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Images of people flashed across his mind, but there was no recognition, their faces replaced with haunted smears of color.
“Look at that shank.” “How old is he?” “Looks like a klunk in a T-shirt.” “You’re the klunk, shuck-face.” “Dude, it smells like feet down there!” “Hope you enjoyed the one-way trip, Greenie.” “Ain’t no ticket back, bro.”
A few trees surrounded it, their roots like gnarled hands digging into the rock floor for food.
The fear was like icy dew on his skin.
“Klunk’s another word for poo. Poo makes a klunk sound when it falls in our pee pots.” Thomas looked at Chuck, unable to believe he was having this conversation. “That’s nice” was all he could manage.
He barely heard himself say it—his thoughts had spun in a new direction. If Chuck was right, he’d just discovered a link to the rest of the boys. A common pattern to their memory losses. They all remembered their names. Why not their parents’ names? Why not a friend’s name? Why not their last names?
Thomas hated these people. He hated all of them. Except Chuck.
He’d only known what it was like to be alive here for a short while and he already wanted it to end.
Chuck arrived, a couple of sandwiches cradled in his arms, along with apples and two metal cups of water. The sense of relief that flooded through Thomas surprised him—he wasn’t completely alone in this place.
Trying to grasp a sense of normalcy, he made a weak attempt at a joke. “If you’re looking for a goodnight kiss, forget it.” Chuck didn’t miss a beat. “Just shut up and stay close.”
Without warning, Chuck suddenly popped his head up toward the window and screamed at the top of his lungs. A loud crash from inside revealed that the trick had worked—and the litany of swearwords following it let them know Gally was none too happy about it.
He’d just rounded the corner when Gally came screaming out of the Homestead, looking like a ferocious beast on the loose.
“Sorry—if I’d known it was Gally, I never would’ve done it, I swear.” Surprising himself, Thomas laughed. An hour ago, he’d thought he’d never hear such a sound come out of his mouth again. Chuck looked closely at Thomas and slowly broke into an uneasy grin. “What?” Thomas shook his head. “Don’t be sorry. The … shank deserved it, and I don’t even know what a shank is. That was awesome.” He felt much better.
Not quite understanding how, he knew what he needed to do. He didn’t get it. The feeling—the epiphany—was a strange one, foreign and familiar at the same time. But it felt … right.
He reached down and helped Thomas to his feet—he was so strong it felt like he could rip Thomas’s arm off.
They snuck their way through the tightly strewn pack of sleeping bodies, Thomas almost tripping several times. He stepped on someone’s hand, earning a sharp cry of pain in return, then a punch on the calf.
“Well, it’s kind of stupid to send me to a place where nothing makes sense and not answer my questions.” Thomas paused, surprised at himself. “Shank,” he added, throwing all the sarcasm he could into the syllable. Newt broke out in a laugh, but quickly cut it off. “I like you, Greenie. Now shut it and let me show ya somethin’.”
Thomas felt an icy terror blossom in his chest, expand like a tumor, making it hard to breathe.
“Can I come?” Chuck asked from the table. Alby reached down and tweaked the boy’s ear. “Ow!” Chuck shrieked.
He felt such a mixture of emotions—curiosity, frustration, wonder—all laced with the lingering horror of seeing the Griever that morning.
Despite everything he’d learned and witnessed firsthand, it called to him as much as hunger or thirst.
“Why is everyone freaking out? Isn’t this how you all got here?” Chuck shrugged. “I don’t know—guess it’s always been real regular-like. One a month, every month, same day. Maybe whoever’s in charge realized you were nothing but a big mistake, sent someone to replace you.” He giggled as he elbowed Thomas in the ribs, a high-pitched snicker that inexplicably made Thomas like him more. Thomas shot his new friend a fake glare. “You’re annoying. Seriously.” “Yeah, but we’re buddies, now, right?” Chuck fully laughed this time, a squeaky sort of snort. “Looks like you’re not giving me much choice on
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“What are you, a mind reader or something?” He threw as much sarcasm as he could into the comment. “Just brilliant, that’s all.” Chuck winked. “Chuck, never wink at me again.”
He forced himself to walk forward, trying to seem innocent without acting like someone who was guilty who was trying to act innocent. Oh, calm it, he told himself. You haven’t done anything wrong. But he had a strange feeling that maybe he had without realizing it.
It made him sick to think that way about a dead girl, but he couldn’t look away. Won’t be that way for long, he thought with a queasy twist in his stomach. She’ll start rotting soon. He was surprised at having such a morbid thought.
Alby’s eyes narrowed; his mouth pulled into a tight grin that didn’t look like it had anything to do with humor. “If anybody touches this girl,” Alby said, “you’re gonna spend the night sleepin’ with the Grievers in the Maze. Banished, no questions.” He paused, turning in a slow circle as if he wanted every person to see his face. “Ain’t nobody better touch her! Nobody!” It was the first time Thomas had actually liked hearing something come out of Alby’s mouth.
He took a deep breath, loving the fresh whiff of dirt and growing plants. He was almost positive the smell would bring back some sort of pleasant memory, but nothing came. As he got closer, he saw that several boys were weeding and picking in the small fields. One waved at him with a smile. An actual smile. Maybe this place won’t be so bad after all, Thomas thought. Not everyone here could be a jerk.
As he explored the area, he realized more and more how well the Gladers kept up the place, how clean it was. He was impressed by how organized they must be, how hard they all must work. He could only imagine how truly horrific a place like this could be if everyone went lazy and stupid.
“Shuck it,” Thomas whispered, almost as a joke. Almost. As strange as it seemed, the word felt natural on his lips, like he was already morphing into a Glader.
wishing he had a flashlight. He thought about flashlights and his memory. Once again, he remembered a tangible thing from his past, but couldn’t assign it to any specific time or place, couldn’t associate it with any other person or event.
“It’s me, Thomas. The new guy. Well, second-newest guy.” He winced and shook his head, hoping now that no one was there. He sounded like a complete idiot.
The grave markers had been painted white, but by someone in an obvious hurry—gelled globs covered them and bare streaks of wood showed through. Names had been carved into the wood.
Thomas felt the odd urge to snicker—it seemed too ridiculous to be true. But he was also disgusted with himself for being so shallow and glib.
He pushed and swatted at his attacker, a relentless jumble of skin and bones cavorting on top of him as he tried to gain purchase.
He heard teeth snapping open and closed, a horrific clack, clack, clack. Then he felt the jarring dagger of pain as the boy’s mouth found a home, bit deeply into Thomas’s shoulder.
His hands were perfectly steady as he held the bow, almost as if he had propped it against a branch for support.
There was the sound of snapping wire. The whoosh of an object slicing through the air. The sickening, wet thunk of it finding a home.
face set in lunacy,
He was so tired, his brain felt like someone had gone in and stapled it to his skull in a dozen places. Heartburn ravaged his chest.
Thomas shrugged. “Work’s probably the best thing I could do. Anything to get my mind off it.” Newt nodded, and his smile became more genuine. “You’re as smart as you look, Tommy. That’s one of the reasons we run this place all nice and busylike. You get lazy, you get sad. Start givin’ up. Plain and simple.”
“Calm your wad, Alby,”
Alby looked over at Thomas, who was shocked to see the slightest hint of a smile flash across his face before vanishing in a scowl. “Minho’s the only shank who can talk to me like that without getting his butt kicked off the Cliff.” Then, surprising Thomas even more, Alby turned and ran off, presumably to get Minho some water. Thomas turned toward Minho. “He lets you boss him around?” Minho shrugged, then wiped fresh beads of sweat off his forehead. “You scared of that pip-squeak? Dude, you got a lot to learn. Freakin’ Newbies.”
“Leader?” Minho barked a grunt that was probably supposed to be a laugh. “Yeah, call him leader all you want. Maybe we should call him El Presidente. Nah, nah—Admiral Alby. There you go.” He rubbed his eyes, snickering as he did so.
Thomas relaxed, returned to a sitting position, surprised at how easily he’d been put back at ease.
Thomas was having the hardest time figuring out if he liked Minho or not—his personality seemed to change every minute.
Guilt consumed him when he realized how he truly felt—he’d been relieved that Ben was dead, that he didn’t have to worry about facing him again.
intense feeling of dreadful anticipation hanging over them like a patch of thick fog.
Thomas was horrified by the whole affair—he couldn’t help feeling responsible even though he’d never done anything to provoke Ben. How was any of this his fault? No answer came to him, but he felt the guilt all the same, like a disease in his blood.
picking it up off the ground as he slid its length through his palm and fingers.
Ben screamed then, without pause, a sound so piercing that Thomas covered his ears. It was a bestial, lunatic cry, surely ripping the boy’s vocal cords to shreds.
