The Scorch Trials

Jorge answered-Thomas saw that he stood closest to the door, holding a very nasty-looking sword that was currently resting on the shoulder of Tall and Ugly himself. Ponytail was next to him, and they were both curled up on the ground. “Haven’t seen ’em since. We got away pretty quickly, and they’re too scared to come deeper into the city.”

The sight of Tall and Ugly had set off a small alarm inside Thomas. Blondie. Where was Blondie? How would Minho and the others have dealt with his gun? He looked around but couldn’t find him anywhere in the room.

“Minho,” Thomas whispered, then motioned for him to come closer. Once he and Newt were both right next to him, he leaned in. “The guy with really short blond hair. Seemed like the leader. What happened to him?”

Minho shrugged and looked at Newt to answer.

“Must’ve got out,” Newt replied. “A handful did-we couldn’t stop all of them.”

“Why?” Minho asked. “You worried about him?”

Thomas looked around, lowered his voice even further. “He had a gun. He’s the only one I’ve seen with something worse than a knife. And he wasn’t very nice.”

“Who gives a klunk?” Minho said. “We’ll be out of this stupid city in an hour. And we should go. Now.”

That sounded like the best idea Thomas had heard in days. “Okay, I want to get out of here before he comes back.”

“Listen up!” Minho called out as he stepped away, walking through the crowd. “We’re leaving now. Don’t follow us, you’ll be fine. Follow us, you’ll be dead. Pretty easy choice, don’t ya think?”

Thomas wondered when and how Minho had taken back the leadership role from Jorge. He looked over at the older man and noticed Brenda standing silently next to a wall, staring at the floor. He felt so bad about what had happened the night before. He really had wanted to kiss her. But for some reason he’d felt disgusted at the same time. Maybe it was the drug. Maybe it was Teresa. Maybe it was “Hey, Thomas!” Minho was yelling at him. “Dude, wake up! We’re leaving!”

Several Gladers had already walked through the door and into the sunlight. How long had he been out from the drug? A full day? Or just a few hours, since morning? He moved to follow, stopping by Brenda and giving her a little push. He worried for a second that she wouldn’t come with them, but she only hesitated a moment before heading for the door.

Minho, Newt and Jorge waited, keeping guard with their weapons, until everyone but Thomas and Brenda were out. Thomas watched at the doorway as the three Gladers backed away, slowly sweeping the tips of their knives and swords back and forth as they did so. But it didn’t look like anyone was going to put up a fuss. They were all probably ready to move on, just glad to be alive.

Everyone gathered in the alley away from the stairs. Thomas stayed close to the top step, but Brenda made her way to the other side of the group. He swore he’d get her alone as soon as they were away and safe, have a long talk. He liked her, wanted to be her friend if nothing else. More importantly, he now felt about her much the way he’d felt about Chuck. For some reason a feeling of responsibility for her had overcome him.

“-make a run for it.”

Thomas shook his head, realizing that Minho had been talking. Daggers of pain shot through his skull, but he focused.

“There’s only about a mile left,” Minho continued. “These Cranks aren’t so hard to fight after all. So let’s-”

“Hey!”

The shout came from behind Thomas, loud and screechy, filled with more than a hint of lunacy. Thomas spun around to see Blondie standing down on the bottom step, by the open door, his arm extended. His white-knuckled fingers held the gun, surprisingly steady and calm. It was pointed directly at Thomas.

Before anyone could move he fired, an explosion that rocked the narrow alley with a thunderous boom.

Pure pain ripped through Thomas’s left shoulder.

CHAPTER 40

The impact knocked Thomas back, spi

He rolled onto his back, hand clasped tight to where he’d been shot; he searched for the courage to look at the wound. The ringing in his ears grew louder, and he barely noticed out of the corner of his eye that Blondie had been tackled to the ground. Someone was punching the living crap out of him.

Minho.

Thomas finally gazed down at the damage. What he saw there made his heart double its pace.

A small hole in his shirt revealed a gooey red blob right in the meaty part above his armpit, blood pouring from the wound. It hurt. It hurt bad. If he’d thought his headache downstairs had been tough, this was like three or four of those, all smashed into a coil of pain right there in his shoulder. And spreading through the rest of his body.

Newt was at his side, looking down with worried eyes.

“He shot me.” It just came out, a new number one on the list of the dumbest things he’d ever said. The pain, like living metal staples ru

Someone handed a shirt to Newt, who pressed it tightly against Thomas’s wound. This sent another wave of agony through him; he cried out, not caring how wimpy he sounded. It hurt like nothing he’d ever felt before. The world around him faded another few degrees.

Pass out, he urged himself. Please pass out, make it go away.

Voices came from a distance again, just like his own had on the dance floor after being drugged.

“I can get that sucker out of him.” This was Jorge, of all people. “But I’ll need a fire.”

“We can’t do this here.” Was that Newt?

“Let’s get out of this shuck city.” Definitely Minho.

“All right. Help me carry him.” No idea.

Hands gripping him from underneath, grasping his legs. The pain. Someone saying something about the count of three. The pain. It really, really hurt. One. The pain. Two. Ouch. Three!

He rose toward the sky, and the pain exploded anew, fresh and raw.

Then his wish to pass out came true and darkness washed his troubles away.

He awoke, his mind a haze.

Light blinded him; he couldn’t open his eyes all the way. His whole body jostled and bumped, hands still holding him tight. He heard the sounds of breathing, heavy and fast. Feet pounding on pavement. Someone shouting, though he couldn’t understand the words. In the distance, the mad screams of Cranks. Close enough that they might be pursuing.

Heat. The air was burning hot.

His shoulder, on fire. Pain tore through him like a series of toxic explosions, and he fled to the darkness once again.

***

He cracked his eyes.

This time the light was much less intense. The golden gleam of twilight. He lay on his back, the ground beneath him hard. A rock dug into his lower back, but it felt heavenly compared to the rot in his shoulder. People lumbered about him, talking in short and tight whispers.

The cackle of Cranks had grown more distant. He saw nothing but sky above him, no buildings. Pain in his shoulder. Oh, the pain.

A fire licked and spit somewhere close. He felt the heat wafting across his body, hot wind through hot air.

Someone said, “You better hold him down. Legs and arms.”

Though his mind still floated in fog, those words didn’t sound good.

A flash of light on silver in his vision, the fading sun’s reflection on… a knife? Was it glowing red?

“This is go