“No.”
Thomas said it with every ounce of finality and firmness he could muster.
“No?” Jorge repeated with a look of surprise. “I offer you a chance to make it through a city full of
vicious Cranks ready to eat you alive, and you say no? To my one little itsy-bitsy request? That does not
make me happy.”
“It wouldn’t be smart,” Thomas said. He had no idea how he was able to maintain his calm expression,
where this bravery was coming from. But something told him it was the only way he could survive with
this Crank.
Jorge leaned forward again, placed his elbows on the table. But this time he didn’t clasp his hands;
instead, he balled them into fists. His knuckles cracked. “Is it your goal in life to piss me off until I cut
your arteries open one by one?”
“You saw what he did to you,” Thomas countered. “You know the guts that took. If you kill him, you
lose the skills he brings. He’s our best fighter, and he’s not scared of anything. Maybe he’s crazy, but we
need him.”
Thomas was trying to sound so practical. Pragmatic. But if there was a person other than Teresa on the
planet he could truly call a friend, it was Minho. And he couldn’t handle losing him, too.
“But he made me angry,” Jorge said tightly; his fists had not relaxed in the slightest. “He made me look
like a little girl in front of my people. And that’s not … acceptable.”
Thomas shrugged like he didn’t care, like it was a small and meaningless point. “So punish him. Make
him look like a little girl. But killing him doesn’t help us. The more bodies we have that can fight, the
better our chances. I mean, you live here. Do I really need to tell you this?”
Finally, finally, Jorge loosened his white-knuckled grips. He also let out a breath that Thomas hadn’t
realized he’d been holding.
“Okay,” the Crank said. “Okay. But it has nothing to do with your lame attempt to talk me into it. I’ll
spare him because I just made up my mind about something. Because of two reasons, actually. One of
which you should have thought of yourself.”
“What?” Thomas didn’t mind his relief showing anymore—the effort to hide things was exhausting him.
Plus, he was now too intrigued by what Jorge had to say.
“First off, you don’t really know all the details behind this test or experiment or whatever it is that
WICKED is putting you through. Maybe the more of you that make it back—to that safe haven—the better
chances you have of getting the cure. Ever thought that this Group B you mentioned are probably your
competitors? I think it’s in my best interests to make sure all eleven of you make it now.”
Thomas nodded, but didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to take the slightest chance of ruining the
victory here: Jorge believed him about the Rat Man and the cure.
“Which leads to my second reason,” he continued. “The thing I’ve made up my mind about.”
“And what’s that?” Thomas asked.
“I’m not taking all those Cranks out there with me. With us.”
“Huh? Why? I thought the whole point was that you guys could help us fight our way through the city.”
Jorge adamantly shook his head as he leaned back in his chair and assumed a much less threatening
position, folding his arms across his chest. “No. If we’re gonna do this, stealth will work way better than
muscle. We’ve been sneaking around this hellhole ever since we got here, and I think our chances of
making it through—and getting all the food and supplies we need—are way better if we take what we’ve
learned and use it. Tiptoe our way past the long-gone-crazy Cranks instead of slashing through them like a
bunch of wannabe warriors.”
“You’re hard to figure out,” Thomas said. “Not to be rude, but it sure seems like warriors are exactly
what you guys want to be. Ya know, based on all the ugly outfits and sharp things.”
A long moment of silence passed, and Thomas was just starting to think he’d made a mistake when
Jorge burst out laughing.
“Oh, muchacho, you’re one lucky sucker I like you. Not sure why, but I do. Otherwise I would’ve
killed you three times already.”
“Can you do that?” Thomas asked.
“Huh?”
“Kill someone three times.”
“I’d figure out a way.”
“Then I’ll try to be nicer.”
Jorge slapped the table and stood up. “Okay. So here’s the deal. We need to get all eleven of you punks
to your safe haven. To do it, I’m only taking one other person—her name is Brenda, and she’s a genius.
We need her mind. And if we do make it, and it ends up that there’s no cure for us, then I don’t think I
need to tell you what the consequences will be.”
“Come on,” Thomas said sarcastically. “I thought we were friends now.”
“Pshh. We ain’t friends, hermano. We’re partners. I’ll deliver you to WICKED. You get me a cure.
That’s the deal or there’s gonna be a lot of death.”
Thomas stood as well; his chair creaked against the floor. “We already agreed on that, didn’t we?”
“Yeah. Yeah, we did. Now listen, don’t you dare say a word out there. Getting away from those other
Cranks is gonna be … tricky.”
“What’s the plan?”
Jorge thought for a minute, his eyes glued to Thomas as he did. Then he broke his silence. “Just keep
your tongue-hole shut and let me do my thing.” He started to move toward the door to the hallway, but
stopped short. “Oh, and I don’t think your compadre Minho is going to like it very much.”
As they walked down the hallway to join the others, Thomas realized how achingly hungry he was. The
cramps in his stomach had spread to the rest of his body, as if his internal organs and muscles were
starting to eat each other.
“All right, everybody listen!” Jorge announced when they reentered the large torn-up room. “Me and
the bird-face here have come to a resolution.”
Bird face? Thomas thought.
The Cranks still stood at attention, nasty weapons gripped tightly, glaring at the Gladers, all of whom
sat around the edges of the space, backs against the walls. Light beamed through the shattered windows
and holes above.
Jorge came to a stop in the middle of the room and slowly turned to address the whole group. Thomas
thought he looked ridiculous—like he was trying too hard.
“First, we need to get these people food. I know it seems crazy to share our hard-earned grub with a
bunch of strangers, but I think we could use their help. Give ’em the pork and beans—I’m sick of that
horse crap anyway.” One of the Cranks snickered, a skinny runt of a kid whose eyes darted back and forth.
“Second, being the grand gentleman and saint that I am, I’ve decided not to kill the punk who attacked
me.”
Thomas heard a few disappointed groans break out and wondered just how far along some of these
people were with the Flare. But one girl, a pretty, older teenager with long hair that was surprisingly
clean, rolled her eyes and shook her head as if she thought the noise was idiotic. Thomas found himself
hoping she was the Brenda girl Jorge had mentioned.
Jorge pointed at Minho, who, not shockingly to Thomas at all, smiled and waved at the crowd.
“Pretty happy, are you?” Jorge grunted. “That’s good to know. Means you’ll take the news well.”
“What news?” Minho asked sharply.
Thomas glanced over at Jorge, wondering what was about to come out of the guy’s mouth.
The Crank leader spoke matter-of-factly. “After we get you stragglers fed so you don’t go dying of
starvation on us, you get to have your punishment for attacking me.”
“Oh yeah?” If Minho was scared, he didn’t show any sign of it. “And what’s that gonna be?”
Jorge just stared back at Minho—a blank expression spread eerily
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