Thomas refused to talk to anyone the rest of the day.
Teresa tried several times. But he kept telling her he didn’t feel good, that he just wanted to be
alone and sleep in his spot behind the forest, maybe spend some time thinking. Try to discover a
hidden secret within his mind that would help them know what to do.
But in truth, he was psyching himself up for what he had planned for that evening, convincing
himself it was the right thing to do. The only thing to do. Plus, he was absolutely terrified and he
didn’t want the others to notice.
Eventually, when his watch showed that evening had arrived, he went to the Homestead with
everyone else. He barely noticed he’d been hungry until he started eating Frypan’s hastily
prepared meal of biscuits and tomato soup.
And then it was time for another sleepless night.
The Builders had boarded up the gaping holes left by the monsters who’d carried off Gally and
Adam. The end result looked to Thomas like an army of drunk guys had done the work, but it
was solid enough. Newt and Alby, who finally felt well enough to walk around again, his head
heavily bandaged, insisted on a plan for everyone to rotate where they slept each night.
Thomas ended up in the large living room on the bottom floor of the Homestead with the same
people he’d slept with two nights before. Silence settled over the room quickly, though he didn’t
know if it was because people were actually asleep or just scared, quietly hoping against hope
the Grievers didn’t come again. Unlike two nights ago, Teresa was allowed to stay in the
building with the rest of the Gladers. She was near him, curled up in two blankets. Somehow, he
could sense that she was sleeping. Actually sleeping.
Thomas certainly couldn’t sleep, even though he knew his body needed it desperately. He
tried—he tried so hard to keep his eyes closed, force himself to relax. But he had no luck. The
night dragged on, the heavy sense of anticipation like a weight on his chest.
Then, just as they’d all expected, came the mechanical, haunted sounds of the Grievers
outside. The time had come.
Everyone crowded together against the wall farthest from the windows, doing their best to
keep quiet. Thomas huddled in a corner next to Teresa, hugging his knees, staring at the window.
The reality of the dreadful decision he’d made earlier squeezed his heart like a crushing fist. But
he knew that everything might depend on it.
The tension in the room rose at a steady pace. The Gladers were quiet, not a soul moved. A
distant scraping of metal against wood echoed through the house; it sounded to Thomas like a
Griever was climbing on the back side of the Homestead, opposite where they were. More noises
joined in a few seconds later, coming from all directions, the closest right outside their own
window. The air in the room seemed to freeze into solid ice, and Thomas pressed his fists against
his eyes, the anticipation of the attack killing him.
A booming explosion of ripping wood and broken glass thundered from somewhere upstairs,
shaking the whole house. Thomas went numb as several screams erupted, followed by the
pounding of fleeing footsteps. Loud creaks and groans announced a whole horde of Gladers
running to the first floor.
“It’s got Dave!” someone yelled, the voice high-pitched with terror.
No one in Thomas’s room moved a muscle; he knew each of them was probably feeling guilty
about their relief—that at least it wasn’t them. That maybe they were safe for one more night.
Two nights in a row only one boy had been taken, and people had started to believe that what
Gally had said was true.
Thomas jumped as a terrible crash sounded right outside their door, accompanied by screams
and the splintering of wood, like some iron-jawed monster was eating the entire stairwell. A
second later came another explosion of ripping wood: the front door. The Griever had come right
through the house and was now leaving.
An explosion of fear ripped through Thomas. It was now or never.
He jumped up and ran to the door of the room, yanking it open. He heard Newt yell, but he
ignored him and ran down the hall, sidestepping and jumping over hundreds of splintered pieces
of wood. He could see that where the front door had been there now stood a jagged hole leading
out into the gray night. He headed straight for it and ran out into the Glade.
Tom! Teresa screamed inside his head. What are you doing!
He ignored her. He just kept running.
The Griever holding Dave—a kid Thomas had never spoken to—was rolling along on its
spikes toward the West Door, churning and whirring. The other Grievers had already gathered in
the courtyard and followed their companion toward the Maze. Without hesitating, knowing the
others would think he was trying to commit suicide, Thomas sprinted in their direction until he
found himself in the middle of the pack of creatures. Having been taken by surprise, the Grievers
hesitated.
Thomas jumped on the one holding Dave, tried to jerk the kid free, hoping the creature would
retaliate. Teresa’s scream inside his mind was so loud it felt as if a dagger had been driven
through his skull.
Three of the Grievers swarmed on him at once, their long pincers and claspers and needles
flying in from all directions. Thomas flailed his arms and legs, knocking away the horrible
metallic arms as he kicked at the pulsating blubber of the Grievers’ bodies—he only wanted to
be stung, not taken like Dave. Their relentless attack intensified, and Thomas felt pain erupt over
every inch of his body—needle pricks that told him he’d succeeded. Screaming, he kicked and
pushed and thrashed, throwing his body into a roll, trying to get away from them. Struggling,
bursting with adrenaline, he finally found an open spot to get his feet under him and ran with all
his power.
As soon as he escaped the immediate reach of the Grievers’ instruments, they gave up and
retreated, disappearing into the Maze. Thomas collapsed to the ground, groaning from the pain.
Newt was on him in a second, followed immediately by Chuck, Teresa, several others. Newt
grabbed him by the shoulders and lifted him up, gripping him under both arms. “Get his legs!”
he yelled.
Thomas felt the world swimming around him, felt delirious, nauseated. Someone, he couldn’t
tell who, obeyed Newt’s order; he was being carried across the courtyard, through the front door
of the Homestead, down the shattered hall, into a room, placed on a couch. The world continued
to twist and pitch.
“What were you doing!” Newt yelled in his face. “How could you be so bloody stupid!”
Thomas had to speak before he faded into blackness. “No … Newt … you don’t
understand….”
“Shut up!” Newt shouted. “Don’t waste your energy!”
Thomas felt someone examining his arms and legs, ripping his clothes away from his body,
checking for damage. He heard Chuck’s voice, couldn’t help feeling relief that his friend was
okay. A Med-jack said something about him being stung dozens of times.
Teresa was by his feet, squeezing his right ankle with her hand. Why, Tom? Why would you do
that?
Because… He didn’t have the strength to concentrate.
Newt yelled for the Grief Serum; a minute later Thomas felt a pinprick on his arm. Warmth
spread from that point throughout his body, calming him, lessening the pain. But the world still
seemed to be collapsing in on itself, and he knew it would all be gone from him in just a few
seconds.
The room spun, colors morphing into each other, churning faster and faster. It took all of his
effort, but he said one last thing before the darkness took him for good.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered, hoping they could hear him. “I did it on purpose….”
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