The Death Cure (The Maze Runner Book 3) (8)
CHAPTER
8
The
two female guards lifted their weapons even higher, the wide, round muzzles
pointed at the three boys.
“Don’t
make us use these,” one of the women said. “You have zero room for error. One
false move and we pull the trigger.”
The
three men swung the straps of their Launchers over their shoulders, then moved
toward the defiant Gladers, one per boy. Thomas still felt an odd
calmness—coming in part from the deep determination to fight until he couldn’t
anymore—and a sense of satisfaction that WICKED needed five armed guards to watch
three teenagers.
The
guy who grabbed Thomas’s arm was twice as thick as he was, powerfully built. He
walked briskly through the door and into the hallway, pulling Thomas along
after him. Thomas looked back to see another guard half drag Minho across the
floor to follow, and Newt was right behind them, struggling to no avail.
The
boys were hauled down corridor after corridor, the only sounds coming from
Minho—grunts and shouts and curses. Thomas tried to tell him to stop—that he
was only making it worse, that he was probably going to get shot—but Minho
ignored him, fighting tooth and nail until the group finally stopped in front
of a door.
One
of the armed guards used a key card to unlock the door. She pushed it open to
reveal a small bedroom with two sets of bunk beds and a kitchenette with a
table and chairs in the far corner. It certainly wasn’t what Thomas had been
expecting—he’d pictured the Slammer back in the Glade, with its dirt floor and
one half-broken chair.
“In
you go,” she said. “We’ll have some food brought to you. Be glad we don’t
starve you for a few days after the way you’ve been acting. Tests tomorrow, so
you better get some sleep tonight.”
The
three men pushed the Gladers into the room and swung the door closed; the click
of the lock engaging echoed through the air.
Immediately
all the feelings of captivity Thomas had endured in the white-walled prison
came flooding back. He crossed the floor to the door and twisted the knob,
pulled and pushed with all his weight. He pounded on it with both fists,
screaming as loudly as he could for someone to let them out.
“Slim
it,” Newt said from behind him. “No one’s coming to bloody tuck you in.”
Thomas
whirled around, but when he saw his friend standing in front of him, he
stopped. Minho spoke before he could put words together.
“I
guess we missed our chance.” He plopped down on one of the bottom bunks. “We’ll
be old men or dead before your magical moment comes rolling along, Thomas. It’s
not like they’re going to make a big announcement: ‘Now would be an excellent
time to escape, because we’ll be busy for the next ten minutes.’ We’ve gotta
take some chances.”
Thomas
hated to admit that his friends were right, but they were. They all should’ve
made a run for it before those guards showed up. “Sorry. It just didn’t feel
right yet. And once they had all those weapons in our faces, it seemed kind of
pointless to waste the effort trying anything.”
“Yeah,
well” was all Minho said. Then, “You and Brenda had a nice little reunion.”
Thomas
took a deep breath. “She said something.”
Minho
sat up straighter on the bed. “What do you mean she said something?”
“She
told me not to trust them—to only trust her and someone named Chancellor
Paige.”
“Well,
what’s her buggin’ deal anyway?” Newt asked. “She works for WICKED? What, was
she just a bloody actress down in the Scorch?”
“Yeah,
sounds like she’s no better than the rest of them,” Minho added.
Thomas
just didn’t agree. He couldn’t even explain it to himself, much less to his
friends. “Look, I used to work for them, too, but you trust me, right? It
doesn’t mean anything. Maybe she had no choice, maybe she’s changed. I don’t
know.”
Minho
squinted as if he was thinking but didn’t respond. Newt just sat down on the floor
and folded his arms, pouting like a little kid.
Thomas
shook his head. He was sick of puzzling everything out. He walked over and
opened the small fridge—his stomach was rumbling with hunger. He found some
cheese sticks and grapes and divvied them up, then practically shoved his
portion down his throat before drinking a full bottle of juice. The other two gobbled
theirs as well, no one saying a word.
A
woman showed up soon after with plates of pork chops and potatoes, and they ate
that, too. It was early evening, according to Thomas’s watch, but he couldn’t
imagine being able to fall asleep. He sat down in a chair, facing his friends,
wondering what they should do. He was still feeling a little chagrined, like it
was his fault that they’d yet to try anything, but he didn’t offer any ideas.
Minho
was the first one to speak since the food had come. “Maybe we should just give
in to those shuck-faces. Do what they want. One day we’ll all sit around, fat
and happy.”
Thomas
knew he didn’t mean a word of it. “Yeah, maybe you can find a nice pretty girl
who works here, settle down, get married and have kids. Just in time for the
world to end in a sea of lunatics.”
Minho
kept at it. “WICKED’s going to figure out this blueprint business and we’ll all
live happily ever after.”
“That’s
not even funny,” Newt said grumpily. “Even if they did find a cure, you saw it
out there in the Scorch. It’s gonna be a buggin’ long time before the world can
ever get back to normal. Even if it can—we’ll never see it.”
Thomas
realized he was just sitting there, staring at a spot on the floor. “After
everything they’ve done to us, I just don’t believe any of it.” He couldn’t get
past the news about Newt—his friend, who’d do anything for someone else. They’d
given him a death sentence—an incurable disease—just to watch what would
happen.
“That
Janson guy thinks he has it all figured out,” Thomas continued. “He thinks it
all comes down to some sort of greater good. Let the human race kick the
bucket, or do awful things and save it. Even the few who are immune probably
wouldn’t last long in a world where ninety-nine-point-nine percent of people turn
into psycho monsters.”
“What’s
your point?” Minho muttered.
“My
point is that before they swiped my memory, I think I used to buy all that
junk. But not anymore.” And the one thing that terrified him now was that any
returning memories might make him change his mind about that.
“Then
let’s not waste our next chance, Tommy,” Newt said.
“Tomorrow,”
Minho added. “Somehow, some way.”
Thomas
gave each of them a long look. “Okay. Somehow, some way.”
Newt
yawned, making the other two do the same. “Then we better quit yapping and get
some buggin’ sleep.”
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