The Scorch Trials (The Maze Runner Book 2) (33)
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 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.
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