The next morning, Thomas was surprised at how rested he felt. He’d tossed and turned all night, it
seemed, but at some point he must have gotten some deep and recharging sleep. After a long, hot shower
and breakfast out of a vending machine, he was ready to face the day.
He and the others left the motel around eight o’clock in the morning, wondering what they’d find in the
city on their way to check on Newt. They saw some people here and there, but far fewer than they’d seen
during the busy hours of the day before. And Thomas didn’t notice any strange noises like the ones they’d
heard the previous night during their long walk.
“Something’s up, I’m tellin’ ya,” Jorge said as they made their way down the street in search of a cab.
“There should be more folks out and about.”
Thomas observed the few pedestrians around him. None of them would look him in the eye—everyone
kept their head down, often with one hand holding their surgical mask to their face as if afraid that a
sudden wind might blow it off. And they walked with a hurried, frantic gait, almost jumping out of the
way when another person got too close. He noticed a woman studying a poster about the Flare just like the
one he’d read the day before while being escorted by Red Shirt. It brought to mind that memory he hadn’t
been able to grasp—it was going to drive him crazy.
“Let’s hurry and get to the shuck airport,” Minho muttered. “This place is giving me the creeps.”
“We should probably go up that way,” Brenda said, pointing. “There have to be cabs around those
business offices.”
They crossed the street and headed down a narrower one that passed what looked like an empty lot on
one side and an old, dilapidated building on the other.
Minho leaned into Thomas and half whispered, “Dude, I’m a little shucked in the head right now. I’m
scared of what we’re gonna find with Newt.”
Thomas was scared, too, but didn’t admit it. “Don’t worry. I’m sure he’s fine for now.”
“Good that. And the cure for the Flare’s gonna fly out of your butt any second.”
“Who knows, maybe it will. Might smell funny, though.” His friend didn’t seem to think that was very
humorous. “Look, we can’t do anything until we get there and see him.” Thomas hated sounding so
insensitive, but things were hard enough—they couldn’t assume the worst.
“Thanks for the pep talk.”
The empty lot to their right contained the scattered remains of an old brick building, weeds filling every
square inch. A large section of wall stood right in the middle, and as they passed, Thomas noticed
movement on the far side of it. He stopped, and instinctively put a hand out to halt Minho as well. He
shushed him before he could ask what was going on.
Brenda and Jorge noticed and froze in place. Thomas pointed at what he’d seen, then tried to get a
better look.
A shirtless man had his back to them, and he was hunched over something, digging with his hands like
he’d lost something in the mud and was trying to find it. Oddly shaped scratches covered his shoulders,
and there was a long scab crossing the middle of his spine. His movements were jerky and … desperate,
Thomas thought. His elbows kept popping back like he’d torn something loose from the ground. The tall
weeds prevented Thomas from seeing the focus of the man’s frantic attention.
Brenda whispered from behind. “Let’s keep moving.”
“That guy’s sick,” Minho whispered back. “How’s he loose like this?”
Thomas had no idea. “Let’s just go.”
The group started walking again, but Thomas couldn’t tear his eyes away from the disturbing scene.
What was that guy doing?
When they reached the end of the block, Thomas stopped, as did the others. It was clearly bothering
everyone as much as it was him—they all wanted to get one last look.
Without warning, the man sprang up and turned toward them; blood covered his mouth and nose.
Thomas flinched and stumbled back into Minho. The man bared his teeth in a nasty grin, then held up
bloody hands as if to show them off. Thomas was just about to yell at him when the guy bent back over
and returned to his business. Thankfully they couldn’t see exactly what that business was.
“This would be a good time to go,” Brenda said.
Icy fingers crawled along Thomas’s back and shoulders—he couldn’t have agreed more. They all
turned and ran, and they’d gone two blocks before they slowed to a walk again.
It took another half hour before they found a cab, but they were finally on their way. Thomas wanted to
talk about what they’d seen in the empty lot, but he couldn’t put it into words. It had sickened him through
and through.
Minho was the first to speak about it. “That guy was eating a person. I just know it.”
“Maybe …,” Brenda began. “Maybe it was just a stray dog.” Her tone made Thomas think she didn’t
believe it for one second. “Not like that’d be okay, either.”
Minho scoffed. “I’m pretty sure that’s not something you’re supposed to see during a nice leisurely
stroll through a quarantined city in the middle of the day. I believe Gally. I think this place is crawling
with Cranks, and soon the whole city’s gonna start killing each other.”
No one responded. They stayed silent the rest of the way to the airport.
It didn’t take long to get through security and back outside the massive walls surrounding the city. If
anything, the staff they encountered seemed thrilled that they were leaving.
The Berg was right where they’d left it, waiting like the abandoned shell of a giant insect on the hot and
steamy concrete. Nothing stirred around it.
“Hurry up and open it,” Minho said.
Jorge didn’t seem fazed by the curt command; he pulled his small control pad out of his pocket and
pressed some buttons. The ramp of the cargo door slowly pivoted down, hinges squealing, until its edge
landed on the ground with a grating scrape. Thomas had hoped to see Newt come running down that ramp,
a big smile on his face, glad to see them.
But nothing moved inside or out, and his heart sank.
Minho obviously felt the same way. “Something’s wrong.” He sprinted to the door and ran up the ramp
before Thomas had a chance to react.
“We better get in there,” Brenda said. “What if Newt’s turned dangerous?”
Thomas hated the sound of the question but knew she was right. Without responding, he ran after
Minho, entering the dark and stifling Berg. All the systems had been shut down at some point: no airconditioning,
no lights, nothing.
Jorge followed right at Thomas’s heels. “Let me power her up or we’ll all sweat till we’re nothing but
a pile of bones and skin.” He moved off in the direction of the cockpit.
Brenda stood next to Thomas, both of them peering into the gloom of the ship, the only light coming
from the few scattered portholes. They could hear Minho calling Newt’s name somewhere deep in the
ship, but the infected boy wasn’t responding. A cavity seemed to open within Thomas, widening and
sucking the hope out of him.
“I’ll go to the left,” he said, pointing toward the small hallway to the common area. “Why don’t you
follow Jorge and search up there. This isn’t good—he would’ve been here to welcome us if everything
was okay.”
“Not to mention the lights and air would be on.” She gave Thomas a grim look, then headed off.
Thomas went down the hallway to the main room. Minho sat on one of the couches, looking at a piece
of paper, his face as stony as Thomas had ever seen it. The hollowness inside him grew even more, and
his last ounce of hope faded.
“Hey,” he said. “What is it?”
Minho didn’t answer. He just kept staring at the paper.
“What’s wrong?”
Minho glanced up at him. “Come see for yourself.” He held up the paper in one hand while he slouched
back on the couch, seeming on the verge of tears. “He’s gone.”
Thomas walked over and took the paper from him, then flipped it over. Scribbled in black marker, it
said:
They got inside somehow. They’re taking me to live with the other Cranks.
It’s for the best. Thanks for being my friends.
Goodbye.
“Newt,” Thomas whispered. His friend’s name hung in the air like a pronouncement of death
0 comments:
Post a Comment