Thomas stared at the runners. He sensed that the other Gladers around him had stopped as well, as if
there’d been an unspoken command to do so. Thomas shivered, something that seemed completely
impossible in the sweltering heat. He didn’t know why he felt the tickle of cold fear along his back—the
Gladers outnumbered the approaching strangers almost ten times over—but the feeling was undeniable.
“Everyone pack in tighter,” Minho said. “And get ready to fight these shanks the first sign of trouble.”
The blurry mirage of upward-melting heat obscured the two figures until they were only a hundred
yards or so away. Thomas’s muscles tensed when they came into focus. He remembered all too well what
he’d seen through the barred window just a few mornings ago. The Cranks. But these people scared him
in a different way.
They stopped just a couple of dozen feet in front of the Gladers. One was a man, the other a woman,
though Thomas could only tell this from the lady’s slightly curvy figure. Other than that, they had the same
build—tall and scrawny. Their heads and faces were almost completely covered in wrappings of tattered
beige cloth, small ragged slits cut for them to see and breathe through. Their shirts and pants were a
hodgepodge of filthy clothing sewn together, tied with ratty strips of denim in some places. Nothing was
exposed to the beating sun but their hands, and those were red and cracked and scabby.
The two of them stood there, panting as they caught their breath, a sound like sick dogs.
“Who are you?” Minho called out.
The strangers didn’t respond, didn’t move. Their chests heaved in and out. Thomas observed them from
under his makeshift hood—he couldn’t imagine how anyone could run so far and not die of heat
exhaustion.
“Who are you?” Minho repeated.
Instead of answering, the two strangers split apart and started walking in a broad circle around the
bunched-up Gladers. Their eyes, hidden behind the slits in those odd mummy wrappings, stayed fixed on
the boys as they made their way in a wide arc, as if sizing them up for a kill. Thomas felt the tension
inside him rise, hated when he could no longer see both of them at once. He turned around and watched as
they met back up behind the group and once again faced them, standing still.
“There are a whole lot more of us than there are of you,” Minho said, his voice betraying his
frustration. To threaten them so soon seemed desperate. “Start talking. Tell us who you are.”
“We’re Cranks.”
The two words came from the woman, a short burst of guttural annoyance. For no discernible reason
she pointed across the Gladers back toward the town from which they’d run.
“Cranks?” Minho said; he had pushed his way through the crowd to be closest to the strangers again.
“Just like the ones that tried to break into our building a couple days ago?”
Thomas cringed—these people would have no idea what Minho was talking about. Somehow the
Gladers had traveled a long way from wherever that place had been—through the Flat Trans.
“We’re Cranks.” This time from the man, his voice surprisingly lighter and less gruff than the woman’s.
But there was no kindness in it. He pointed over the Gladers just like his companion had done. “Came to
see if you’re Cranks. Came to see if you’ve got the Flare.”
Minho turned to look at Thomas and then a few others, his eyebrows raised. No one said anything. He
turned back. “Some dude told us we had the Flare, yeah. What can you tell us about it?”
“Don’t matter,” the man responded; the strips of cloth wrapped around his face jiggled with every
word. “You got it, you’ll know soon enough.”
“Well, what do you bloody want?” Newt asked, stepping up to stand next to Minho. “What’s it matter
to you if we’re Cranks or not?”
The woman responded this time, acting as if she hadn’t heard the questions. “How’d you get in the
Scorch? Where’d you come from? How’d you get here?”
Thomas was surprised at the … intelligence evident in her words. The Cranks they’d seen back at the
dorm had seemed absolutely insane, like animals. These people were aware enough to realize that their
group had appeared out of nowhere. Nothing lay in the opposite direction from the town.
Minho leaned over to consult with Newt, then turned and stepped closer to Thomas. “What do we tell
these people?”
Thomas had no clue. “I don’t know. The truth? It can’t hurt.”
“The truth?” Minho said sarcastically. “What an idea, Thomas. You’re freaking brilliant, as usual.” He
faced the Cranks again. “We were sent here by WICKED. Came out of a hole just a little while that way,
from a tunnel. We’re supposed to go one hundred miles to the north, cross the Scorch. Any of that mean a
thing to you?”
Once again, it was as if they hadn’t heard a word he’d said.
“Not all Cranks are gone,” the man said. “Not all of them are past the Gone.” He said that last word in
a way that made it sound like the name of a place. “Different ones at different levels. Best you learn who
to make friends with and who to avoid. Or kill. Better learn right quick if you’re coming our way.”
“What’s your way?” Minho asked. “You came from that town, right? Is that where all these Cranks
live? Is there food and water there?”
Thomas felt the same urge as Minho—to ask a million questions. He was half tempted to suggest they
capture these two Cranks and make them answer. But for the moment the pair didn’t seem intent on
helping at all, and they split again to circle back around to the side of the Gladers closest to the town.
Once they met up in the spot where they’d first spoken, the distant town almost seeming to float
between them, the woman said one last thing. “If you don’t have it yet, you’ll have it soon. Same with the
other group. The ones that’re supposed to kill you.”
The two strangers then turned around and ran back toward the cluster of buildings on the horizon,
leaving Thomas and the other Gladers in stunned silence. Soon, any evidence of the running Cranks was
lost in a blur of heat and dust.
“Other group?” someone said. Maybe Frypan. Thomas was in too much of a trance staring at the
disappearing Cranks and worrying about the Flare to notice.
“Wonder if they’re talking about my group.” This was definitely Aris. Thomas finally forced himself to
snap out of his gaze.
“Group B?” he asked him. “You think they’ve already made it to the town?”
“Hello!” Minho snapped. “Who cares? You’d think the little part about them supposedly killing us
would be the attention getter. Maybe this stuff about the Flare?”
Thomas thought of the tattoo on the back of his neck. Those simple words that scared him. “Maybe
when she said ‘you’ she didn’t mean all of us.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, pointing down at his
menacing mark. “Maybe she meant me specifically. Couldn’t tell where her eyes were looking.”
“How’s she gonna know who you are?” Minho retorted. “Plus, doesn’t matter. If someone tries to kill
you, or me, or anyone else, they might as well try to get all of us. Right?”
“You’re so sweet,” Frypan said with a snort. “Go ahead and die with Thomas. I think I’ll sneak away
and enjoy living with the guilt.” He cast his special look that meant he was only kidding, but Thomas
wondered if a little truth might be hiding in there somewhere.
“Well, what do we do now?” Jack asked. He had Winston’s arm around one of his shoulders, but the
former Keeper of the Blood House seemed to have recovered some of his strength. Luckily the sheet
covered the hideous parts of his head.
“What do you think?” Newt asked, but then he nodded at Minho.
Minho rolled his eyes. “We keep going, that’s what. Look, we don’t have a choice. If we don’t go to
that town, we’re gonna die out here of sunstroke or starvation. If we do go, we’ll have some shelter for a
while, maybe even food. Cranks or no Cranks, that’s where we’re going.”
“And Group B?” Thomas asked; he glanced over at Aris. “Or whoever they were talking about. What if
they really do wanna kill us? All we have to fight with are our hands.”
Minho flexed his right arm. “If these people are really the girls Aris was hanging out with, I’ll show
’em these guns of mine and they’ll go runnin’.”
Thomas kept pushing. “And if these girls have weapons? Or can fight? Or if it’s not them at all but a
bunch of seven-foot-tall grunts who like to eat humans? Or a thousand Cranks?”
“Thomas … no. Everybody.” Minho let out an exasperated sigh. “Would everyone just shut their holes
and slim it? No more questions. Unless you have an idea that doesn’t involve absolute certain death, then
quit your pipin’ and let’s take the only chance we got. Get it?”
Thomas smiled, though he didn’t know where the impulse came from. Somehow in a few sentences
Minho had cheered him up, or at least given him a little hope. They just had to go, to move, to do. That
was it.
“That’s better,” Minho said with a satisfied nod. “Anybody else wanna pee their pants and cry for
Mommy?”
A few snickers broke out, but no one said anything.
“Good. Newt, you lead up front this time, limp and all. Thomas, you in the back. Jack, get someone else
to help with Winston to give you a break. Let’s go.”
And so they did. Aris held the pack this time, and Thomas felt as if he were almost floating along the
ground, it felt so good. The only hard part was holding that sheet up, his arm growing weak and rubbery.
But on and on they went, sometimes walking, sometimes jogging.
Luckily, the sun seemed to gain weight and drop more quickly the closer it got to the horizon. By
Thomas’s wristwatch, the Cranks had only been gone an hour when the sky turned a purplish orange and
the intense glare of the sun started to melt away into a more pleasant glow. Not long after that, it
disappeared below the horizon altogether, pulling nighttime and stars across the sky like a curtain.
The Gladers kept moving, heading toward the faint twinkle of lights coming from the town. Thomas
could almost enjoy it now that he wasn’t holding the pack and they’d put the sheet away.
Finally, when every last trace of dusk had gone, full darkness settled on the land like a black fog.
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