Lost in the dark haze of drugs, Thomas dreamed.
He is fifteen years old, sitting on a bed. The room is dark except for the amber glow of a lamp on the
desk. Teresa is there—she has pulled a chair out and is sitting close to him. Her face is haunted—a mask
of misery.
“We had to do this,” she says quietly.
Thomas is there but isn’t there. He doesn’t remember the details of what happened, but he knows his
insides feel like rot and filth. He and Teresa have done something horrible, but his dreaming self can’t
quite grasp what it was. A ghastly thing that is no less repulsive because they were told to do it by the
people they did it to.
“We had to do it,” she repeats.
“I know,” Thomas responds in a voice that sounds as dead as dust.
Two words pop into his head: the Purge. The wall blocking him from the memory thins for a moment
and a dreadful fact looms on the other side.
Teresa starts talking again. “They wanted it to end this way, Tom. Better to die than spend years going
crazier and crazier. They’re gone now. We had no choice, and no better way to make it happen. It’s done
and that’s that. We need to get the new people trained and keep the Trials going. We’ve come too far to
let it fall apart.”
For a moment Thomas hates her, but it’s fleeting. He knows she’s trying to be strong. “That doesn’t
mean I have to like it.” And he doesn’t. He has never hated himself with such intensity before.
Teresa nods but says nothing.
The dreaming Thomas tries to invade the mind of his younger self, explore the memories in that
unfettered space. The original Creators, Flare-infected, purged and dead. Countless volunteers to take
their place. The two ongoing Maze Trials, running strong over a year in, with more results every day. The
slowly but surely building blueprint. Training for the replacements.
It’s all there for the taking. For the remembering. But then he changes his mind, turns his back on it all.
The past is the past. There is only the future now.
He sinks into a dark oblivion.
Thomas woke up groggy and with a dull ache behind his eyes. The dream still throbbed in his skull like a
pulse, though its details had grown fuzzy. He knew enough about the Purge, about its being the shift from
the original Creators to their replacements. He and Teresa had had to exterminate the entire staff after an
outbreak—they’d had no choice, were the only ones left who were immune. He swore to never think
about it again.
Minho was sitting in a chair nearby, his head lolling as he snored in fitful sleep.
“Minho,” Thomas whispered. “Hey. Minho. Wake up.”
“Huh?” Minho opened his eyes slowly and coughed. “What? What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I just want to know what happened. Did Hans get the thing switched off? Are we fixed?”
Minho nodded through a big yawn. “Yeah—both of us. At least, he said he did. Man, you wigged out
big-time. You remember all that?”
“Of course I do.” A wave of embarrassment made his face flush hot. “But it was like I was paralyzed
or something. I kept trying, but I couldn’t stop whatever was controlling me.”
“Dude, you tried to slice my you-know-whats off!”
Thomas laughed, something he hadn’t done in a long time. He welcomed it happily. “Too bad I didn’t.
Could’ve saved the world from future little Minhos.”
“Just remember you owe me one.”
“Good that.” He owed them all.
Brenda, Jorge, and Hans walked in, all three of them looking serious, and the smile fell from Thomas’s
face.
“Gally stop by and give you guys another pep talk?” Thomas asked, forcing a lighthearted tone to his
voice. “You look downright depressed.”
“When did you get so cheerful, muchacho?” Jorge responded. “A few hours ago you were stabbing at
us with a knife.”
Thomas opened his mouth to apologize—to explain—but Hans shushed him. He leaned over the bed
and flashed a little light into both of Thomas’s eyes. “Looks like your head’s clearing up pretty well. The
pain should be gone soon—your operation was a little worse because of that fail-safe.”
Thomas turned his attention to Brenda. “Is it fixed?”
“It worked,” she said. “Judging from the fact that you’re not trying to kill us anymore, it’s deactivated.
And …”
“And what?”
“Well, you shouldn’t be able to talk to or hear from Teresa or Aris again.”
Thomas might’ve felt a pang of sadness at that even the day before, but now he felt only relief. “Suits
me fine. Any sign of trouble yet?”
She shook her head. “No, but they can’t take any chances—Hans and his wife are going to leave, but he
wanted to tell you something first.”
Hans had stepped back to stand by the wall, probably to give them a little space. He came forward
now, his eyes downcast. “I wish I could go with you and help, but I have a wife, and she’s my family.
She’s my first concern. I wanted to wish you luck. I hope you can do what I don’t have the courage to try.”
Thomas nodded. The change in the man’s attitude was marked—maybe the recent incident had
reminded him of what WICKED was capable of. “Thanks. And if we can stop WICKED, we’ll come
back for you.”
“We’ll see about that,” Hans murmured. “We’ll see about a lot of things.”
Hans turned and walked back to his position by the wall. Thomas was sure that the man carried around
many dark memories in his mind.
“What next?” Brenda asked.
Thomas knew they didn’t have time to rest. And his mind was set on what they needed to do. “We find
our other friends, convince them to join us. Then we go back to Gally. The only thing I’ve accomplished
in life is to help set up an experiment that failed and tormented a bunch of kids. It’s time to add something
else to that list. We’re going to stop the entire operation before they do it to new Immunes all over again.”
Jorge spoke for the first time in a while. “We? What’re you saying, hermano?”
Thomas shifted his gaze to the man, his resolve solidifying. “We have to help the Right Arm.”
No one said anything.
“Okay,” Minho finally said. “But first let’s get something to eat.”
CHAPTER 29
They went to a coffee shop nearby, recommended by Hans and his wife.
Thomas had never been in such a place before. At least, not that he remembered. Customers
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