The bowling alley didn’t have any doors—based on the thick rust that covered the exposed hinges, they’d
been taken off and disposed of a long time ago. A large wooden sign hung above the entrance, but any
words it had once displayed were gone, leaving only faded scratches of color.
“He’s in there,” the guard with the mustache said. “Now pay up.”
Minho stepped past him to the empty doorway and leaned through the opening, craning his neck to see
inside. Then he turned around and looked at Thomas.
“I can see him in the back,” Minho said, his face pinched with worry. “It’s dark in there, but it’s
definitely him.”
Thomas had been so worried about finding their old friend, he realized he didn’t have any clue what
they’d actually say to him. Why had he told them to get lost?
“We want our money,” the guard repeated.
Jorge appeared completely unfazed. “You’ll get double if you make sure we get back to our Berg
safely.”
The two guards consulted; then the shorter one took a turn speaking. “Triple. And we want half of it
now to make sure you’re not blowing smoke out your butts.”
“That’s a deal, muchacho.”
As Jorge pulled out his card and touched it to the guard’s, transferring the money, Thomas felt a grim
satisfaction that they were stealing money from WICKED.
“We’ll wait right here,” the guard said when they were done.
“Come on,” Minho said. He went inside the building without waiting for a response.
Thomas looked at Brenda, who was frowning.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. As if there were just one thing.
“I don’t know,” she responded. “I just have a bad feeling.”
“Yeah, you and me both.”
She gave him a half smile and took his hand, which now he gladly accepted; then they went into the
bowling alley with Jorge right behind them.
As with many things since his memory had been wiped, Thomas had images in his mind of what a bowling
alley should have looked like and how it functioned, but he couldn’t recall having ever bowled. The room
they stepped into was far from what he’d expected.
The lanes where people had once bowled were now completely torn up, most of the wood panels
ripped out or broken. Sleeping bags and blankets filled the spaces now, with people either napping or
lying in a daze as they stared at the ceiling. Brenda had told Thomas that only the rich could afford the
Bliss, so he wondered how people would dare reveal to others that they were using it in a place like this.
He imagined it wouldn’t be long before someone decided to do whatever it took to get the drug from them.
In the niches where the bowling pins used to stand, several fires burned, which couldn’t have been very
safe. But at least one person sat at each fire, tending it. The smell of burning wood wafted through the air,
and a smoky haze choked the darkness.
Minho pointed to the far left lane, about a hundred feet away. Not many people were over there—most
seemed to congregate in the middle lanes—but Thomas spotted Newt immediately despite the poor
lighting. It was the flash of his long blond hair in the firelight and the familiar shape of his slumping body.
His back was to them.
“Here goes nothing,” Thomas whispered to Brenda.
No one bothered them as they carefully made their way to Newt, picking through the maze of people
dozing in blankets until they reached the far lane. Thomas watched where he walked—the last thing he
wanted was to step on some Crank and get bitten in the leg.
They were about ten feet away from Newt when he suddenly spoke in a loud voice that echoed off the
dark walls of the bowling alley. “I told you bloody shanks to get lost!”
Minho stopped and Thomas almost ran into him. Brenda squeezed Thomas’s hand, then let go, which
was when he realized how much he’d been sweating. Hearing those words come out of Newt somehow
let him know that it was over and done. Their friend would never be the same—he had only dark days
ahead.
“We need to talk to you,” Minho said, moving a couple of feet closer to Newt. He had to step over a
skinny woman lying on her side.
“Don’t come any closer,” Newt answered. His voice was soft, but it was full of menace. “Those thugs
brought me here for a reason. They thought I was a bloody Immune holed up in that shuck Berg. Imagine
their surprise when they could tell I had the Flare eating my brain. Said they were doing their civic duty
when they dumped me in this rat hole.”
When Minho didn’t say anything, Thomas spoke up, trying not to let Newt’s words overcome him.
“Why do you think we’re here, Newt? I’m sorry you had to stay back and got caught. I’m sorry they
brought you here. But we can break you out—it doesn’t look like anyone gives a klunk who comes or
goes.”
Newt slowly twisted around to face them. Thomas’s stomach dropped when he saw that the boy had a
Launcher clutched in his hands. And he looked ragged, like he’d been running and fighting and falling
down cliffs for three days straight. But despite the anger that had pooled in his eyes, he hadn’t been taken
by madness quite yet.
“Whoa, there,” Minho said, taking a half a step back—he barely missed stepping on the lady at his
heels. “Slim it nice and calm. There’s no need to point a shuck Launcher at my face while we talk.
Where’d you get that thing, anyway?”
“I stole it,” Newt answered. “Took it from a guard who made me … unhappy.”
Newt’s hands were shaking slightly, which made Thomas nervous—the boy’s finger hovered over the
trigger of the weapon.
“I’m … not well,” Newt said. “Honestly, I appreciate you buggin’ shanks coming for me. I mean it. But
this is where it bloody ends. This is when you turn around and walk back out that door and head for your
Berg and fly away. Do you understand me?”
“No, Newt, I don’t understand,” Minho said, the frustration in his voice escalating. “We risked our
necks to come to this place and you’re our friend and we’re taking you home. You wanna whine and cry
while you go crazy, that’s fine. But you’re gonna do it with us, not with these shuck Cranks.”
Newt suddenly jumped to his feet, so quickly that Thomas almost stumbled backward. Newt lofted the
Launcher and pointed it at Minho. “I am a Crank, Minho! I am a Crank! Why can’t you get that through
your bloody head? If you had the Flare and knew what you were about to go through, would you want your
friends to stand around and watch? Huh? Would you want that?” He was shouting by the time he finished,
and was shaking more with each passing moment.
Minho didn’t say anything, and Thomas knew why. He himself was trying to find words and coming up
empty. Newt’s glare shifted to him.
“And you, Tommy,” the boy said, lowering his voice. “You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here and
asking me to leave with you. A lot of bloody nerve. The sight of you makes me sick.”
Thomas was stunned silent. Nothing anyone had ever said had hurt so much. Nothing.
0 comments:
Post a Comment