The Death Cure - Chapter 72

Somehow Thomas kept his balance, despite the entire room quaking from the closest series of explosions
yet. Most of the racks collapsed, and objects were launched across the room. He dodged a jagged chunk
of wood, then jumped over a round piece of machinery that spun past him.
Gally, who was at Thomas’s side, tripped and fell; Thomas helped him up. They continued charging.
Brenda slipped but caught her balance.
They crashed into the others like the first line of soldiers in an ancient foot battle. Thomas met the Rat
Man himself, who was at least half a foot taller than him, wielding his blade; it came down in an arc
toward Thomas’s shoulder, but Thomas thrust upward with his stiff cable and connected with the man’s
armpit. Janson screamed and dropped his weapon as a stream of blood gushed from the wound; he
clamped his other hand over it and backed away, glaring at Thomas with hate-filled eyes.
To his right and left, everyone was fighting. Thomas’s head was full of the sounds of metal against
metal, screams and shouts and grunts. Some had matched up two-on-one; Minho ended up fighting a
woman who seemed twice as strong as any of the men. Brenda was on the ground, wrestling a skinny man,
trying to knock a machete out of his hand. Thomas saw all this with a quick glance but then returned his
attention to his own foe.
“I don’t care if I bleed to death,” Janson said with a grimace. “As long as I die after I get you back up
there.”
Another explosion jolted the floor beneath him and Thomas stumbled forward, dropping his scavenged
weapon and slamming into Janson’s chest. They both crashed to the ground, and Thomas struggled to push
off the man with one hand while swinging as hard as he could with the other. He smashed Janson’s left
cheek with his balled fist and watched as the Rat Man’s head snapped to the side, blood spraying from his
mouth. Thomas reached back to swing again, but the man arched his body violently, throwing him off; he
landed on his back.
Before he could move Janson had jumped on top of him and gotten his legs wrapped around his torso,
pinning Thomas’s arms with his knees. Thomas squirmed to get loose as the man rained down blows with
his fists, punching Thomas’s unprotected face over and over. Pain flooded him. Then adrenaline surged
through his body. He wouldn’t die here. He pushed his feet against the floor and thrust his stomach toward
the ceiling.
He only rose a few inches off the ground, but it was enough to free his arms from the man’s knees. He
blocked the next punch with both of his forearms, then threw both fists up and at Janson’s face, connected.
The Rat Man lost his balance; Thomas pushed him off, then kicked him by coiling both legs and slamming
the bottoms of his feet into Janson’s side, then again, and again, and again. The man’s body inched away
with each kick. But when Thomas next pulled back with his legs, Janson suddenly flipped around and
came at him, grabbing Thomas’s feet and throwing them to the side. Then he jumped on top of Thomas yet
again.
Thomas went nuts; kicking and punching and squirming to get out from under the man. They rolled, each
gaining the advantage for only a split second before toppling over again. Fists flew and feet kicked
—bullets of pain riddled Thomas’s body; Janson clawed and bit. They continued to roll, beating each
other nearly senseless.
Thomas finally got a good angle to slam his elbow into Janson’s nose; it stunned the man, and both of
his hands flew to his face. A burst of energy shot through Thomas; he jumped on top of Janson and put his
fingers around the man’s neck, began to squeeze. Janson kicked out, flailed his arms, but Thomas held on
with feral rage, clutching, leaning forward with all his weight to crush as he constricted his hands tighter
and tighter. He felt things snapping and pulling and breaking. Janson’s eyes bulged; his tongue jutted from
his mouth.
Someone swatted him on the head with an open palm; he could tell words were being spoken to him but
he didn’t hear them. Minho’s face appeared in front of his. He was yelling something. A bloodlust had
completely taken Thomas over. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve, focused again on Janson’s face. The man
was long gone, still and pale and battered. Thomas looked back at Minho.
“He’s dead!” his friend was yelling. “He’s dead!”
Thomas forced himself to let go, stumbled off of the man, felt Minho lifting him to his feet.
“We put them all out of commission!” Minho shouted in his ear. “We need to go!”
Two explosions rocked both sides of the storage room at the same time and the walls themselves
collapsed inward, throwing chunks of brick and cement in all directions. Debris rained down on Thomas
and Minho. Dust clouded the air and shadowy figures surrounded Thomas, swaying and falling and getting
back up again. Thomas was on his feet, moving, heading in the direction of the maintenance room.
Pieces of the ceiling fell, crashing and exploding. The sounds were awful, deafening. The ground shook
violently; bombs continued to detonate over and over, seemingly everywhere at once. Thomas fell; Minho
jerked him to his feet. A few seconds later Minho fell; Thomas yanked and dragged until they were both
running again. Brenda suddenly appeared in front of Thomas, terror in her eyes. He thought he saw Teresa
nearby as well, all of them struggling to keep their balance as they moved forward.
A splintering, shattering noise split the air so loudly that Thomas looked back. His eyes drifted upward,
where a massive section of the ceiling had torn loose. He watched, hypnotized, as it fell toward him.
Teresa appeared in the corner of his vision, her image barely discernible through the clogged air. Her
body slammed into his, shoving him toward the maintenance room. His mind emptied as he stumbled
backward and fell, just as the huge piece of the building landed on top of Teresa, pinning her body; only
her head and an arm jutted out from under its girth.
“Teresa!” Thomas screamed, an unearthly sound that somehow rose above everything else. He
scrambled toward her. Blood streaked her face, and her arm looked crushed.
He shouted her name again, and in his mind he saw Chuck, falling to the ground, covered in blood, and
Newt’s bulging eyes. Three of the closest friends he’d ever had. And WICKED had taken them all away
from him.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered to her, knowing she couldn’t hear. “I’m so sorry.”
Her mouth moved, working to speak, and he leaned in to make out what she was trying to say.
“Me … too,” she whispered. “I only ever … cared for …”
And then Thomas was being dragged to his feet, yanked away from her. He didn’t have the energy or
will to fight it. She was gone. His body ached with pain; his heart stung. Brenda and Minho pulled him up,
got his feet under him. The three of them lurched forward, pushed ahead. A fire had started burning in a
gaping hole left by an explosion—smoke billowed and churned with the thick dust. Thomas coughed but
only heard roaring in his ears.
Another resounding boom shattered the air; Thomas turned his head as he ran to see the back wall of the
storage room exploding, falling to the ground in pieces, flames licking through the open spaces. The
remainder of the ceiling above it began to collapse, any support now gone. Every last inch of the building
was coming down once and for all.
They reached the door to the maintenance room, squeezed inside just in time to see Gally disappear
through the Flat Trans. Everyone else was already gone. Thomas stumbled with his friends across the
short aisle between the tables. In seconds they’d be dead. The sounds of things crashing and crumbling
behind Thomas grew impossibly louder, cracks and creaks and squeals of metal and the hollow roar of
flames. All of it rose to an unimaginable pitch; Thomas refused to look, though he sensed it all coming
down, as if it were just feet away, its leading edge breathing against his neck. He pushed Brenda through
the Trans. The world was collapsing around him and Minho.
Together, they jumped into the icy gray wall.

Categories: The Death Cure