The Scorch Trials (The Maze Runner Book 2) (3)
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.
“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-toofamiliar 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 lowhanging 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.
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 white-lipped 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.
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