamed and screamed
until it finally woke him up.

CHAPTER 65
He sat straight up, covered in sweat. Even before he
could fully compute his surroundings, before all the
information traveled through the nerve wires and
cognitive functions of his brain, he knew that everything
was wrong. That everything had been taken from him
all over again.
He lay on the ground, alone, in a room. The walls, the
ceiling, the floor—everything was white. The floor
beneath him was spongy, hard and smooth but with
enough give to be comfortable. He looked at the walls
—they were padded, with large buttoned indentations
across them, about four feet apart. Bright light shone
down from a rectangle in the ceiling, too high for him to
reach. The place had a clean smell to it, like ammonia
and soap. Thomas looked down to see that even his
clothes had no color: a T-shirt, cotton pants, socks.
A brown desk sat about a dozen feet in front of him.
It was the only thing in the entire room that wasn’t white.
Old and battered and scratched, it had a bare wooden
chair pushed into the sitting well on the other side.
Behind that was the door, padded like the walls.
Thomas felt a strange calm. Instinct told him he
should be on his feet, screaming for help. He should be
banging on the door. But he knew that door wouldn’t
open. He knew no one would listen.
He was in the Box all over again, should’ve known
better than to get his hopes up.
I’m not going to panic, he told himself. It had to be
another phase of the Trials, and this time he’d fight to
change things—to end it all. It was strange, but just
knowing he had a plan, that he’d do whatever it took to
find freedom, caused a surprising calm to pass over
him.
Teresa? he called out. He knew that at this point she
and Aris were his only hope for communication with the
outside. Can you hear me? Aris? You there?
No one responded. Not Teresa. Not Aris.
Not … Brenda.
But that had only been a dream. It had to have been.
Brenda couldn’t be working with WICKED, couldn’t be
speaking in his mind.
Teresa? he said again, throwing hard mental effort
into it. Aris?
Nothing.
He stood and walked over to the desk, but two feet
in front of it he ran into an invisible wall. A barrier, just
like back in the dormitory.
Thomas didn’t let the panic rise. Didn’t let fear
overcome him. He took a deep breath, walked back
toward the corner of the room, then sat down and
leaned into it. Closed his eyes and relaxed.
Waited. Fell asleep.
Tom? Tom!
He didn’t know how many times she said it before
he finally responded. Teresa? He woke with a jolt,
looked around and remembered the white room.
Where are you?
They put us in another dormitory after the Berg
landed. We’ve been here a few days, just sitting
around doing nothing. Tom, what happened to you?
Teresa was worried—scared, even. That much he
knew for sure. As for himself, he mostly felt confused. A
few days? What—
They took you away as soon the Berg landed.
They keep telling us it was too late—that the Flare is
too rooted in you. They said you’ve gotten crazy and
violent.
Thomas tried to hold it together, tried not to think
about how WICKED could wipe memories.
Teresa … it’s just another part of the Trials. They’ve
got me locked up in this white room. But … you’ve
been there for days? How many?
Tom, it’s been almost a week.
Thomas couldn’t respond. Almost wanted to pretend
he hadn’t heard what Teresa had just said. The fear
he’d been holding back began to slowly seep into his
chest. Could he trust her? She’d lied to him so much
already. And how did he even know this was really her?
It was high time to cut off ties with Teresa.
Tom? Teresa called to him again. What’s going on
here? I’m really confused.
Thomas felt a rush of emotion, a burning inside him
that almost brought tears to his eyes. He had once
considered Teresa his best friend. But it could never
be like that again. Now all he felt when he thought of
her was anger.
Tom! Why aren’t you—
Teresa, listen to me.
Hello? That’s what I’m trying to—
No, just … listen. Don’t say anything else, okay?
Just listen to me.
She paused. Okay. A quiet, scared voice in his
mind.
Thomas couldn’t control it anymore. Rage pulsed
inside of him. Luckily, he only had to think the words,
because he could never have spoken them aloud.
Teresa. Go away.
Tom—
No. Don’t say another word. Just … leave me
alone. And you can tell WICKED that I’m done
playing their games. Tell them I’m done!
She waited a few seconds before responding.
Okay. Another pause. Okay. Then I just have one
thing left to say to you.
Thomas sighed. I can’t wait.
She didn’t say it right away, and he would’ve thought
she’d left him except that he still felt her presence.
Finally, she spoke again.
Tom?
What?
WICKED is good.
And then she was gone.

EPILOGUE
WICKED Memorandum, Date 232.2.13, Time 21:13
TO: My Associates
FROM: Ava Paige, Chancellor
RE: SCORCH TRIALS, Groups A and B
This is not a time to let emotions interfere with the task
at hand. Yes, some events have gone in a direction we
didn’t foresee. Not all is ideal—things have gone
wrong—but we’ve made tremendous progress and
have collected many of the needed patterns. I feel a
great amount of hope.
I expect all of us to maintain our professional
demeanor and remember our purpose. The lives of so
many people rest in the hands of so few. This is why
it’s an especially important time for vigilance and
focus.
The days to come are fundamental to this study, and
I have every confidence that when we restore their
memories, every one of our subjects will be ready for
what we plan to ask of them. We still have the
Candidates we need. The final pieces will be found
and put into place.
The future of the human race outweighs all. Every
death and every sacrifice are well worth the ultimate
outcome. The end of this monumental effort is coming,
and I believe that the process will work. That we’ll have
our patterns. That we’ll have our blueprint. That we’ll
have our cure.
The Psychs are deliberating even now. When they
say the time is right, we’ll remove the Swipe and tell
our remaining subjects if they are—or are not
—immune to the Flare.
That’s all for now.
END OF BOOK TWO

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I can’t really say it better than I did in Book One. To all
the same people, especially Lynette, Krista, Michael
and Lauren, thank you. You’ve changed my life forever.
Thanks also to all the people at Random House who
have worked so hard to make this series a success,
including my publicists, Noreen Herits and Emily
Pourciau, and all the amazing sales reps out there. I
seriously can’t believe how incredibly lucky and
blessed I am. Thank you. And finally, to my readers: you
rock and I love you.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
James Dashner was born and raised in Georgia but
now lives and writes in the Rocky Mountains. He is
also the author of the 13th Reality series. To learn more
about him and his books, visit jamesdashner.com.

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