The Scorch Trials (The Maze Runner Book 2) (4)
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 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 buttonup 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.”
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