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.
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