As they approached the city, it became harder for Thomas to actually see it. The dust in the air had
thickened into a brown fog, and he felt it in every breath. It was crusting in his eyes, making them water
and turning into goop that he had to keep wiping away. The large building they were shooting for had
become a looming shadow behind the cloud of dust, towering taller and taller, like a growing giant.
The wind had gained a rough edge, pelting him with sand and grit until it hurt. Every once in a while a
larger object would fly by, scaring him half out of his wits. A branch. Something that looked like a small
mouse. A piece of roofing tile. And countless scraps of paper. All swirling through the air like
snowflakes.
Then came the lightning.
They’d halved the distance to the building—maybe more than that—when the bolts came from nowhere,
and the world around him erupted in light and thunder.
They fell from the sky in jagged streaks, like bars of white light, slamming into the ground and throwing
up massive amounts of scorched earth. The crushing sound was too much to bear, and Thomas’s ears
began to go numb, the horrific noise fading to a distant hum as he went deaf.
He kept running, almost blind now, unable to hear, barely able to see the building. People fell and got
back up. Thomas stumbled but caught his balance. He helped Newt regain his feet, then Frypan. Pushed
them forward as he kept on. It was only a matter of time before one of the thick daggers of lightning struck
someone and fried them to a blackened char. His hair stood on end despite the ripping wind, the static in
the air raging and prickly as flying needles.
Thomas wanted to scream, wanted to hear his own voice, even if it was only the dull vibrations inside
his skull. But he knew the dust-riddled air would choke him; it was hard enough to take short, quick
breaths through his nose. Especially with the storm of lightning crashing to the ground all around them,
singeing the air, making everything smell like copper and ash.
The sky darkened further, the dust cloud thickened; Thomas realized he couldn’t see everyone anymore.
Just those few directly in front of him. Light from the strikes flashed against them, a short burst of brilliant
white illuminating them for the briefest instant. It all added together to blind Thomas even more. They had
to reach that building. They had to get there or they wouldn’t last much longer.
And where was the rain? he wondered. Where was the rain? What kind of a storm was this?
A bolt of pure white zigzagged from the sky and exploded on the ground right in front of him. He
screamed but couldn’t hear himself, squeezing his eyes shut as something—some burst of energy or wave
of air—threw him to the side. He landed flat on his back, the breath knocked from his chest, as a spray of
dirt and rocks rained down on him. Spitting, wiping at his face, he gulped for air as he scrambled onto his
hands and knees, then his feet. The air finally flowed, and he pulled it deep into his lungs.
He heard a ringing now, a steady, high-pitched buzz that felt like nails in his eardrums. The wind tried
to eat his clothes, dirt stung his skin, darkness swirled around him like living night, broken only by the
flashes of lightning. Then he saw it, a horrific image made even spookier by the on-again-off-again source
of light.
It was Jack. He lay on the ground, inside a small crater, writhing as he clutched his knee. There was
nothing below that—shin, ankle, and foot obliterated by the burst of pure electricity from the sky. Blood
that looked like black tar gushed from the hideous wound, making a paste of horror with the dirt. His
clothes had been burned off, leaving him naked, injuries spreading across his whole body. He had no hair.
And it looked like his eyeballs had …
Thomas spun around and collapsed to the ground, coughing as he spit up everything in his stomach.
There was nothing they could do for Jack. No way. Nothing. But he was still alive. Though the thought
shamed him, Thomas was glad he couldn’t hear the screams. He didn’t know if he could bear to even look
at him again.
Then someone was grabbing him, pulling him to his feet. Minho. He said something, and Thomas
focused enough to read his lips. We have to go. Nothing we can do.
Jack, he thought. Oh, man, Jack.
Stumbling, his stomach muscles sore from throwing up, his ears ringing painfully, in shock from the
terrible sight of Jack ripped to shreds by lightning, he ran after Minho. He saw lumps of shadow to the left
and right, other Gladers, but only a few. It was too dark to see very far, and the lightning came and went
too fast to reveal much. Only dust and debris and that looming shape of the building, almost on top of them
now. They’d lost any hope of organization or staying together. It was each Glader for himself now—they
just had to hope everyone could make it.
Wind. Explosions of light. Wind. Choking dust. Wind. Ringing in his ears, pain. Wind. He kept going,
his eyes glued to Minho just a few steps ahead of him. He didn’t feel anything for Jack. He didn’t care if
he was permanently deaf. He didn’t care about the others anymore. The chaos around him seemed to
siphon away his humanity, turn him into an animal. All he wanted was to survive, make it to that building,
get inside. Live. Gain another day.
Searing white light detonated in front of him, throwing him through the air again. Even as he flew
backward, he screamed, tried to regain his footing—the explosion had happened right where Minho was
running. Minho! Thomas landed with a jarring thump that felt like every joint in his body came loose, then
popped back into place. He ignored the pain, got up, ran forward, his vision full of darkness mixed with
blurry afterimages, amoebas of purplish light. Then he saw flames.
It took a second for his brain to compute what he was seeing. Rods of fire dancing about like magic, hot
tendrils whipping to the right from the wind. Then it all collapsed to the ground, a heap of thrashing flame.
Thomas reached it and understood.
It was Minho. His clothes were on fire.
With a shriek that sent sharp pains through his head, he fell to the ground next to his friend. He dug into
the earth—thankfully loose from the explosion of electricity that hit it—and shoveled it on top of Minho
with both hands, scooping frantically. Aiming for the brightest points of flame, he made progress as
Minho helped by rolling around and beating at his upper body with both hands.
In a matter of seconds, the fire went out, leaving behind charred clothing and countless angry wounds.
Thomas was glad he couldn’t hear the wails of agony that appeared to be coming from Minho. He knew
they didn’t have time to stop, so Thomas grabbed their leader by the shoulders and dragged him to his
feet.
“Come on!” Thomas shouted, though the words felt like a couple of noiseless throbs in his brain.
Minho coughed, winced again, but then nodded and wrapped one of his arms around Thomas’s neck.
Together they moved as fast as they could toward the building, Thomas doing most of the work.
All around them, the lightning continued to fall like arrows of white fire. Thomas could feel the silent
impact of the explosions, each one rattling his skull, shaking his bones. Flashes of light all around. Past
the building toward which they stumbled and struggled, even more fires had sprung up; two or three times
he saw lightning make direct contact with the upper reaches of a structure, sending a rain of bricks and
glass falling to the streets below.
The darkness began to take on a different tone, more gray than brown, and Thomas realized that the
storm clouds must’ve really thickened and sunk toward the ground, pushing the dust and fog out of their
way. The wind had lessened slightly, but the lightning seemed stronger than ever.
Gladers were to the left and right, all heading in the same direction. They seemed fewer in number, but
Thomas still couldn’t see well enough to know for sure. He did spot Newt, then Frypan. And Aris. All of
them looking as terrified as he felt, running, all eyes riveted to their goal, now just a short distance away.
Minho lost his footing and fell, slipped from Thomas’s grip. Thomas stopped, turned around, pulled the
burnt boy back to his feet, reset Minho’s arm around his shoulder. Gripping him around the torso with
both arms now, he half carried, half pulled him along. A blinding arc of lightning went right over their
heads, pummeled the earth behind them; Thomas didn’t look, kept moving. A Glader fell to his left; he
couldn’t tell who it was, didn’t hear the scream he knew must’ve come. Another boy fell to his right, got
back up. A blast of lightning, just ahead and to the right. Another to the left. One straight ahead. Thomas
had to pause, blinking viciously until his sight came back. He started up again, yanking Minho along with
him.
And then they were there. The first building of the city.
In the gripping darkness of the storm, the structure was all gray. Massive blocks of stone, an arch of
smaller bricks, half-broken windows. Aris reached the door first, didn’t bother to open it. It had been
made of glass that was mostly gone, so he carefully smashed out the remaining shards with his elbow. He
waved a couple of Gladers past, then went in himself, swallowed by the interior.
Thomas made it just as Newt did, and gestured for help. Newt and another boy took Minho from him,
carefully dragged him backward over the threshold of the open entrance, his feet hitting the sill as they
pulled him through.
And then Thomas, still in shock over the sheer power of the lightning bursts, followed his friends,
stepping into the gloom.
He turned to look just in time to see the rain start falling outside, as if the storm had finally decided to
weep with shame for what it had done to them.
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