The Scorch Trials

CHAPTER 37

The next minute or so was a stunned blur of the five senses.

The welcome statement had shocked Thomas, but before he could respond, the long-haired man practically pulled him and Brenda inside, then started ushering them through a tightly packed crowd of dancing bodies, gyrating and jumping and hugging and spinning. The music was deafening, each beat of the drums like a hammer to Thomas's skull. Several flashlights had been strung from the ceiling; they swayed back and forth as people swatted them, sending beams of light slashing this way and that.

Long Hair leaned over and spoke to Thomas as they slowly made their way through the dancers; Thomas could barely hear him even though he was yelling.

"Thank God for batteries! Life's gonna suck when those run out!"

"How did you know my name?" Thomas yelled back. "Why were you waiting for me?"

The man laughed. "We watched you all night! Then this morning we saw your reaction to the sign through a window—figured you had to be the famous Thomas!"

Brenda had both arms wrapped around Thomas's waist, clinging to him, probably just so they wouldn't get separated. Probably. But when she heard this, she squeezed even tighter.

Thomas looked back, saw Blondie and his two friends following on their heels. The gun had been put away, but Thomas knew it could be brought right back out again.

The music blared. The bass thumped and rattled the room. People dancing and jumping all around them, the swords of light crisscrossing the dark air. The Cranks were slick and shiny with sweat, all that body heat making the room uncomfortably warm.

Somewhere right in the middle, Long Hair stopped and turned to face them, his odd white mane flopping.

"We really want you to join us!" he shouted. "There's gotta be something about you! We'll protect you from the bad Cranks!"

Thomas was glad they didn't know more. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. Play along, pretend to be a special Crank, and maybe he and Brenda would get through this long enough to slip away unnoticed at the right time.

"I'll go and get you a drink!" Long Hair called out. "Enjoy yourselves!" Then he scuttled off, vanishing into the thick, writhing crowd.

Thomas turned to see Blondie and his two friends still there, not dancing at all—just watching. Ponytail caught his attention with a wave of her hand.

"Might as well dance!" she yelled. But she didn't follow her own advice.

Thomas twisted around until he was fully facing Brenda. They needed to talk.

As though she could read his mind, she brought her arms up and wrapped them around his neck, pulling him close until her mouth was right next to his ear, her breath hot and tingling against his sweat.

"How did we get into this piece-of-crap situation?" she asked.

Thomas didn't know what to do but wrap his arms around her back and waist. He felt her heat through her damp clothes. Something stirred inside him, mixed with guilt and longing for Teresa.

"I never could have imagined this an hour ago," he finally said, speaking through her hair. It was the only thing he could think of to say.

The song changed, something dark and haunting. The beat had slowed a bit, the drum somehow deeper. Thomas couldn't make out any words—it was as if the singer were lamenting some horrible tragedy, the voice wailing, high-pitched and sorrowful.

"Maybe we should just stay with these people for a while," Brenda said.

Thomas noticed then that the two of them were dancing, without meaning to or thinking about it. Moving with the music, slowly turning, their bodies pressed tightly together, clasping each other.

"What're you talking about?" he asked, surprised. "You're giving up already?"

"No. Just tired. Maybe we'd be safer here."

He wanted to trust her, felt like he could. But something about all this worried him—had she brought him here on purpose? It seemed a stretch. "Brenda, don't quit on me yet. The only option we have is to get to the safe haven. There's a cure for this."

Brenda shook her head slightly. "It's just so hard to believe it's really true. Hard to hope for it."

"Don't say that." He didn't want to think it, and he didn't want to hear it.

"Why would they have sent all these Cranks here if there was a cure? It just doesn't make any sense."

Thomas pulled back to look at her, worried about the sudden change in attitude. Her eyes were wet with tears.

"You're talking crazy," he said, then paused. He had his own doubts, of course, but he didn't want to discourage her. "The cure is real. We have to . . ." He trailed off, looked over at Blondie, who was still staring at him. The guy probably couldn't hear, but better safe than sorry.

Thomas leaned back in to speak directly in Brenda's ear. "We have to get out of here. You wanna stay with people who pull guns and screwdrivers on you?"

Before she could respond, Long Hair was back, a cup in each hand, the brownish liquid inside sloshing as he got bumped from all directions by the dancers. "Drink up!" he called out.

Something inside Thomas seemed to wake up then. Taking a drink from these strangers suddenly felt like a very, very bad idea. Impossibly, everything about this place and this situation had become even more uncomfortable.

Brenda had already started reaching for a drink, though.

"No!" Thomas yelled before he could stop himself, then raced to cover his mistake. "I mean, no, I really don't think we should be drinking that stuff. We've gone a long time without water—we need that first. We, um, just wanna dance for a while." He tried to act casual, but was cringing on the inside, knowing he sounded like an idiot—especially when Brenda gave him a strange look.

Something small and hard pressed against his side. He didn't have to turn to see what it was: Blondie's pistol.

"I offered you a drink," Long Hair said again, this time any sign of kindness gone from his tattooed face. "It would be very rude to turn such an offer down." He held the cups out again.

Panic swelled in Thomas. Any small doubt had gone—something was wrong with the drinks.

Blondie pressed the gun into him even harder. "I'm gonna count to one," the man said into his ear. "Just one."

Thomas didn't have to think. He reached out and took the cup, poured the liquid in his mouth, swallowed all of it at once. It burned like fire, searing his throat and chest as it went down; he broke into a lurching, wracking cough.

"Now you," Long Hair said, handing the other cup to Brenda.

She looked at Thomas, then took it and drank. It didn't seem to faze her in the least; there was just a slight tightening of her eyes as it went down.

Long Hair took the empty cups back, a huge grin now spread across his face. "That's just fine! Back to dancing ya go!"

Thomas already felt something funny in his gut. A soothing warmth, a calmness, growing and spreading through his body. He took Brenda back into his arms, held her tightly as they swayed to the music. Her mouth was against his neck. Every time her lips bumped against his skin, a wave of pleasure shot through him.

"What was it?" he asked. He felt more than heard the slur in his voice.

"Something not good," she said; he could barely hear her. "Something drugged. It's doing funny things to me."

Yeah. Thomas thought. Something funny. The room had begun to spin around him, far faster than their slow turn should have caused it to. People's faces seemed to stretch when they laughed, their mouths gaping black holes. The music slowed and thickened, the singing voice deepened, grew drawn-out.

Brenda pulled her head away from him, clasped the sides of his face with her hands. She stared at him, though her eyes seemed to jiggle. She looked beautiful. More beautiful than anything he'd ever seen before. Everything around them faded to darkness. His mind was shutting down, he knew it.

"Maybe it's better this way," she said. Her words didn't match her lips. Her face was moving in circles, seemingly detached from her neck. "Maybe we can be with them. Maybe we can be happy until we're past the Gone." She smiled then, a sickening, disturbing smile. "Then you can kill me."

"No, Brenda," he said, but his voice seemed a million miles away, as if it were coming from an endless tunnel. "Don't. . ."

"Kiss me," she said. "Tom, kiss me." Her hands tightened on his face. She started to pull him down toward her.

"No," he said, resisting.

She stopped, a hurt look washing over her face. Her moving, blurring face.

"Why?" she asked.

The darkness almost had him fully now. "You're not. . . her." His voice, distant. A mere echo. "You could never be her." And then she fell away, and his mind did the same.