The Scorch Trials - Chapter 7

Thomas didn’t really have time to process what Newt had said. He was actually trying to decide whether
he was more confused or scared when a clanging bell began ringing throughout the room. He instinctively
put his hands to his ears and looked around at the others.
He noticed the perplexed recognition on their faces, and then it hit him. It was the same sound he’d
heard back in the Maze right before Teresa had shown up in the Box. That was the only time he’d heard it,
and trapped within the confines of a small room it was different—stronger, laced with overlapping
echoes. Still, he was pretty sure it was the same. It was the alarm used in the Glade to announce that a
Newbie had arrived.
And it wasn’t stopping; Thomas already felt a headache forming behind his eyes.
The Gladers milled about the room, gawking at the walls and the roof as if they were trying to figure
out the source of the noise. Some of them sat down on the beds, hands pressed to the sides of their heads.
Thomas tried to find the source of the alarm as well, but couldn’t see anything. No speakers, no heating or
air-conditioning vents in the walls, nothing. Just a sound coming from everywhere at once.
Newt grabbed his arm, shouted in his ear. “It’s the bloody Newbie alarm!”
“I know!”
“Why’s it ringing?”
Thomas shrugged, hoping his face didn’t betray how annoyed he was. How was he supposed to know
what was going on?
Minho and Aris had reappeared from the bathroom, both of them absently rubbing the backs of their
necks as they searched the room for answers. It didn’t take long for them to realize that the others had
similar tattoos. Frypan had walked over to the door leading back out to the common room and was just
about to touch the palm of his hand to the spot where the broken handle used to be.
“Wait!” Thomas shouted on impulse. He ran over to join Frypan at the door, sensing Newt right behind
him.
“Why?” Frypan asked, his hand still hovering just inches from the door.
“I don’t know,” Thomas replied, not sure if he could even be heard over the clanging sounds. “It’s an
alarm. Maybe something really bad is happening.”
“Yeah!” Frypan yelled back. “And maybe we need to get out of here!”
Without waiting to see what Thomas said, he pushed the door. When it didn’t move, he pushed harder.
When it still didn’t budge, he leaned up against it with his full weight, shoulder first.
Nothing. It was closed as tight as if it were bricked shut.
“You broke the shuck handle!” Frypan screamed, then slapped the door with the palm of his hand.
Thomas didn’t want to shout anymore; he was tired and his throat hurt. He turned and leaned back
against the wall, folded his arms. Most of the Gladers seemed as run-down as Thomas—sick of looking
for answers or a way out. All of them were either sitting on the beds or standing around with blank
expressions on their faces.
Out of desperation more than anything, Thomas called to Teresa again. Then several times more. But
she didn’t respond, and with all the blaring noise, he didn’t know if he could have focused enough to hear
her anyway. He still felt her absence; it was like waking up one day with no teeth in your mouth. You
wouldn’t need to run to the mirror to know they were gone.
Then the alarm stopped.
Never before had silence seemed to have its own sound. Like a buzzing hive of bees, it settled on the
room with ferocity, making Thomas reach up and wiggle a finger in each ear. Every breath, every sigh in
the room was like an explosion compared to the bizarre haze of quiet.
Newt was the first one to speak. “Don’t tell me we’re still gonna get bloody Newbies thrown in our
laps.”
“Where’s the Box in this shuck place?” Minho muttered sarcastically.
A slight creak made Thomas look sharply over at the door to the common area. It had swung open
several inches, a slice of darkness marking where it now stood ajar. Someone had turned off the lights on
the other side. Frypan backed up a step.
“Guessin’ they want us to go out there now,” Minho said.
“Then why don’t you go first,” Frypan offered.
Minho had already started moving. “No problem. Maybe we’ll have a new little shank to pick on and
kick in the butt when we got nothin’ else to do.” He made it to the door, then paused and looked sideways
at Thomas. His voice turned surprisingly soft. “We could use another Chuck.”
Thomas knew he shouldn’t have been upset. If anything, Minho was trying—in his own strange way—to
show that he missed Chuck just as much as everyone else. But being reminded of his friend, and at such an
odd moment, made Thomas angry. Instinct told him to ignore it—he was having a hard enough time
dealing with the things going on around him. He needed to separate himself from his feelings for a while
and just move forward. Step by step. Figure it all out.
“Yeah,” he finally said. “You going through or you need me to go first?”
“What did your tattoo say?” Minho responded quietly, ignoring Thomas’s question.
“Doesn’t matter. Let’s go out there.”
Minho nodded, still not looking directly at him. Then he smiled, and whatever had been troubling him
so deeply appeared to vanish, replaced by his usual laid-back attitude. “Good that. If some zombie starts
eating my leg, save me.”
“Deal.” Thomas wanted him to hurry and get on with it. He knew they were on the edge of yet another
great change in their ridiculous journey, and he didn’t want to draw it out any longer.
Minho pushed open the door. The single bar of blackness became a wide swath of it, the common area
now as dark as it had been when they’d first left the boys’ dorm. Minho stepped through the doorway, and
Thomas followed right on his heels.
“Wait here,” Minho whispered. “No need playing bumper cars with the dead folks again. Let me find
the light switches first.”
“Why would they have turned them off?” Thomas asked. “I mean, who turned them off?”
Minho looked back at him; the light from Aris’s room spilled across his face, illuminating the smirk set
firmly there. “Why do you even bother asking questions, dude? Nothing has ever made sense and it
probably never will. Now slim it and sit still.”
Minho was quickly swallowed by the darkness. Thomas heard his soft footsteps on the carpet and the
swish sound of his hand running along the wall as he walked.
“Here they are!” he shouted from the spot that seemed about right to Thomas.
A few clicks sounded and then lights blazed throughout the room. For the tiniest fraction of a second,
Thomas didn’t realize what was so starkly different about the place. But then it hit him, and as if that
awakened his other senses as well, he realized that the horrible smell of rotting corpses had vanished.
And now he knew why.
The bodies were gone, with no sign that they’d ever been there in the first place.

Categories: The Scorch Trials

The Scorch Trials - Chapter 6

“What’s going on?” Newt asked, looking back and forth between Thomas and Aris. “Why’re you guys
looking at each other like you just fell in love?”
“He can do it, too,” Thomas answered, not taking his eyes off the new kid, seeing the others only in his
peripheral vision. That final statement by Aris had terrified him; if they’d killed his telepathy partner …
“Do what?” Frypan asked.
“What do you think?” Minho said. “He’s a freak like Thomas. They can talk in each other’s heads.”
Newt was glaring at Thomas now. “Serious?”
Thomas nodded and almost spoke to Aris in his mind again, but said it out loud at the last second.
“Who killed her? What happened?”
“Who killed who?” Minho said. “No more of your voodoo klunk while we’re around.”
Thomas, eyes watering now, finally broke his gaze with Aris and looked over at Minho. “He had
someone he could do this with, just like I did. I mean … do. But he said they killed her. I want to know
who they are.”
Aris’s head had dropped; his eyes looked closed from where Thomas sat. “I don’t really know who
they are. It’s too confusing. I couldn’t tell the bad guys from the good guys. But I think somehow they
made this girl Beth … stab … my friend. Her name was Rachel. She’s dead, man. She’s dead.” He
covered his face with both hands.
Thomas felt an almost painful prick of confusion. Everything pointed to Aris’s having come from
another version of the Maze, set up in the same format except with the ratio of girls to boys being
switched. But that would make Aris their version of Teresa. And this Beth sounded like their version of
Gally, who’d killed Chuck. With a knife. Did that mean that Gally was supposed to have killed Thomas
instead?
But why was Aris here now? And where was Teresa? Things that had almost started to click in his
mind fell apart again.
“Well, how’d you end up with us?” Newt asked. “Where are all these girls you keep talking about?
How many of them escaped with you? Did they bring all of you here or just you?”
Thomas couldn’t help but feel sorry for Aris. To get grilled with all these questions after something
like that had happened. If the roles were switched, if Thomas had seen Teresa get killed … Watching it
happen to Chuck had been bad enough.
Bad enough? he thought. Or was seeing Chuck die worse? Thomas wanted to scream. At that moment,
everything in the world just sucked.
Aris looked up finally, wiped a couple of tears from his cheeks. He did it without the slightest hint of
shame, and Thomas suddenly knew that he liked this kid.
“Look,” the boy said. “I’m just as confused as everyone else. About thirty of us survived, they took us
to that gym, fed us, cleaned us up. Then they brought me to this place last night, saying I should be
separate since I’m a guy. That’s it. Then you sticks show up.”
“Sticks?” Minho repeated.
Aris shook his head. “Never mind. I don’t even know what it means. Just a word they used when I got
there.”
Minho exchanged a glance with Thomas, half smiling. Looked like both groups had come up with their
own vocabulary.
“Hey,” one of the Gladers Thomas didn’t really know called out. He was leaning against the wall
behind Aris, pointing at him. “What’s that on the side of your neck? Something black, right below your
collar.”
Aris tried to look down, but couldn’t bend his neck to see that part of his body. “What?”
Thomas saw a dark splotch just above the back neckline of the boy’s pajama shirt as he shifted around.
It appeared to be a thick line, stretching from the hollow of his collarbone around to his back. And it was
broken up, like it might be lettering.
“Here, let me look,” Newt offered. He stood from the bed and walked over, his limp—from something
in the past he’d never shared with Thomas—showing more than usual. He reached out and pulled Aris’s
shirt down more so he could see the odd marking better.
“It’s a tattoo,” Newt said, squinting as if he didn’t believe his eyes.
“What’s it say?” Minho asked, though he’d already gotten up from the bed and approached to get his
own look.
When Newt didn’t answer right away, curiosity forced Thomas to his feet, and soon he was right
beside Minho, leaning over to see the tattoo himself. What he saw printed there in blocky letters made his
heart skip a beat.
Property of WICKED. Group B, Subject B1. The Partner.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Minho asked.
“What does it say?” Aris asked, reaching around to feel the skin of his neck and shoulders, pulling his
shirt collar down. “I swear it wasn’t there last night!”
Newt repeated the words to him, then said, “Property of WICKED? I thought we’d escaped them. Or
you’d escaped them, too. Whatever.” He turned around, visibly frustrated, and went back to sit down on
his bed.
“And why would it call you the Partner?” Minho said, still staring at the tattoo.
Aris shook his head. “I don’t have a clue. I swear. And there’s no way that was there before last night. I
showered, looked in the mirror. I would’ve seen it. And someone would’ve noticed it back in the Maze
for sure.”
“You’re telling me they tattooed you in the middle of the night?” Minho said. “Without you noticing?
Come on, dude.”
“I swear!” Aris insisted. Then he got up and went to the bathroom, probably to try to see the words for
himself.
“I don’t believe a shuck word he says,” Minho whispered to Thomas on his way back to his seat. Then,
just as he leaned forward to plop back down on the mattress, his shirt shifted enough to reveal a thick line
of black on his neck.
“Whoa!” Thomas said. For a second, he was too stunned to move.
“What?” Minho asked, looking at Thomas as if he’d just sprouted a third ear on his forehead.
“Your—your neck,” Thomas finally got out. “You have it on your neck, too!”
“What the shuck you talkin’ about?” Minho said, pulling at his shirt, face scrunched up as he struggled
to see something he couldn’t.
Thomas ran over to Minho, slapped his hands away, then pulled the neckline of the shirt back.
“Holy … It’s right there! Same thing, except …”
Thomas read the words to himself.
Property of WICKED. Group A, Subject A7. The Leader.
“What, dude!” Minho yelled at him.
Most of the other Gladers had gathered in a tight group behind Thomas, squeezing in to get a look.
Thomas quickly read the tattooed words out loud, surprised he did it without stumbling on them.
“You’re kiddin’ me, man,” Minho said, standing up. He pushed his way through the crowd of boys to
follow Aris to the bathroom.
And then the frenzy began. Thomas felt his own shirt tugged down as he pulled at others. Everyone
started talking over everyone else.
“They all say Group A.”
“Property of WICKED, just like his.”
“You’re Subject A-thirteen.”
“Subject A-nineteen.”
“A-three.”
“A-ten.”
Thomas was slowly turning in a circle, dazed as he watched the Gladers discover the tattoos on each
other. Most of them didn’t have the additional designations like Aris and Minho, just the property line.
Newt was going from boy to boy, looking for himself, his face set in stone as if he were concentrating on
memorizing the names and numbers. Then, quite by accident, the two of them stood facing each other.
“What does mine say?” Newt asked.
Thomas pulled the neckline of Newt’s shirt to the side, then leaned over to read the words etched into
his skin. “You’re Subject A-five and they called you the Glue.”
Newt gave him a startled look. “The Glue?”
Thomas let go of his shirt and stepped back. “Yeah. Probably because you’re kind of the glue that holds
us all together. I don’t know. Read mine.”
“I already did—”
Thomas noticed that an odd expression had come over Newt’s face. One of hesitation. Or dread. Like
he didn’t want to tell Thomas what his tattoo said. “Well?”
“You’re Subject A-two,” Newt answered. Then he lowered his eyes.
“And?” Thomas pushed.
Newt hesitated, then answered without looking at him. “It doesn’t call you anything. It just says … ‘To
be killed by Group B.’ ”

Categories: The Scorch Trials

The Scorch Trials - Chapter 5

Something softened in Thomas. This kid wasn’t lying—he could just tell. The look of horror that had taken
hold of Aris was one he knew well. Thomas had felt it himself and had seen it on too many other faces.
He knew exactly what kind of terrible memories made someone look like that. He also knew that Aris had
no clue what had happened to Teresa.
“Maybe you should sit down,” Thomas said. “I think we have a lot to talk about.”
“What do you mean?” Aris asked. “Who are you guys? Where’d you come from?”
Thomas let out a slight laugh. “The Maze. The Grievers. WICKED. You name it.” So much had
happened, where could he start? Not to mention that worry over Teresa was making his head spin, making
him want to run out of the room and search for her immediately, but he stayed.
“You’re lying,” Aris said, his voice having dropped to a whisper, his face now a full shade paler.
“No, we’re not,” Newt responded. “Tommy’s right. We need to talk. Sounds like we’ve come from
similar places.”
“Who’s that guy?”
Thomas turned around to see that Minho had returned, a pack of Gladers standing behind him on the
other side of the doorway. Their faces were scrunched up in disgust at the smell out there, their eyes still
full of the terror of seeing what filled the room just behind them.
“Minho, meet Aris,” Thomas said, taking a step to the side and gesturing toward the other boy. “Aris,
meet Minho.”
Minho stuttered out a few unintelligible words, as if he couldn’t quite decide where to start.
“Look,” Newt said. “Let’s take down these top beds and move them around the room. Then we can all
sit and figure out what’s bloody going on.”
Thomas shook his head. “No. First, we need to go find Teresa. She must be in some other room.”
“Isn’t one,” Minho said.
“What do you mean?”
“I just checked this whole place out. There’s the big common area, this room, our dorm room, and some
seriously shucked doors that lead outside—where we came in from the bus yesterday. Locked and
chained from the inside. Doesn’t make any sense, but I don’t see any other doors or exits.”
Thomas shook his head in confusion. It felt like a million spiders had just spun cobwebs through his
brain. “But … what about last night? Where’d the food come from? Didn’t anyone notice other rooms, a
kitchen, anything?” He looked around, hoping for an answer, but no one said a word.
“Maybe there’s a hidden door,” Newt finally said. “Look, we can only do one thing at a time. We need
to—”
“No!” Thomas shouted. “We’ve got all day to talk to this Aris guy. The label by the door said Teresa
should be here somewhere—we need to find her!”
Without waiting for a response, he headed for the door back to the common area, pushing his way past
boys until he was through. The smell hit him as if a bucket of raw sewage had been spilled over his head.
The bloated and purple bodies hung like carcasses of game set out by hunters to dry. Their lifeless eyes
stared back at him.
A familiar, sickening tickle of revulsion filled his stomach and triggered his gag reflex. Closing his
eyes for a second, he willed his insides to settle. When they finally did, he began his search for some sign
of Teresa, concentrating with all his might on not looking at the dead people.
But then a horrible thought struck him. What if she …
He ran through the room, searching the faces of the bodies. None of them was her. Relief dissolved the
fleeting moment of panic, and he focused on the room itself.
The walls surrounding the common area were as plain as could be; smooth plaster painted white, no
decoration of any kind. And for some reason, no windows. He walked quickly around its entire
circumference, running his left hand along the wall as he did so. He came to the door to the boys’ dorm
room, went past it, then made it to the big entrance through which they’d come the day before. There had
been a torrential downpour at the time, which seemed impossible now, considering the bright sun he’d
seen shining behind the crazy man earlier.
The entrance—or exit—consisted of two large steel doors, their surfaces a shiny silver. And just like
Minho said, a massive chain—with links a full inch thick—had been threaded through the handles on the
doors and pulled tight, two big key locks snapped shut to keep it that way. Thomas reached out and pulled
on the chains to check their strength. The metal felt cool under his hands, and it didn’t give at all.
He expected thumps from the other side—Cranks trying to get in just as they were at the windows in the
dorm room. But the room remained silent. The only sounds were muted and coming from the two dorms—
distant shouts and screams from the Cranks and murmurs of conversation from the Gladers.
Frustrated, Thomas continued his trek along the walls until he made it back to the room that was
supposed to be Teresa’s. Nothing, not even a crack or seam to indicate another exit. The large room
wasn’t even a square—it was a big oval, round and cornerless.
He was completely perplexed. He thought back to the night before, when they’d all sat there and eaten
pizza like the starved people they’d been. Surely they’d seen other doors, a kitchen, something. But the
more he thought about it, the more he tried to picture what things had looked like, the fuzzier it became.
An alarm went off in his head—their brains had been tinkered with before. Had it happened again? Had
their memories been altered or wiped?
And what had happened to Teresa?
Desperate, he thought about crawling across the floor to look for a trapdoor or something—some clue
to what had happened. But he couldn’t spend another minute with all those rotting bodies. The only thing
left was the new kid. He sighed and turned back to the small room where they’d found him. Aris had to
know something that would help.
Just as Newt had ordered, the top beds had been unhooked from the lower ones and placed around the
room against the walls, creating enough space for the nineteen other Gladers and Aris to sit in a circle,
everyone facing each other.
When Minho saw Thomas, he patted an empty spot next to him. “Told ya, dude. Have a seat and let’s
talk. We waited on you. But close that shuck door as much as you can first—smells worse than Gally’s
rotting feet out there.”
Without responding, Thomas pulled the door shut, then walked over and sat down. He wanted to sink
his head into his hands, but he didn’t. Nothing indicated for sure that any kind of danger threatened Teresa.
Something weird was going on, but there could be a million explanations, and plenty of them included her
being okay.
Newt was one bed to the right, sitting so far forward that just the edge of his butt rested on the mattress.
“All right, let’s get started on the bloody storytellin’ so we can get to the real problem—finding
something to eat.”
Right on cue, Thomas felt a hunger pang, heard his stomach growl. That problem hadn’t even occurred
to him yet. Water would be fine—they had the bathrooms—but there was no sign of food anywhere.
“Good that,” Minho said. “Talk, Aris. Tell us everything.”
The new boy was directly across the room from Thomas—the Gladers sitting to each side of the
stranger had scooted to the far ends of the bed. Aris shook his head. “No way. You guys go first.”
“Yeah?” Minho responded. “How about we all just take turns beating the living klunk out of your shuck
face? Then we’ll ask you to talk again.”
“Minho,” Newt said sternly. “There’s no reason—”
Minho pointed sharply at Aris. “Please, dude. For all we know this shank could be one of the Creators.
Somebody from WICKED, here to spy on us. He could’ve killed those people out there—he’s the only
one we don’t know and the doors and windows are locked! I’m sick of him acting all snooty when we’ve
got twenty guys to his one. He should talk first.”
Thomas groaned on the inside. One thing he knew was that the kid would never open up if Minho
terrified him.
Newt sighed and looked over at Aris. “He’s got a point. Just tell us what you meant about coming from
the buggin’ Maze. That’s where we escaped from, and we obviously haven’t met you.”
Aris rubbed his eyes, then met Newt’s gaze. “Fine, listen. I was thrown into this gigantic maze made
out of huge stone walls—but before that my memory was erased. I couldn’t remember anything about my
life from before. I just knew my name. I lived there with a bunch of girls. There must’ve been fifty of
them, and I was the only boy. We escaped a few days ago—the people who helped kept us in a big gym
for a few days, then moved me here last night—but no one explained anything. What’s this stuff about you
being in a maze, too?”
Thomas barely heard the last few words of what Aris had said over the sounds of surprise coming from
the other Gladers. Confusion swirled in his brain. Aris had announced what he’d been through as simply
and quickly as describing a trip to the beach. But it seemed crazy. Monumental, if true. Luckily someone
voiced exactly what Thomas was trying to sort out in his mind.
“Wait a minute,” Newt said. “You lived in a big maze, on a farm, where walls closed every night? Just
you and a few dozen girls? Were there creatures called Grievers? Were you the last one to arrive? And
did everything go buggin’ nuts when you did? Did you come in a coma? With a note that said you were the
last one ever?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Aris was saying even before Newt had finished. “How do you know all this?
How …”
“It’s the same shuck experiment,” Minho said, the earlier belligerence gone from his voice. “Or
same … whatever. But they had all girls and one boy, we had all boys and one girl. WICKED must’ve
built two of those mazes, run two different tests!”
Thomas’s line of thinking had already accepted that. He finally settled himself enough to speak. He
looked at Aris. “Did they call you the Trigger?”
Aris nodded, obviously as perplexed as anyone else in the room.
“And could you …,” Thomas began, but hesitated. He felt like every time he brought this up, he was
admitting to the world that he was crazy. “Could you speak to one of those girls inside your mind? Ya
know, like telepathically?”
Aris’s eyes widened, staring deeply at Thomas as if he’d understood a dark secret that only someone
else who shared it could understand.
Can you hear me?
The phrase appeared so clearly inside Thomas’s mind that at first he thought Aris had spoken aloud.
But no—his lips hadn’t moved.
Can you hear me? the boy repeated.
Thomas hesitated, swallowed. Yes.
They killed her, Aris said back to him. They killed my best friend.

Categories: The Scorch Trials

The Scorch Trials - Chapter 4

Thomas tried not to look at any of the dead bodies as he stood up. He half walked, half stumbled over to
Newt, who was still by the bank of light switches, his terrified gaze darting between the corpses hanging
throughout the room.
Minho joined them, swearing under his breath. Other Gladers were emerging from the dorm room,
shouting as they realized what they were seeing; Thomas heard a couple of them throw up, gagging and
spitting. He felt the sudden urge himself, but fought it. What had happened? How could everything be
taken away from them so fast? His stomach tightened up as despair threatened to bowl him over.
Then he remembered Teresa.
Teresa! he called out with his mind. Teresa! Again and again, mentally screaming it with his eyes
closed and jaw clenched. Where are you!
“Tommy,” Newt said, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. “What’s bloody wrong with you?”
Thomas opened his eyes, realized he was doubled over, arms wrapped around his stomach. He slowly
straightened, tried to push away the panic eating him inside. “What … what do you think? Look around
us.”
“Yeah, but you looked like you were in pain or something.”
“I’m fine—just trying to reach her in my mind. But I can’t.” He wasn’t fine. He hated reminding the
others that he and Teresa could speak telepathically. And if all these people were dead … “We’ve gotta
find where they put her,” he blurted out, grasping urgently for a task to clear his mind. He scanned the
room, trying his best not to focus on the corpses, looking for a door that might lead to her room. She’d
said it was across the common area from where they’d all slept.
There. A yellow door with a brass handle.
“He’s right,” Minho said to the group. “Spread out, find her!”
“Might’ve already.” Thomas was on the move, surprised at how quickly he’d recovered his senses. He
ran toward the door, dodging tables and bodies. She had to be in there, safe like they’d been. The door
was closed; that was a good sign. Probably locked. Maybe she’d fallen into a deep sleep like him. That
was why she’d been quiet, unresponsive.
He had almost reached the door when he remembered that they might need something to break into the
room. “Someone grab that fire extinguisher!” he yelled over his shoulder. The smell in the common area
was horrendous; he gagged as he sucked in a deep breath.
“Winston, go get it,” Minho ordered behind him.
Thomas reached the door first and tried the handle. It didn’t budge, locked tight. Then he noticed a
small, clear-plastic display hanging on the wall to the right, about five inches square. A sheet of paper
had been slipped into the thin slot, several words typed on its surface.
Teresa Agnes. Group A, Subject Al.
The Betrayer.
Oddly, the thing that stood out the most to Thomas was Teresa’s last name. Or at least, what appeared to
be her last name. Agnes. He didn’t know why, but it surprised him. Teresa Agnes. He couldn’t think of
anyone within the splotchy knowledge of history floating in his still-scarce memories who matched that
name. He himself had been renamed after Thomas Edison, the great inventor. But Teresa Agnes? He’d
never heard of her.
Of course, all their names were more of a joke than anything, probably a callous way for the Creators
—WICKED or whoever had done this to them—to distance themselves from the real people they’d stolen
from real mothers and fathers. Thomas couldn’t wait until the day he learned what he’d been called at
birth, what name lay stamped in the minds of his parents, whoever they were. Wherever they were.
The sketchy memories he’d initially regained from going through the Changing had made him think that
he didn’t have parents who loved him. That whoever they were, they didn’t want him. That he’d been
taken from horrible circumstances. But now he refused to believe it, especially after having dreamed
about his mom during the night.
Minho snapped his fingers in front of Thomas’s eyes. “Hello? Calling Thomas? Not a good time to
daydream. Lots of dead bodies, smells like Frypan’s pits. Wake up.”
Thomas turned to him. “Sorry. Just thought it was weird that Teresa’s last name was Agnes.”
Minho clucked his tongue. “Who cares about that? What’s this freakin’ stuff about her being the
Betrayer?”
“And what’s ‘Group A, Subject A1’ mean?” This was Newt, who handed over the fire extinguisher to
Thomas. “Anyway, your turn to break a buggin’ door handle.”
Thomas grabbed it, suddenly angry at himself for wasting even a few seconds thinking about the stupid
label. Teresa was in there, and she needed their help. Trying not to be bothered by the word betrayer, he
gripped the cylinder and slammed it against the brass knob. A jolt ran up his arms as the clang of metal
against metal rang through the air. He’d felt it give a little, and two smashes later the handle fell off and
the door popped open an inch or two.
Thomas threw the extinguisher to the side and grabbed the door, swung it all the way out. Itchy
anticipation mixed with dread at what he might find. He was the first to step into the lighted room.
It was a smaller version of the boys’ dorm, just four bunk beds, two dressers and a closed door,
presumably leading to another bathroom. All the beds were made up nicely except one, its blankets tossed
to the side and a pillow hanging off the edge, the sheet rumpled. But there was no sign of Teresa.
“Teresa!” Thomas called out, his throat straining with panic as he yelled.
The swirly, swooshing sound of a toilet flushing came through the closed door and a sudden relief burst
through Thomas. It was so strong he almost had to sit down. She was here, she was safe. He steadied
himself and started walking toward the bathroom, but Newt reached out and grabbed his arm.
“You’re used to living with a bunch of boys,” Newt said. “I don’t think it’s polite to go stomping into
the bloody ladies’ room. Just wait till she comes out.”
“Then we need to get everybody in here and have a Gathering,” Minho added. “It doesn’t stink in here,
and there aren’t any windows for Cranks to scream at us.”
Thomas hadn’t noticed the lack of windows until that moment, though it should’ve been the most
obvious thing, considering the chaos of their own dorm room. Cranks. He’d almost forgotten.
“I wish she’d hurry up,” he murmured.
“I’ll get everyone over here,” Minho said; he turned and walked back into the common area.
Thomas stared at the bathroom door. Newt and Frypan and a few other Gladers pushed their way into
the room and took seats on the beds, all of them leaning forward, elbows on knees, rubbing their hands
together absently, the anxiety and worry evident in their body language.
Teresa? Thomas said in his mind. Can you hear me? We’re waiting for you out here.
No response. And he still felt that bubble of emptiness, as if her presence itself had been permanently
taken away.
There was a click. The handle on the door to the bathroom turned; then the door opened, swinging
toward Thomas. He stepped forward, ready to pull Teresa into a hug—he didn’t care who was there to
see it. But the person who walked into the dorm room wasn’t Teresa. Thomas stopped midstride and
almost tripped. Everything inside him seemed to fall.
It was a boy.
He wore the same kind of clothes they’d all been given the night before—clean pajamas with a buttonup
shirt and flannel pants, light blue. He had olive skin, and his dark hair was cut surprisingly short. The
look of innocent surprise on his face was the only thing that prevented Thomas from grabbing the shank by
the collar and shaking him until some answers came out.
“Who are you?” Thomas asked, not caring that the words sounded harsh.
“Who am I?” the boy responded, somewhat sarcastically. “Who are you?”
Newt had gotten back to his feet, actually standing even closer to the new guy than Thomas was. “Don’t
bloody mess around. There are a lot more of us than there are of you. Tell us who you are.”
The boy folded his arms, a defiance coming over his whole body. “Fine. My name’s Aris. What else
you wanna know?”
Thomas wanted to punch the guy. Him acting all high and mighty while Teresa was missing. “How’d
you get here? Where’s the girl who slept here last night?”
“Girl? What girl? I’m the only one here, and it’s been that way since they put me here last night.”
Thomas turned to point back in the direction of the door to the common area. “There’s a sign right out
there that says this is her room. Teresa … Agnes. No mention of a shank named Aris.”
Something in his tone must’ve made the boy realize this wasn’t a joke. He held out his hands in a
conciliatory gesture. “Look, man, I don’t know what you’re talking about. They put me in here last night, I
slept in that bed”—he pointed to the one with the rumpled sheet and blanket—“and I woke up about five
minutes ago and took a pee. Never heard the name Teresa Agnes in my life. Sorry.”
The brief moment of relief Thomas had felt when he’d heard the toilet flush officially shattered. He
shared a look with Newt, not knowing what to ask next.
Newt shrugged slightly, then turned back to Aris. “Who put you in here last night?”
Aris threw his arms up in the air, then let them come back down and slap against his sides. “I don’t
even know, man. A bunch of people with guns who rescued us, told us everything would be okay now.”
“Rescued you from what?” Thomas asked. This was getting weird. Really, really weird.
Aris looked down at the floor and his shoulders fell. It looked as if a wave of some terrible memory
had washed over him. He sighed, then finally looked back up at Thomas and answered.
“From the Maze, man. From the Maze.”

Categories: The Scorch Trials

The Scorch Trials - Chapter 3

A hand slammed down on Thomas’s shoulder from behind; he cried out and spun around to see Minho
staring past him at the maniac screaming through the window.
“They’re everywhere,” Minho said. His voice had a gloom to it that perfectly matched how Thomas
felt. It seemed as if everything they’d dared hope for the previous night had dissolved to nothing. “And
there’s no sign of those shanks who rescued us,” he added.
Thomas had lived in fear and terror the past few weeks, but this was almost too much. To feel safe only
to have that snatched away again. Shocking even himself, though, he quickly set aside that small part of
him that wanted to jump back into his bed and bawl his eyes out. He pushed away the lingering ache of
remembering his mom and the stuff about his dad and people going crazy. Thomas knew that someone had
to take charge—they needed a plan if they were going to survive this, too.
“Have any of them gotten in yet?” he asked, a strange calm washing over him. “Do all the windows
have these bars?”
Minho nodded toward one of the many lining the walls of the long rectangular room. “Yeah. It was too
dark to notice them last night, especially with those stupid frilly curtains. But I’m sure glad for ’em.”
Thomas looked at the Gladers around them, some running from window to window to get a look
outside, others huddling in small groups. Everyone had a look of half disbelief, half terror. “Where’s
Newt?”
“Right here.”
Thomas turned to see the older boy, not knowing how he’d missed him. “What’s goin’ on?”
“You think I have a bloody clue? Bunch of crazies want to eat us for breakfast, by the looks of it. We
need to find another room, have a Gathering. All this noise is driving nails through my buggin’ skull.”
Thomas nodded absently; he agreed with the plan but hoped Newt and Minho would take care of it. He
was eager to make contact with Teresa—he hoped her warning had just been part of a dream, a
hallucination from the drug of deep and exhausted slumber. And that vision of his mom …
His two friends moved away, calling out and waving their arms to collect Gladers. Thomas took a
tremulous glance back at the shredded madman at the window, then looked away immediately, wishing he
hadn’t reminded his brain of the blood and torn flesh, the insane eyes, the hysterical screaming.
Kill me! Kill me! Kill me!
Thomas stumbled to the farthest wall, leaned heavily against it.
Teresa, he called out again with his mind. Teresa. Can you hear me?
He waited, closing his eyes to concentrate. Reaching out with invisible hands, trying to grasp some
trace of her. Nothing. Not even a passing shadow or brush of feeling, much less a response.
Teresa, he said more urgently, clenching his teeth with the effort. Where are you? What happened?
Nothing. His heart seemed to slow until it almost stopped, and he felt like he’d swallowed a big hairy
lump of cotton. Something had happened to her.
He opened his eyes to see the Gladers gathered around the green-painted door that led to the common
area where they’d eaten pizza the night before. Minho was jerking on the round brass handle to no avail.
Locked.
The only other door was to a shower and locker room, from which no other exits existed. There was
that, and the windows. All with those metal bars. Thank goodness. Each one had raging lunatics
screaming and yelling on the other side.
Even though worry ate at him like spilled acid in his veins, Thomas gave up momentarily on trying to
contact Teresa and joined the other Gladers. Newt was having a go at the door, with the same useless
result.
“It’s locked,” he muttered when he finally gave up, his arms falling weakly to his sides.
“Really, genius?” Minho said, his powerful arms folded and tensed, veins bulging all over the place.
Thomas thought for a split second he could actually see the blood pumping through them. “No wonder you
were named after Isaac Newton—such an amazing ability to think.”
Newt wasn’t in the mood. Or maybe he’d just learned long ago to ignore Minho’s smart-aleck remarks.
“Let’s break this bloody handle off.” He looked around as if he expected someone to give him a
sledgehammer.
“I wish those shuck … Cranks would shut up!” Minho yelled, turning to glower at the closest one, a
woman who looked even more hideous than the first man Thomas had seen. A bleeding wound crossed
her face, ending on the side of her head.
“Cranks?” Frypan repeated. The hairy cook had been silent until then, barely noticeable. Thomas
thought he looked even more frightened than when they’d been about to battle the Grievers to escape the
Maze. Maybe this was worse. When they’d settled into bed last night, everything had seemed good and
safe. Yeah, maybe this was worse, to have that suddenly taken away.
Minho pointed at the screaming, bloody woman. “That’s what they keep calling themselves. Haven’t
you heard it?”
“I don’t care if you call ’em pussy willows,” Newt snapped. “Find me something to break through this
stupid door!”
“Here,” a shorter boy said, carrying a slender but solid fire extinguisher he’d taken off the wall—
Thomas remembered seeing it earlier. Again, he felt guilty for not even knowing this kid’s name.
Newt grabbed the red cylinder, ready to pile-drive the door handle. Thomas stood as close as he could,
eager to see what was on the other side of the door, though he had a very bad feeling that whatever it was,
they weren’t going to like it.
Newt lifted the extinguisher, then slammed it down on the round brass handle. The loud crack was
accompanied by a deeper crunch, and it took only three more whacks before the entire unit of the handle
crashed to the floor with a jangle of broken metal pieces. The door inched outward, cracked open just
enough to show darkness on the other side.
Newt stood quietly, staring at that long, narrow gap of blackness as if he expected demons from the
underworld to come flying through. Absently, he handed the extinguisher back to the boy who’d found it.
“Let’s go,” he said. Thomas thought he heard the slightest quaver in his voice.
“Wait,” Frypan called out. “We sure we wanna go out there? Maybe that door was locked for a
reason.”
Thomas couldn’t help but agree; something felt wrong about this.
Minho stepped up to stand right next to Newt; he looked back at Frypan, then made eye contact with
Thomas. “What else’re we gonna do? Sit here and wait for those loonies to get in? Come on.”
“Those freaks aren’t breaking through the window bars anytime soon,” Frypan retorted. “Let’s just
think for a second”
“Time for thinking’s done,” Minho said. He kicked out with his foot and the door swung completely
open; if anything, it seemed to grow even darker on the other side. “Plus, you should’ve spoken up before
we blasted the lock to bits, slinthead. Too late now.”
“I hate when you’re right,” Frypan grumbled under his breath.
Thomas couldn’t quit staring past the open door, into the pool of inky darkness. He felt a now-all-toofamiliar
clench of apprehension, knowing that something had to be wrong or the people who’d rescued
them would’ve come for them a long time ago. But Minho and Newt were right—they had to go out there
and find some answers.
“Shuck it,” Minho said. “I’ll go first.”
Without waiting for a response he walked through the open door, his body vanishing in the gloom
almost instantly. Newt gave Thomas a hesitant look, then followed. For some reason Thomas thought it
should be up to him to go next, so he did.
Step by step, he left the dorm room and entered the darkness of the common area, hands reaching out in
front of him.
The glow of light coming from behind didn’t do much to illuminate things; he might as well have been
walking with his eyes squeezed shut. And the place smelled. Horrible.
Minho yelped up ahead, then called back. “Whoa, be careful. Something … weird’s hanging from the
ceiling.”
Thomas heard a slight squeak or groan, something creaking. As if Minho had bumped into a lowhanging
chandelier, sending it swaying back and forth. A grunt from Newt somewhere to the right was
followed by the squeal of metal dragging across the floor.
“Table,” Newt announced. “Watch out for tables.”
Frypan spoke up behind Thomas. “Does anyone remember where the light switches were?”
“That’s where I’m heading,” Newt responded. “I swear I remember seeing a set of them somewhere
over here.”
Thomas continued walking blindly forward. His eyes had adjusted a little; where before, everything
had been a wall of blackness, now he could see traces of shadows against shadows. Yet something was
off. He was still a little disoriented, but things seemed to be in places they shouldn’t be. It was almost as
if—
“Bluh-huh-huh,” Minho groaned, a shudder of repulsion, like he’d just stepped in a pile of klunk.
Another creaking sound cut through the room.
Before Thomas could ask what had happened, he bumped into something himself. Hard. Awkwardly
shaped. The feel of cloth.
“Found it!” Newt shouted.
A few clicks were heard; then the room suddenly blazed with fluorescent lights, temporarily blinding
Thomas. He stumbled away from the thing he’d bumped into, rubbing his eyes, ran into another stiff figure,
sent it swaying away from him.
“Whoa!” Minho yelled.
Thomas squinted; his vision cleared. He forced himself to look at the scene of horror around him.
Throughout the large room, people hung from the ceiling—at least a dozen. They’d all been strung up
by the neck, the ropes twisted and trenched into purple, bloated skin. The stiff bodies swung to and fro
ever so slightly, pale pink tongues lolling out of their white-lipped mouths. All of them had eyes open,
though glazed over with certain death. By the looks of it, they’d been that way for hours. Their clothes and
some of their faces looked familiar.
Thomas dropped to his knees.
He knew these dead people.
They were the ones who’d rescued the Gladers. Just the day before.

Categories: The Scorch Trials

The Scorch Trials - Chapter 2

That was how it started. He heard Teresa say those three words, but it seemed from far away, as if spoken
down a long and cluttered tunnel. His slumber had become a viscous liquid, thick and sticky, trapping
him. He became aware of himself, but realized he was removed from the world, entombed by exhaustion.
He couldn’t wake up.
Thomas!
She screamed it. A piercing rattle in his head. He felt the first trickle of fear, but it was more like a
dream. He could only sleep. And they were safe now, nothing to worry about anymore. Yeah, it had to be
a dream. Teresa was fine, they were all fine. He relaxed again, let himself drown in slumber.
Other sounds snuck their way into his consciousness. Thumps. The clang of metal against metal.
Something shattering. Boys shouting. More like the echo of shouts, very distant, muted. Suddenly they
became more like screams. Unearthly cries of anguish. But still distant. As if he’d been wrapped in a
thick cocoon of dark velvet.
Finally something pricked the comfort of sleep. This wasn’t right. Teresa had called for him, told him
something was wrong! He fought the deep sleep that had consumed him, clawed at the heavy weight
pinning him down.
Wake up! he yelled at himself. Wake up!
Then something disappeared from inside him. There one instant, gone the next. He felt as if a major
organ had just been ripped from his body.
It had been her. She was gone.
Teresa! he screamed out with his mind. Teresa! Are you there?
But there was nothing, and he no longer felt that comforting sense of her closeness. He called her name
again, then again, as he continued to struggle against the dark pull of sleep.
Finally, reality swept in, washed away the darkness. Engulfed in terror, Thomas opened his eyes and
shot to a sitting position on his bed, scooted out until he got his feet under him and jumped up. Looked
around.
Everything had gone crazy.
The other Gladers in the room were running around, shouting. And terrible, horrible, awful sounds
filled the air, like the wretched squeals of animals being tortured. There was Frypan, pointing out a
window, his face pale. Newt and Minho were running to the door. Winston, hands held up to his
frightened, acne-plagued face like he’d just seen a flesh–eating zombie. Others stumbling over each other
to look out the different windows, but keeping their distance from the glass. Achingly, Thomas realized he
didn’t even know most of the names of the twenty boys who’d survived the Maze, an odd thought to have
in the middle of all that chaos.
Something at the corner of his eye made him turn to look toward the wall. What he saw immediately
wiped away any peace and safety he’d felt talking to Teresa in the night. Made him doubt such emotions
could even exist in the same world in which he now stood.
Three feet from his bed, draped by colorful curtains, a window looked out into a bright, blinding light.
The glass was broken, jagged shards leaning against crisscrossed steel bars. A man stood on the other
side, gripping the bars with bloody hands. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, filled with madness. Sores
and scars covered his thin, sun–burnt face. He had no hair, only diseased splotches of what looked like
greenish moss. A vicious slit stretched across his right cheek; Thomas could see teeth through the raw,
festering wound. Pink saliva dribbled in swaying lines from the man’s chin.
“I’m a Crank!” the horror of a man yelled. “I’m a bloody Crank!”
And then he started screaming two words over and over and over, spit flying with every shriek.
“Kill me! Kill me! Kill me! …”

Categories: The Scorch Trials

The Scorch Trials - Chapter 1

She spoke to him before the world fell apart.
Hey, are you still asleep?
Thomas shifted in his bed, felt a darkness around him like air turned solid, pressing in. At first he
panicked; his eyes snapped open as he imagined himself back in the Box—that horrible cube of cold
metal that had delivered him to the Glade and the Maze. But there was a faint light, and lumps of dim
shadow gradually emerged throughout the huge room. Bunk beds. Dressers. The soft breaths and gurgly
snores of boys deep in slumber.
Relief filled him. He was safe now, rescued and delivered to this dormitory. No more worries. No
more Grievers. No more death.
Tom?
A voice in his head. A girl’s. Not audible, not visible. But he heard it all the same, though never could
he have explained to anyone how it worked.
Exhaling a deep breath, he relaxed into his pillow, his razor-edged nerves settling down from that
fleeting moment of terror. He spoke back, forming the words with his thoughts.
Teresa? What time is it?
No idea, she replied. But I can’t sleep. I probably dozed for an hour or so. Maybe more. I was
hoping you were awake to keep me company.
Thomas tried not to smile. Even though she wouldn’t be able to see it, it would be embarrassing all the
same. Didn’t give me much choice in the matter, did you? Kind of hard to sleep when someone’s
talking directly into your skull.
Waa, waa. Go back to bed, then.
No. I’m good. He stared at the bottom of the bunk above him—featureless and darkly fuzzy in the
shadow—where Minho was currently breathing like a guy with ungodly amounts of phlegm lodged in his
throat. What’ve you been thinking about?
What do you think? Somehow she projected a jab of cynicism into the words. I keep seeing Grievers.
Their disgusting skin and blubber bodies, all those metal arms and spikes. It was way too close for
comfort, Tom. How’re we gonna get something like that out of our heads?
Thomas knew what he thought. Those images would never leave—the Gladers would be haunted by the
horrible things that had happened in the Maze for the rest of their lives. He figured that most if not all of
them would have major psychological problems. Maybe even go completely nutso.
And above it all, he had one image burned into his memories as strongly as a branded mark from a
searing hot iron. His friend Chuck, stabbed in the chest, bleeding, dying as Thomas held him.
Thomas knew he would never forget that. But what he said to Teresa was: It’ll go away. Just takes a
little time, that’s all.
You’re so full of it, she said.
I know. How ridiculous was it that he loved hearing her say something like that to him? That her
sarcasm meant things were going to be okay? You’re an idiot , he told himself, then hoped she didn’t hear
that thought.
I hate that they separated me from you guys, she said.
Thomas understood why they had, though. She was the only girl and the rest of the Gladers were
teenage boys—a bunch of shanks they didn’t trust yet. Guess they were protecting you.
Yeah. I guess . Melancholy seeped into his brain with her words, stuck to them like syrup. But it sucks
being alone after everything we went through.
Where’d they take you, anyway? She sounded so sad that he almost wanted to get up and look for her,
but he knew better.
Just on the other side of that big common room where we ate last night. It’s a small room with a few
bunks. I’m pretty sure they locked the door when they left.
See, told ya they wanted to protect you. Then he quickly added, Not that you need protecting. I’d put
my money on you against at least half these shanks.
Only half?
Okay, three-quarters. Including me.
A long stretch of silence followed, though somehow Thomas could still sense her presence. He felt her.
It was almost like how, even though he couldn’t see Minho, he knew his friend lay only a few feet above
him. And it wasn’t just the snoring. When someone is close by, you just know it.
Despite all the memories of the last few weeks, Thomas was surprisingly calm, and soon sleep
overpowered him once more. Darkness settled on his world, but she was there, next to him in so many
ways. Almost … touching.
He had no concept of time passing while in that state. Half asleep, half enjoying her presence and the
thought that they’d been rescued from that horrible place. That they were safe, that he and Teresa could
get to know each other all over again. That life could be good.
Blissful sleep. Hazy darkness. Warmth. A physical glow. Almost floating.
The world seemed to fade away. All became numb and sweet. And the darkness, somehow comforting.
He slipped into a dream.
He’s very young. Four, maybe? Five? Lying in a bed with blankets pulled to his chin.
A woman sits next to him, her hands folded in her lap. She has long brown hair, a face just beginning to
show signs of age. Her eyes are sad. He knows this even though she’s trying very hard to hide it with a
smile.
He wants to say something, ask her a question. But he can’t. He’s not really here. Just witnessing it all
from a place he doesn’t quite understand. She begins to talk, a sound so simultaneously sweet and angry it
disturbs him.
“I don’t know why they chose you, but I do know this. You’re special somehow. Never forget that. And
never forget how much”—her voice cracks and tears run down her face—“never forget how much I love
you.”
The boy replies, but it’s not really Thomas speaking. Even though it is him. None of it makes sense.
“Are you gonna be crazy like all those people on TV, Mommy? Like … Daddy?”
The woman reaches out and runs her fingers through his hair. Woman? No, he can’t call her that. This is
his mother. His … mommy.
“Don’t you worry about that, honey,” she says. “You won’t be here to see it.”
Her smile has gone away.
Too fast the dream faded into blackness, leaving Thomas in a void with nothing but his thoughts. Had he
seen another memory crawl up from the depths of his amnesia? Had he really seen his mom? There’d been
something about his dad being crazy. The ache inside Thomas was deep and gnawing, and he tried to sink
further into oblivion.
Later—how much later he had no idea—Teresa spoke to him again.
Tom, something’s wrong.

Categories: The Scorch Trials