across his field of vision, blinding him. He couldn’t blink, couldn’t close his eyelids to block it. Pain
washed over his body; his skin felt like it was melting right off his muscle and bones. He tried to scream,
but it was as if he’d lost all control of his functions—his arms and legs and torso shook no matter how
hard he strained to stop them.
The crackle and pop of electricity filled his ears, but soon another noise took over. A deep, thrumming
hum that pounded his ears and rattled his head. He was barely on the edge of consciousness, felt himself
slipping in and out of an abyss that wanted to swallow him. But something in him knew what that sound
was. The engines of the Berg had started up, the thrusters burning their blue flames.
He immediately thought they were leaving him. First Teresa and the others, now his closest friends and
Jorge. He couldn’t take any more betrayal. It hurt too much. He wanted to scream, all while needles of
pain bit every inch of his body and the burning smell overwhelmed him. No, they wouldn’t leave him
behind. He knew it.
Gradually his vision started to clear, and the white-hot charges of heat diminished in strength and
number. He blinked. Two, then three figures dressed in black stood over him, weapons pointed at his
face. Guards. Would they kill him? Drag him back to the Rat Man for more tests? One of them spoke, but
Thomas couldn’t hear the words; static buzzed in his ears.
All of a sudden the guards were gone, tackled by two figures that seemingly flew through the air. His
friends, had to be his friends. Through a haze of smoke Thomas could see the ceiling of the hangar far
above him. The pain had mostly gone away, replaced by a numbness that made him wonder if he could
move. He shifted to his right, then rolled to his left, then leaned up on an elbow, woozy and weak. A last
few trickles of electricity skittered over his body and disappeared into the cement. The worst was over.
He hoped.
He shifted again, looked back over his shoulder. Minho and Newt were each straddling a guard,
beating the living klunk out of them. Jorge stood in between the Gladers, shooting his fiery Launcher in all
directions. Most of the guards must’ve given up or been disabled—otherwise Thomas and the others
wouldn’t have made it even this far. Or maybe, Thomas thought, the guards were pretending, putting on an
act, like everyone else in the Trials.
He didn’t care. He just wanted out of this place. And escape was right in front of him.
With a groan he shifted to his belly, then pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. Breaking glass,
the crackle of lightning, the booms of weapons firing and pings of bullets hitting metal filled the air
around him. If someone shot him now, there was nothing he could do about it. He could only drag himself
toward the Berg. The ship’s thrusters hummed as they charged; the whole thing vibrated, shaking the
ground underneath him as well. The hatch door was only a few feet away. They needed to get on the ship.
He tried to yell something back at Minho and the others, but only a gurgling groan came out. On his
hands and knees like a wounded dog, he started crawling forward as quickly as his body would allow—
he had to fight for every ounce of strength within. He reached the lip of the ramp, pulled himself over it,
inched up the slope. His muscles ached and nausea climbed out of his stomach. The noises of battle
pounded his ears, put his nerves on edge; something could hit him at any second.
He made it halfway. Turned to look at his friends. They were backing toward him, all three now firing.
Minho had to stop and reload, and Thomas just knew he’d get shot or blasted with a grenade. But his
friend finished and started up again. The three of them reached the bottom of the hatch door, so close now.
Thomas tried to speak again; now he sounded like a wounded dog.
“That’s it!” Jorge yelled. “Grab his butt and drag him in!”
Jorge ran up the ramp past Thomas and disappeared inside. Something clicked loudly, and then the
ramp started to swing upward, its hinges groaning. Thomas realized he’d collapsed, his face resting
against the raised metal traction pads beneath him, yet he couldn’t remember when it had happened. He
felt hands pull at his shirt, felt himself lifted through the air. Then he slammed back down just inside the
hatch door as it sealed shut and the locks engaged.
“Sorry, Tommy,” Newt muttered in his ear. “Could’ve been a bit more gentle, I ’spect.”
Though he was close to unconsciousness, an indescribable joy lifted Thomas’s heart—they were
escaping WICKED. He let out a weak grunt in an attempt to share that with his friend. Then he closed his
eyes and passed out.
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