The Scorch Trials - Chapter 14

No one complained as Thomas herded the rest of them behind Minho. No one even said anything, just
exchanged flickering, frightened looks as they approached the Flat Trans and went through it. Without fail,
every Glader hesitated a second before taking the final step into the murkiness of the gray square. Thomas
watched each of them, swatting them on the back right before they disappeared.
After two minutes, only Aris and Newt were left with Thomas.
You sure about this? Aris said to him inside his mind.
Thomas choked on a cough, surprised by the flow of words across his consciousness—that not-quiteaudible
yet somehow audible speech. He’d thought—and hoped—that Aris had gotten the hint that he
didn’t want to communicate that way. That was something for Teresa, not anybody else.
“Hurry,” Thomas muttered out loud, refusing to answer telepathically. “We’ve gotta hurry.”
Aris stepped through, a hurt look on his face. Newt followed right on his heels; just like that, Thomas
was alone in the big common room.
He glanced around one last time, remembered the dead, swelling bodies that had hung there just a few
days earlier. Thought about the Maze and all the klunk they’d been through. Sighing as loudly as he could,
hoping someone, somewhere could hear it, he gripped his water bag and his bedsheet pack full of food
and stepped into the Flat Trans.
A distinct line of coldness traveled across his skin from front to back, as if the wall of gray were a
standing plane of icy water. He’d closed his eyes at the last second and opened them now to see nothing
but absolute darkness. But he heard voices.
“Hey!” he called out, ignoring the sudden burst of panic in his own voice. “You guys—”
Before he could finish, he stumbled on something and fell over, crashing on top of a squirming body.
“Ow!” the person yelled, pushing Thomas off. It was all he could do to hold tight to the water bag.
“Everyone be still and shut up!” This was Minho, and the relief that washed through Thomas almost
made him shout for joy. “Thomas, was that you? Are you in here?”
“Yes!” Thomas regained his feet, blindly feeling around him to make sure he didn’t bump into someone
else. He felt nothing but air, saw nothing but black. “I was the last one to come through. Did everyone
make it?”
“We were lining up and counting off nice and easy till you came stumbling through like a doped-up
bull,” Minho responded. “Let’s do it again. One!”
When no one said anything, Thomas yelled, “Two!”
From there, the Gladers counted off until Aris went last and called out, “Twenty.”
“Good that,” Minho said. “We’re all here, wherever here is. Can’t see a shuck thing.”
Thomas stood still, sensing the other boys, hearing their breaths, but scared to move. “Too bad we
don’t have a flashlight.”
“Thanks for stating the obvious, Mr. Thomas,” Minho replied. “All right, listen up. We’re in some kind
of hallway—I can feel the walls on both sides, and as far as I can tell, most of you are to my right.
Thomas, where you’re standing is where we came in. We better not take any chances of accidentally
going back through the Flat Trans thingamajiggy, so everyone follow my voice and come toward me. Not
much choice but to head down this way and see what we find.”
He’d started moving away from Thomas as he said those last few words. The whispers of shuffling feet
and rustling packs against clothes told him that the others were following. When he sensed that he was the
last one remaining, and that he wouldn’t step on anybody again, he moved slowly to his left, reaching his
hand out until he felt a hard, cool wall. Then he walked after the rest of the group, letting his hand slide
along the wall to keep his bearings.
No one spoke as they moved forward. Thomas hated that his eyes never adjusted to the darkness—there
wasn’t even the slightest hint of light. The air was cool, but smelled like old leather and dust. A couple of
times he bumped into the person directly in front of him; he didn’t even know who it was because the boy
didn’t say anything when they collided.
On and on they went, the tunnel stretching ahead without ever turning to the left or right. Thomas’s hand
against the wall and the ground below his feet were the only things that kept him tied to reality or gave
him a sense of movement. Otherwise, he would’ve felt as if he were floating through empty space, making
no progress whatsoever.
The only sounds were the scrapes of shoes on the hard concrete floor and occasional snatches of
whispers between Gladers. Thomas felt every thump of his heart as they marched down the endless tunnel
of darkness. He couldn’t help but remember the Box, that lightless cube of stale air that had delivered him
to the Glade; it had felt much like this. At least now he had a portion of solid memory, had friends and
knew who they were. At least now he understood the stakes—that they needed a cure and would probably
go through awful things to get it.
A sudden burst of intense whispering filled the tunnel, seemed to come from above. Thomas stopped
dead in his tracks. It hadn’t been from any of the Gladers, he was sure of it.
From up ahead, Minho shouted for the others to halt. Then, “Did you guys hear that?”
As several Gladers murmured yeses and started asking questions, Thomas tilted his ear toward the
ceiling, straining to hear something beyond those voices. The flash of whispering had been quick, just a
few short words that had sounded as if they came from a very old and very sick man. But the message had
been completely indecipherable.
Minho shushed everyone again, telling them to listen.
Even though it was perfectly dark and therefore pointless, Thomas closed his eyes, concentrating on his
sense of hearing. If the voice came again, he wanted to catch what it said.
Less than a minute passed before the same ancient voice whispered harshly once more, echoing through
the air as if huge speakers were installed on the ceiling. Thomas heard several people gasp, like they’d
gotten it this time and were shocked by what they’d heard. But he still hadn’t been able to isolate even one
or two of the words. He opened his eyes again, though nothing changed in front of him. Utter darkness.
Black.
“Did anybody get what it said?” Newt called out.
“Couple of words,” Winston replied. “Sounded like ‘go back’ right in the middle.”
“Yeah, it did,” someone agreed.
Thomas thought about what he’d heard, and in retrospect, it did seem like those two words had been in
there somewhere. Go back.
“Everybody slim it and listen real hard this time,” Minho announced. The dark hallway lapsed into
silence.
The next time the voice came, Thomas understood every single syllable.
“One-chance deal. Go back now, you won’t be sliced.”
Judging by the reactions in front of him, everyone else got it this time, too.
“Won’t be sliced?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He said we can go back!”
“We can’t trust some random shank whispering in the dark.”
Thomas tried not to think about how ominous the last four words had been. You won’t be sliced . That
didn’t sound good at all. And not being able to see anything made it worse. Driving him crazy.
“Just keep going!” he shouted up to Minho. “I can’t take this much longer. Just go!”
“Wait a minute.” Frypan’s voice. “The voice said this was a one-chance deal. We have to at least think
about it.”
“Yeah,” someone added. “Maybe we should go back.”
Thomas shook his head even though he knew no one could see it. “No way. Remember what that guy at
the desk told us. That we’d all die horrible deaths if we go back.”
Frypan pushed. “Well, what makes him any more in charge than this whispering dude? How’re we
supposed to know who to listen to and who to ignore?”
Thomas knew it was a good question, but going back just didn’t feel right. “The voice is just a test, I
bet. We need to keep going.”
“He’s right.” This was Minho from up in front. “Come on, let’s go.”
He’d barely said the last word when the whispering voice whooshed through the air again, this time
laced with an almost childish hatred. “You’re all dead. You’re all going to be sliced. Dead and sliced.”
Every hair on Thomas’s neck stood up straight and a chill tickled his back. He expected to hear even
more calls to go back, but once again the Gladers surprised him. No one said a thing, and soon they were
all walking forward again. Minho had been right when he’d said all the sissies had been weeded out.
They made their way deeper into the darkness. The air warmed a bit, seemed to thicken with dust.
Thomas coughed several times and was dying to take a drink, but he didn’t want to risk untying his water
bag without being able to see it. That was all he needed, to spill it all over the floor.
Forward.
Warmer.
Thirsty.
Darkness.
Walking. Time passed ever so slowly.
Thomas had no idea how this hallway could even be possible. They had to have journeyed at least two
or three miles since last hearing the creepy whisper of warning. Where were they? Underground? Inside
some massive building? The Rat Man had said they needed to find open air. How—
A boy screamed a few dozen feet in front of him.
It started out as an abrupt shriek, like simple surprise, but then escalated into pure terror. He didn’t
know who it was, but the kid was now screaming his throat raw, screeching and squealing like an animal
at the old Blood House in the Glade. Thomas heard the sounds of a body thrashing on the ground.
He ran forward on instinct, pushing past several Gladers who seemed frozen by fear, moving toward
the inhuman sounds. He didn’t know why he thought he’d be able to help more than anyone else, but he
didn’t hesitate, not even taking care with his steps as he sprinted through the darkness. After the long
insanity of walking blindly for so long, it was as if his body craved the action.
He made it, could hear that the boy now lay right in front of him, his arms and legs thrashing on the
concrete floor as he struggled against who knew what. Thomas carefully set his water bag and shoulder
pack far to the side, then timidly reached forward with his hands to find a grip on an arm or leg. He
sensed the other Gladers crowding behind him, a loud and chaotic presence of shouts and questions that
he forced himself to ignore.
“Hey!” Thomas yelled at the squirming boy. “What’s wrong with you?” His fingers brushed the kid’s
jeans, then his shirt, but the boy’s body convulsed all over the place, impossible to catch, and his shrieks
continued to pierce the air.
Finally, Thomas went for broke. He dove forward, launching himself fully onto the body of the
thrashing kid. With a jolt that knocked the breath out of him, he landed, felt the squirming torso; an elbow
dug into his ribs, then a hand slapped his face. A knee came up and almost got him square in the groin.
“Stop it!” Thomas shouted. “What’s wrong!”
The screams gurgled to a stop, almost like the kid had just been pulled underwater. But the convulsing
didn’t ease in the slightest.
Thomas put an elbow and forearm on the chest of the Glader for leverage, then reached out to grab his
hair or his face. But when his hands slid over what was there, confusion consumed him.
There was no head. No hair or face. Not even a neck. None of those things that should’ve been there.
Instead, Thomas felt a large and perfectly smooth ball of cold metal.

Categories: The Scorch Trials

The Scorch Trials - Chapter 13

Thomas felt it getting late and knew they had to get sleep that night and be ready for the morning. So he
and the Gladers spent the rest of the evening making crude packs out of bedsheets for carrying the food
and the extra clothes that had appeared in the dressers. Some of the food had come in plastic bags, and the
now-empty bags were filled with water and tied off with material ripped from the curtains. No one
expected these poor excuses for canteens to last very long without leaking, but it was the best idea anyone
could come up with.
Newt had finally convinced Minho to be the leader. Thomas knew as well as anybody that they needed
someone to be in charge, so he was relieved when Minho grudgingly agreed.
Around nine o’clock, Thomas found himself lying in bed, staring at the bunk above him once again. The
room was strangely silent even though he knew no one had fallen asleep yet. Fear surely gripped them as
much as it did him. They’d been through the Maze and its horrors. They’d seen close up what WICKED
was capable of doing. If Rat Man was correct, and all that had happened was part of some master plan,
then these people had forced Gally to kill Chuck, had shot a woman at close range, had hired people to
rescue them only to kill them when the mission was complete … the list went on and on.
Then, to top it all off, they gave them a hideous disease, with the cure as bait to lure them to continue.
Who even knew what was true and what was a lie. And the evidence continued to suggest that they’d
singled Thomas out somehow. It was a sad thought—Chuck was the one who had lost his life. Teresa was
the one missing. But taking those two away from him …
His life felt like a black hole. He had no idea how he would muster the will to go on in the morning. To
face whatever WICKED had in store for them. But he’d do it—and not just to get a cure. He would never
stop, especially now. Not after what they’d done to him and his friends. If the only way to get back at them
was to pass all their tests and trials, to survive, then so be it.
So be it.
With thoughts of revenge actually comforting him in a sick and twisted way, he finally fell asleep.
Every Glader had set the alarm on his digital watch for five o’clock in the morning. Thomas woke up well
before that and couldn’t go back to sleep. When beeps finally started filling the room, he swung his legs
off the bed and rubbed his eyes. Someone turned on the light and a yellow blast lit up his vision.
Squinting, he got up and headed for the showers. Who knew how long it’d be before he could clean
himself again.
At ten minutes till the time appointed by Rat Man, every Glader sat in anticipation, most holding a
plastic bag full of water, the bedsheet packs at their sides. Thomas, like the others, had decided he’d
carry the water in his hand to make sure it didn’t spill or leak. The invisible shield had reappeared
overnight in the middle of the common area, impossible to pass through, and the Gladers settled just on
the boys’ dorm side of it, facing where the stranger in the white suit had said a Flat Trans would appear.
Aris was sitting right next to Thomas, and spoke for the first time since … well, Thomas couldn’t
remember the last time he’d heard the boy’s voice.
“Did you think you were crazy?” the new kid asked. “When you first heard her in your head?”
Thomas glanced at him, paused. For some reason, up until that moment he hadn’t wanted to talk to this
guy. But suddenly the feeling vanished completely. It wasn’t Aris’s fault that Teresa had disappeared.
“Yeah. Then when it kept happening, I got over it—only I started worrying about other people thinking I
was crazy. So we didn’t tell anyone about it for a long time.”
“It was weird for me,” Aris responded. He looked deep in thought as he stared at the floor. “I was in a
coma for a few days, and when I woke up, speaking out to Rachel seemed the most natural thing in the
world. If she hadn’t accepted it and spoken back, I’m pretty sure I would’ve lost it. The other girls in the
group hated me—some of them wanted to kill me. Rachel was the only one who …”
He trailed off, and Minho stood up to address everyone before Aris could finish what he was saying.
Thomas was glad for it, because hearing about the trippy alternate version of what he himself had been
through only made him think of Teresa, and that hurt too much. He didn’t want to think about her anymore.
He had to concentrate on surviving for now.
“We’ve got three minutes,” Minho said, for once looking completely serious. “Everybody sure they
still wanna go?”
Thomas nodded, noticed others doing the same.
“Anybody change their mind overnight?” Minho asked. “Speak now or never. Once we go wherever
we’re going, if some shank decides he’s a sissy pants and tries to turn back, I’ll make sure he does it with
a broken nose and smashed privates.”
Thomas looked over at Newt, who had his head in his hands and was groaning loudly.
“Newt, you got a problem?” Minho asked, his voice surprisingly stern. Thomas, shocked, waited for
Newt’s reaction.
The older boy seemed just as surprised. “Uh … no. Just admiring your bloody leadership skills.”
Minho pulled his shirt away from his neck, leaned over to show everyone the tattoo there. “What does
that say, slinthead?”
Newt glanced left and right, his face blushing. “We know you’re the boss, Minho. Slim it.”
“No, you slim it,” Minho retorted, pointing at Newt. “We don’t have time for that kind of klunk. So shut
your hole.”
Thomas could only hope that Minho was putting on an act to solidify the decision they’d made for him
to be the leader, and that Newt understood. Though if Minho was acting, he was sure doing a good job of
it.
“It’s six o’clock!” one of the Gladers shouted.
As if this proclamation had triggered it, the invisible shield turned opaque again, fogging to a splotchy
white. A split second later it vanished altogether. Thomas noticed the change in the wall opposite them
instantly—a large section of it had transformed into a flat, shimmering surface of murky, shadowy gray.
“Come on!” Minho yelled as he pulled the strap of his pack onto his shoulder. He was gripping a water
bag in his other hand. “Don’t mess around—we only have five minutes to get through. I’ll go first.” He
pointed at Thomas. “You go last—make sure everyone follows me before you come.”
Thomas nodded, trying to fight the fire burning through his nerves; he reached up and wiped the sweat
off his forehead.
Minho walked up to the wall of gray, then paused right in front of it. The Flat Trans seemed completely
unstable, impossible for Thomas to focus on. Shadows and swirls of varying shades of darkness danced
across its surface. The whole thing pulsed and blurred, as if it might disappear at any second.
Minho turned to look back at them. “See you shanks on the other side.”
Then he stepped through, and the wall of gray murk swallowed him whole.

Categories: The Scorch Trials

The Scorch Trials - Chapter 12

Once again, the Gladers’ questions and arguments filled the air, but Thomas left. He needed some space
and knew the bathroom was his only escape. So instead of heading to the boys’ dorm, he went to the one
Teresa, then Aris, had used. He leaned back against the sink, arms folded, staring at the floor. Luckily, no
one had followed him.
He didn’t know how to begin processing all the information. Bodies hanging from the ceiling, reeking
of death and rot, then gone completely in a matter of minutes. A stranger—and his desk!—appear out of
nowhere, with an impossible shield protecting them. Then they disappear.
And these were by far the least of their worries. It was clear now that the rescue from the Maze had
been a sham. But who were the pawns WICKED had used to pull the Gladers from the Creators’ chamber,
put them on that bus and bring them here? Had those people known they were going to be killed? Had they
even really been killed? Rat Man had said not to trust their eyes or their minds. How could they believe
anything ever again?
And worst of all, this stuff about them having the Flare disease, about the Trials earning them a cure …
Thomas squeezed his eyes closed and rubbed his forehead. Teresa had been taken from him. None of
them had families. The next morning they were supposed to start some ridiculous thing called Phase Two,
which by the sound of it was going to be worse than the Maze. All those crazy people out there—the
Cranks. How would they deal with them? He suddenly thought of Chuck and what he might say if he were
there.
Something simple, probably. Something like, This sucks.
You’d be right, Chuck, Thomas thought. The whole world sucks.
It had only been a few days since he’d seen his friend get stabbed in the heart; poor Chuck had died as
Thomas held him. And now Thomas couldn’t help but think that as horrible as it was, maybe that had been
the best thing for Chuck. Maybe death was better than what lay ahead. His mind veered toward the tattoo
on his neck—
“Dude, how long’s it take to drop a load?” It was Minho.
Thomas looked up to see him standing in the doorway to the bathroom. “I can’t stand it out there.
Everyone talking over everybody else like a bunch of babies. Say what they want, we all know what
we’re gonna do.”
Minho walked over to him and leaned his shoulder against the wall. “Ain’t you Mr. Happy? Look, man,
those shanks out there are just as brave as you are. Every last one of us will go through that … whatever
he called it … tomorrow morning. Who cares if they wanna crack their throats yappin’ about it?”
Thomas rolled his eyes. “I never said jack about me being braver than anybody. I’m just sick of hearing
people’s voices. Yours included.”
Minho snickered. “Slinthead, when you try to be mean, it’s just freaking hilarious.”
“Thanks.” Thomas paused. “Flat Trans.”
“Huh?”
“That’s what the white-suit shank called the thing we need to go through. A Flat Trans.”
“Oh yeah. Must be some kind of doorway.”
Thomas looked up at him. “That’s what I’m thinking. Something like the Cliff. It’s flat, and it transports
you somewhere. Flat Trans.”
“You’re a shuck genius.”
Newt came in then. “What’re you two hiding for?”
Minho reached over and slapped Thomas on the shoulder. “We’re not hiding. Thomas is just whining
about his life and wishin’ he could go back to his mommy.”
“Tommy,” Newt said, not seeming amused, “you went through the Changing, got some of your
memories back. How much of this stuff do you remember?”
Thomas had been thinking a lot about that. Much of what had come back after being stung by the
Griever had turned cloudy. “I don’t know. I can’t really picture the actual world outside or what it was
like being involved with the people I helped design the Maze. Most of it’s either faded again or just gone.
I’ve had a couple of weird dreams, but nothing that helps.”
They then went off on a discussion about some of the things they’d heard from their odd visitor. About
the sun flares and the disease and how different things might be now that they knew they were being tested
or experimented on. About a lot of things, with no answers—all of it laced with an unspoken fear of the
virus they’d supposedly been given. They finally lulled into silence.
“Well, we’ve got stuff to figure out,” Newt said. “And I need help to make sure the bloody food’s not
gone before we leave tomorrow. Something tells me we’re gonna need it.”
Thomas hadn’t even thought of that. “You’re right. Are people still chowing down out there?”
Newt shook his head. “No, Frypan took charge. That shank’s religious about food—I think he was glad
to have something to be the boss about again. But I’m scared people might get panicky and try to eat it
anyway.”
“Oh, come on,” Minho said. “Those of us who made it this far got here for a reason. All the idiots are
dead by now.” He looked sideways at Thomas, as if worried Thomas might think he’d included Chuck in
that assessment. Maybe even Teresa.
“Maybe,” Newt responded. “Hope so. Anyway, I was thinking we need to get organized, get things
back together. Act like we did in the bloody Glade. Last few days have been miserable, everybody
moaning and groaning, no structure, no plan. It’s driving me psycho.”
“What’d you expect us to do?” Minho asked. “Form up in lines and do push-ups? We’re stuck in a
stupid three-room prison.”
Newt swatted at the air as if Minho’s words were gnats. “Whatever. I’m just saying, things are
obviously going to change tomorrow and we gotta be ready to face it.”
Despite all the talk, Thomas felt like Newt was failing to make his point.
“What are you getting at?”
Newt paused while he looked at Thomas, then Minho. “We need to make sure we have a solid leader
when tomorrow comes. There can’t be any doubt who’s in charge.”
“That’s the lamest shuck-faced thing you’ve ever barked,” Minho said. “You’re the leader, and you
know it. We all know it.”
Newt shook his head adamantly. “Bein’ hungry make you forget the bloody tattoos? You think they’re
just decorations?”
“Oh, come on,” Minho retorted. “You really think it means anything? They’re just playin’ with our
heads!”
Instead of answering, Newt stepped closer to Minho and pulled back his shirt to reveal the tattoo there.
Thomas didn’t have to look—he remembered. It had branded Minho as the Leader.
Minho shrugged off Newt’s hand and started his usual rant of sarcastic remarks, but Thomas had
already tuned out, his heart’s pace having kicked in to a rapid series of almost painful thumps. All he
could think about was what had been tattooed on his own neck.
That he was to be killed.

Categories: The Scorch Trials

The Scorch Trials - Chapter 11

The room lapsed into silence. Thomas knew he should be upset by the absurd notion that up to this point
things had been easy for them. The idea should’ve terrified him. Not to mention the stuff about
manipulating their brains. But instead, he was so intensely curious to find out what the man was going to
tell them, the words had merely washed across his mind.
Rat Man waited for an eternity, then slowly lowered himself back into the chair and scooted forward to
sit behind the desk once more. “You may think, or it may seem, that we’re merely testing your ability to
survive. On the surface, the Maze Trial could be mistakenly classified that way. But I assure you—this is
not merely about survival and the will to live. That’s only part of this experiment. The bigger picture is
something you won’t understand until the very end.
“Sun flares have ravaged many parts of the earth. Also, a disease unlike any before known to man has
been ravaging the earth’s people—a disease called the Flare. For the first time, the governments of all
nations—the surviving ones—are working together. They’ve combined forces to create WICKED—a
group meant to fight the new problems of this world. You are a big part of that fight. And you’ll have
every incentive to work with us, because, sad to say, each one of you has already caught the virus.”
He quickly held up his hands to cut off the rumblings that started. “Now, now! No need to worry—the
Flare takes a while to set in and show symptoms. But at the end of these Trials, the cure will be your
reward, and you’ll never see the … debilitating effects. Not many can afford the cure, you know.”
Thomas’s hand instinctively went up to his throat, as if a soreness there were the first indicator that
he’d caught the Flare. He remembered all too well what the woman on the rescue bus had told him after
the Maze. About how the Flare destroyed your brain, slowly driving you insane and stripping you of the
capacity to feel basic human emotions like compassion or empathy. About how it turned you into less than
an animal.
He thought of the Cranks he’d seen through the dorm windows, and he suddenly wanted to run to the
bathroom and scrub his hands and mouth clean. The guy was right—they had all the incentive they needed
to make it through this next phase.
“But enough of this history lesson and time-wasting,” Rat Man continued. “We know you now. All of
you. It doesn’t matter what I say or what’s behind the mission of WICKED. You’ll all do whatever it
takes. Of this we have no doubt. And by doing what we ask, you’ll save yourselves by getting the very
cure so many people desperately want.”
Thomas heard Minho groan next to him and worried about him throwing out another one of his smartaleck
remarks. Thomas shushed him before he could do it.
Rat Man looked down at the messy stack of papers lying in the open folder, picked up a loose piece of
it, then turned it over, barely glancing at its contents. He cleared his throat. “Phase Two. The Scorch
Trials. It officially begins tomorrow morning at six o’clock. You’ll enter this room, and in the wall
behind me you will find a Flat Trans. To your eyes the Flat Trans will appear as a shimmering wall of
gray. Each of you must step through it by five minutes after the hour. So again, it opens at six o’clock and
closes five minutes after that. Do you understand?”
Thomas stared at Rat Man, transfixed. It almost felt as if he were watching a recording—as if the
stranger weren’t really there. The other Gladers must’ve felt the same, because no one answered the
simple question. What was a Flat Trans, anyway?
“I’m quite certain you can all hear,” Rat Man said. “Do … you … under … stand?”
Thomas nodded; a few boys around him murmured quiet yeahs and yeses.
“Good.” Rat Man absently picked up another piece of paper and turned it over. “At that point, the
Scorch Trials will have begun. The rules are very simple. Find your way to open air, then head due north
for one hundred miles. Make it to the safe haven within two weeks’ time and you’ll have completed Phase
Two. At that point, and only at that point, you’ll be cured of the Flare. That’s exactly two weeks—starting
the second you step through the Trans. If you don’t make it, eventually you’ll end up dead.”
The room should’ve erupted into arguments, questions, panic. But no one said a word. Thomas felt as if
his tongue had dried up into an old, crusty root.
Rat Man quickly slammed the folder shut, bending its contents even more than before, then put it away
in the drawer from which he’d retrieved it. He stood, stepped to the side and pushed the chair underneath
the desk. Finally, he folded his hands in front of him and returned his attention to the Gladers.
“It’s simple, really,” he said, his tone so matter-of-fact one would think he’d just given them
instructions on how to turn on the showers in the bathroom. “There are no rules. There are no guidelines.
You have few supplies, and there’s nothing to help you along the way. Go through the Flat Trans at the
time indicated. Find open air. Go one hundred miles, directly north, to the safe haven. Make it or die.”
The last word seemed to finally snap everyone out of their stupor, all of them speaking up at once.
“What’s a Flat Trans?”
“How’d we catch the Flare?”
“How long till we see symptoms?”
“What’s at the end of the hundred miles?”
“What happened to the dead bodies?”
Question after question, a chorus of them, all melding into one roar of confusion. As for Thomas, he
didn’t bother. The stranger wasn’t going to tell them anything. Couldn’t they all see that?
Rat Man waited patiently, ignoring them, those dark eyes darting back and forth between the Gladers as
they spoke. His gaze settled on Thomas, who sat there, silent, staring back at him, hating him. Hating
WICKED. Hating the world.
“You shanks shut up!” Minho finally shouted. The questions stopped instantly. “This shuck-face ain’t
answering, so quit wastin’ your time.”
Rat Man nodded once toward Minho as if thanking him. Perhaps acknowledging his wisdom. “One
hundred miles. North. Hope you make it. Remember—you all have the Flare now. We gave it to you to
provide any incentive you may be lacking. And reaching the safe haven means receiving a cure.” He
turned away and moved toward the wall behind him, as if he planned to walk right through it. But then he
stopped and faced them again.
“Ah, one last thing,” he said. “Don’t think you’ll avoid the Scorch Trials if you decide not to enter the
Flat Trans between six and six-oh-five tomorrow morning. Those who stay behind will be executed
immediately in a most … unpleasant manner. Better off taking your chances in the outside world. Good
luck to all of you.”
With that he turned away and once again started inexplicably walking toward the wall.
But before Thomas could see what happened, the invisible wall separating them started to fog up,
whitening to an opaque blur in a matter of seconds. And then the whole thing disappeared, once again
revealing the other side of the common area.
Except there was no sign of the desk and its chair. And no sign of Rat Man.
“Well, shuck me,” Minho whispered next to Thomas.

Categories: The Scorch Trials

The Scorch Trials - Chapter 10

Thomas stood there for a full minute, staring at the man casually sitting at the desk, reading. It was as if
he’d been reading that way and in that very spot every day for his whole life. Thin black hair combed
across a pale, bald head; a long nose, twisted slightly to the right; and shifty brown eyes darting back and
forth as he read—the man somehow looked relaxed and nervous at the same time.
And the white suit. Pants, shirt, tie, coat. Socks. Shoes. All white.
What in the world?
Thomas looked over at the Gladers munching on fruit and a snack from a bag that looked like a mixture
of nuts and seeds. They seemed oblivious to the man at the desk.
“Who is that guy?” Thomas called out to no one in particular.
One of the boys looked up, stopped chewing for a second. Then he quickly finished off his mouthful and
swallowed. “He won’t tell us anything. Told us we had to wait till he’s ready.” The boy shrugged as if
that wasn’t a big deal and took another bite of a peeled orange.
Thomas returned his attention to the stranger. Still sitting there, still reading. He turned a page with a
whispery scrape and continued scanning the words.
Baffled, and with a stomach rumbling for more food, Thomas still couldn’t help but walk toward the
man to investigate. Of all the strange things to wake up to …
“Careful,” one of the Gladers called out, but it was too late.
Just ten feet in front of the desk, Thomas slammed into an invisible wall. His nose hit first, smashing
against what felt like a cold sheet of glass. The rest of his body followed suit, bumping against the unseen
wall and making him stumble backward. He instinctively reached up to rub his nose as he squinted to see
how he could’ve possibly missed a glass barrier.
But no matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t see anything. Not the slightest glare or reflection, not a
smudge anywhere. All he saw was air. All the while, the man hadn’t bothered to move or give even the
least hint he’d noticed anything.
More slowly this time, Thomas approached the spot, holding his hands out. Soon he made contact with
the wall of completely invisible … what? It felt like glass—smooth, hard and cool to the touch. But he
saw absolutely nothing to indicate that something solid stood there.
Frustrated, Thomas moved to the left, then the right, feeling along the unseen yet solid wall. It spanned
the entire room; there was no way to approach the stranger at the desk. Thomas finally pounded on it,
making a series of dull thumps, but nothing else happened. Some of the Gladers behind him, Aris
included, remarked how they’d already tried that.
The strangely dressed man, just a dozen or so feet in front of him, let out an exaggerated sigh as he
pulled his crossed feet from the desk and let them drop to the floor. He placed a finger in his book to mark
his place and looked up at Thomas, making no effort to hide his annoyance.
“How many times do I have to repeat this?” the man said, his nasally voice a perfect match for his pale
skin, thin hair and skinny body. And that suit. That stupid white suit. Oddly, his words weren’t muffled at
all by the barrier. “We still have forty-seven minutes before I’ve been authorized to implement Phase
Two of the Trials. Please show your patience and leave me alone. You’ve been given this time to eat and
replenish yourselves, and I strongly suggest you take advantage of it, young man. Now, if you don’t
mind …”
Without waiting for a response, he leaned back in his chair and returned his feet to the desktop. Then,
opening his book to the spot he’d marked, he resumed reading.
Thomas was truly speechless. He turned away from the man and the desk and leaned against the
invisible wall, its hard surface pressing against his back. What had just happened? Surely he was still
asleep, dreaming. For some reason, that thought alone seemed to amplify his hunger, and he longingly
glanced over at the mound of food. Then he noticed Minho at the door to the dorm room, leaning against
its frame with his arms folded.
Thomas jabbed a thumb over his shoulder and raised his eyebrows.
“You met our new friend?” Minho responded, a smirk flashing across his face. “Real piece of work,
this guy. I gotta get me one of those shuck suits. Fancy stuff.”
“Am I awake?” Thomas asked.
“You’re awake. Now eat—you look horrible. Almost as bad as Rat Man over there, reading his book.”
Thomas was surprised at how quickly he could set aside the oddness of the guy in the white suit
appearing out of nowhere, and the invisible wall. Again that numbness that had become so familiar. After
the initial shock, nothing was strange anymore. Anything could become normal. Pushing it all away, he
dragged himself over to the food and started eating. Another apple. An orange. A bag of mixed nuts, then a
chewy bar of granola and raisins. His body begged for water, but he couldn’t get himself to move quite
yet.
“You need to slim it,” Minho said from behind him. “We’ve got shanks puking all over the place ’cause
they ate too much. That’s probably enough, dude.”
Thomas stood, relishing the feel of a full stomach. Not missing at all that gnawing beast that had lived
inside him for so long. He knew Minho was right—he had to slim it. He nodded at his friend before
stepping around him to go get a drink, the whole time wondering what could possibly be in store for them
when the man in the white suit was ready to implement “Phase Two of the Trials.”
Whatever that meant.
A half hour later, Thomas sat on the floor with the rest of the Gladers, Minho to his right and Newt to his
left, all of them facing the invisible wall and the weasel of a man sitting at the desk behind it. His feet
were still propped up, his eyes still flickering down the pages of his book. Thomas felt the wonderful
return of energy and strength slowly building inside him.
The new kid, Aris, had given him a strange look in the bathroom, as if he wanted to speak telepathically
with him but was afraid to do it. Thomas had ignored him, and quickly walked to the sink and guzzled
down as much water as he could with his now-full stomach. By the time he finished and wiped his mouth
on his sleeve, Aris had left. Now the boy sat over by the wall, staring at the floor. Thomas felt sorry for
him—as bad as things were for the Gladers, Aris had it worse. Especially if he’d been as close to the
murdered girl he’d mentioned as Thomas was to Teresa.
Minho was the first to break the silence. “I think we’ve all gone psycho like those … what’d they call
themselves again? Cranks. The Cranks at the windows. We’re all sitting here waiting for a lecture from
Rat Man like this is totally normal. Like we’re at some kind of school. I can tell you this much—if he had
anything good to say, he wouldn’t need a freaking magic wall to protect him from us, now, would he?”
“Just slim it and listen,” Newt said. “Maybe it’s all gonna be over.”
“Yeah, right,” Minho said. “And Frypan’s gonna start having little babies, Winston’ll get rid of his
monster acne, and Thomas here’ll actually smile for once.”
Thomas turned to Minho and exaggerated a fake smile. “There, you happy?”
“Dude,” he responded. “You are one ugly shank.”
“If you say so.”
“Shut your bloody holes,” Newt whispered. “I think it’s time.”
Thomas looked over to see that the stranger—Rat Man, as Minho so kindly called him—had put his feet
on the floor and placed the book on the desk. He scooted his chair back to get a better view of one of the
drawers, then pulled it out and rummaged through things Thomas couldn’t see. Finally, he pulled out a
densely packed manila folder full of messy papers, many of them bent and sticking out at odd angles.
“Ah, here it is,” Rat Man said in his nasally voice; then he placed the folder on the desk, opened it up
and looked at the boys in front of him. “Thank you for gathering in an orderly manner so I can tell you
what I’ve been … instructed to tell you. Please listen carefully.”
“Why do you need that wall!” Minho shouted.
Newt reached around Thomas and punched Minho in the arm. “Shut it!”
Rat Man continued as if he hadn’t heard the outburst. “You’re all still here because of an uncanny will
to survive despite the odds, among … other reasons. About sixty people were sent to live in the Glade.
Well, your Glade, anyway. Another sixty in Group B, but for now we’ll forget them.”
The man’s eyes flickered to Aris, then went back to slowly scanning the crowd. Thomas didn’t know if
anyone else had noticed, but he had no doubt that there’d been a hint of familiarity in that quick look. What
did it mean …?
“Out of all those people, only a fraction survived to be here today. I’m assuming you’ve figured this out
by now, but many of the things that happen to you are solely for the purpose of judging and analyzing your
responses. And yet it’s not really an experiment as much as it is … constructing a blueprint. Stimulating
the killzone and collecting the resultant patterns. Putting them all together to achieve the greatest
breakthrough in the history of science and medicine.
“These situations inflicted upon you are called the Variables, and each one has been meticulously
thought out. I’ll explain more soon. And though I can’t tell you everything at this time, it’s vital that you
know this much: these trials you’re going through are for a very important cause. Continue to respond well
to the Variables, continue to survive, and you’ll be rewarded with the knowledge that you’ve played a
part in saving the human race. And yourselves, of course.”
Rat Man paused, apparently for effect. Thomas looked over at Minho and raised his eyebrows.
“This dude’s shucked in the head,” Minho whispered. “How would escaping a freaking maze save the
human race?”
“I represent a group called WICKED,” Rat Man continued. “I know it sounds menacing, but it stands
for World In Catastrophe, Killzone Experiment Department. Nothing menacing about it, despite what you
may think. We exist for one purpose and one purpose only: to save the world from catastrophe. You here
in this room are a vital part of what we plan to do. We have resources never known to any group of any
kind in the history of civilization. Nearly unlimited money, unlimited human capital and technology
advanced beyond even the most clever man’s wants and wishes.
“As you make your way through the Trials, you have seen and will continue to see evidence of this
technology and the resources behind it. If I can tell you anything today, it is that you should never, ever
believe your eyes. Or your mind, for that matter. This is why we did the demonstration with the hanging
bodies and the bricked-up windows. All I will say is that sometimes what you see is not real, and
sometimes what you do not see is real. We can manipulate your brains and nerve receptacles when
necessary. I know this all sounds confusing and a little scary, perhaps.”
Thomas thought the man couldn’t have possibly made a greater understatement. And the word killzone
kept bouncing around his head. His scarcely revived memories couldn’t quite grasp what it meant, but
he’d first seen it on the metal plaque back in the Maze, the one that had spelled out the words that made up
WICKED’s acronym.
The man slowly passed his eyes over every Glader in the room. His upper lip shone with sweat. “The
Maze was a part of the Trials. Not one Variable was thrown at you that didn’t serve a purpose for our
collection of killzone patterns. Your escape was part of the Trials. Your battle against the Grievers. The
murder of the boy Chuck. The supposed rescue and subsequent trip in the bus. All of it. Part of the Trials.”
Anger swelled in Thomas’s chest at the mention of Chuck. He’d half risen to his feet before he knew
what had come over him; Newt pulled him back down to the floor.
As if spurred by this, Rat Man quickly stood up from his chair, sending it back against the wall behind
him. Then he placed his hands on the desk and leaned toward the Gladers.
“All of it has been part of the Trials, you understand? Phase One, to be exact. And we are still
dangerously short of what we need. So we’ve had to up the ante, and now it’s time for Phase Two. It’s
time for things to get difficult.”

Categories: The Scorch Trials

The Scorch Trials - Chapter 9

When he woke up, his head felt like several chunks of ice had been hammered through his ears and into
his brain. Wincing, he reached up to rub his eyes and was hit by a wave of nausea that sent the room
tilting around him. Then he remembered the terrible things Teresa had said, then the short dream, and
misery engulfed him. Who had those people been? Was it real? What had they meant when they’d said
those awful things about his brain?
“Glad to see you still know how to take a nap.”
Thomas peeked through a squint and saw Newt standing next to his bed, staring down at him.
“How long’s it been?” Thomas asked, forcing thoughts of Teresa and the dream—memory?—into a
dark corner of his mind to agonize over later.
Newt looked at his watch. “Couple hours. When people noticed you lie down, it actually kind of
relaxed everyone. Not much we can do but sit and wait for something new to happen. There’s no way out
of this place.”
Thomas tried not to groan as he scooted himself into a sitting position, his back against the wall at the
head of his bed. “Do we even have any food?”
“No. But I’m pretty sure these people wouldn’t go through all this trouble to bring us here, trick us or
whatever they’ve done, just to let us buggin’ starve to death. Something will happen. Reminds me of when
they sent the first group of us to the Glade. The initial group of me and Alby and Minho and some others.
The original Gladers.” He said that last part with a not-so-subtle burst of sarcasm.
Thomas was intrigued, surprised he’d never before dug into what that had been like. “How does this
remind you of that?”
Newt’s gaze was focused on the brick wall outside the closest window. “We all woke up in the middle
of the day, lying on the ground around the doors to the Box. It was closed. Our memories had been wiped,
just like yours when you came. You’d be surprised at how quickly we pulled ourselves together and quit
panicking. There were about thirty of us. Obviously, we had no bloody clue what had happened, how
we’d gotten there, what we were supposed to do. And we were terrified, disoriented. But since we were
all in the same crappy situation, we organized ourselves and figured out the place. Had the full farm
running within days, everybody with their own job.”
Thomas was relieved that the pain in his skull had diminished. And he was intrigued to hear about the
start of the Glade—the scattered pieces of the puzzle brought back by the Changing weren’t nearly enough
to form solid memories. “Did the Creators have everything in place already? Crops, animals, all that?”
Newt nodded, still staring at the bricked-up window. “Yeah, but it took a ton of work to get it going
nice and smooth. A lot of trial and error before we accomplished anything.”
“So … how does this remind you of that?” Thomas asked again.
Finally, Newt looked at him. “I guess back then we all just had a sense that there was obviously a
purpose to us having been sent there. If someone had wanted to kill us, why wouldn’t they have just killed
us? Why would they send us to a huge place with a house and a barn and animals? And because we had no
other choice, we accepted it and started working and exploring.”
“But we’re already done exploring here,” Thomas countered. “No animals, no food, no Maze.”
“Yeah, but come on. It’s the same concept. We’re obviously here for a buggin’ purpose. We’ll figure it
out eventually.”
“If we don’t starve first.”
Newt pointed at the bathroom. “We’ve got plenty of water, so it’ll be at least a few days before we
drop dead. Something will happen.”
Deep down Thomas believed it, too, and was only arguing to solidify it in his own mind. “But what
about all those dead people we saw? Maybe they rescued us for real, got killed, and now we’re screwed.
Maybe we were supposed to do something, but now it’s all been messed up and we’ve been left here to
die.”
Newt burst out laughing. “You’re one depressing piece of klunk, slinthead. Nah, with all those corpses
magically disappearing and the brick walls, I’d say this is something more like the Maze. Weird and
impossible to explain. The latest and greatest mystery. Maybe our next test, who knows. Whatever’s going
on, we’ll have a chance, just like we did in the bloody Maze. I guarantee it.”
“Yeah,” Thomas murmured, wondering if he should share what he’d dreamed about. Deciding to save it
for later, he said, “Hope you’re right. As long as no Grievers suddenly show up, we’ll be good.”
Newt was already shaking his head by the time Thomas finished. “Please, man. Careful what you
buggin’ wish for. Maybe they’ll send something worse.”
The image of Teresa popped into Thomas’s mind just then, and he lost all desire to talk. “Who’s the
cheerful one now?” he forced himself to say.
“You got me,” Newt replied, then stood up. “Guess I’ll go bug somebody else till the excitement
begins, which better be bloody soon. I’m hungry.”
“Careful what you wish for.”
“Good that.”
Newt walked away, and Thomas scooted down to lie on his back, staring at the bottom of the bunk
above him. He closed his eyes after a while, but when he saw Teresa’s face in the darkness of his
thoughts, he opened them right up again. If he was going to get through this, he’d have to try to forget about
her for now.
Hunger.
It’s like an animal trapped inside you , Thomas thought. After three full days of not eating, it felt like a
vicious, gnawing, dull-clawed animal was trying to burrow its way out of his stomach. He felt it every
second of every minute of every hour. He drank water as often as possible from the sinks in the bathroom,
but it did nothing to drive the beast away. If anything, it felt like he was making the thing stronger so it
could inflict more misery within.
The others felt it, too, even if most of them kept their complaints to themselves. Thomas watched as
they walked around, heads hung low, jaws slack, as if every step burned a thousand calories. People
licked their lips a lot. They grabbed at their stomachs, pushed on them, as if trying to calm that gnawing
beast. Unless they were going to the bathroom to use it or to get a drink, the Gladers didn’t move at all.
Like Thomas, they just lay there on the bunk beds, limp. Skin pale, eyes sunken.
Thomas felt all this like a festering disease, and seeing the others only made it worse, a stark reminder
that this wasn’t something he could just ignore. That it was real, and death waited just around the corner.
Listless sleep. Bathroom. Water. Trudge back to bed. Listless sleep—without any more of the memorydreams
he’d experienced. It became a horrendous cycle, broken up only by thoughts of Teresa, her harsh
words to him the only thing that lightened the prospect of death, even if only a little. She’d been the only
thing he could grasp for hope after the Maze and Chuck’s death. And now she was gone, there was no
food, and three long days had passed.
Hunger. Misery.
He’d quit bothering to look at his watch—it only made time drag and reminded his body how long it’d
been since he’d eaten—but he thought it was roughly midafternoon of the third day when a humming sound
abruptly began from the common area.
He stared at the door leading out there, knew he should get up and go check it out. But his mind had
already been slipping into another one of those hazy half-naps, the world around him foggy.
Maybe he’d imagined it. But then he heard it again.
He told himself to get up.
He fell asleep instead.
“Thomas.”
It was Minho’s voice. Weak, but stronger than it had been the last time he’d heard it.
“Thomas. Dude, wake up.”
Thomas opened his eyes, amazed he’d survived another nap without dying. Things were blurry for a
second, and at first he didn’t believe that what he thought was just a few inches from his face was real.
But then its image sharpened, and the red roundness of it, with flecks of green scattered across its shiny
surface, made him feel like he was looking on heaven itself.
An apple.
“Where’d you …” He didn’t bother to finish, those two words alone sapping his strength.
“Just eat it,” Minho said, followed by a wet crunch.
Thomas glanced up to see his friend munching on his own apple. Then, drawing the last remnants of
energy from somewhere deep inside himself, he pushed himself up onto an elbow and grabbed the fruit
lying on the bed. He lifted it to his mouth and took a small bite. The burst of flavor and juice was a
glorious thing.
Moaning, he attacked the rest of it and had eaten down to its stumpy core before Minho had even
finished his—despite the head start.
“Slim yourself nice and calm,” Minho said. “Eat like that and you’ll just throw it right back up. Here’s
another one—try slowing down this time.”
He handed a second apple to Thomas, who took it without saying thank you and chomped a big bite. As
he chewed, resolving to swallow before stuffing another chunk in his mouth, he realized he could actually
feel the first traces of energy trickling through his body.
“This is so good,” he mumbled. “This is so shuckin’ good.”
“You still sound like an idiot when you use Glader words,” Minho responded before taking another
bite of his apple.
Thomas ignored him. “Where’d these come from?”
Minho hesitated in the middle of chewing, then resumed. “Found them out in the common room. Along
with … something else. Shanks who found it all claim they’d just looked a few minutes earlier and
nothing had been there, but whatever, I don’t care.”
Thomas swung his legs off the bed and sat up. “What else did they find?”
Minho took a bite, then nodded toward the door. “Go look for yourself.”
Thomas rolled his eyes and slowly stood up. The miserable weakness was still there, like most of his
insides had been sucked right out and all he had left were a few bones and tendons to hold himself erect.
But he steadied, feeling even after a few seconds that he was already better than the last time he’d made
the long, lifeless trek to the bathroom.
Once he thought he had his balance, he walked over to the door and entered the common area. Only
three days before, the room had been filled with dead bodies—now it was crowded with Gladers picking
things off a big pile of food that had seemingly been dumped there without any order. Fruit, vegetables,
small packages.
But he’d barely registered this when an even more bizarre sight on the far side of the room caught his
attention. He reached out to steady himself on the wall behind him.
A large wooden desk had been placed opposite the door to the other dorm room.
Behind the desk, a thin man in a white suit sat in a chair, his feet propped up and crossed at the ankles.
The man was reading a book.

Categories: The Scorch Trials

The Scorch Trials - Chapter 8

Several seconds passed before Thomas realized he’d stopped breathing. Sucking in a deep pull of air, he
gaped at the now-empty room. No bloated, purpled-skinned bodies. No stink.
Newt nudged past him, walking forward with his slight limp until he stood in the very center of the
room’s carpeted floor. “This is impossible,” he said, turning in a slow circle, gazing up at the ceiling
where the corpses had hung from ropes only minutes earlier. “Not enough time passed for someone to get
them out. And no one else even came into this buggin’ room. We would’ve heard them!”
Thomas stepped to the side and leaned against the wall as the other Gladers and Aris came out of the
small dorm room. A hushed sense of awe spread across the group as one by one, each person noticed the
missing dead. As for Thomas, he once again felt a numbness, like he just might be done feeling surprised
at anything.
“You’re right,” Minho said to Newt. “We were in there with the door closed for, what, twenty minutes?
No way anyone could’ve moved all those bodies that quickly. Plus, this place is locked from the inside.”
“Not to mention getting rid of the smell,” Thomas added.
Minho nodded.
“Well, you shanks are right smart,” Frypan said through a huff. “But take a look around. They’re gone.
So whatever you think, somehow they got rid of them.”
Thomas didn’t feel like arguing about it—or even talking about it. So the dead bodies were gone.
They’d seen stranger stuff.
“Hey,” Winston said. “Those crazy people quit screaming and yelling.”
Thomas put his weight back on his feet, listened. Silence. “I thought we just couldn’t hear them from
Aris’s room. But you’re right—they stopped.”
Soon everyone was running for the larger dorm room on the far side of the common area. Thomas
followed, intensely curious to look out the windows and see the world outside. Before, with the Cranks
screaming and pressing their faces against the iron bars, he’d been too horrified to get a good view.
“No way!” Minho yelled from up ahead, then, without further explanation, disappeared inside the room.
As Thomas moved in that direction, he noticed that every boy hesitated a second, wide-eyed at the
threshold of the door, then went ahead and entered the dorm. He waited as each Glader and then Aris
funneled their way inside, then followed.
He felt the same shock he’d sensed from the other boys. As a whole, the room looked much like it had
when they’d walked out of it earlier. But there was one monumental difference: at each window, without
exception, a red brick wall had been erected just outside the iron bars, completely blocking every inch of
open space. The only light in the room came from the panels on the ceiling.
“Even if they were quick with those bodies,” Newt said, “I’m pretty sure they didn’t have time to
bloody throw up some brick walls. What’s going on here?”
Thomas watched as Minho walked over to one of the windows and reached through the bars, pressing
his hand against the red bricks. “Solid,” he said, then slapped at it.
“It doesn’t even look fresh,” Thomas murmured, stepping up to one himself to get a feel. Hard and cool.
“The mortar’s dry. Somehow they’ve tricked us, that’s all.”
“Tricked us?” Frypan asked. “How?”
Thomas shrugged, that numbness returning. Still wishing desperately that he could talk to Teresa. “I
don’t know. Remember the Cliff? We jumped into thin air and went through an invisible hole. Who knows
what these people can do.”
The next half hour passed in a haze. Thomas wandered about, as did everyone else, inspecting the brick
walls, looking for signs of anything else that had changed. Several things had, each one just as strange as
the next. All the beds in the Gladers’ dorm room were made, and there was no sign of the grungy clothes
they’d all worn before changing into the pajamas provided the night before. The dressers had been
rearranged, though the difference was subtle and some people disagreed that they’d been moved at all.
Either way, each one had been stocked with fresh clothes and shoes, and new digital watches for each
boy.
But the biggest change of all—discovered by Minho—was the sign outside the room where they’d
found Aris. Instead of saying Teresa Agnes, Group A, Subject A1, The Betrayer, it now said:
Aris Jones, Group B, Subject B1
The Partner
Everyone observed the new plaque, then wandered away, but Thomas found himself standing in front of it,
unable to remove his eyes. To Thomas it felt like the new label made it official—Teresa had been taken
from him, replaced by Aris. None of it made sense, and none of it mattered anymore. He went back to the
boys’ dorm, found the cot he’d slept on during the night—or at least, the one he thought he’d slept on—
and lay down, putting the pillow over his head, as if that would make everyone else go away.
What had happened to her? What had happened to them? Where were they? What were they supposed
to do? And the tattoos …
Turning his head to the side, then his whole body, he squeezed his eyes shut and folded his arms tightly,
pulling his legs up until he lay in the fetal position. Then, determined to keep trying until he heard back
from her, he called out with his thoughts.
Teresa? A pause. Teresa? A longer pause. Teresa! He shouted it mentally, his whole body tensing with
the effort. Teresa! Where are you? Please answer me! Why aren’t you trying to contact me? Ter—
Get out of my head!
The words exploded inside his mind, so vivid and so strangely audible within his skull that he felt
lances of pain behind his eyes and in his ears. He sat up in bed, then stood. It was her. It was definitely
her.
Teresa? He pressed the first two fingers of both hands against his temples. Teresa?
Whoever you are, get out of my shuck head!
Thomas stumbled backward until he sat down once again on the bed. His eyes were closed as he
concentrated. Teresa, what are you talking about? It’s me. Thomas. Where are you?
Shut up! It was her, he had no doubt, but her mental voice was full of fear and anger. Just shut up! I
don’t know who you are! Leave me alone!
But, Thomas began, completely at a loss. Teresa, what’s wrong?
She paused before answering, as if collecting her thoughts, and when she finally spoke again, Thomas
sensed an almost disturbing calm in her.
Leave me alone, or I’ll hunt you down and cut your throat. I swear it.
And then she was gone. Despite her warning, he tried calling for her again, but the same emptiness he’d
felt since that morning returned, her presence having vanished.
Thomas fell back on the bed, something horrible burning through his body. He quickly buried his head
in the pillow again and cried for the first time since Chuck had been killed. But the words from the label
outside her door—The Betrayer—kept popping up in his mind. Each time, he pushed them away.
Amazingly, no one bothered him or asked him what was wrong. His stifled sobs finally faded into an
occasional hitched breath, and eventually he fell asleep. Once again, he dreamed.
He’s a little older this time, probably seven or eight. A very bright light hovers above his head like
magic.
People in strange green suits and funny glasses keep peeking at him, their heads momentarily blocking
the brilliance that shines down. He can see their eyes but nothing else. Their mouths and noses are
covered by masks. Thomas is somehow both himself at that age and yet, as before, observing as an
outsider. But he feels the boy’s fear.
People are talking, voices muted and dull. Some are men, some are women, but he can’t tell which is
which or who is who.
He can’t understand much of it at all.
Only glimpses. Fragments of conversation. All of it terrifying.
“We’ll have to cut deeper with him and the girl.”
“Can their brains handle this?”
“This is so amazing, you know? The Flare is rooted inside him.”
“He might die.”
“Or worse. He might live.”
He hears one last thing, finally something that doesn’t make him shiver in disgust or fright.
“Or he and the others might save us. Save us all.”

Categories: The Scorch Trials