Thomas had a sickening thought as he pushed his way down the stairs after Winston. He didn’t know if he
was going because he wanted to help him or because he couldn’t control his curiosity about this silvery
monster-ball.
Winston eventually thumped to a stop, his back coming to rest by chance on one of the steps; they were
still nowhere close to the bottom. The brilliant light from the open door up top illuminated everything
with perfect clarity. Both of Winston’s hands were at his face, pulling at the silver liquid—the ball of
molten metal had already melded with the top of his head, consuming the part above the ears. Now its
edges were creeping downward like thick syrup, lipping over the ears and covering his eyebrows.
Thomas jumped over the boy’s body and spun around to kneel on the step directly below him; Winston
pulled and pushed at the silver goop to keep it off his eyes. Surprisingly, it seemed to be working. But the
boy was screaming at the top of his lungs, thrashing, his feet kicking the wall.
“Get it off me!” he yelled, his voice so strangled that Thomas almost gave up and ran away. If the stuff
hurt that bad …
It looked like a very dense silver gel. Persistent and stubborn—like it was alive. As soon as Winston
pushed a portion of it up and off his eyes, some of it would slip around his fingers from the side and try
again. Thomas could see glimpses of the skin on his face when he did this, and it wasn’t pretty. Red and
blistering.
Winston cried out something unintelligible—his tortured screams could have been in another language
altogether. Thomas knew he had to do something. Time had run out.
He threw the pack off his shoulders and dumped the contents; fruits and packages scattered and
thumped down the stairs. He took the bedsheet and wrapped it around his hands for protection, then went
for it. As Winston swiped at the molten silver right above his eyes again, Thomas grabbed for the sides
that had just gone over the boy’s ears. He felt heat through the cloth, thought it might burst into flame. He
braced his feet, squeezed the stuff as hard as he could, then yanked.
With a disturbing sucking sound, the sides of the attacking metal lifted several inches before slipping
out of his hands and slapping back down onto Winston’s ears. Impossibly, the boy screamed even louder.
A couple of other Gladers tried to move in to help, but Thomas shouted for them to back off, thinking
they’d only get in the way.
“We have to do it together!” Thomas yelled at Winston, determined to get a stronger hold this time.
“Listen to me, Winston! We have to do it together! Try to get a grip on it and lift it off your head!”
The other boy didn’t show any sign of understanding, his whole body convulsing as he struggled. If
Thomas hadn’t been on the step below him, he would’ve tumbled down the rest of the way for sure by
now.
“On the count of three!” Thomas yelled. “Winston! On the count of three!”
Still no sign he’d heard. Screaming. Thrashing. Kicking. Slapping at the silver.
Tears welled up in Thomas’s eyes, or maybe it was sweat trickling down from his forehead. But it
stung. And he felt like the air had heated up to a million degrees. His muscles tensed; lances of pain shot
through his legs. They were cramping.
“Just do it!” he yelled, ignoring it all and leaning in to try again. “One! Two! Now!”
He gripped the sides of the stretching silver, felt its odd combination of soft toughness, then yanked
once again up and away from Winston’s head. Winston must’ve heard, or maybe it was luck, but at the
same time, he pushed at the goop with the heels of his hands, like he was trying to rip off his own
forehead. The entire mess of silver came off, a wobbly, thick and heavy sheet of the stuff. Thomas didn’t
hesitate; he flung his arms up and threw the junk over his head and down the stairwell, then spun around
on his heels to see what happened.
As it flew through the air, the silver quickly formed back into a sphere, its surface rippling for a
moment, then solidifying. It stopped just a few steps down from them, hovered for a second, like it was
taking a long and lasting look at its victim, perhaps thinking over what had gone wrong. Then it shot away,
flying down the stairway until it disappeared in the darkness far below.
It was gone. For some reason, it hadn’t attacked again.
Thomas sucked in huge gasps of air; every inch of his body felt drenched with sweat. He leaned his
shoulder against the wall, scared to look back at Winston, who was whimpering behind him. At least the
screams had stopped.
Thomas finally turned around and faced him.
The kid was a mess. Curled up into a ball, shaking. The hair on his head had vanished, replaced with
raw skin and spots of seeping blood. His ears were cut and ragged, but whole. He sobbed, surely from the
pain, probably also from the trauma of what he’d just been through. The acne on his face looked clean and
fresh compared to the raw wounds on the rest of his head.
“You okay, man?” Thomas asked, knowing it had to be the dumbest question he’d ever spoken aloud.
Winston shook his head with a quick jerk; his body continued to tremble.
Thomas looked up to see Minho and Newt and Aris and all the other Gladers just a couple of steps
above them, all staring down in complete shock. The brilliant glare from above shadowed their faces, but
Thomas could still see their eyes—wide like those of cats stunned by a spotlight.
“What was that shuck thing?” Minho murmured.
Thomas couldn’t bring himself to speak, just shook his head wearily.
Newt was the one to answer. “Magic goop that eats people’s heads, that’s what it bloody was.”
“Has to be some kind of new technology.” This came from Aris, the first time Thomas had seen him
participate in a discussion. The boy looked around, obviously noticing the surprised faces, then shrugged
as if embarrassed and continued. “I’ve had a few splotchy memories come back. I know the world has
some pretty advanced techno stuff—but I don’t remember anything like flying molten metal that tries to cut
off body parts.”
Thomas thought about his own sketchy memories. Certainly nothing like that came to mind for him,
either.
Minho pointed absently down the stairwell past Thomas. “That crap must keep gelling around your
face, then eat into the flesh of your neck until it cuts clean through it. Nice. That’s real nice.”
“Did you see? Thing came right out of the ceiling!” Frypan said. “We better get out of here. Now.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” Newt added.
Minho glanced down at Winston with a look of disgust, and Thomas followed his gaze. The kid had
quit shaking, and his sobs had calmed to a stifled whimper. But he looked awful, and was surely scarred
for life. Thomas couldn’t imagine hair ever growing back on the red, raw mess of his head.
“Frypan, Jack!” Minho called out. “Get Winston on his feet, help him along. Aris, you gather the klunk
he dropped, have a couple of guys help you carry it. We’re leaving. I don’t care how bright or brutal that
light is up there—I don’t feel like having my head turned into a bowling ball today.”
He turned around without waiting to see if people followed his orders. It was a move that, for some
reason, made Thomas think the guy would end up making a good leader after all. “Come on, Thomas and
Newt,” he called over his shoulder. “The three of us are going through first.”
Thomas exchanged glances with Newt, who returned a look that had a little fear in it but was mostly
full of curiosity. An eagerness to move on. Thomas felt it himself, and hated to admit that anything seemed
better than dealing with the aftermath of what had happened to Winston.
“Let’s go,” Newt said, his voice rising on the second word, as if they had no choice but to do what they
were told. Though his face revealed the truth: he wanted to get away from poor Winston just as much as
Thomas did.
Thomas nodded and carefully stepped over Winston, trying not to look at the skin on his injured head
again. It was making him sick. He moved to the side to let Frypan, Jack and Aris past him to do their jobs,
then started up the stairs, two at a time. Following Newt and Minho to the top, where it seemed like the
sun itself waited just outside the open door.
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