Thomas sat there for several moments, too overwhelmed to move. He finally forced himself to look over at the haggard building. A group of boys milled around outside, glancing anxiously at the upper windows as if expecting a hideous beast to leap out in an explosion of glass and wood.
A metallic clicking sound from the branches above grabbed his attention, made him look up; a flash of silver and red light caught his eyes just before disappearing around the trunk to the other side. He scrambled to his feet and walked around the tree, craning his neck for a sign of whatever he’d heard, but he saw only bare branches, gray and brown, forking out like skeleton fingers—and looking just as alive.
“That was one of them beetle blades,” someone said.
Thomas turned to his right to see a kid standing nearby, short and pudgy, staring at him. He was young—probably the youngest of any in the group he’d seen so far, maybe twelve or thirteen years old. His brown hair hung down over his ears and neck, scraping the tops of his shoulders. Blue eyes shone through an otherwise pitiful face, flabby and flushed.
Thomas nodded at him. “A beetle what?”
“Beetle blade,” the boy said, pointing to the top of the tree. “Won’t hurt ya unless you’re stupid enough to touch one of them.” He paused. “Shank.” He didn’t sound comfortable saying the last word, as if he hadn’t quite grasped the slang of the Glade.
Another scream, this one long and nerve-grinding, tore through the air and Thomas’s heart lurched. The fear was like icy dew on his skin. “What’s going on over there?” he asked, pointing at the building.
“Don’t know,” the chubby boy replied; his voice still carried the high pitch of childhood. “Ben’s in there, sicker than a dog. They got him.”
“They?” Thomas didn’t like the malicious way the boy had said the word.
“Yeah.”
“Who are They?”
“Better hope you never find out,” the kid answered, looking far too comfortable for the situation. He held out his hand. “My name’s Chuck. I was the Greenbean until you showed up.”
This is my guide for the night? Thomas thought. He couldn’t shake his extreme discomfort, and now annoyance crept in as well. Nothing made sense; his head hurt.
“Why is everyone calling me Greenbean?” he asked, shaking Chuck’s hand quickly, then letting go.
“Cuz you’re the newest Newbie.” Chuck pointed at Thomas and laughed. Another scream came from the house, a sound like a starving animal being tortured.
“How can you be laughing?” Thomas asked, horrified by the noise. “It sounds like someone’s dying in there.”
“He’ll be okay. No one dies if they make it back in time to get the Serum. It’s all or nothing. Dead or not dead. Just hurts a lot.”
This gave Thomas pause. “What hurts a lot?”
Chuck’s eyes wandered as if he wasn’t sure what to say. “Um, gettin’ stung by the Grievers.”
“Grievers?” Thomas was only getting more and more confused. Stung. Grievers. The words had a heavy weight of dread to them, and he suddenly wasn’t so sure he wanted to know what Chuck was talking about.
Chuck shrugged, then looked away, eyes rolling.
Thomas sighed in frustration and leaned back against the tree. “Looks like you barely know more than I do,” he said, but he knew it wasn’t true. His memory loss was strange. He mostly remembered the workings of the world—but emptied of specifics, faces, names. Like a book completely intact but missing one word in every dozen, making it a miserable and confusing read. He didn’t even know his age.
“Chuck, how … old do you think I am?”
The boy scanned him up and down. “I’d say you’re sixteen. And in case you were wondering, five foot nine … brown hair. Oh, and ugly as fried liver on a stick.” He snorted a laugh.
Thomas was so stunned he’d barely heard the last part. Sixteen? He was sixteen? He felt much older than that.
“Are you serious?” He paused, searching for words. “How …” He didn’t even know what to ask.
“Don’t worry. You’ll be all whacked for a few days, but then you’ll get used to this place. I have. We live here, this is it. Better than living in a pile of klunk.” He squinted, maybe anticipating Thomas’s question. “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 stood up and walked past Chuck toward the old building; shack was a better word for the place. It looked three or four stories high and about to fall down at any minute—a crazy assortment of logs and boards and thick twine and windows seemingly thrown together at random, the massive, ivy-strewn stone walls rising up behind it. As he moved across the courtyard, the distinct smell of firewood and some kind of meat cooking made his stomach grumble. Knowing now that it was just a sick kid doing the screaming made Thomas feel better. Until he thought about what had caused it …
“What’s your name?” Chuck asked from behind, running to catch up.
“What?”
“Your name? You still haven’t told us—and I know you remember that much.”
“Thomas.” 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?
“Nice to meet you, Thomas,” Chuck said. “Don’t you worry, I’ll take care of you. I’ve been here a whole month, and I know the place inside and out. You can count on Chuck, okay?”
Thomas had almost reached the front door of the shack and the small group of boys congregating there when he was hit by a sudden and surprise rush of anger. He turned to face Chuck. “You can’t even tell me anything. I wouldn’t call that taking care of me.” He turned back toward the door, intent on going inside to find some answers. Where this sudden courage and resolve came from, he had no idea.
Chuck shrugged. “Nothin’ I say’ll do you any good,” he said. “I’m basically still a Newbie, too. But I can be your friend—”
“I don’t need friends,” Thomas interrupted.
He’d reached the door, an ugly slab of sun-faded wood, and he pulled it open to see several stoic-faced boys standing at the foot of a crooked staircase, the steps and railings twisted and angled in all directions. Dark wallpaper covered the walls of the foyer and hallway, half of it peeling off. The only decorations in sight were a dusty vase on a three-legged table and a black-and-white picture of an ancient woman dressed in an old-fashioned white dress. It reminded Thomas of a haunted house from a movie or something. There were even planks of wood missing from the floor.
The place reeked of dust and mildew—a big contrast to the pleasant smells outside. Flickering fluorescent lights shone from the ceiling. He hadn’t thought of it yet, but he had to wonder where the electricity came from in a place like the Glade. He stared at the old woman in the picture. Had she lived here once? Taken care of these people?
“Hey, look, it’s the Greenbean,” one of the older boys called out. With a start, Thomas realized it was the black-haired guy who’d given him the look of death earlier. He looked like he was fifteen or so, tall and skinny. His nose was the size of a small fist and resembled a deformed potato. “This shank probably klunked his pants when he heard old Benny baby scream like a girl. Need a new diaper, shuck-face?”
“My name’s Thomas.” He had to get away from this guy. Without another word, he made for the stairs, only because they were close, only because he had no idea what to do or say. But the bully stepped in front of him, holding a hand up.
“Hold on there, Greenie.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the upper floor. “Newbies aren’t allowed to see someone who’s been … taken. Newt and Alby won’t allow it.”
“What’s your problem?” Thomas asked, trying to keep the fear out of his voice, trying not to think what the kid had meant by taken. “I don’t even know where I am. All I want is some help.”
“Listen to me, Greenbean.” The boy wrinkled up his face, folded his arms. “I’ve seen you before. Something’s fishy about you showing up here, and I’m gonna find out what.”
A surge of heat pulsed through Thomas’s veins. “I’ve never seen you before in my life. I have no idea who you are, and I couldn’t care less,” he spat. But really, how would he know? And how could this kid remember him?
The bully snickered, a short burst of laughter mixed with a phlegm-filled snort. Then his face grew serious, his eyebrows slanting inward. “I’ve … seen you, shank. Not too many in these parts can say they’ve been stung.” He pointed up the stairs. “I have. I know what old Benny baby’s going through. I’ve been there. And I saw you during the Changing.”
He reached out and poked Thomas in the chest. “And I bet your first meal from Frypan that Benny’ll say he’s seen ya, too.”
Thomas refused to break eye contact but decided to say nothing. Panic ate at him once again. Would things ever stop getting worse?
“Griever got ya wettin’ yourself?” the boy said through a sneer. “A little scared now? Don’t wanna get stung, do ya?”
There was that word again. Stung. Thomas tried not to think about it and pointed up the stairs, from where the moans of the sick kid echoed through the building. “If Newt went up there, then I wanna talk to him.”
The boy said nothing, stared at Thomas for several seconds. Then he shook his head. “You know what? You’re right, Tommy—I shouldn’t be so mean to Newbies. Go on upstairs and I’m sure Alby and Newt’ll fill you in. Seriously, go on. I’m sorry.”
He lightly slapped Thomas’s shoulder, then stepped back, gesturing up the stairs. But Thomas knew the kid was up to something. Losing parts of your memory didn’t make you an idiot.
“What’s your name?” Thomas asked, stalling for time while he tried to decide if he should go up after all.
“Gally. And don’t let anyone fool you. I’m the real leader here, not the two geezer shanks upstairs. Me. You can call me Captain Gally if you want.” He smiled for the first time; his teeth matched his disgusting nose. Two or three were missing, and not a single one approached anything close to the color white. His breath escaped just enough for Thomas to get a whiff, reminding him of some horrible memory that was just out of reach. It made his stomach turn.
“Okay,” he said, so sick of the guy he wanted to scream, punch him in the face. “Captain Gally it is.” He exaggerated a salute, feeling a rush of adrenaline, as he knew he’d just crossed a line.
A few snickers escaped the crowd, and Gally looked around, his face bright red. He peered back at Thomas, hatred furrowing his brow and crinkling his monstrous nose.
“Just go up the stairs,” Gally said. “And stay away from me, you little slinthead.” He pointed up again but didn’t take his eyes off Thomas.
“Fine.” Thomas looked around one more time, embarrassed, confused, angry. He felt the heat of blood in his face. No one made a move to stop him from doing as Gally asked, except for Chuck, who stood at the front door, shaking his head.
“You’re not supposed to,” the younger boy said. “You’re a Newbie—you can’t go up there.”
“Go,” said Gally with a sneer. “Go on up.”
Thomas regretted having come inside in the first place—but he did want to talk to that Newt guy.
He started up the stairs. Each step groaned and creaked under his weight; he might’ve stopped for fear of falling through the old wood if he weren’t leaving such an awkward situation below. Up he went, wincing at every splintered sound. The stairs reached a landing, turned left, then came upon a railed hallway leading to several rooms. Only one door had a light coming through the crack at the bottom.
“The Changing!” Gally shouted from below. “Look forward to it, shuck-face!”
As if the taunting gave Thomas a sudden burst of courage, he walked over to the lit door, ignoring the creaking floorboards and laughter downstairs—ignoring the onslaught of words he didn’t understand, suppressing the dreadful feelings they induced. He reached down, turned the brass handle, and opened the door.
Inside the room, Newt and Alby crouched over someone lying on a bed.
Thomas leaned in closer to see what the fuss was all about, but when he got a clear look at the condition of the patient, his heart went cold. He had to fight the bile that surged up his throat.
The look was fast—only a few seconds—but it was enough to haunt him forever. A twisted, pale figure writhing in agony, chest bare and hideous. Tight, rigid cords of sickly green veins webbed across the boy’s body and limbs, like ropes under his skin. Purplish bruises covered the kid, red hives, bloody scratches. His bloodshot eyes bulged, darting back and forth. The image had already burned into Thomas’s mind before Alby jumped up, blocking the view but not the moans and screams, pushing Thomas out of the room, then slamming the door shut behind them.
“What’re you doing up here, Greenie!” Alby yelled, his lips taut with anger, eyes on fire.
Thomas felt weak. “I … uh … want some answers,” he murmured, but he couldn’t put any strength in his words—felt himself give up inside. What was wrong with that kid? Thomas slouched against the railing in the hallway and stared at the floor, not sure what to do next.
“Get your runtcheeks down those stairs, right now,” Alby ordered. “Chuck’ll help you. If I see you again before tomorrow morning, you ain’t reachin’ another one alive. I’ll throw you off the Cliff myself, you get me?”
Thomas was humiliated and scared. He felt like he’d shrunk to the size of a small rat. Without saying a word, he pushed past Alby and headed down the creaky steps, going as fast as he dared. Ignoring the gaping stares of everyone at the bottom—especially Gally—he walked out the door, pulling Chuck by the arm as he did so.
Thomas hated these people. He hated all of them. Except Chuck. “Get me away from these guys,” Thomas said. He realized that Chuck might actually be his only friend in the world.
“You got it,” Chuck replied, his voice chipper, as if thrilled to be needed. “But first we should get you some food from Frypan.”
“I don’t know if I can ever eat again.” Not after what he’d just seen.
Chuck nodded. “Yeah, you will. I’ll meet you at the same tree as before. Ten minutes.”
Thomas was more than happy to get away from the house, and headed back toward the tree. He’d only known what it was like to be alive here for a short while and he already wanted it to end. He wished for all the world he could remember something about his previous life. Anything. His mom, his dad, a friend, his school, a hobby. A girl.
He blinked hard several times, trying to get the image of what he’d just seen in the shack out of his mind.
The Changing. Gally had called it the Changing.
It wasn’t cold, but Thomas shuddered once again.
Thomas leaned against the tree as he waited for Chuck. He scanned the compound of the Glade, this new place of nightmares where he seemed destined to live. The shadows from the walls had lengthened considerably, already creeping up the sides of the ivy-covered stone faces on the other side.
At least this helped Thomas know directions—the wooden building crouched in the northwest corner, wedged in a darkening patch of shadow, the grove of trees in the southwest. The farm area, where a few workers were still picking their way through the fields, spread across the entire northeast quarter of the Glade. The animals were in the southeast corner, mooing and crowing and baying.
In the exact middle of the courtyard, the still-gaping hole of the Box lay open, as if inviting him to jump back in and go home. Near that, maybe twenty feet to the south, stood a squat building made of rough concrete blocks, a menacing iron door its only entrance—there were no windows. A large round handle resembling a steel steering wheel marked the only way to open the door, just like something within a submarine. Despite what he’d just seen, Thomas didn’t know which he felt more strongly—curiosity to know what was inside, or dread at finding out.
Thomas had just moved his attention to the four vast openings in the middle of the main walls of the Glade when 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.
“Frypan wasn’t too happy about me invading his kitchen before suppertime,” Chuck said, sitting down next to the tree, motioning to Thomas to do the same. He did, grabbed the sandwich, but hesitated, the writhing, monstrous image of what he’d seen in the shack popping back into his mind. Soon, though, his hunger won out and he took a huge bite. The wonderful tastes of ham and cheese and mayonnaise filled his mouth.
“Ah, man,” Thomas mumbled through a mouthful. “I was starving.”
“Told ya.” Chuck chomped into his own sandwich.
After another couple of bites, Thomas finally asked the question that had been bothering him. “What’s actually wrong with that Ben guy? He doesn’t even look human anymore.”
Chuck glanced over at the house. “Don’t really know,” he muttered absently. “I didn’t see him.”
Thomas could tell the boy was being less than honest but decided not to press him. “Well, you don’t want to see him, trust me.” He continued to eat, munching on the apples as he studied the huge breaks in the walls. Though it was hard to make out from where he sat, there was something odd about the stone edges of the exits to the outside corridors. He felt an uncomfortable sense of vertigo looking at the towering walls, as if he hovered above them instead of sitting at their base.
“What’s out there?” he asked, finally breaking the silence. “Is this part of a huge castle or something?”
Chuck hesitated. Looked uncomfortable. “Um, I’ve never been outside the Glade.”
Thomas paused. “You’re hiding something,” he finally replied, finishing off his last bite and taking a long swig of water. The frustration at getting no answers from anyone was starting to grind his nerves. It only made it worse to think that even if he did get answers, he wouldn’t know if he’d be getting the truth. “Why are you guys so secretive?”
“That’s just the way it is. Things are really weird around here, and most of us don’t know everything. Half of everything.”
It bothered Thomas that Chuck didn’t seem to care about what he’d just said. That he seemed indifferent to having his life taken away from him. What was wrong with these people? Thomas got to his feet and started walking toward the eastern opening. “Well, no one said I couldn’t look around.” He needed to learn something or he was going to lose his mind.
“Whoa, wait!” Chuck cried, running to catch up. “Be careful, those puppies are about to close.” He already sounded out of breath.
“Close?” Thomas repeated. “What are you talking about?”
“The Doors, you shank.”
“Doors? I don’t see any doors.” Thomas knew Chuck wasn’t just making stuff up—he knew he was missing something obvious. He grew uneasy and realized he’d slowed his pace, not so eager to reach the walls anymore.
“What do you call those big openings?” Chuck pointed up at the enormously tall gaps in the walls. They were only thirty feet away now.
“I’d call them big openings,” Thomas said, trying to counter his discomfort with sarcasm and disappointed that it wasn’t working.
“Well, they’re doors. And they close up every night.”
Thomas stopped, thinking Chuck had to have said something wrong. He looked up, looked side to side, examined the massive slabs of stone as the uneasy feeling blossomed into outright dread. “What do you mean, they close?”
“Just see for yourself in a minute. The Runners’ll be back soon; then those big walls are going to move until the gaps are closed.”
“You’re jacked in the head,” Thomas muttered. He couldn’t see how the mammoth walls could possibly be mobile—felt so sure of it he relaxed, thinking Chuck was just playing a trick on him.
They reached the huge split that led outside to more stone pathways. Thomas gaped, his mind emptying of thought as he saw it all firsthand.
“This is called the East Door,” Chuck said, as if proudly revealing a piece of art he’d created.
Thomas barely heard him, shocked by how much bigger it was up close. At least twenty feet across, the break in the wall went all the way to the top, far above. The edges that bordered the vast opening were smooth, except for one odd, repeating pattern on both sides. On the left side of the East Door, deep holes several inches in diameter and spaced a foot apart were bored into the rock, beginning near the ground and continuing all the way up.
On the right side of the Door, foot-long rods jutted out from the wall edge, also several inches in diameter, in the same pattern as the holes facing them on the other side. The purpose was obvious.
“Are you kidding?” Thomas asked, the dread slamming back into his gut. “You weren’t playing with me? The walls really move?”
“What else would I have meant?”
Thomas had a hard time wrapping his mind around the possibility. “I don’t know. I figured there was a door that swung shut or a little mini-wall that slid out of the big one. How could these walls move? They’re huge, and they look like they’ve been standing here for a thousand years.” And the idea of those walls closing and trapping him inside this place they called the Glade was downright terrifying.
Chuck threw his arms up, clearly frustrated. “I don’t know, they just move. Makes one heck of a grinding noise. Same thing happens out in the Maze—those walls shift every night, too.”
Thomas, his attention suddenly snapped up by a new detail, turned to face the younger boy. “What did you just say?”
“Huh?”
“You just called it a maze—you said, ‘same thing happens out in the maze.’”
Chuck’s face reddened. “I’m done with you. I’m done.” He walked back toward the tree they’d just left.
Thomas ignored him, more interested than ever in the outside of the Glade. A maze? In front of him, through the East Door, he could make out passages leading to the left, to the right, and straight ahead. And the walls of the corridors were similar to those that surrounded the Glade, the ground made of the same massive stone blocks as in the courtyard. The ivy seemed even thicker out there. In the distance, more breaks in the walls led to other paths, and farther down, maybe a hundred yards or so away, the straight passage came to a dead end.
“Looks like a maze,” Thomas whispered, almost laughing to himself. As if things couldn’t have gotten any stranger. They’d wiped his memory and put him inside a gigantic maze. It was all so crazy it really did seem funny.
His heart skipped a beat when a boy unexpectedly appeared around a corner up ahead, entering the main passage from one of the offshoots to the right, running toward him and the Glade. Covered in sweat, his face red, clothes sticking to his body, the boy didn’t slow, hardly glancing at Thomas as he went past. He headed straight for the squat concrete building located near the Box.
Thomas turned as he passed, his eyes riveted to the exhausted runner, unsure why this new development surprised him so much. Why wouldn’t people go out and search the maze? Then he realized others were entering through the remaining three Glade openings, all of them running and looking as ragged as the guy who’d just whisked by him. There couldn’t be much good about the maze if these guys came back looking so weary and worn.
He watched, curious, as they met at the big iron door of the small building; one of the boys turned the rusty wheel handle, grunting with the effort. Chuck had said something about runners earlier. What had they been doing out there?
The big door finally popped open, and with a deafening squeal of metal against metal, the boys swung it wide. They disappeared inside, pulling it shut behind them with a loud clonk. Thomas stared, his mind churning to come up with any possible explanation for what he’d just witnessed. Nothing developed, but something about that creepy old building gave him goose bumps, a disquieting chill.
Someone tugged on his sleeve, breaking him from his thoughts; Chuck had come back.
Before Thomas had a chance to think, questions were rushing out of his mouth. “Who are those guys and what were they doing? What’s in that building?” He wheeled around and pointed out the East Door. “And why do you live inside a freaking maze?” He felt a rattling pressure of uncertainty, making his head splinter with pain.
“I’m not saying another word,” Chuck replied, a new authority filling his voice. “I think you should get to bed early—you’ll need your sleep. Ah”—he stopped, held up a finger, pricking up his right ear—”it’s about to happen.”
“What?” Thomas asked, thinking it kind of strange that Chuck was suddenly acting like an adult instead of the little kid desperate for a friend he’d been only moments earlier.
A loud boom exploded through the air, making Thomas jump. It was followed by a horrible crunching, grinding sound. He stumbled backward, fell to the ground. It felt as if the whole earth shook; he looked around, panicked. The walls were closing. The walls were really closing—trapping him inside the Glade. An onrushing sense of claustrophobia stifled him, compressed his lungs, as if water filled their cavities.
“Calm down, Greenie,” Chuck yelled over the noise. “It’s just the walls!”
Thomas barely heard him, too fascinated, too shaken by the closing of the Doors. He scrambled to his feet and took a few trembling steps back for a better view, finding it hard to believe what his eyes were seeing.
The enormous stone wall to the right of them seemed to defy every known law of physics as it slid along the ground, throwing sparks and dust as it moved, rock against rock. The crunching sound rattled his bones. Thomas realized that only that wall was moving, heading for its neighbor to the left, ready to seal shut with its protruding rods slipping into the drilled holes across from it. He looked around at the other openings. It felt like his head was spinning faster than his body, and his stomach flipped over with the dizziness. On all four sides of the Glade, only the right walls were moving, toward the left, closing the gap of the Doors.
Impossible, he thought. How can they do that? He fought the urge to run out there, slip past the moving slabs of rock before they shut, flee the Glade. Common sense won out—the maze held even more unknowns than his situation inside.
He tried to picture in his mind how the structure of it all worked. Massive stone walls, hundreds of feet high, moving like sliding glass doors—an image from his past life that flashed through his thoughts. He tried to grasp the memory, hold on to it, complete the picture with faces, names, a place, but it faded into obscurity. A pang of sadness pricked through his other swirling emotions.
He watched as the right wall reached the end of its journey, its connecting rods finding their mark and entering without a glitch. An echoing boom rumbled across the Glade as all four Doors sealed shut for the night. Thomas felt one final moment of trepidation, a quick slice of fear through his body, and then it vanished.
A surprising sense of calm eased his nerves; he let out a long sigh of relief. “Wow,” he said, feeling dumb at such a monumental understatement.
“Ain’t nothin’, as Alby would say,” Chuck murmured. “You kind of get used to it after a while.”
Thomas looked around one more time, the feel of the place completely different now that all the walls were solid with no way out. He tried to imagine the purpose of such a thing, and he didn’t know which guess was worse—that they were being sealed in or that they were being protected from something out there. The thought ended his brief moment of calm, stirring in his mind a million possibilities of what might live in the maze outside, all of them terrifying. Fear gripped him once again.
“Come on,” Chuck said, pulling at Thomas’s sleeve a second time. “Trust me, when nighttime strikes, you want to be in bed.”
Thomas knew he had no other choice. He did his best to suppress everything he was feeling and followed.