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.