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.
,l['mn['
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