The Scorch Trials

A distinct click cut him off, and then the world around Thomas seemed to ignite into pure flame. He cried out as he covered his eyes with his hands-a blinding, searing light shone down from above. He’d dropped his water bag, but he couldn’t help it. After so long in pitch-darkness, the sudden appearance of light overpowered him-even through the protection of his hands. Brilliant orange burst through his fingers and eyelids, and a wave of heat-like a hot wind-swept down.

Thomas heard a heavy scrape, then a clonk, and the darkness returned. Warily, he dropped his hands and squinted; spots danced across his vision.

“Shuck me,” Minho said. “Looks like we found a way out, but I think it’s on the freaking sun! Man, that was bright. And hot.”

“Let’s just open it a crack and let our eyes get used to it,” Newt said. Then Thomas heard him walk up the stairs to join Minho. “Here’s a shirt-wedge it in there. Everybody shut your eyes!”

Thomas did as he was told and covered them with his hands again. The glow of orange returned and the process began. After a minute or so, he lowered his hands and slowly opened his eyes. He had to squint, and it still seemed like a million flashlights were pointed at him, but it had become bearable. A couple of minutes more and everything was bright but fine.

He could now see that he stood about twenty steps down from where Minho and Newt crouched just beneath the door in the ceiling. Three shining lines marked the edges of the door, broken only by the shirt they’d stuffed in the right corner to keep it open. Everything around them-the walls, the stairs, the door itself-was made of a dull gray metal. Thomas turned around to look back in the direction from which they’d come, saw that the stairs disappeared into darkness far below them. They’d climbed up a lot more than he’d imagined.

“Anybody blind now?” Minho asked. “I feel like my eyeballs are roasted marshmallows.”

Thomas felt that, too. His eyes burned and itched, kept tearing up. The Gladers around him were all rubbing their eyes.

“So what’s out there?” someone asked.

Minho shrugged as he peeked through the slit of the open door with a hand half-shielding his vision. “Can’t really tell. All I can see is a lot of bright light-maybe we are on the shuck sun. But I don’t think there’re any people out there.” He paused. “Or Cranks.”

“Let’s get out of here, then,” Winston said; he was two steps below Thomas. “I’d rather get a sunburn than get my head attacked by some ball of steel. Let’s go!”

“All right, Winston,” Minho replied. “Keep your undies on-I just wanted to let our eyes adjust first. I’ll throw the door all the way open to make sure we’re okay. Get ready.” He moved up a step so he could press his right shoulder against the slab of metal. “One. Two. Three!”

He straightened his legs with a grunt and heaved upward. Light and heat burst down the stairwell as the door opened with a terrible squeal of grinding metal. Thomas quickly looked toward the ground and squinted. The brightness seemed impossible-even if they had been wandering along in perfect darkness for hours.

He heard some shuffling and pushing above him and looked up to see Newt and Minho moving to get out of the square of blinding sunlight coming through the now-open door. The whole stairwell heated up like an oven.

“Aw, man!” Minho said, a wince on his face. “Something’s wrong, dude. It feels like it’s already burning my skin!”

“He’s right,” Newt said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know if we can go out there. We might have to wait until the sun goes down.”

Groans of complaint sounded from the Gladers, but then they were overcome by a sudden outburst from Winston. “Whoa! Watch out! Watch out!”

Thomas turned to look at Winston down the stairs. He was pointing at something right above him as he backed up a couple of steps. On the ceiling, just a few feet above their heads, a big glob of liquid silver was coalescing, seeping out of the metal as if melting into a large teardrop. It grew bigger and bigger as Thomas stared at it, forming in a matter of seconds into a wavering, slowly rippling ball of molten goop. Then, before anyone could react, it detached from the ceiling and fell away.

But instead of splatting on the steps at their feet, the sphere of silver defied gravity and flew horizontally, directly into Winston’s face. His horrific screams filled the air as he fell and started tumbling down the stairs.

CHAPTER 16

Thomas had a sickening thought as he pushed his way down the stairs after Winston. He didn’t know if he was going because he wanted to help him or because he couldn’t control his curiosity about this silvery monster-ball.

Winston eventually thumped to a stop, his back coming to rest by chance on one of the steps; they were still nowhere close to the bottom. The brilliant light from the open door up top illuminated everything with perfect clarity. Both of Winston’s hands were at his face, pulling at the silver liquid-the ball of molten metal had already melded with the top of his head, consuming the part above the ears. Now its edges were creeping downward like thick syrup, lipping over the ears and covering his eyebrows.

Thomas jumped over the boy’s body and spun around to kneel on the step directly below him; Winston pulled and pushed at the silver goop to keep it off his eyes. Surprisingly, it seemed to be working. But the boy was screaming at the top of his lungs, thrashing, his feet kicking the wall.

“Get it off me!” he yelled, his voice so strangled that Thomas almost gave up and ran away. If the stuff hurt that bad…

It looked like a very dense silver gel. Persistent and stubborn-like it was alive. As soon as Winston pushed a portion of it up and off his eyes, some of it would slip around his fingers from the side and try again. Thomas could see glimpses of the skin on his face when he did this, and it wasn’t pretty. Red and blistering.

Winston cried out something unintelligible-his tortured screams could have been in another language altogether. Thomas knew he had to do something. Time had run out.

He threw the pack off his shoulders and dumped the contents; fruits and packages scattered and thumped down the stairs. He took the bedsheet and wrapped it around his hands for protection, then went for it. As Winston swiped at the molten silver right above his eyes again, Thomas grabbed for the sides that had just gone over the boy’s ears. He felt heat through the cloth, thought it might burst into flame. He braced his feet, squeezed the stuff as hard as he could, then yanked.

With a disturbing sucking sound, the sides of the attacking metal lifted several inches before slipping out of his hands and slapping back down onto Winston’s ears. Impossibly, the boy screamed even louder. A couple of other Gladers tried to move in to help, but Thomas shouted for them to back off, thinking they’d only get in the way.

“We have to do it together!” Thomas yelled at Winston, determined to get a stronger hold this time. “Listen to me, Winston! We have to do it together! Try to get a grip on it and lift it off your head!”

The other boy didn’t show any sign of understanding, his whole body convulsing as he struggled. If Thomas hadn’t been on the step below him, he would’ve tumbled down the rest of the way for sure by now.

“On the count of three!” Thomas yelled. “Winston! On the count of three!”

Still no sign he’d heard. Screaming. Thrashing. Kicking. Slapping at the silver.

Tears welled up in Thomas’s eyes, or maybe it was sweat trickling down from his forehead. But it stung. And he felt like the air had heated up to a million degrees. His muscles tensed; lances of pain shot through his legs. They were cramping.

“Just do it!” he yelled, ignoring it all and leaning in to try again. “One! Two! Now!”