The Maze Runner - Epilogue

EPILOGUE

WICKED Memorandum, Date 232.1.27, Time 22:45
TO: My Associates
FROM: Ava Paige, Chancelor
RE: THOUGHTS ON MAZE TRIALS, Group A

By any reckoning, I think we’d all agree that the Trials were a success. Twenty survivors, all
well qualified for our planned endeavor. The responses to the Variables were satisfactory and
encouraging. The boy’s murder and the “rescue” proved to be a valuable finale. We needed to
shock their systems, see their responses. Honestly, I’m amazed that in the end, despite
everything, we were able to collect such a large population of kids that just never gave up.
Oddly enough, seeing them this way, thinking all is well, has been the hardest thing for me to
observe. But there’s no time for regret. For the good of our people, we will move forward.
I know I have my own feelings as to who should be chosen as the leader, but I’ll refrain from
saying at this time so as not to influence any decisions. But to me, it’s an obvious choice.
We are all well aware of what’s at stake. I, for one, am encouraged. Remember what the girl
wrote on her arm before losing her memory? The one thing she chose to clasp on to? WICKED is
good.
The subjects will eventually recall and understand the purpose of the hard things we have done
and plan to do to them. The mission of WICKED is to serve and preserve humanity, no matter
the cost. We are, indeed, “good.”
Please respond with your own reactions. The subjects will be allowed one full night’s sleep
before Stage 2 implementation. At this time, let’s allow ourselves to feel hopeful.
Group B’s trial results were also most extraordinary. I need time to process the data, but we
can touch on it in the morning.
Until tomorrow, then.
END OF BOOK ONE

Categories: The Maze Runner

The Maze Runner - Chapter 62

Thomas shared a bunk with Minho, who insisted on sleeping up top; Newt and Frypan were right
next to them. The staff put Teresa up in a separate room, shuffling her away before she could
even say goodbye. Thomas missed her desperately three seconds after she was gone.
As Thomas was settling into the soft mattress for the night, he was interrupted.
“Hey, Thomas,” Minho said from above him.
“Yeah?” Thomas was so tired the word barely came out.
“What do you think happened to the Gladers who stayed behind?”
Thomas hadn’t thought about it. His mind had been occupied with Chuck and now Teresa. “I
don’t know. But based on how many of us died getting here, I wouldn’t like to be one of them
right now. Grievers are probably swarming all over them.” He couldn’t believe how nonchalant
his voice sounded as he said it.
“You think we’re safe with these people?” Minho asked.
Thomas pondered the question for a moment. There was only one answer to hold on to.
“Yeah, I think we’re safe.”
Minho said something else, but Thomas didn’t hear. Exhaustion consuming him, his mind
wandered to his short time in the Maze, his time as a Runner and how much he’d wanted it—
ever since that first night in the Glade. It felt like a hundred years ago. Like a dream.
Murmurs of conversation floated through the room, but to Thomas they seemed to come from
another world. He stared at the crossed wooden boards of the bed above him, feeling the pull of
sleep. But wanting to talk to Teresa, he fought it off.
How’s your room? he asked in his mind. Wish you were in here.
Oh, yeah? she replied. With all those stinky boys? Think not.
Guess you’re right. I think Minho’s farted three times in the last minute. Thomas knew it was
a lame attempt at a joke, but it was the best he could do.
He sensed her laughing, wished he could do the same. There was a long pause. I’m really
sorry about Chuck, she finally said.
Thomas felt a sharp pang and closed his eyes as he sank deeper into the misery of the night.
He could be so annoying, he said. He paused, thought of that night when Chuck had scared the
crap out of Gally in the bathroom. But it hurts. Feels like I lost a brother.
I know.
I promised—
Stop, Tom.
What? He wanted Teresa to make him feel better, say something magic to make the pain go
away.
Stop with the promise stuff. Half of us made it. We all would’ve died if we’d stayed in the
Maze.
But Chuck didn’t make it, Thomas said. Guilt racked him because he knew for a certainty he
would trade any one of the Gladers in that room for Chuck.
He died saving you, Teresa said. He made the choice himself. Just don’t ever waste it.
Thomas felt tears swell under his eyelids; one escaped and trickled down his right temple, into
his hair. A full minute passed without any words between them. Then he said, Teresa?
Yeah?
Thomas was scared to share his thoughts, but did. I wanna remember you. Remember us. Ya
know, before.
Me too.
Seems like we… He didn’t know how to say it after all.
I know.
Wonder what tomorrow’ll be like.
We’ll find out in a few hours.
Yeah. Well, good night. He wanted to say more, much more. But nothing came.
Good night, she said, just as the lights went out.
Thomas rolled over, glad it was dark so no one could see the look that had settled across his
face.
It wasn’t a smile, exactly. Not quite a happy expression. But almost.
And for now, almost was good enough.

Categories: The Maze Runner

The Maze Runner - Chapter 61

The next hour or so was a blur of sights and sounds for Thomas.
The driver drove at reckless speeds, through towns and cities, the heavy rain obscuring most
of the view. Lights and buildings were warped and watery, like something out of a drug-induced
hallucination. At one point people outside rushed the bus, their clothes ratty, hair matted to their
heads, strange sores like those Thomas had seen on the woman covering their terrified faces.
They pounded on the sides of the vehicle as if they wanted to get on, wanted to escape whatever
horrible lives they were living.
The bus never slowed. Teresa remained silent next to Thomas.
He finally got up enough nerve to speak to the woman sitting across the aisle.
“What’s going on?” he asked, not sure how else to pose it.
The woman looked over at him. Wet, black hair hung in strings around her face. Dark eyes full
of sorrow. “That’s a very long story.” The woman’s voice came out much kinder than Thomas
had expected, giving him hope that she truly was a friend—that all of their rescuers were friends.
Despite the fact that they’d run over a woman in cold blood.
“Please,” Teresa said. “Please tell us something.”
The woman looked back and forth between Thomas and Teresa, then let out a sigh. “It’ll take
a while before you get your memories back, if ever—we’re not scientists, we have no idea what
they did to you, or how they did it.”
Thomas’s heart dropped at the thought of maybe having lost his memory forever, but he
pressed on. “Who are they?” he asked.
“It started with the sun flares,” the woman said, her gaze growing distant.
“What—” Teresa began, but Thomas shushed her.
Just let her talk, he said to her mind. She looks like she will.
Okay.
The woman almost seemed in a trance as she spoke, never taking her eyes off an indistinct
spot in the distance. “The sun flares couldn’t have been predicted. Sun flares are normal, but
these were unprecedented, massive, spiking higher and higher—and once they were noticed, it
was only minutes before their heat slammed into Earth. First our satellites were burned out, and
thousands died instantly, millions within days, countless miles became wastelands. Then came
the sickness.”
She paused, took a breath. “As the ecosystem fell apart, it became impossible to control the
sickness—even to keep it in South America. The jungles were gone, but the insects weren’t.
People call it the Flare now. It’s a horrible, horrible thing. Only the richest can be treated, no one
can be cured. Unless the rumors from the Andes are true.”
Thomas almost broke his own advice—questions filled his mind. Horror grew in his heart. He
sat and listened as the woman continued.
“As for you, all of you—you’re just a few of millions orphaned. They tested thousands, chose
you for the big one. The ultimate test. Everything you lived through was calculated and thought
through. Catalysts to study your reactions, your brain waves, your thoughts. All in an attempt to
find those capable of helping us find a way to beat the Flare.”
She paused again, pulled a string of hair behind her ear. “Most of the physical effects are
caused by something else. First the delusions start, then animal instincts begin to overpower the
human ones. Finally it consumes them, destroys their humanity. It’s all in the brain. The Flare
lives in their brains. It is an awful thing. Better to die than catch it.”
The woman broke her gaze into nothingness and focused on Thomas, then looked at Teresa,
then Thomas again. “We won’t let them do this to children. We’ve sworn our lives to fighting
WICKED. We can’t lose our humanity, no matter the end result.”
She folded her hands in her lap, looked down at them. “You’ll learn more in time. We live far
in the north. We’re separated from the Andes by thousands of miles. They call it the Scorch—it
lies between here and there. It’s centered mainly around what they used to call the equator—it’s
just heat and dust now, filled with savages consumed by the Flare beyond help. We’re trying to
cross that land—to find the cure. But until then, we’ll fight WICKED and stop the experiments
and tests.” She looked carefully at Thomas, then Teresa. “It’s our hope that you’ll join us.”
She looked away then, gazing out her window.
Thomas looked at Teresa, raised his eyebrows in question. She simply shook her head and
then laid it on his shoulder and closed her eyes.
I’m too tired to think about it, she said. Let’s just be safe for now.
Maybe we are, he replied. Maybe.
He heard the soft sounds of her sleep, but he knew that sleep would be impossible for him. He
felt such a raging storm of conflicting emotions, he couldn’t identify any of them. Still—it was
better than the dull void he’d experienced earlier. He could only sit and stare out the window into
the rain and blackness, pondering words like Flare and sickness and experiment and Scorch and
WICKED. He could only sit and hope that things might be better now than they’d been in the
Maze.
But as he jiggled and swayed with the movements of the bus, felt Teresa’s head thump against
his shoulder every once in a while when they hit big bumps, heard her stir and fall back to sleep,
heard the murmurs of other conversations from other Gladers, his thoughts kept returning to one
thing.
Chuck.
Two hours later, the bus stopped.
They had pulled into a muddy parking lot that surrounded a nondescript building with several
rows of windows. The woman and other rescuers shuffled the nineteen boys and one girl through
the front door and up a flight of stairs, then into a huge dormitory with a series of bunk beds
lined up along one of the walls. On the opposite side were some dressers and tables. Curtaincovered
windows checkered each wall of the room.
Thomas took it all in with a distant and muted wonder—he was far past being surprised or
overcome by anything ever again.
The place was full of color. Bright yellow paint, red blankets, green curtains. After the drab
grayness of the Glade, it was as if they’d been transported to a living rainbow. Seeing it all,
seeing the beds and the dressers, all made up and fresh—the sense of normalcy was almost
overwhelming. Too good to be true. Minho said it best on entering their new world: “I’ve been
shucked and gone to heaven.”
Thomas found it hard to feel joy, as if he’d betray Chuck by doing so. But there was
something there. Something.
Their bus-driving leader left the Gladers in the hands of a small staff—nine or ten men and
women dressed in pressed black pants and white shirts, their hair immaculate, their faces and
hands clean. They were smiling.
The colors. The beds. The staff. Thomas felt an impossible happiness trying to break through
inside him. An enormous pit lurked in the middle of it, though. A dark depression that might
never leave—memories of Chuck and his brutal murder. His sacrifice. But despite that, despite
everything, despite all the woman on the bus had told them about the world they’d reentered,
Thomas felt safe for the very first time since coming out of the Box.
Beds were assigned, clothes and bathroom things were passed out, dinner was served. Pizza.
Real, bona fide, greasy-fingers pizza. Thomas devoured each bite, hunger trumping everything
else, the mood of contentment and relief around him palpable. Most of the Gladers had remained
quiet through it all, perhaps worried that speaking would make everything vanish. But there were
plenty of smiles. Thomas had gotten so used to looks of despair, it was almost unsettling to see
happy faces. Especially when he was having such a hard time feeling it himself.
Soon after eating, no one argued when they were told it was time for bed.
Certainly not Thomas. He felt as if he could sleep for a month.

Categories: The Maze Runner

The Maze Runner - Chapter 60

He finally pulled it all back into his heart, sucking in the painful tide of his misery. In the Glade,
Chuck had become a symbol for him—a beacon that somehow they could make everything right
again in the world. Sleep in beds. Get kissed goodnight. Have bacon and eggs for breakfast, go to
a real school. Be happy.
But now Chuck was gone. And his limp body, to which Thomas still clung, seemed a cold
talisman—that not only would those dreams of a hopeful future never come to pass, but that life
had never been that way in the first place. That even in escape, dreary days lay ahead. A life of
sorrow.
His returning memories were sketchy at best. But not much good floated in the muck.
Thomas reeled in the pain, locked it somewhere deep inside him. He did it for Teresa. For
Newt and Minho. Whatever darkness awaited them, they’d be together, and that was all that
mattered right then.
He let go of Chuck, slumped backward, trying not to look at the boy’s shirt, black with blood.
He wiped the tears from his cheeks, rubbed his eyes, thinking he should be embarrassed but not
feeling that way. Finally, he looked up. Looked up at Teresa and her enormous blue eyes, heavy
with sadness—just as much for him as for Chuck, he was sure of it.
She reached down, grabbed his hand, helped him stand. Once he was up, she didn’t let go, and
neither did he. He squeezed, tried to say what he felt by doing so. No one else said a word, most
of them staring at Chuck’s body without expression, as if they’d moved far beyond feeling. No
one looked at Gally, breathing but still.
The woman from WICKED broke the silence.
“All things happen for a purpose,” she said, any sign of malice now gone from her voice.
“You must understand this.”
Thomas looked at her, threw all his compressed hatred into the glare. But he did nothing.
Teresa placed her other hand on his arm, gripped his bicep. What now? she asked.
I don’t know, he replied. I can’t—
His sentence was cut short by a sudden series of shouts and commotion outside the entrance
through which the woman had come. She visibly panicked, the blood draining from her face as
she turned toward the door. Thomas followed her gaze.
Several men and women dressed in grimy jeans and soaking-wet coats burst through the
entrance with guns raised, yelling and screaming words over each other. It was impossible to
understand what they were saying. Their guns—some were rifles, other pistols—looked …
archaic, rustic. Almost like toys abandoned in the woods for years, recently discovered by the
next generation of kids ready to play war.
Thomas stared in shock as two of the newcomers tackled the WICKED woman to the floor.
Then one stepped back and drew up his gun, aimed.
No way, Thomas thought. No—
Flashes lit the air as several shots exploded from the gun, slamming into the woman’s body.
She was dead, a bloody mess.
Thomas took several steps backward, almost stumbled.
A man walked up to the Gladers as the others in his group spread out around them, sweeping
their guns left and right as they shot at the observation windows, shattering them. Thomas heard
screams, saw blood, looked away, focused on the man who approached them. He had dark hair,
his face young but full of wrinkles around the eyes, as if he’d spent each day of his life worrying
about how to make it to the next.
“We don’t have time to explain,” the man said, his voice as strained as his face. “Just follow
me and run like your life depends on it. Because it does.”
With that the man made a few motions to his companions, then turned and ran out the big
glass doors, his gun held rigidly before him. Gunfire and cries of agony still rattled the chamber,
but Thomas did his best to ignore them and follow instructions.
“Go!” one of the rescuers—that was the only way Thomas could think of them—screamed
from behind.
After the briefest hesitation, the Gladers followed, almost stomping each other in their rush to
get out of the chamber, as far away from the Grievers and the Maze as possible. Thomas, his
hand still gripping Teresa’s, ran with them, bunched up in the back of the group. They had no
choice but to leave Chuck’s body behind.
Thomas felt no emotion—he was completely numb. He ran down a long hallway, into a dimly
lit tunnel. Up a winding flight of stairs. Everything was dark, smelled like electronics. Down
another hallway. Up more stairs. More hallways. Thomas wanted to ache for Chuck, get excited
about their escape, rejoice that Teresa was there with him. But he’d seen too much. There was
only emptiness now. A void. He kept going.
On they ran, some of the men and women leading from ahead, some yelling encouragement
from behind.
They reached another set of glass doors and went through them into a massive downpour of
rain, falling from a black sky. Nothing was visible but dull sparkles flashing off the pounding
sheets of water.
The leader didn’t stop moving until they reached a huge bus, its sides dented and scarred, most
of the windows webbed with cracks. Rain sluiced down it all, making Thomas imagine a huge
beast cresting out of the ocean.
“Get on!” the man screamed. “Hurry!”
They did, forming into a tight pack behind the door as they entered, one by one. It seemed to
take forever, Gladers pushing and scrambling their way up the three stairs and into the seats.
Thomas was at the back, Teresa right in front of him. Thomas looked up into the sky, felt the
water beat against his face—it was warm, almost hot, had a weird thickness to it. Oddly, it
helped break him out of his funk, snap him to attention. Maybe it was just the ferocity of the
deluge. He focused on the bus, on Teresa, on escape.
They were almost to the door when a hand suddenly slammed against his shoulder, gripping
his shirt. He cried out as someone jerked him backward, ripping his hand out of Teresa’s—he
saw her spin around just in time to watch as he slammed into the ground, throwing up a spray of
water. A bolt of pain shot down his spine as a woman’s head appeared two inches above him,
upside down, blocking out Teresa.
Greasy hair hung down, touching Thomas, framing a face hidden in shadow. A horrible smell
filled his nostrils, like eggs and milk gone rotten. The woman pulled back enough for someone’s
flashlight to reveal her features—pale, wrinkly skin covered in horrible sores, oozing with pus.
Sheer terror filled Thomas, froze him.
“Gonna save us all!” the hideous woman said, spit flying out of her mouth, spraying Thomas.
“Gonna save us from the Flare!” She laughed, not much more than a hacking cough.
The woman yelped when one of the rescuers grabbed her with both hands and yanked her off
of Thomas, who recovered his wits and scrambled to his feet. He backed into Teresa, staring as
the man dragged the woman away, her legs kicking out weakly, her eyes on Thomas. She
pointed at him, called out, “Don’t believe a word they tell ya! Gonna save us from the Flare, ya
are!”
When the man was several yards from the bus, he tossed the woman to the ground. “Stay put
or I’ll shoot you dead!” he yelled at her; then he turned to Thomas. “Get on the bus!”
Thomas, so terrified by the ordeal that his body shook, turned and followed Teresa up the
stairs and into the aisle of the bus. Wide eyes watched him as they walked all the way to the back
seat and plopped down; they huddled together. Black water washed down the windows outside.
The rain drummed on the roof, heavy; thunder shook the skies above them.
What was that? Teresa said in his mind.
Thomas couldn’t answer, just shook his head. Thoughts of Chuck flooded him again, replacing
the crazy woman, deadening his heart. He just didn’t care, didn’t feel any relief at escaping the
Maze. Chuck…
One of the rescuers, a woman, sat across from Thomas and Teresa; the leader who’d spoken to
them earlier climbed onto the bus and took a seat at the wheel, cranked up the engine. The bus
started rolling forward.
Just as it did, Thomas saw a flash of movement outside the window. The sore-riddled woman
had gotten to her feet, was sprinting toward the front of the bus, waving her arms wildly,
screaming something drowned out by the sounds of the storm. Her eyes were lit with lunacy or
terror—Thomas couldn’t tell which.
He leaned toward the glass of the window as she disappeared from his view up ahead.
“Wait!” Thomas shrieked, but no one heard him. Or if they did, they didn’t care.
The driver gunned the engine—the bus lurched as it slammed into the woman’s body. A
thump almost jolted Thomas out of his seat as the front wheels ran over her, quickly followed by
a second thump—the back wheels. Thomas looked at Teresa, saw the sickened look on her face
that surely mirrored his own.
Without a word, the driver kept his foot on the gas and the bus plowed forward, driving off
into the rain-swept night.

Categories: The Maze Runner

The Maze Runner - Chapter 59

Thomas took a step backward, noticing others doing the same. A deathly silence sucked the life
out of the air as every last Glader stared at the row of windows, at the row of observers. Thomas
watched one of them look down to write something, another reach up and put on a pair of
glasses. They all wore black coats over white shirts, a word stitched on their right breast—he
couldn’t quite make out what it said. None of them wore any kind of discernible facial
expression—they were all sallow and gaunt, miserably sad to look upon.
They continued to stare at the Gladers; a man shook his head, a woman nodded. Another man
reached up and scratched his nose—the most human thing Thomas had seen any of them do.
“Who are those people?” Chuck whispered, but his voice echoed throughout the chamber with
a raspy edge.
“The Creators,” Minho said; then he spat on the floor. “I’m gonna break your faces!” he
screamed, so loudly Thomas almost held his hands over his ears.
“What do we do?” Thomas asked. “What are they waiting on?”
“They’ve probably revved the Grievers back up,” Newt said. “They’re probably coming
right—”
A loud, slow beeping sound cut him off, like the warning alarm of a huge truck driving in
reverse, but much more powerful. It came from everywhere, booming and echoing throughout
the chamber.
“What now?” Chuck asked, not hiding the concern in his voice.
For some reason everyone looked at Thomas; he shrugged in answer—he’d only remembered
so much, and now he was just as clueless as anyone else. And scared. He craned his neck as he
scanned the place top to bottom, trying to find the source of the beeps. But nothing had changed.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the other Gladers looking in the direction of the
doors. He did as well; his heart quickened when he saw that one of the doors was swinging open
toward them.
The beeping stopped, and a silence as deep as outer space settled on the chamber. Thomas
waited without breathing, braced himself for something horrible to come flying through the door.
Instead, two people walked into the room.
One was a woman. An actual grown-up. She seemed very ordinary, wearing black pants and a
button-down white shirt with a logo on the breast—wicked spelled in blue capital letters. Her
brown hair was cut at the shoulder, and she had a thin face with dark eyes. As she walked toward
the group, she neither smiled nor frowned—it was almost as if she didn’t notice or care they
were standing there.
I know her, Thomas thought. But it was a cloudy kind of recollection—he couldn’t remember
her name or what she had to do with the Maze, but she seemed familiar. And not just her looks,
but the way she walked, her mannerisms—stiff, without a hint of joy. She stopped several feet in
front of the Gladers and slowly looked left to right, taking them all in.
The other person, standing next to her, was a boy wearing an overly large sweatshirt, its hood
pulled up over his head, concealing his face.
“Welcome back,” the woman finally said. “Over two years, and so few dead. Amazing.”
Thomas felt his mouth drop open—felt anger redden his face.
“Excuse me?” Newt asked.
Her eyes scanned the crowd again before falling on Newt. “Everything has gone according to
plan, Mr. Newton. Although we expected a few more of you to give up along the way.”
She glanced over at her companion, then reached out and pulled the hood off the boy. He
looked up, his eyes wet with tears. Every Glader in the room sucked in a breath of surprise.
Thomas felt his knees buckle.
It was Gally.
Thomas blinked, then rubbed his eyes, like something out of a cartoon. He was consumed with
shock and anger.
It was Gally.
“What’s he doing here!” Minho shouted.
“You’re safe now,” the woman responded as if she hadn’t heard him. “Please, be at ease.”
“At ease?” Minho barked. “Who are you, telling us to be at ease? We wanna see the police,
the mayor, the president—somebody!” Thomas worried what Minho might do—then again,
Thomas kind of wanted him to go punch her in the face.
She narrowed her eyes as she looked at Minho. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,
boy. I’d expect more maturity from someone who’s passed the Maze Trials.” Her condescending
tone shocked Thomas.
Minho started to retort, but Newt elbowed him in the gut.
“Gally,” Newt said. “What’s going on?”
The dark-haired boy looked at him; his eyes flared for a moment, his head shaking slightly.
But he didn’t respond. Something’s off with him, Thomas thought. Worse than before.
The woman nodded as if proud of him. “One day you’ll all be grateful for what we’ve done
for you. I can only promise this, and trust your minds to accept it. If you don’t, then the whole
thing was a mistake. Dark times, Mr. Newton. Dark times.”
She paused. “There is, of course, one final Variable.” She stepped back.
Thomas focused on Gally. The boy’s whole body trembled, his face pasty white, making his
wet, red eyes stand out like bloody splotches on paper. His lips pressed together; the skin around
them twitched, as if he were trying to speak but couldn’t.
“Gally?” Thomas asked, trying to suppress the complete hatred he had for him.
Words burst from Gally’s mouth. “They … can control me … I don’t—” His eyes bulged, a
hand went to his throat as if he were choking. “I … have … to …” Each word was a croaking
cough. Then he stilled, his face calming, his body relaxing.
It was just like Alby in bed, back in the Glade, after he went through the Changing. The same
type of thing had happened to him. What did it—
But Thomas didn’t have time to finish his thought. Gally reached behind himself, pulled
something long and shiny from his back pocket. The lights of the chamber flashed off the silvery
surface—a wicked-looking dagger, gripped tightly in his fingers. With unexpected speed, he
reared back and threw the knife at Thomas. As he did so, Thomas heard a shout to his right,
sensed movement. Toward him.
The blade windmilled, its every turn visible to Thomas, as if the world had turned to slow
motion. As if it did so for the sole purpose of allowing him to feel the terror of seeing such a
thing. On the knife came, flipping over and over, straight at him. A strangled cry was forming in
his throat; he urged himself to move but he couldn’t.
Then, inexplicably, Chuck was there, diving in front of him. Thomas felt as if his feet had
been frozen in blocks of ice; he could only stare at the scene of horror unfolding before him,
completely helpless.
With a sickening, wet thunk, the dagger slammed into Chuck’s chest, burying itself to the hilt.
The boy screamed, fell to the floor, his body already convulsing. Blood poured from the wound,
dark crimson. His legs slapped against the floor, feet kicking aimlessly with onrushing death.
Red spit oozed from between his lips. Thomas felt as if the world were collapsing around him,
crushing his heart.
He fell to the ground, pulled Chuck’s shaking body into his arms.
“Chuck!” he screamed; his voice felt like acid ripping through his throat. “Chuck!”
The boy shook uncontrollably, blood everywhere, wetting Thomas’s hands. Chuck’s eyes had
rolled up in their sockets, dull white orbs. Blood trickled out of his nose and mouth.
“Chuck …,” Thomas said, this time a whisper. There had to be something they could do. They
could save him. They—
The boy stopped convulsing, stilled. His eyes slid back into normal position, focused on
Thomas, clinging to life. “Thom … mas.” It was one word, barely there.
“Hang on, Chuck,” Thomas said. “Don’t die—fight it. Someone get help!”
Nobody moved, and deep inside, Thomas knew why. Nothing could help now. It was over.
Black spots swam before Thomas’s eyes; the room tilted and swayed. No, he thought. Not
Chuck. Not Chuck. Anyone but Chuck.
“Thomas,” Chuck whispered. “Find … my mom.” A racking cough burst from his lungs,
throwing a spray of blood. “Tell her …”
He didn’t finish. His eyes closed, his body went limp. One last breath wheezed from his
mouth.
Thomas stared at him, stared at his friend’s lifeless body.
Something happened within Thomas. It started deep down in his chest, a seed of rage. Of
revenge. Of hate. Something dark and terrible. And then it exploded, bursting through his lungs,
through his neck, through his arms and legs. Through his mind.
He let go of Chuck, stood up, trembling, turned to face their new visitors.
And then Thomas snapped. He completely and utterly snapped.
He rushed forward, threw himself on Gally, grasping with his fingers like claws. He found the
boy’s throat, squeezed, fell to the ground on top of him. He straddled the boy’s torso, gripped
him with his legs so he couldn’t escape. Thomas started punching.
He held Gally down with his left hand, pushing down on the boy’s neck, as his right fist rained
punches upon Gally’s face, one after another. Down and down and down, slamming his balled
knuckles into the boy’s cheek and nose. There was crunching, there was blood, there were
horrible screams. Thomas didn’t know which were louder—Gally’s or his own. He beat him—
beat him as he released every ounce of rage he’d ever owned.
And then he was being pulled away by Minho and Newt, his arms still flailing even when they
only hit air. They dragged him across the floor; he fought them, squirmed, yelled to be left alone.
His eyes remained on Gally, lying there, still; Thomas could feel the hatred pouring out, as if a
visible line of flame connected them.
And then, just like that, it all vanished. There were only thoughts of Chuck.
He threw off Minho’s and Newt’s grip, ran to the limp, lifeless body of his friend. He grabbed
him, pulled him back into his arms, ignoring the blood, ignoring the frozen look of death on the
boy’s face.
“No!” Thomas shouted, sadness consuming him. “No!”
Teresa was there, put her hand on his shoulder. He shook it away.
“I promised him!” he screamed, realizing even as he did so that his voice was laced with
something wrong. Almost insanity. “I promised I’d save him, take him home! I promised him!”
Teresa didn’t respond, only nodded, her eyes cast to the ground.
Thomas hugged Chuck to his chest, squeezed him as tightly as possible, as if that could
somehow bring him back, or show thanks for saving his life, for being his friend when no one
else would.
Thomas cried, wept like he’d never wept before. His great, racking sobs echoed through the
chamber like the sounds of tortured pain.

Categories: The Maze Runner

The Maze Runner - Chapter 58

Almost at once the Grievers had shut down completely, their instruments sucked back through
their blubbery skin, their lights turned off, their inside machines dead quiet. And that door …
Thomas fell to the floor after being released by his captor’s claws, and despite the pain of
several lacerations across his back and shoulders, elation surged through him so strongly he
didn’t know how to react. He gasped, then laughed, then choked on a sob before laughing again.
Chuck had scooted away from the Grievers, bumping into Teresa—she held him tightly,
squeezing him in a fierce hug.
“You did it, Chuck,” Teresa said. “We were so worried about the stupid code words, we didn’t
think to look around for something to push—the last word, the last piece of the puzzle.”
Thomas laughed again, in disbelief that such a thing could be possible so soon after what
they’d gone through. “She’s right, Chuck—you saved us, man! I told you we needed you!”
Thomas scrambled to his feet and joined the other two in a group hug, almost delirious. “Chuck’s
a shucking hero!”
“What about the others?” Teresa said with a nod toward the Griever Hole. Thomas felt his
elation wither, and he stepped back and turned toward the Hole.
As if in answer to her question, someone fell through the black square—it was Minho, looking
as if he’d been scratched or stabbed on ninety percent of his body.
“Minho!” Thomas shouted, filled with relief. “Are you okay? What about everybody else?”
Minho stumbled toward the curved wall of the tunnel, then leaned there, gulping big breaths.
“We lost a ton of people…. It’s a mess of blood up there … then they all just shut down.” He
paused, taking in a really deep breath and letting it go in a rush of air. “You did it. I can’t believe
it actually worked.”
Newt came through then, followed by Frypan. Then Winston and others. Before long eighteen
boys had joined Thomas and his friends in the tunnel, making a total of twenty-one Gladers in
all. Every last one of those who’d stayed behind and fought was covered in Griever sludge and
human blood, their clothes ripped to shreds.
“The rest?” Thomas asked, terrified of the answer.
“Half of us,” Newt said, his voice weak. “Dead.”
No one said a word then. No one said a word for a very long time.
“You know what?” Minho said, standing up a little taller. “Half might’ve died, but half of us
shucking lived. And nobody got stung—just like Thomas thought. We’ve gotta get out of here.”
Too many, Thomas thought. Too many by far. His joy dribbled away, turned into a deep
mourning for the twenty people who’d lost their lives. Despite the alternative, despite knowing
that if they hadn’t tried to escape, all of them might’ve died, it still hurt, even though he hadn’t
known them very well. Such a display of death—how could it be considered a victory?
“Let’s get out of here,” Newt said. “Right now.”
“Where do we go?” Minho asked.
Thomas pointed down the long tunnel. “I heard the door open down that way.” He tried to
push away the ache of it all—the horrors of the battle they’d just won. The losses. He pushed it
away, knowing they were nowhere near safe yet.
“Well—let’s go,” Minho answered. And the older boy turned and started walking up the
tunnel without waiting for a response.
Newt nodded, ushering the other Gladers past him to follow. One by one they went until only
he remained with Thomas and Teresa.
“I’ll go last,” Thomas said.
No one argued. Newt went, then Chuck, then Teresa, into the black tunnel. Even the
flashlights seemed to get swallowed by the darkness. Thomas followed, not even bothering to
look back at the dead Grievers.
After a minute or so of walking, he heard a shriek from ahead, followed by another, then
another. Their cries faded, as if they were falling….
Murmurs made their way down the line, and finally Teresa turned to Thomas. “Looks like it
ends in a slide up there, shooting downward.”
Thomas’s stomach turned at the thought. It seemed like it was a game—for whoever had built
the place, at least.
One by one he heard the Gladers’ dwindling shouts and hoots up ahead. Then it was Newt’s
turn, then Chuck’s. Teresa shone her light down on a steeply descending, slick black chute of
metal.
Guess we have no choice, she said to his mind.
Guess not. Thomas had a strong feeling it wasn’t a way out of their nightmare; he just hoped it
didn’t lead to another pack of Grievers.
Teresa slipped down the slide with an almost cheerful shriek, and Thomas followed her before
he could talk himself out of it—anything was better than the Maze.
His body shot down a steep decline, slick with an oily goo that smelled awful—like burnt
plastic and overused machinery. He twisted his body until he got his feet in front of him, then
tried to hold his hands out to slow himself down. It was useless—the greasy stuff covered every
inch of the stone; he couldn’t grip anything.
The screams of the other Gladers echoed off the tunnel walls as they slid down the oily chute.
Panic gripped Thomas’s heart. He couldn’t fight off the image that they’d been swallowed by
some gigantic beast and were sliding down its long esophagus, about to land in its stomach at
any second. And as if his thoughts had materialized, the smells changed—to something more like
mildew and rot. He started gagging; it took all his effort not to throw up on himself.
The tunnel began to twist, turning in a rough spiral, just enough to slow them down, and
Thomas’s feet smacked right into Teresa, hitting her in the head; he recoiled and a feeling of
complete misery sank over him. They were still falling. Time seemed to stretch out, endless.
Around and around they went down the tube. Nausea burned in his stomach—the squishing of
the goo against his body, the smell, the circling motion. He was just about to turn his head to the
side to throw up when Teresa let out a sharp cry—this time there was no echo. A second later,
Thomas flew out of the tunnel and landed on her.
Bodies scrambled everywhere, people on top of people, groaning and squirming in confusion
as they tried to push away from each other. Thomas wiggled his arms and legs to scoot away
from Teresa, then crawled a few more feet to throw up, emptying his stomach.
Still shuddering from the experience, he wiped at his mouth with his hand, only to realize it
was covered in slimy filth. He sat up, rubbing both hands on the ground, and he finally got a
good look at where they’d arrived. As he gaped, he saw, also, that everyone else had pulled
themselves together into a group, taking in the new surroundings. Thomas had seen glimpses of
it during the Changing, but didn’t truly remember it until that very moment.
They were in a huge underground chamber big enough to hold nine or ten Homesteads. From
top to bottom, side to side, the place was covered in all kinds of machinery and wires and ducts
and computers. On one side of the room—to his right—there was a row of forty or so large white
pods that looked like enormous coffins. Across from that on the other side stood large glass
doors, although the lighting made it impossible to see what was on the other side.
“Look!” someone shouted, but he’d already seen it, his breath catching in his throat. Goose
bumps broke out all over him, a creepy fear trickling down his spine like a wet spider.
Directly in front of them, a row of twenty or so darkly tinged windows stretched across the
compound horizontally, one after the other. Behind each one, a person—some men, some
women, all of them pale and thin—sat observing the Gladers, staring through the glass with
squinted eyes. Thomas shuddered, terrified—they all looked like ghosts. Angry, starving, sinister
apparitions of people who’d never been happy when alive, much less dead.
But Thomas knew they were not, of course, ghosts. They were the people who’d sent them all
to the Glade. The people who’d taken their lives away from them.
The Creators.

Categories: The Maze Runner

The Maze Runner - Chapter 57

A line of icy cold shot across Thomas’s skin as he entered the Griever Hole, starting from his
toes and continuing up his whole body, as if he’d jumped through a flat plane of freezing water.
The world went even darker around him as his feet thumped to a landing on a slippery surface,
then shot out from under him; he fell backward into Teresa’s arms. She and Chuck helped him
stand. It was a miracle Thomas hadn’t stabbed someone’s eye out with his spear.
The Griever Hole would’ve been pitch-black if not for the beam of Teresa’s flashlight cutting
through the darkness. As Thomas got his bearings, he realized they were standing in a ten-foothigh
stone cylinder. It was damp, and covered in shiny, grimy oil, and it stretched out in front of
them for dozens of yards before it faded into darkness. Thomas peered up at the Hole through
which they’d come—it looked like a square window into a deep, starless space.
“The computer’s over there,” Teresa said, grabbing his attention.
Several feet down the tunnel, she had aimed her light at a small square of grimy glass that
shone a dull green color. Beneath it, a keyboard was set into the wall, angling out enough for
someone to type on it with ease if standing. There it was, ready for the code. Thomas couldn’t
help thinking it seemed too easy, too good to be true.
“Put the words in!” Chuck yelled, slapping Thomas on the shoulder. “Hurry!”
Thomas motioned for Teresa to do it. “Chuck and I’ll keep watch, make sure a Griever doesn’t
come through the Hole.” He just hoped the Gladers had turned their attention from making the
aisle in the Maze to keeping the creatures away from the Cliff.
“Okay,” Teresa said—Thomas knew she was too smart to waste time arguing about it. She
stepped up to the keyboard and screen, then started typing.
Wait! Thomas called to her mind. Are you sure you know the words?
She turned to him and scowled. “I’m not an idiot, Tom. Yes, I’m perfectly capable of
remembering—”
A loud bang from above and behind them cut her off, made Thomas jump. He spun around to
see a Griever plop through the Griever Hole, appearing as if by magic from the dark square of
black. The thing had retracted its spikes and arms to enter—when it landed with a squishy
thump, a dozen sharp and nasty objects popped back out, looking deadlier than ever.
Thomas pushed Chuck behind him and faced the creature, holding out his spear as if that
would ward it off. “Just keep typing, Teresa!” he yelled.
A skinny metallic rod burst out of the Griever’s moist skin, unfolding into a long appendage
with three spinning blades, which moved directly toward Thomas’s face.
He gripped the end of his spear with both hands, squeezing tightly as he lowered the knifelaced
point to the ground in front of him. The bladed arm moved within two feet, ready to slice
his skin to bits. When it was just a foot away, Thomas tensed his muscles and swung the spear
up, around, and toward the ceiling as hard as he could. It smacked the metal arm and pivoted the
thing skyward, revolving in an arc until it slammed back into the body of the Griever. The
monster let out an angry shriek and pulled back several feet, its spikes retracting into its body.
Thomas heaved breaths in and out.
Maybe I can hold it off, he said quickly to Teresa. Just hurry!
I’m almost done, she replied.
The Griever’s spikes appeared again; it surged ahead and another arm popped out of its skin
and shot forward, this one with huge claws, snapping to grab the spear. Thomas swung, this time
from above his head, throwing every bit of strength into the attack. The spear crashed into the
base of the claws. With a loud clunk, and then a squishing sound, the entire arm ripped free of its
socket, falling to the floor. Then, from some kind of mouth that Thomas couldn’t see, the Griever
let out a long, piercing shriek and pulled back again; the spikes disappeared.
“These things are beatable!” Thomas shouted.
It won’t let me enter the last word! Teresa said in his mind.
Barely hearing her, not quite understanding, he yelled out a roar and charged ahead to take
advantage of the Griever’s moment of weakness. Swinging his spear wildly, he jumped on top of
the creature’s bulbous body, whacking two metal arms away from him with a loud crack. He
lifted the spear above his head, braced his feet—felt them sink into the disgusting blubber—then
thrust the spear down and into the monster. A slimy yellow goo exploded from the flesh,
splashing over Thomas’s legs as he drove the spear as far as it would sink into the thing’s body.
Then he released the hilt of the weapon and jumped away, running back to Chuck and Teresa.
Thomas watched in sick fascination as the Griever twitched uncontrollably, spewing the
yellow oil in every direction. Spikes popped in and out of the skin; its remaining arms swung
around in mass confusion, at times impaling its own body. Soon it began to slow, losing energy
with every ounce of blood—or fuel—it lost.
A few seconds later, it stopped moving altogether. Thomas couldn’t believe it. He absolutely
couldn’t believe it. He’d just defeated a Griever, one of the monsters that had terrorized the
Gladers for more than two years.
He glanced behind him at Chuck, standing there with eyes wide.
“You killed it,” the boy said. He laughed, as if that one act had solved all their problems.
“Wasn’t so hard,” Thomas muttered, then turned to see Teresa frantically typing away at the
keyboard. He knew immediately that something was wrong.
“What’s the problem?” he asked, almost shouting. He ran up to look over her shoulder and
saw that she kept typing the word PUSH over and over, but nothing appeared on the screen.
She pointed at the dirty square of glass, empty but for its greenish glow of life. “I put in all the
words and one by one they appeared on the screen; then something beeped and they’d disappear.
But it won’t let me type in the last word. Nothing’s happening!”
Cold filled Thomas’s veins as Teresa’s words sank in. “Well … why?”
“I don’t know!” She tried again, then again. Nothing appeared.
“Thomas!” Chuck screamed from behind them. Thomas turned to see him pointing at the
Griever Hole—another creature was making its way through. As he watched, it plopped down on
top of its dead brother and another Griever started entering the Hole.
“What’s taking so long!” Chuck cried frantically. “You said they’d turn off when you punched
in the code!”
Both Grievers had righted themselves and extended their spikes, had started moving toward
them.
“It won’t let us enter the word PUSH,” Thomas said absently, not really speaking to Chuck
but trying to think of a solution …
I don’t get it, Teresa said.
The Grievers were coming, only a few feet away. Feeling his will fade into blackness, Thomas
braced his feet and held up his fists halfheartedly. It was supposed to work. The code was
supposed to—
“Maybe you should just push that button,” Chuck said.
Thomas was so surprised by the random statement that he turned away from the Grievers,
looked at the boy. Chuck was pointing at a spot near the floor, right underneath the screen and
keyboard.
Before he could move, Teresa was already down there, crouching on her knees. And
consumed by curiosity, by a fleeting hope, Thomas joined her, collapsing to the ground to get a
better look. He heard the Griever moan and roar behind him, felt a sharp claw grab his shirt, felt
a prick of pain. But he could only stare.
A small red button was set into the wall only a few inches above the floor. Three black words
were printed there, so obvious he couldn’t believe he’d missed it earlier.
Kill the Maze
More pain snapped Thomas out of his stupor. The Griever had grabbed him with two
instruments, had started dragging him backward. The other one had gone after Chuck and was
just about to swipe at the kid with a long blade.
A button.
“Push!” Thomas screamed, louder than he’d thought possible for a human being to scream.
And Teresa did.
She pushed the button and everything went perfectly silent. Then, from somewhere down the
dark tunnel, came the sound of a door sliding open.

Categories: The Maze Runner

The Maze Runner - Chapter 56

Thomas grabbed Minho by the arm. “Somehow I have to get through that!” He nodded toward
the rolling pack of Grievers between them and the Cliff—they looked like one big mass of
rumbling, spiked blubber, glistening with flashes of lights off steel. They were even more
menacing in the faded gray light.
Thomas waited for an answer as Minho and Newt exchanged a long glance. The anticipation
of fighting was almost worse than the fear of it.
“They’re coming!” Teresa yelled. “We have to do something!”
“You lead,” Newt finally said to Minho, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Make a
bloody path for Tommy and the girl. Do it.”
Minho nodded once, a steel look of resolve hardening his features. Then he turned toward the
Gladers. “We head straight for the Cliff! Fight through the middle, push the shuckin’ things
toward the walls. What matters most is getting Thomas and Teresa to the Griever Hole!”
Thomas looked away from him, back at the approaching monsters—they were only a few feet
away. He gripped his poor excuse for a spear.
We have to stay close together, he told Teresa. Let them do the fighting—we have to get
through that Hole. He felt like a coward, but he knew that any fighting—and any deaths—would
be in vain if they didn’t get that code punched, the door to the Creators opened.
I know, she replied. Stick together.
“Ready!” Minho yelled next to Thomas, raising his barbwire-wrapped club into the air with
one hand, a long silver knife in the other. He pointed the knife at the horde of Grievers; a flash
glinted off the blade. “Now!”
The Keeper ran forward without waiting for a response. Newt went after him, right on his
heels, and then the rest of the Gladers followed, a tight pack of roaring boys charging ahead to a
bloody battle, weapons raised. Thomas held Teresa’s hand, let them all go past, felt them bump
him, smelled their sweat, sensed their terror, waiting for the perfect opportunity to make his own
dash.
Just as the first sounds of boys crashing into Grievers filled the air—pierced with screams and
roars of machinery and wood clacking against steel—Chuck ran past Thomas, who quickly
reached out and grabbed his arm.
Chuck stumbled backward, then looked up at Thomas, his eyes so full of fright Thomas felt
something shatter in his heart. In that split second, he’d made a decision.
“Chuck, you’re with me and Teresa.” He said it forcefully, with authority, leaving no room for
doubt.
Chuck looked ahead at the engaged battle. “But …” He trailed off, and Thomas knew the boy
relished the idea though he was ashamed to admit it.
Thomas quickly tried to save his dignity. “We need your help in the Griever Hole, in case one
of those things is in there waiting for us.”
Chuck nodded quickly—too quickly. Again, Thomas felt the pang of sadness in his heart, felt
the urge to get Chuck home safely stronger than he’d ever felt it before.
“Okay, then,” Thomas said. “Hold Teresa’s other hand. Let’s go.”
Chuck did as he was told, trying so hard to act brave. And, Thomas noted, not saying a word,
perhaps for the first time in his life.
They’ve made an opening! Teresa shouted in Thomas’s mind—it sent a quick snap of pain
shooting through his skull. She pointed ahead, and Thomas saw the narrow aisle forming in the
middle of the corridor, Gladers fighting wildly to push the Grievers toward the walls.
“Now!” Thomas shouted.
He sprinted ahead, pulling Teresa behind him, Teresa pulling Chuck behind her, running at
full speed, spears and knives cocked for battle, forward into the bloody, scream-filled hallway of
stone. Toward the Cliff.
War raged around them. Gladers fought, panic-induced adrenaline driving them on. The
sounds echoing off the walls were a cacophony of terror—human screams, metal clashing
against metal, motors roaring, the haunted shrieks of the Grievers, saws spinning, claws clasping,
boys yelling for help. All was a blur, bloody and gray and flashes of steel; Thomas tried not to
look left or right, only ahead, through the narrow gap formed by the Gladers.
Even as they ran, Thomas went through the code words again in his mind. FLOAT, CATCH,
BLEED, DEATH, STIFF, PUSH. They just had to make it a few dozen feet more.
Something just sliced my arm! Teresa screamed. Even as she said it, Thomas felt a sharp stab
in his leg. He didn’t look back, didn’t bother answering. The seething impossibility of their
predicament was like a heavy deluge of black water flooding around him, dragging him toward
surrender. He fought it, pushed himself forward.
There was the Cliff, opening out into a gray-dark sky, about twenty feet away. He surged
ahead, pulling his friends.
Battles clashed on both sides of them; Thomas refused to look, refused to help. A Griever spun
directly in his path; a boy, his face hidden from sight, was clutched in its claws, stabbing
viciously into the thick, whalish skin, trying to escape. Thomas dodged to the left, kept running.
He heard a shriek as he passed by, a throat-scorching wail that could only mean the Glader had
lost the fight, met a horrific end. The scream ran on, shattering the air, overpowering the other
sounds of war, until it faded in death. Thomas felt his heart tremble, hoped it wasn’t someone he
knew.
Just keep going! Teresa said.
“I know!” Thomas shouted back, this time out loud.
Someone sprinted past Thomas, bumped him. A Griever charged in from the right, blades
twirling. A Glader cut it off, attacked it with two long swords, metal clacking and clanging as
they fought. Thomas heard a distant voice, screaming the same words over and over, something
about him. About protecting him as he ran. It was Minho, desperation and fatigue radiant in his
shouts.
Thomas kept going.
One almost got Chuck! Teresa yelled, a violent echo in his head.
More Grievers came at them, more Gladers helped. Winston had picked up Alby’s bow and
arrow, flinging the steel-pointed shafts at anything nonhuman that moved, missing more than he
hit. Boys Thomas didn’t know ran alongside him, whacking at Griever instruments with their
makeshift weapons, jumping on them, attacking. The sounds—clashes, clangs, screams, moaning
wails, roars of engines, spinning saws, snapping blades, the screech of spikes against the floor,
hair-raising pleas for help—it all grew to a crescendo, became unbearable.
Thomas screamed, but he kept running until they made it to the Cliff. He skidded to a stop,
right on the edge. Teresa and Chuck bumped into him, almost sending all three of them to an
endless fall. In a split second, Thomas surveyed his view of the Griever Hole. Hanging out, in
the middle of thin air, were ivy vines stretching to nowhere.
Earlier, Minho and a couple of Runners had pulled out ropes of ivy and knotted them to vines
still attached to the walls. They’d then tossed the loose ends over the Cliff, until they hit the
Griever Hole, where now six or seven vines ran from the stone edge to an invisible rough square,
hovering in the empty sky, where they disappeared into nothingness.
It was time to jump. Thomas hesitated, feeling one last moment of stark terror—hearing the
horrible sounds behind him, seeing the illusion in front of him—then snapped out of it. “You
first, Teresa.” He wanted to go last to make sure a Griever didn’t get her or Chuck.
To his surprise, she didn’t hesitate. After squeezing Thomas’s hand, then Chuck’s shoulder,
she leaped off the edge, immediately stiffening her legs, with her arms by her sides. Thomas held
his breath until she slipped into the spot between the cut-off ivy ropes and disappeared. It looked
as if she’d been erased from existence with one quick swipe.
“Whoa!” Chuck yelled, the slightest hint of his old self breaking through.
“Whoa is right,” Thomas said. “You’re next.”
Before the boy could argue, Thomas grabbed him under his arms, squeezed Chuck’s torso.
“Push off with your legs and I’ll give you a lift. Ready? One, two, three!” He grunted with
effort, heaved him over toward the Hole.
Chuck screamed as he flew through the air, and he almost missed the target, but his feet went
through; then his stomach and arms slammed against the sides of the invisible hole before he
disappeared inside. The boy’s bravery solidified something in Thomas’s heart. He loved the kid.
He loved him as if they had the same mom.
Thomas tightened the straps on his backpack, held his makeshift fighting spear tightly in his
right fist. The sounds behind him were awful, horrible—he felt guilty for not helping. Just do
your part, he told himself.
Steeling his nerves, he tapped his spear against the stone ground, then planted his left foot on
the very edge of the Cliff and jumped, catapulting up and into the twilight air. He pulled the
spear close to his torso, pointed his toes downward, stiffened his body.
Then he hit the Hole.

Categories: The Maze Runner

The Maze Runner - Chapter 55

Thomas kept a steady pace as he ran with the other Gladers along the stone pathways toward the
Cliff. He’d grown used to running the Maze, but this was completely different. The sounds of
shuffling feet echoed up the walls and the red lights of the beetle blades flashed more
menacingly in the ivy—the Creators were certainly watching, listening. One way or another,
there was going to be a fight.
Scared? Teresa asked him as they ran.
No, I love things made out of blubber and steel. Can’t wait to see them. He felt no mirth or
humor and wondered if there’d ever be a time again when he would.
So funny, she responded.
She was right next to him, but his eyes stayed glued up ahead. We’ll be fine. Just stay close to
me and Minho.
Ah, my Knight in Shining Armor. What, you don’t think I can fend for myself?
Actually, he thought quite the opposite—Teresa seemed as tough as anybody there. No, I’m
just trying to be nice.
The group was spread out across the full width of the corridor, running at a steady but quick
pace—Thomas wondered how long the non-Runners would hold up. As if in response to the
thought, Newt fell back, finally tapping Minho on the shoulder. “You lead the way now,”
Thomas heard him say.
Minho nodded and ran to the front, guiding the Gladers through all the turns necessary. Every
step was agonizing for Thomas. What courage he’d gathered had turned to dread, and he
wondered when the Grievers would finally give chase. Wondered when the fight would begin.
And so it went for him as they kept moving, those Gladers not used to running such distances
gasping in huge gulps of air. But no one quit. On and on they ran, with no signs of Grievers. And
as the time passed, Thomas let the slightest trickle of hope enter his system—maybe they’d make
it before getting attacked. Maybe.
Finally, after the longest hour of Thomas’s life, they reached the long alley that led to the last
turn before the Cliff—a short corridor to the right that branched off like the stem of the letter T.
Thomas, his heart thumping, sweat slicking his skin, had moved up right behind Minho,
Teresa at his side. Minho slowed at the corner, then stopped, holding up a hand to tell Thomas
and the others to do the same. Then he turned, a look of horror on his face.
“Do you hear that?” he whispered.
Thomas shook his head, trying to squash the terror Minho’s expression had given him.
Minho crept ahead and peeked around the sharp edge of stone, looking toward the Cliff.
Thomas had seen him do that before, when they’d followed a Griever to this very spot. Just like
that time, Minho jerked back and turned to face him.
“Oh, no,” the Keeper said through a moan. “Oh, no.”
Then Thomas heard it. Griever sounds. It was as if they’d been hiding, waiting, and now were
coming to life. He didn’t even have to look—he knew what Minho was going to say before he
said it.
“There’s at least a dozen of them. Maybe fifteen.” He reached up and rubbed his eyes with the
heels of his hands. “They’re just waiting for us!”
The icy chill of fear bit Thomas harder than ever before. He looked over at Teresa, about to
say something, but stopped when he saw the expression on her pale face—he’d never seen terror
present itself so starkly.
Newt and Alby had moved up the line of waiting Gladers to join Thomas and the others.
Apparently Minho’s pronouncement had already been whispered through the ranks, because the
first thing Newt said was “Well, we knew we’d have to fight.” But the tremor in his voice gave
him away—he was just trying to say the right thing.
Thomas felt it himself. It’d been easy to talk about—the nothing-to-lose fight, the hope that
just one of them would be taken, the chance to finally escape. But now it was here, literally
around the corner. Doubts that he could go through with it seeped into his mind and heart. He
wondered why the Grievers were just waiting—the beetle blades had obviously let them know
the Gladers were coming. Were the Creators enjoying this?
He had an idea. “Maybe they’ve already taken a kid back at the Glade. Maybe we can get past
them—why else would they just be sitting—”
A loud noise from behind cut him off—he spun to see more Grievers moving down the
corridor toward them, spikes flaring, metal arms groping, coming from the direction of the
Glade. Thomas was just about to say something when he heard sounds from the other end of the
long alley—he looked to see yet more Grievers.
The enemy was on all sides, blocking them off completely.
The Gladers surged toward Thomas, forming a tight group, forcing him to move out into the
open intersection where the Cliff corridor met the long alley. He saw the pack of Grievers
between them and the Cliff, spikes extended, their moist skin pulsing in and out. Waiting,
watching. The other two groups of Grievers had closed in and stopped just a few dozen feet from
the Gladers, also waiting, watching.
Thomas slowly turned in a circle, fought the fear as he took it all in. They were surrounded.
They had no choice now—there was nowhere to go. A sharp pulsing pain throbbed behind his
eyes.
The Gladers compressed into a tighter group around him, everyone facing outward, huddled
together in the center of the T intersection. Thomas was pressed between Newt and Teresa—he
could feel Newt trembling. No one said a word. The only sounds were the eerie moans and
whirrs of machinery coming from the Grievers, sitting there as if enjoying the little trap they’d
set for the humans. Their disgusting bodies heaved in and out with mechanical wheezes of
breath.
What are they doing? Thomas called out to Teresa. What are they waiting for?
She didn’t answer, which worried him. He reached out and squeezed her hand. The Gladers
around him stood silent, clutching their meager weapons.
Thomas looked over at Newt. “Got any ideas?”
“No,” he replied, his voice just the tiniest bit shaky. “I don’t understand what they’re bloody
waitin’ for.”
“We shouldn’t have come,” Alby said. He’d been so quiet, his voice sounded odd, especially
with the hollow echo the Maze walls created.
Thomas was in no mood for whining—they had to do something. “Well, we’d be no better off
in the Homestead. Hate to say it, but if one of us dies, that’s better than all of us.” He really
hoped the one-person-a-night thing was true now. Seeing all these Grievers close up hit home
with an explosion of reality—could they really fight them all?
A long moment passed before Alby replied. “Maybe I should …” He trailed off and started
walking forward—in the direction of the Cliff—slowly, as if in a trance. Thomas watched in
detached awe—he couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Alby?” Newt said. “Get back here!”
Instead of responding, Alby took off running—he headed straight for the pack of Grievers
between him and the Cliff.
“Alby!” Newt screamed.
Thomas started to say something himself, but Alby had already made it to the monsters and
jumped on top of one. Newt moved away from Thomas’s side and toward Alby—but five or six
Grievers had already burst to life and attacked the boy in a blur of metal and skin. Thomas
reached out and grabbed Newt by the arms before he could go any farther, then pulled him
backward.
“Let go!” Newt yelled, struggling to break loose.
“Are you nuts!” Thomas shouted. “There’s nothing you can do!”
Two more Grievers broke from the pack and swarmed over Alby, piling on top of each other,
snapping and cutting at the boy, as if they wanted to rub it in, show their vicious cruelty.
Somehow, impossibly, Alby didn’t scream. Thomas lost sight of the body as he struggled with
Newt, thankful for the distraction. Newt finally gave up, collapsing backward in defeat.
Alby’d flipped once and for all, Thomas thought, fighting the urge to rid his stomach of its
contents. Their leader had been so scared to go back to whatever he’d seen, he’d chosen to
sacrifice himself instead. He was gone. Totally gone.
Thomas helped steady Newt on his feet; the Glader couldn’t stop staring at the spot where his
friend had disappeared.
“I can’t believe it,” Newt whispered. “I can’t believe he just did that.”
Thomas shook his head, unable to reply. Seeing Alby go down like that … a new kind of pain
he’d never felt before filled his insides—an ill, disturbed pain; it felt worse than the physical
kind. And he didn’t even know if it had anything to do with Alby—he’d never much liked the
guy. But the thought that what he’d just seen might happen to Chuck—or Teresa …
Minho moved closer to Thomas and Newt, squeezed Newt’s shoulder. “We can’t waste what
he did.” He turned toward Thomas. “We’ll fight ’em if we have to, make a path to the Cliff for
you and Teresa. Get in the Hole and do your thing—we’ll keep them off until you scream for us
to follow.”
Thomas looked at each of the three sets of Grievers—not one had yet made a move toward the
Gladers—and nodded. “Hopefully they’ll go dormant for a while. We should only need a minute
or so to punch in the code.”
“How can you guys be so heartless?” Newt murmured, the disgust in his voice surprising
Thomas.
“What do you want, Newt?” Minho said. “Should we all dress up and have a funeral?”
Newt didn’t respond, still staring at the spot where the Grievers seemed to be feeding on Alby
beneath them. Thomas couldn’t help taking a peek—he saw a smear of bright red on one of the
creatures’ bodies. His stomach turned and he quickly looked away.
Minho continued. “Alby didn’t wanna go back to his old life. He freaking sacrificed himself
for us—and they aren’t attacking, so maybe it worked. We’d be heartless if we wasted it.”
Newt only shrugged, closed his eyes.
Minho turned and faced the huddled group of Gladers. “Listen up! Number one priority is to
protect Thomas and Teresa. Get them to the Cliff and the Hole so—”
The sounds of the Grievers revving to life cut him off. Thomas looked up in horror. The
creatures on both sides of their group seemed to have noticed them again. Spikes were popping
in and out of blubbery skin; their bodies shuddered and pulsed. Then, in unison, the monsters
moved forward, slowly, instrument-tipped appendages unfolding, pointed at Thomas and the
Gladers, ready to kill. Tightening their trap formation like a noose, the Grievers steadily charged
toward them.
Alby’s sacrifice had failed miserably.

Categories: The Maze Runner

The Maze Runner - Chapter 54

Just before the normal Door-closing time, Frypan prepared one last meal to carry them through
the night. The mood hanging over the Gladers as they ate couldn’t have been more somber or
sodden with fear. Thomas found himself sitting next to Chuck, absently picking at his food.
“So … Thomas,” the boy said through a huge bite of mashed potatoes. “Who am I nicknamed
after?”
Thomas couldn’t help shaking his head—here they were, about to embark on probably the
most dangerous task of their lives, and Chuck was curious where he’d gotten his nickname. “I
don’t know, Darwin, maybe? The dude who figured out evolution.”
“I bet no one’s ever called him a dude before.” Chuck took another big bite, and seemed to
think that was the best time to talk, full mouth and all. “You know, I’m really not all that scared.
I mean, last few nights, sitting in the Homestead, just waiting for a Griever to come in and steal
one of us was the worst thing I’ve ever done. At least now we’re taking it to them, trying
something. And at least …”
“At least what?” Thomas asked. He didn’t believe for a second that Chuck wasn’t scared; it
almost hurt to see him acting brave.
“Well, everyone’s speculating they can only kill one of us. Maybe I sound like a shuck, but it
gives me some hope. At least most of us will make it through—just leaves one poor sucker to
die. Better than all of us.”
It made Thomas sick to think people were hanging on to that hope of just one person dying;
the more he thought about it, the less he believed it was true. The Creators knew the plan—they
might reprogram the Grievers. But even false hope was better than nothing. “Maybe we can all
make it. As long as everyone fights.”
Chuck stopped stuffing his face for a second and looked at Thomas carefully. “You really
think that, or you just trying to cheer me up?”
“We can do it.” Thomas ate his last bite, took a big drink of water. He’d never felt like such a
liar in his life. People were going to die. But he was going to do everything possible to make sure
Chuck wasn’t one of them. And Teresa. “Don’t forget my promise. You can still plan on it.”
Chuck frowned. “Big deal—I keep hearing the world is in klunky shape.”
“Hey, maybe so, but we’ll find the people who care about us—you’ll see.”
Chuck stood up. “Well, I don’t wanna think about it,” he announced. “Just get me out of the
Maze, and I’ll be one happy dude.”
“Good that,” Thomas agreed.
A commotion from the other tables caught his attention. Newt and Alby were gathering the
Gladers, telling everyone it was time to go. Alby seemed mostly himself, but Thomas still
worried about the guy’s mental state. In Thomas’s mind, Newt was in charge, but he could also
be a loose cannon sometimes.
The icy fear and panic Thomas had experienced so often the last few days swept over him
once again in full force. This was it. They were going. Trying not to think about it, to just act, he
grabbed his backpack. Chuck did the same, and they headed for the West Door, the one leading
to the Cliff.
Thomas found Minho and Teresa talking to each other near the left side of the Door, going
over the hastily made plans to enter the escape code once they got into the Hole.
“You shanks ready?” Minho asked when they came up. “Thomas, this was all your idea, so it
better work. If not, I’ll kill ya before the Grievers can.”
“Thanks,” Thomas said. But he couldn’t shake the twisting feeling in his gut. What if
somehow he was wrong? What if the memories he’d had were false ones? Planted somehow?
The thought terrified him, and he pushed it aside. There was no going back.
He looked at Teresa, who shifted from foot to foot, wringing her hands. “You okay?” he
asked.
“I’m fine,” she answered with a small smile, clearly not fine at all. “Just anxious to get it over
with.”
“Amen, sister,” Minho said. He looked the calmest to Thomas, the most confident, the least
scared. Thomas envied him.
When Newt finally had everyone gathered, he called for quiet, and Thomas turned to hear
what he had to say. “There’re forty-one of us.” He pulled the backpack he was holding onto his
shoulders, and hoisted a thick wooden pole with barbwire wrapped around its tip. The thing
looked deadly. “Make sure you’ve got your weapons. Other than that, isn’t a whole lot to
buggin’ say—you’ve all been told the plan. We’re gonna fight our way through to the Griever
Hole, and Tommy here’s gonna punch in his little magic code and then we’re gonna get payback
on the Creators. Simple as that.”
Thomas barely heard Newt, having seen Alby sulking over to the side, away from the main
group of the Gladers, alone. Alby picked at the string of his bow while he stared at the ground. A
quiver of arrows hung over his shoulder. Thomas felt a rising tide of worry that somehow Alby
was unstable, that somehow he’d screw everything up. He decided to watch him carefully if he
could.
“Shouldn’t someone give a pep talk or something?” Minho asked, pulling Thomas’s attention
away from Alby.
“Go ahead,” Newt replied.
Minho nodded and faced the crowd. “Be careful,” he said dryly. “Don’t die.”
Thomas would have laughed if he could, but he was too scared for it to come out.
“Great. We’re all bloody inspired,” Newt answered, then pointed over his shoulder, toward the
Maze. “You all know the plan. After two years of being treated like mice, tonight we’re making
a stand. Tonight we’re taking the fight back to the Creators, no matter what we have to go
through to get there. Tonight the Grievers better be scared.”
Someone cheered, and then someone else. Soon shouts and battle calls broke out, rising in
volume, filling the air like thunder. Thomas felt a trickle of courage inside him—he grasped it,
clung to it, urged it to grow. Newt was right. Tonight, they’d fight. Tonight, they’d make their
stand, once and for all.
Thomas was ready. He roared with the other Gladers. He knew they should probably be quiet,
not bring any more attention to themselves, but he didn’t care. The game was on.
Newt thrust his weapon into the air and yelled, “Hear that, Creators! We’re coming!”
And with that, he turned and ran into the Maze, his limp barely noticeable. Into the gray air
that seemed darker than the Glade, full of shadows and blackness. The Gladers around Thomas,
still cheering, picked up their weapons and ran after him, even Alby. Thomas followed, falling
into line between Teresa and Chuck, hefting a big wooden spear with a knife tied at its tip. The
sudden feeling of responsibility for his friends almost overwhelmed him—made it hard to run.
But he kept going, determined to win.
You can do this, he thought. Just make it to that Hole.

Categories: The Maze Runner

The Maze Runner - Chapter 53

Thomas was almost sad when the Gathering finally ended. When Newt came out of the
Homestead he knew that the time for rest was over.
The Keeper spotted them and approached at a limping run. Thomas noticed he’d let go of
Teresa’s hand without thinking about it. Newt finally came to a halt and crossed his arms over
his chest as he looked down at them sitting on the bench. “This is bloody nuts, you know that,
right?” His face was impossible to read, but there seemed to be a hint of victory in his eyes.
Thomas stood up, feeling a rush of excitement flooding his body. “So they agreed to go?”
Newt nodded. “All of them. Wasn’t as hard as I thought it’d be. Those shanks’ve seen what
happens at night with those bloody Doors open. We can’t get out of the stupid Maze. Gotta try
something.” He turned and looked at the Keepers, who’d started to gather their respective work
groups. “Now we just have to convince the Gladers.”
Thomas knew that would be even more difficult than persuading the Keepers had been.
“You think they’ll go for it?” Teresa asked, finally standing to join them.
“Not all of them,” Newt said, and Thomas could see the frustration in his eyes. “Some’ll stay
and take their chances—guarantee it.”
Thomas didn’t doubt people would blanch at the thought of making a run for it. Asking them
to fight the Grievers was asking a lot. “What about Alby?”
“Who knows?” Newt responded, looking around the Glade, observing the Keepers and their
groups. “I’m convinced that bugger really is more scared to go back home than he is of the
Grievers. But I’ll get him to go with us, don’t worry.”
Thomas wished he could bring back memories of those things that were tormenting Alby, but
there was nothing. “How are you going to convince him?”
Newt laughed. “I’ll make up some klunk. Tell him we’ll all find a new life in another part of
the world, live happily ever after.”
Thomas shrugged. “Well, maybe we can. I promised Chuck I’d get him home, you know. Or
at least find him a home.”
“Yeah, well,” Teresa murmured. “Anything’s better than this place.”
Thomas looked around at the arguments breaking out across the Glade, Keepers doing their
best to convince people they should take a chance and battle their way through the Griever Hole.
Some Gladers stomped away, but most seemed to listen and at least consider.
“So what’s next?” Teresa asked.
Newt took a deep breath. “Figure out who’s going, who’s staying. Get ready. Food, weapons,
all that. Then we go. Thomas, I’d put you in charge since it was your idea, but it’s going to be
hard enough to get people on our side without making the Greenie our leader—no offense. So
just lay low, okay? We’ll leave the code business to you and Teresa—you can handle that from
the background.”
Thomas was more than fine with lying low—finding that computer station and punching in the
code was more than enough responsibility for him. Even with that much on his shoulders he had
to fight the rising flood of panic he felt. “You sure make it sound easy,” he finally said, trying his
best to lighten up the situation. Or at least sound like he was.
Newt folded his arms again, looked at him closely. “Like you said—stay here, one shank’ll die
tonight. Go, one shank’ll die. What’s the difference?” He pointed at Thomas. “If you’re right.”
“I am.” Thomas knew he was right about the Hole, the code, the door, the need to fight. But
whether one person or many would die, he had no clue. However, if there was one thing his gut
told him, it was not to admit to any doubt.
Newt clapped him on the back. “Good that. Let’s get to work.”
The next few hours were frantic.
Most of the Gladers ended up agreeing to go—even more than Thomas would’ve guessed.
Even Alby decided to make the run. Though no one admitted it, Thomas bet most of them were
banking on the theory that only one person would be killed by the Grievers, and they figured
their chances of not being the unlucky sap were decent. Those who decided to stay in the Glade
were few but adamant and loud. They mainly walked around sulking, trying to tell others how
stupid they were. Eventually, they gave up and kept their distance.
As for Thomas and the rest of those committed to the escape, there was a ton of work to be
done.
Backpacks were handed out and stuffed full of supplies. Frypan—Newt told Thomas that the
Cook had been one of the last Keepers to agree to go—was in charge of gathering all the food
and figuring out a way to distribute it evenly among the packs. Syringes of Grief Serum were
included, even though Thomas didn’t think the Grievers would sting them. Chuck was in charge
of filling water bottles and getting them out to everyone. Teresa helped him, and Thomas asked
her to sugarcoat the trip as much as she could, even if she had to flat-out lie, which was mostly
the case. Chuck had tried to act brave from the time he first found out they were going for it, but
his sweaty skin and dazed eyes revealed the truth.
Minho went to the Cliff with a group of Runners, taking ivy ropes and rocks to test the
invisible Griever Hole one last time. They had to hope the creatures would keep to their normal
schedule and not come out during daytime hours. Thomas had contemplated just jumping into
the Hole right away and trying to punch in the code quickly, but he had no idea what to expect or
what might be waiting for him. Newt was right—they’d better wait until night and hope that
most of the Grievers were in the Maze, not inside their Hole.
When Minho returned, safe and sound, Thomas thought he seemed very optimistic that it
really was an exit. Or entrance. Depending on how you looked at it.
Thomas helped Newt distribute the weapons, and even more innovative ones were created in
their desperation to be prepared for the Grievers. Wooden poles were carved into spears or
wrapped in barbwire; the knives were sharpened and fastened with twine to the ends of sturdy
branches hacked from trees in the woods; chunks of broken glass were duct-taped to shovels. By
the end of the day, the Gladers had turned into a small army. A very pathetic, ill-prepared army,
Thomas thought, but an army all the same.
Once he and Teresa were done helping, they went to the secret spot in the Deadheads to
strategize about the station inside the Griever Hole and how they planned to punch in the code.
“We have to be the ones to do it,” Thomas said as they leaned their backs against craggy trees,
the once-green leaves already starting to turn gray from the lack of artificial sunlight. “That way
if we get separated, we can be in contact and still help each other.”
Teresa had grabbed a stick and was peeling off the bark. “But we need backup in case
something happens to us.”
“Definitely. Minho and Newt know the code words—we’ll tell them they have to get them
punched into the computer if we … well, you know.” Thomas didn’t want to think about all the
bad things that might happen.
“Not much to the plan, then.” Teresa yawned, as if life were completely normal.
“Not much at all. Fight the Grievers, punch in the code, escape through the door. Then we deal
with the Creators—whatever it takes.”
“Six code words, who knows how many Grievers.” Teresa broke the stick in half. “What do
you think WICKED stands for, anyway?”
Thomas felt like he’d been hit in the stomach. For some reason, hearing the word at that
moment, from someone else, knocked something loose in his mind and it clicked. He was
stunned he hadn’t made the connection sooner. “That sign I saw out in the Maze—remember?
The metal one with words stamped on it?” Thomas’s heart had started to race with excitement.
Teresa crinkled her forehead in confusion for a second, but then a light seemed to blink on
behind her eyes. “Whoa. World In Catastrophe: Killzone Experiment Department. WICKED.
WICKED is good—what I wrote on my arm. What does that even mean?”
“No idea. Which is why I’m scared to death that what we’re about to do is a whole pile of
stupid. Could be a bloodbath.”
“Everyone knows what they’re getting into.” Teresa reached out and took his hand. “Nothing
to lose, remember?”
Thomas remembered, but for some reason Teresa’s words fell flat—they didn’t have much
hope in them. “Nothing to lose,” he repeated.

Categories: The Maze Runner

The Maze Runner - Chapter 52

The meeting erupted into a chorus of arguments. Newt very calmly stood up, walked over to
Thomas and grabbed him by the arm; he pulled him toward the door. “You’re leaving. Now.”
Thomas was stunned. “Leaving? Why?”
“Think you’ve said enough for one meeting. We need to talk and decide what to do—without
you here.” They had reached the door and Newt gave him a gentle push outside. “Wait for me by
the Box. When we’re done, you and I’ll talk.”
He started to turn around, but Thomas reached out and grabbed him. “You gotta believe me,
Newt. It’s the only way out of here—we can do it, I swear. We’re meant to.”
Newt got in his face and spoke in an angry rasp of a whisper. “Yeah, I especially loved the bit
where you volunteered to get yourself killed.”
“I’m perfectly willing to do it.” Thomas meant it, but only because of the guilt that racked
him. Guilt that he’d somehow helped design the Maze. But deep down, he held on to the hope
that he could fight long enough for someone to punch in the code and shut down the Grievers
before they killed him. Open the door.
“Oh, really?” Newt asked, seeming irritated. “Mr. Noble himself, aren’t ya?”
“I have plenty of my own reasons. In some ways it’s my fault we’re here in the first place.” He
stopped, took a breath to compose himself. “Anyway, I’m going no matter what, so you better
not waste it.”
Newt frowned, his eyes suddenly filled with compassion. “If you really did help design the
Maze, Tommy, it’s not your fault. You’re a kid—you can’t help what they forced you to do.”
But it didn’t matter what Newt said. What anyone said. Thomas bore the responsibility
anyway—and it was growing heavier the more he thought about it. “I just … feel like I need to
save everyone. To redeem myself.”
Newt stepped back, slowly shaking his head. “You know what’s funny, Tommy?”
“What?” Thomas replied, wary.
“I actually believe you. You just don’t have an ounce of lying in those eyes of yours. And I
can’t bloody believe I’m about to say this.” He paused. “But I’m going back in there to convince
those shanks we should go through the Griever Hole, just like you said. Might as well fight the
Grievers rather than sit around letting them pick us off one by one.” He held up a finger. “But
listen to me—I don’t want another buggin’ word about you dying and all that heroic klunk. If
we’re gonna do this, we’ll take our chances—all of us. You hear me?”
Thomas held his hands up, overwhelmed with relief. “Loud and clear. I was just trying to
make the point that it’s worth the risk. If someone’s going to die every night anyway, we might
as well use it to our advantage.”
Newt frowned. “Well, ain’t that just cheery?”
Thomas turned to walk away, but Newt called out to him. “Tommy?”
“Yeah?” He stopped, but didn’t look back.
“If I can convince those shanks—and that’s a big if—the best time to go would be at night. We
can hope that a lot of the Grievers might be out and about in the Maze—not in that Hole of
theirs.”
“Good that.” Thomas agreed with him—he just hoped Newt could convince the Keepers. He
turned to look at Newt and nodded.
Newt smiled, a barely-there crack in his worried grimace. “We should do it tonight, before
anyone else is killed.” And before Thomas could say anything, Newt disappeared back into the
Gathering.
Thomas, a little shocked at the last statement, left the Homestead and walked to an old bench
near the Box and took a seat, his mind a whirlwind. He kept thinking of what Alby had said
about the Flare, and what it could mean. The older boy had also mentioned burned earth and a
disease. Thomas didn’t remember anything like that, but if it was all true, the world they were
trying to get back to didn’t sound so good. Still—what other choice did they have? Besides the
fact that the Grievers were attacking every night, the Glade had basically shut down.
Frustrated, worried, tired of his thoughts, he called out to Teresa. Can you hear me?
Yeah, she replied. Where are you?
By the Box.
I’ll come in a minute.
Thomas realized how badly he needed her company. Good. I’ll tell you the plan; I think it’s
on.
What is it?
Thomas leaned back on the bench and put his right foot up on his knee, wondering how Teresa
would react to what he was going to say. We gotta go through the Griever Hole. Use that code to
shut the Grievers down and open a door out of here.
A pause. I figured it was something like that.
Thomas thought for a second, then added, Unless you’ve got any better ideas?
No. It’s gonna be awful.
He punched his right fist against his other hand, even though he knew she couldn’t see him.
We can do this.
Doubtful.
Well, we have to try.
Another pause, this one longer. He could feel her resolve. You’re right.
I think we’re leaving tonight. Just come out here and we can talk more about it.
I’ll be there in a few minutes.
Thomas’s stomach tightened into a knot. The reality of what he had suggested, the plan Newt
was trying to convince the Keepers to accept, was starting to hit him. He knew it was dangerous,
but the idea of actually fighting the Grievers—not just running from them—was terrifying. The
absolute best-case scenario was that only one of them would die—but even that couldn’t be
trusted. Maybe the Creators would just reprogram the creatures. And then all bets were off.
He tried not to think about it.
Sooner than Thomas expected, Teresa had found him and was sitting next to him, her body
pressed against his despite plenty of room on the bench. She reached out and took his hand. He
squeezed back, so hard he knew it must’ve hurt.
“Tell me,” she said.
Thomas did, reciting every word he’d told the Keepers, hating how Teresa’s eyes filled with
worry—and terror. “The plan was easy to talk about,” he said after he’d told her everything. “But
Newt thinks we should go tonight. It doesn’t sound so good now.” It especially terrified him to
think about Chuck and Teresa out there—he’d faced the Grievers down already and knew all too
well what it was like. He wanted to be able to protect his friends from the horrible experience,
but he knew he couldn’t.
“We can do it,” she said in a quiet voice.
Hearing her say that only made him worry more. “Holy crap, I’m scared.”
“Holy crap, you’re human. You should be scared.”
Thomas didn’t respond, and for a long time they just sat there, holding hands, no words
spoken, in their minds or aloud. He felt the slightest hint of peace, as fleeting as it was, and tried
to enjoy it for however long it might last.

Categories: The Maze Runner