The Scorch Trials (The Maze Runner Book 2) (40)
CHAPTER
40
The
impact knocked Thomas back, spinning him around so that he fell flat on his
face, smacking his nose on the ground. Somehow, through the pain and muffled
buzz in his ears, he heard the gun fire again, then the sound of grunts and
punches, followed by metal clacking across the cement.
He
rolled onto his back, hand clasped tight to where he’d been shot; he searched
for the courage to look at the wound. The ringing in his ears grew louder, and
he barely noticed out of the corner of his eye that Blondie had been tackled to
the ground. Someone was punching the living crap out of him.
Minho.
Thomas
finally gazed down at the damage. What he saw there made his heart double its
pace.
A
small hole in his shirt revealed a gooey red blob right in the meaty part above
his armpit, blood pouring from the wound. It hurt. It hurt bad. If he’d
thought his headache downstairs had been tough, this was like three or four of
those, all smashed into a coil of pain right there in his shoulder. And
spreading through the rest of his body.
Newt
was at his side, looking down with worried eyes.
“He
shot me.” It just came out, a new number one on the list of the dumbest things
he’d ever said. The pain, like living metal staples running through his
insides, pricking and scratching with their little sharp points. He felt his
mind going dark for the second time that day.
Someone
handed a shirt to Newt, who pressed it tightly against Thomas’s wound. This
sent another wave of agony through him; he cried out, not caring how wimpy he
sounded. It hurt like nothing he’d ever felt before. The world around him faded
another few degrees.
Pass
out,
he urged himself. Please pass out, make it go away.
Voices
came from a distance again, just like his own had on the dance floor after
being drugged.
“I
can get that sucker out of him.” This was Jorge, of all people. “But I’ll need
a fire.”
“We
can’t do this here.” Was that Newt?
“Let’s
get out of this shuck city.” Definitely Minho.
“All
right. Help me carry him.” No idea.
Hands
gripping him from underneath, grasping his legs. The pain. Someone saying
something about the count of three. The pain. It really, really hurt. One. The
pain. Two. Ouch. Three!
He
rose toward the sky, and the pain exploded anew, fresh and raw.
Then
his wish to pass out came true and darkness washed his troubles away.
He
awoke, his mind a haze.
Light
blinded him; he couldn’t open his eyes all the way. His whole body jostled and
bumped, hands still holding him tight. He heard the sounds of breathing, heavy
and fast. Feet pounding on pavement. Someone shouting, though he couldn’t
understand the words. In the distance, the mad screams of Cranks. Close enough
that they might be pursuing.
Heat.
The air was burning hot.
His
shoulder, on fire. Pain tore through him like a series of toxic explosions, and
he fled to the darkness once again.
*
* *
He
cracked his eyes.
This
time the light was much less intense. The golden gleam of twilight. He lay on
his back, the ground beneath him hard. A rock dug into his lower back, but it
felt heavenly compared to the rot in his shoulder. People lumbered about him,
talking in short and tight whispers.
The
cackle of Cranks had grown more distant. He saw nothing but sky above him, no
buildings. Pain in his shoulder. Oh, the pain.
A
fire licked and spit somewhere close. He felt the heat wafting across his body,
hot wind through hot air.
Someone
said, “You better hold him down. Legs and arms.”
Though
his mind still floated in fog, those words didn’t sound good.
A
flash of light on silver in his vision, the fading sun’s reflection on … a
knife? Was it glowing red?
“This
is gonna hurt somethin’ awful.” No idea who said it.
He
heard the hiss right before a billion pounds of dynamite exploded in his
shoulder.
His
mind said goodbye for the third time.
He
sensed that a long spell of time had passed this go-around. When he opened his
eyes again, stars like pinpricks of daylight shone down from the dark sky.
Someone held his hand. He tried to turn his head to look over, but it sent a
fresh wave of agony shooting down his spine.
He
didn’t need to see. It was Brenda.
Who
else would it be? Plus, the hand was soft and small. Brenda for sure.
The
intense pain of before had been replaced. In some ways, he now felt worse.
Something like an illness crept through the inner workings of his body. A
gnawing, itching filthiness. Something foul, like maggots squirming through his
veins and the hollows of his bones and between his muscles. Eating away at him.
It
hurt, but now it was more of an ache. Deep and raw. His stomach, gurgly and
unstable, fire in his veins.
He
didn’t know how he knew, but he was sure of it. Something was wrong.
The
word infection popped up in his mind, then stayed there.
He
drifted off.
The
sunrise woke Thomas in the morning. The first thing he realized was that Brenda
no longer held his hand. Then he noticed the cool air of early morning on his
skin, which gave him the briefest moment of pleasure.
Then
he became fully aware of the throbbing pain that consumed his body, dwelling in
every last molecule. It no longer had anything to do with his shoulder and the
bullet wound. Something terrible had gone wrong with his entire system.
Infection. That word
again.
He
didn’t know how he’d make it through the next five minutes. Or the next hour.
How could he possibly go through an entire day? Then sleep and start the whole
thing all over again? Despair sucked at him, an empty, yawning void that
threatened to pull him down into an awful abyss. A panic-laced craziness struck
him. Suffusing it all, the pain.
That
was when things got bizarre.
The
others heard it before he did. Minho and everyone else were suddenly
scrambling, searching for something, many of them scanning the sky. The sky?
Why would they be doing that?
Someone—Jorge,
he thought—yelled the word Berg.
Then
Thomas heard it. A deep thrumming, full of heavy thumps. It grew louder before
he even realized what was going on, and soon it felt as though the noise were
inside his skull, rattling his jaw and eardrums and sluicing down his spine. A
constant, steady pounding, like the world’s largest drums; behind it all, the massive
hum of heavy machinery. A wind picked up, and at first Thomas worried that a
storm was starting again, but the sky was perfectly blue. Not a cloud to be
seen.
The
noise worsened his pain, made him begin to shut down again. But he fought it,
desperate to know the source of the sounds. Minho shouted something, pointed to
the north. Thomas hurt too much to turn and look. The wind grew stronger,
gusting across him, ripping at his clothes. Dust flew and clouded the air. Suddenly
Brenda was beside him again, squeezing his hand.
She
leaned over until her face was only inches above his. Her hair whipped all
around.
“I’m
sorry,” she said, though he barely heard her. “I didn’t mean to—I mean, I know
that you …” She fumbled for words, looked away.
What
was she talking about? Why didn’t she tell him what was making that horrible
noise! He hurt so bad. …
A
look of curious horror spread across her face, eyes widening, mouth dropping
open. And then she was being pushed away by two …
Panic
seized Thomas now. Two people, dressed in the strangest outfits he’d ever seen.
One-piece, baggy and dark green—letters he couldn’t read scrawled across the chest.
Goggles covering their faces. No, not goggles. Some kind of gas mask. They
looked hideous and alien. They looked evil, like giant, demented, human-eating
insects wrapped in plastic.
One
of them grabbed his legs by the ankles. The other put his hands under him,
gripped him by the armpits, and Thomas screamed. They lifted, and pain went
coursing through his body. He’d almost grown used to the agony by now, but this
felt even worse. It hurt too much to struggle, so he went limp.
Then
they were moving, carrying him, and for the first time, Thomas’s eyes focused
enough to read the letters on the chest of the person at his feet.
WICKED.
Darkness
threatened to take him again. He let it, but the pain went with him.
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