The Scorch Trials (The Maze Runner Book 2) (24)
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.
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.
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