Most of them slept outside in normal times, so packing all those bodies into the Homestead made
for a tight fit. The Keepers had organized and distributed the Gladers throughout the rooms,
along with blankets and pillows. Despite the number of people and the chaos of such a change, a
disturbing silence hung over the activities, as if no one wanted to draw attention to themselves.
When everyone was settled, Thomas found himself upstairs with Newt, Alby and Minho, and
they were finally able to finish their discussion from earlier in the courtyard. Alby and Newt sat
on the only bed in the room while Thomas and Minho sat next to them in chairs. The only other
furniture was a crooked wooden dresser and a small table, on top of which rested a lamp
providing what light they had. The gray darkness seemed to press on the window from outside,
with promises of bad things to come.
“Closest I’ve come so far,” Newt was saying, “to hangin’ it all up. Shuck it all and kiss a
Griever goodnight. Supplies cut, bloody gray skies, walls not closing. But we can’t give up, and
we all know it. The buggers who sent us here either want us dead or they’re givin’ us a spur. This
or that, we gotta work our arses off till we’re dead or not dead.”
Thomas nodded, but didn’t say anything. He agreed completely but had no concrete ideas on
what to do. If he could just make it to tomorrow, maybe he and Teresa could come up with
something to help.
Thomas glanced over at Alby, who was staring at the floor, seemingly lost in his own gloomy
thoughts. His face still wore the long, weary look of depression, his eyes sunken and hollow. The
Changing had been aptly named, considering what it had done to him.
“Alby?” Newt asked. “Are you gonna pitch in?”
Alby looked up, surprise crossing his face as if he hadn’t known that anyone else was in the
room. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Good that. But you’ve seen what happens at night. Just because Greenie
the freaking superboy made it doesn’t mean the rest of us can.”
Thomas rolled his eyes ever so slightly at Minho—so tired of Alby’s attitude.
If Minho felt the same way, he did a good job of hiding it. “I’m with Thomas and Newt. We
gotta quit boohooing and feeling sorry for ourselves.” He rubbed his hands together and sat
forward in his chair. “Tomorrow morning, first thing, you guys can assign teams to study the
Maps full-time while the Runners go out. We’ll pack our stuff shuck-full so we can stay out there
a few days.”
“What?” Alby asked, his voice finally showing some emotion. “What do you mean, days?”
“I mean, days. With open Doors and no sunset, there’s no point in coming back here, anyway.
Time to stay out there and see if anything opens up when the walls move. If they still move.”
“No way,” Alby said. “We have the Homestead to hide in—and if that ain’t workin’, the Map
Room and the Slammer. We can’t freaking ask people to go out there and die, Minho! Who’d
volunteer for that?”
“Me,” Minho said. “And Thomas.”
Everyone looked at Thomas; he simply nodded. Although it scared him to death, exploring the
Maze—really exploring it—was something he’d wanted to do from the first time he’d learned
about it.
“I will if I have to,” Newt said, surprising Thomas; though he’d never talk about it, the older
boy’s limp was a constant reminder that something horrible had happened to him out in the
Maze. “And I’m sure all the Runners’ll do it.”
“With your bum leg?” Alby asked, a harsh laugh escaping his lips.
Newt frowned, looked at the ground. “Well, I don’t feel good askin’ Gladers to do something
if I’m not bloody willing to do it myself.”
Alby scooted back on the bed and propped his feet up. “Whatever. Do what you want.”
“Do what I want?” Newt asked, standing up. “What’s wrong with you, man? Are you tellin’
me we have a choice? Should we just sit around on our butts and wait to be snuffed by the
Grievers?”
Thomas wanted to stand up and cheer, sure that Alby would finally snap out of his doldrums.
But their leader didn’t look in the least bit reprimanded or remorseful. “Well, it sounds better
than running to them.”
Newt sat back down. “Alby. You gotta start talkin’ reason.”
As much as he hated to admit it, Thomas knew they needed Alby if they were going to
accomplish anything. The Gladers looked up to him.
Alby finally took a deep breath, then looked at each of them in turn. “You guys know I’m all
screwed up. Seriously, I’m … sorry. I shouldn’t be the stupid leader anymore.”
Thomas held his breath. He couldn’t believe Alby had just said that.
“Oh bloody—” Newt started.
“No!” Alby shouted, his face showing humility, surrender. “That’s not what I meant. Listen to
me. I ain’t saying we should switch or any of that klunk. I’m just saying … I think I need to let
you guys make the decisions. I don’t trust myself. So … yeah, I’ll do whatever.”
Thomas could see that both Minho and Newt were as surprised as he was.
“Uh … okay,” Newt said slowly. As if he was unsure. “We’ll make it work, I promise. You’ll
see.”
“Yeah,” Alby muttered. After a long pause, he spoke up, a hint of odd excitement in his voice.
“Hey, tell you what. Put me in charge of the Maps. I’ll freaking work every Glader to the bone
studying those things.”
“Works for me,” Minho said. Thomas wanted to agree, but didn’t know if it was his place.
Alby put his feet back on the floor, sat up straighter. “Ya know, it was really stupid for us to
sleep in here tonight. We should’ve been out in the Map Room, working.”
Thomas thought that was the smartest thing he’d heard Alby say in a long time.
Minho shrugged. “Probably right.”
“Well … I’ll go,” Alby said with a confident nod. “Right now.”
Newt shook his head. “Forget that, Alby. Already heard the bloody Grievers moaning out
there. We can wait till the wake-up.”
Alby leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Hey, you shucks are the ones giving me all the
pep talks. Don’t start whining when I actually listen. If I’m gonna do this, I gotta do it, be the old
me. I need something to dive into.”
Relief flooded Thomas. He’d grown sick of all the contention.
Alby stood up. “Seriously, I need this.” He moved toward the door of the room as if he really
meant to leave.
“You can’t be serious,” Newt said. “You can’t go out there now!”
“I’m going, and that’s that.” Alby took his ring of keys from his pocket and rattled them
mockingly—Thomas couldn’t believe the sudden bravery. “See you shucks in the morning.”
And then he walked out.
It was strange to know that the night grew later, that darkness should’ve swallowed the world
around them, but to see only the pale gray light outside. It made Thomas feel off-kilter, as if the
urge to sleep that grew steadily with every passing minute were somehow unnatural. Time
slowed to an agonizing crawl; he felt as if the next day might never come.
The other Gladers settled themselves, turning in with their pillows and blankets for the
impossible task of sleeping. No one said much, the mood somber and grim. All you could hear
were quiet shuffles and whispers.
Thomas tried hard to force himself to sleep, knowing it would make the time pass faster, but
after two hours he’d still had no luck. He lay on the floor in one of the upper rooms, on top of a
thick blanket, several other Gladers crammed in there with him, almost body to body. The bed
had gone to Newt.
Chuck had ended up in another room, and for some reason Thomas pictured him huddled in a
dark corner, crying, squeezing his blankets to his chest like a teddy bear. The image saddened
Thomas so deeply he tried to replace it, but to no avail.
Almost every person had a flashlight by their side in case of emergency. Otherwise, Newt had
ordered all lights extinguished despite the pale, deathly glow of their new sky—no sense
attracting any more attention than necessary. Anything that could be done on such short notice to
prepare for a Griever attack had been done: windows boarded up, furniture moved in front of
doors, knives handed out as weapons …
But none of that made Thomas feel safe.
The anticipation of what might happen was overpowering, a suffocating blanket of misery and
fear that began to take on a life of its own. He almost wished the suckers would just come and
get it over with. The waiting was unbearable.
The distant wails of the Grievers grew closer as the night stretched on, every minute seeming
to last longer than the one before it.
Another hour passed. Then another. Sleep finally came, but in miserable fits. Thomas guessed
it was about two in the morning when he turned from his back to his stomach for the millionth
time that night. He put his hands under his chin and stared at the foot of the bed, almost a shadow
in the dim light.
Then everything changed.
A mechanized surge of machinery sounded from outside, followed by the familiar rolling
clicks of a Griever on the stony ground, as if someone had scattered a handful of nails. Thomas
shot to his feet, as did most of the others.
But Newt was up before anyone, waving his arms, then shushing the room by putting a finger
to his lips. Favoring his bad leg, he tiptoed toward the lone window in the room, which was
covered by three hastily nailed boards. Large cracks allowed for plenty of space to peek outside.
Carefully, Newt leaned in to take a look, and Thomas crept over to join him.
He crouched below Newt against the lowest of the wooden boards, pressing his eye against a
crack—it was terrifying being so close to the wall. But all he saw was the open Glade; he didn’t
have enough space to look up or down or to the side, just straight ahead. After a minute or so, he
gave up and turned to sit with his back against the wall. Newt walked over and sat back down on
the bed.
A few minutes passed, various Griever sounds penetrating the walls every ten to twenty
seconds. The squeal of small engines followed by a grinding spin of metal. The clicking of
spikes against the hard stone. Things snapping and opening and snapping. Thomas winced in fear
every time he heard something.
Sounded like three or four of them were just outside. At least.
He heard the twisted animal-machines come closer, so close, waiting on the stone blocks
below. All hums and metallic clatter.
Thomas’s mouth dried up—he’d seen them face to face, remembered it all too well; he had to
remind himself to breathe. The others in the room were still; no one made a sound. Fear seemed
to hover in the air like a blizzard of black snow.
One of the Grievers sounded like it was moving toward the house. Then the clicking of its
spikes against the stone suddenly turned into a deeper, hollower sound. Thomas could picture it
all: the creature’s metal spikes digging into the wooden sides of the Homestead, the massive
creature rolling its body, climbing up toward their room, defying gravity with its strength.
Thomas heard the Grievers’ spikes shred the wood siding in their path as they tore out and
rotated around to take hold once again. The whole building shuddered.
The crunching and groaning and snapping of the wood became the only sounds in the world to
Thomas, horrifying. They grew louder, closer—the other boys had shuffled across the room and
as far away from the window as possible. Thomas finally followed suit, Newt right beside him;
everyone huddled against the far wall, staring at the window.
Just when it grew unbearable—just as Thomas realized the Griever was right outside the
window—everything fell silent. Thomas could almost hear his own heart beating.
Lights flickered out there, casting odd beams through the cracks between the wooden boards.
Then a thin shadow interrupted the light, moving back and forth. Thomas knew that the
Griever’s probes and weapons had come out, searching for a feast. He imagined beetle blades out
there, helping the creatures find their way. A few seconds later the shadow stopped; the light
settled to a standstill, casting three unmoving planes of brightness into the room.
The tension in the air was thick; Thomas couldn’t hear anyone breathing. He thought much the
same must be going on in the other rooms of the Homestead. Then he remembered Teresa in the
Slammer.
He was just wishing she’d say something to him when the door from the hallway suddenly
whipped open. Gasps and shouts exploded throughout the room. The Gladers had been expecting
something from the window, not from behind them. Thomas turned to see who’d opened the
door, expecting a frightened Chuck or maybe a reconsidering Alby. But when he saw who stood
there, his skull seemed to contract, squeezing his brain in shock.
It was Gally.
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