The impact knocked Thomas back, spinning him around so that he fell flat on his face, smacking his nose
on the ground. Somehow, through the pain and muffled buzz in his ears, he heard the gun fire again, then
the sound of grunts and punches, followed by metal clacking across the cement.
He rolled onto his back, hand clasped tight to where he’d been shot; he searched for the courage to look
at the wound. The ringing in his ears grew louder, and he barely noticed out of the corner of his eye that
Blondie had been tackled to the ground. Someone was punching the living crap out of him.
Minho.
Thomas finally gazed down at the damage. What he saw there made his heart double its pace.
A small hole in his shirt revealed a gooey red blob right in the meaty part above his armpit, blood
pouring from the wound. It hurt. It hurt bad. If he’d thought his headache downstairs had been tough, this
was like three or four of those, all smashed into a coil of pain right there in his shoulder. And spreading
through the rest of his body.
Newt was at his side, looking down with worried eyes.
“He shot me.” It just came out, a new number one on the list of the dumbest things he’d ever said. The
pain, like living metal staples running through his insides, pricking and scratching with their little sharp
points. He felt his mind going dark for the second time that day.
Someone handed a shirt to Newt, who pressed it tightly against Thomas’s wound. This sent another
wave of agony through him; he cried out, not caring how wimpy he sounded. It hurt like nothing he’d ever
felt before. The world around him faded another few degrees.
Pass out, he urged himself. Please pass out, make it go away.
Voices came from a distance again, just like his own had on the dance floor after being drugged.
“I can get that sucker out of him.” This was Jorge, of all people. “But I’ll need a fire.”
“We can’t do this here.” Was that Newt?
“Let’s get out of this shuck city.” Definitely Minho.
“All right. Help me carry him.” No idea.
Hands gripping him from underneath, grasping his legs. The pain. Someone saying something about the
count of three. The pain. It really, really hurt. One. The pain. Two. Ouch. Three!
He rose toward the sky, and the pain exploded anew, fresh and raw.
Then his wish to pass out came true and darkness washed his troubles away.
He awoke, his mind a haze.
Light blinded him; he couldn’t open his eyes all the way. His whole body jostled and bumped, hands
still holding him tight. He heard the sounds of breathing, heavy and fast. Feet pounding on pavement.
Someone shouting, though he couldn’t understand the words. In the distance, the mad screams of Cranks.
Close enough that they might be pursuing.
Heat. The air was burning hot.
His shoulder, on fire. Pain tore through him like a series of toxic explosions, and he fled to the darkness
once again.
* * *
He cracked his eyes.
This time the light was much less intense. The golden gleam of twilight. He lay on his back, the ground
beneath him hard. A rock dug into his lower back, but it felt heavenly compared to the rot in his shoulder.
People lumbered about him, talking in short and tight whispers.
The cackle of Cranks had grown more distant. He saw nothing but sky above him, no buildings. Pain in
his shoulder. Oh, the pain.
A fire licked and spit somewhere close. He felt the heat wafting across his body, hot wind through hot
air.
Someone said, “You better hold him down. Legs and arms.”
Though his mind still floated in fog, those words didn’t sound good.
A flash of light on silver in his vision, the fading sun’s reflection on … a knife? Was it glowing red?
“This is gonna hurt somethin’ awful.” No idea who said it.
He heard the hiss right before a billion pounds of dynamite exploded in his shoulder.
His mind said goodbye for the third time.
He sensed that a long spell of time had passed this go-around. When he opened his eyes again, stars like
pinpricks of daylight shone down from the dark sky. Someone held his hand. He tried to turn his head to
look over, but it sent a fresh wave of agony shooting down his spine.
He didn’t need to see. It was Brenda.
Who else would it be? Plus, the hand was soft and small. Brenda for sure.
The intense pain of before had been replaced. In some ways, he now felt worse. Something like an
illness crept through the inner workings of his body. A gnawing, itching filthiness. Something foul, like
maggots squirming through his veins and the hollows of his bones and between his muscles. Eating away
at him.
It hurt, but now it was more of an ache. Deep and raw. His stomach, gurgly and unstable, fire in his
veins.
He didn’t know how he knew, but he was sure of it. Something was wrong.
The word infection popped up in his mind, then stayed there.
He drifted off.
The sunrise woke Thomas in the morning. The first thing he realized was that Brenda no longer held his
hand. Then he noticed the cool air of early morning on his skin, which gave him the briefest moment of
pleasure.
Then he became fully aware of the throbbing pain that consumed his body, dwelling in every last
molecule. It no longer had anything to do with his shoulder and the bullet wound. Something terrible had
gone wrong with his entire system.
Infection. That word again.
He didn’t know how he’d make it through the next five minutes. Or the next hour. How could he
possibly go through an entire day? Then sleep and start the whole thing all over again? Despair sucked at
him, an empty, yawning void that threatened to pull him down into an awful abyss. A panic-laced
craziness struck him. Suffusing it all, the pain.
That was when things got bizarre.
The others heard it before he did. Minho and everyone else were suddenly scrambling, searching for
something, many of them scanning the sky. The sky? Why would they be doing that?
Someone—Jorge, he thought—yelled the word Berg.
Then Thomas heard it. A deep thrumming, full of heavy thumps. It grew louder before he even realized
what was going on, and soon it felt as though the noise were inside his skull, rattling his jaw and eardrums
and sluicing down his spine. A constant, steady pounding, like the world’s largest drums; behind it all, the
massive hum of heavy machinery. A wind picked up, and at first Thomas worried that a storm was starting
again, but the sky was perfectly blue. Not a cloud to be seen.
The noise worsened his pain, made him begin to shut down again. But he fought it, desperate to know
the source of the sounds. Minho shouted something, pointed to the north. Thomas hurt too much to turn and
look. The wind grew stronger, gusting across him, ripping at his clothes. Dust flew and clouded the air.
Suddenly Brenda was beside him again, squeezing his hand.
She leaned over until her face was only inches above his. Her hair whipped all around.
“I’m sorry,” she said, though he barely heard her. “I didn’t mean to—I mean, I know that you …” She
fumbled for words, looked away.
What was she talking about? Why didn’t she tell him what was making that horrible noise! He hurt so
bad. …
A look of curious horror spread across her face, eyes widening, mouth dropping open. And then she
was being pushed away by two …
Panic seized Thomas now. Two people, dressed in the strangest outfits he’d ever seen. One-piece,
baggy and dark green—letters he couldn’t read scrawled across the chest. Goggles covering their faces.
No, not goggles. Some kind of gas mask. They looked hideous and alien. They looked evil, like giant,
demented, human-eating insects wrapped in plastic.
One of them grabbed his legs by the ankles. The other put his hands under him, gripped him by the
armpits, and Thomas screamed. They lifted, and pain went coursing through his body. He’d almost grown
used to the agony by now, but this felt even worse. It hurt too much to struggle, so he went limp.
Then they were moving, carrying him, and for the first time, Thomas’s eyes focused enough to read the
letters on the chest of the person at his feet.
WICKED.
Darkness threatened to take him again. He let it, but the pain went with him.
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