Thomas stared at the spot where Minho had vanished.
A sudden dislike for the guy swelled up inside him. Minho was a veteran in this place, a Runner. Thomas was a Newbie, just a few days in the Glade, a few minutes in the Maze. Yet of the two of them, Minho had broken down and panicked, only to run off at the first sign of trouble. How could he leave me here? Thomas thought. How could he do that!
The noises grew louder. The roar of engines interspersed with rolling, cranking sounds like chains hoisting machinery in an old, grimy factory. And then came the smell—something burning, oily. Thomas couldn’t begin to guess what was in store for him; he’d seen a Griever, but only a glimpse, and through a dirty window. What would they do to him? How long would he last?
Stop, he told himself. He had to quit wasting time waiting for them to come and end his life.
He turned and faced Alby, still propped against the stone wall, now only a mound of shadow in the darkness. Kneeling on the ground, Thomas found Alby’s neck, then searched for a pulse. Something there. He listened at his chest like Minho had done.
buh-bump, buh-bump, buh-bump
Still alive.
Thomas rocked back on his heels, then ran his arm across his forehead, wiping away the sweat. And at that moment, in the space of only a few seconds, he learned a lot about himself. About the Thomas that was before.
He couldn’t leave a friend to die. Even someone as cranky as Alby.
He reached down and grabbed both of Alby’s arms, then squatted into a sitting position and wrapped the arms around his neck from behind. He pulled the lifeless body onto his back and pushed with his legs, grunting with the effort.
But it was too much. Thomas collapsed forward onto his face; Alby sprawled to the side with a loud flump.
The frightening sounds of the Grievers grew closer by the second, echoing off the stone walls of the Maze. Thomas thought he could see bright flashes of light far away, bouncing off the night sky. He didn’t want to meet the source of those lights, those sounds.
Trying a new approach, he grabbed Alby’s arms again and started dragging him along the ground. He couldn’t believe how heavy the boy was, and it took only ten feet or so for Thomas to realize that it just wasn’t going to work. Where would he take him, anyway?
He pushed and pulled Alby back over to the crack that marked the entrance to the Glade, and propped him once more into a sitting position, leaning against the stone wall.
Thomas sat back against it himself, panting from exertion, thinking. As he looked into the dark recesses of the Maze, he searched his mind for a solution. He could hardly see anything, and he knew, despite what Minho had said, that it’d be stupid to run even if he could carry Alby. Not only was there the chance of getting lost, he could actually find himself running toward the Grievers instead of away from them.
He thought of the wall, the ivy. Minho hadn’t explained, but he had made it sound as if climbing the walls was impossible. Still …
A plan formed in his mind. It all depended on the unknown abilities of the Grievers, but it was the best thing he could come up with.
Thomas walked a few feet along the wall until he found a thick growth of ivy covering most of the stone. He reached down and grabbed one of the vines that went all the way to the ground and wrapped his hand around it. It felt thicker and more solid than he would’ve imagined, maybe a half-inch in diameter. He pulled on it, and with the sound of thick paper ripping apart, the vine came unattached from the wall—more and more as Thomas stepped away from it. When he’d moved back ten feet, he could no longer see the end of the vine way above; it disappeared in the darkness. But the trailing plant had yet to fall free, so Thomas knew it was still attached up there somewhere.
Hesitant to try, Thomas steeled himself and pulled on the vine of ivy with all his strength.
It held.
He yanked on it again. Then again, pulling and relaxing with both hands over and over. Then he lifted his feet and hung onto the vine; his body swung forward.
The vine held.
Quickly, Thomas grabbed other vines, ripping them away from the wall, creating a series of climbing ropes. He tested each one, and they all proved to be as strong as the first. Encouraged, he went back to Alby and dragged him over to the vines.
A sharp crack echoed from within the Maze, followed by the horrible sound of crumpling metal. Thomas, startled, swung around to look, his mind so concentrated on the vines that he’d momentarily shut out the Grievers; he searched all three directions of the Maze. He couldn’t see anything coming, but the sounds were louder—the whirring, the groaning, the clanging. And the air had brightened ever so slightly; he could make out more of the details of the Maze than he’d been able to just minutes before.
He remembered the odd lights he’d observed through the Glade window with Newt. The Grievers were close. They had to be.
Thomas pushed aside the swelling panic and set himself to work.
He grabbed one of the vines and wrapped it around Alby’s right arm. The plant would only reach so far, so he had to prop Alby up as much as he could to make it work. After several wraps, he tied the vine off. Then he took another vine and put it around Alby’s left arm, then both of his legs, tying each one tightly. He worried about the Glader’s circulation getting cut off, but decided it was worth the risk.
Trying to ignore the doubt that was seeping into his mind about the plan, Thomas continued on. Now it was his turn.
He snatched a vine with both hands and started to climb, directly over the spot where he’d just tied up Alby. The thick leaves of the ivy served well as handholds, and Thomas was elated to find that the many cracks in the stone wall were perfect supports for his feet as he climbed. He began to think how easy it would be without …
He refused to finish the thought. He couldn’t leave Alby behind.
Once he reached a point a couple of feet above his friend, Thomas wrapped one of the vines around his own chest, around and around several times, snug against his armpits for support. Slowly, he let himself sag, letting go with his hands but keeping his feet planted firmly in a large crack. Relief filled him when the vine held.
Now came the really hard part.
The four vines tied to Alby below hung tautly around him. Thomas took hold of the one attached to Alby’s left leg, and pulled. He was only able to get it up a few inches before letting go—the weight was too much. He couldn’t do it.
He climbed back down to the Maze floor, decided to try pushing from below instead of pulling from above. To test it, he tried raising Alby only a couple of feet, limb by limb. First, he pushed the left leg up, then tied a new vine around it. Then the right leg. When both were secure, Thomas did the same to Alby’s arms—right, then left.
He stepped back, panting, to take a look.
Alby hung there, seemingly lifeless, now three feet higher than he’d been five minutes earlier.
Clangs from the Maze. Whirrs. Buzzes. Moans. Thomas thought he saw a couple of red flashes to his left. The Grievers were getting closer, and it was now obvious that there were more than one.
He got back to work.
Using the same method of pushing each of Alby’s arms and legs up two or three feet at a time, Thomas slowly made his way up the stone wall. He climbed until he was right below the body, wrapped a vine around his own chest for support, then pushed Alby up as far as he could, limb by limb, and tied them off with ivy. Then he repeated the whole process.
Climb, wrap, push up, tie off.
Climb, wrap, push up, tie off. The Grievers at least seemed to be moving slowly through the Maze, giving him time.
Over and over, little by little, up they went. The effort was exhausting; Thomas heaved in every breath, felt sweat cover every inch of his skin. His hands began to slip and slide on the vines. His feet ached from pressing into the stone cracks. The sounds grew louder—the awful, awful sounds. Still Thomas worked.
When they’d reached a spot about thirty feet off the ground, Thomas stopped, swaying on the vine he’d tied around his chest. Using his drained, rubbery arms, he turned himself around to face the Maze. An exhaustion he’d not known possible filled every tiny particle of his body. He ached with weariness; his muscles screamed. He couldn’t push Alby up another inch. He was done.
This was where they’d hide. Or make their stand.
He’d known they couldn’t reach the top—he only hoped the Grievers couldn’t or wouldn’t look above them. Or, at the very least, Thomas hoped he could fight them off from high up, one by one, instead of being overwhelmed on the ground.
He had no idea what to expect; he didn’t know if he’d see tomorrow. But here, hanging in the ivy, Thomas and Alby would meet their fate.
A few minutes passed before Thomas saw the first glimmer of light shine off the Maze walls up ahead. The terrible sounds he’d heard escalate for the last hour took on a high-pitched, mechanical squeal, like a robotic death yell.
A red light to his left, on the wall, caught his attention. He turned and almost screamed out loud—a beetle blade was only a few inches from him, its spindly legs poking through the ivy and somehow sticking to the stone. The red light of its eye was like a little sun, too bright to look at directly. Thomas squinted and tried to focus on the beetle’s body.
The torso was a silver cylinder, maybe three inches in diameter and ten inches long. Twelve jointed legs ran along the length of its bottom, spread out, making the thing look like a sleeping lizard. The head was impossible to see because of the red beam of light shining right at him, though it seemed small, vision its only purpose, perhaps.
But then Thomas saw the most chilling part. He thought he’d seen it before, back in the Glade when the beetle blade had scooted past him and into the woods. Now it was confirmed: the red light from its eye cast a creepy glow on six capital letters smeared across the torso, as if they had been written with blood:
WICKED
Thomas couldn’t imagine why that one word would be stamped on the beetle blade, unless for the purpose of announcing to the Gladers that it was evil. Wicked.
He knew it had to be a spy for whoever had sent them here—Alby had told him as much, saying the beetles were how the Creators watched them. Thomas stilled himself, held his breath, hoping that maybe the beetle only detected movement. Long seconds passed, his lungs screaming for air.
With a click and then a clack, the beetle turned and scuttled off, disappearing into the ivy. Thomas sucked in a huge gulp of air, then another, feeling the pinch of the vines tied around his chest.
Another mechanical squeal screeched through the Maze, close now, followed by the surge of revved machinery. Thomas tried to imitate Alby’s lifeless body, hanging limp in the vines.
And then something rounded the corner up ahead, and came toward them.
Something he’d seen before, but through the safety of thick glass.
Something unspeakable.
A Griever.
Thomas stared in horror at the monstrous thing making its way down the long corridor of the Maze.
It looked like an experiment gone terribly wrong—something from a nightmare. Part animal, part machine, the Griever rolled and clicked along the stone pathway. Its body resembled a gigantic slug, sparsely covered in hair and glistening with slime, grotesquely pulsating in and out as it breathed. It had no distinguishable head or tail, but front to end it was at least six feet long, four feet thick.
Every ten to fifteen seconds, sharp metal spikes popped through its bulbous flesh and the whole creature abruptly curled into a ball and spun forward. Then it would settle, seeming to gather its bearings, the spikes receding back through the moist skin with a sick slurping sound. It did this over and over, traveling just a few feet at a time.
But hair and spikes were not the only things protruding from the Griever’s body. Several randomly placed mechanical arms stuck out here and there, each one with a different purpose. A few had bright lights attached to them. Others had long, menacing needles. One had a three-fingered claw that clasped and unclasped for no apparent reason. When the creature rolled, these arms folded and maneuvered to avoid being crushed. Thomas wondered what—or who—could create such frightening, disgusting creatures.
The source of the sounds he’d been hearing made sense now. When the Griever rolled, it made the metallic whirring sound, like the spinning blade of a saw. The spikes and the arms explained the creepy clicking sounds, metal against stone. But nothing sent chills up and down Thomas’s spine like the haunted, deathly moans that somehow escaped the creature when it sat still, like the sound of dying men on a battlefield.
Seeing it all now—the beast matched with the sounds—Thomas couldn’t think of any nightmare that could equal this hideous thing coming toward him. He fought the fear, forced his body to remain perfectly still, hanging there in the vines. He was sure their only hope was to avoid being noticed.
Maybe it won’t see us, he thought. Just maybe. But the reality of the situation sank like a stone in his belly. The beetle blade had already revealed his exact position.
The Griever rolled and clicked its way closer, zigzagging back and forth, moaning and whirring. Every time it stopped, the metal arms unfolded and turned this way and that, like a roving robot on an alien planet looking for signs of life. The lights cast eerie shadows across the Maze. A faint memory tried to escape the locked box within his mind—shadows on the walls when he was a kid, scaring him. He longed to be back to wherever that was, to run to the mom and dad he hoped still lived, somewhere, missing him, searching for him.
A strong whiff of something burnt stung his nostrils; a sick mixture of overheated engines and charred flesh. He couldn’t believe people could create something so horrible and send it after kids.
Trying not to think about it, Thomas closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated on remaining still and quiet. The creature kept coming.
whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
click-click-click
whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
click-click-click
Thomas peeked down without moving his head—the Griever had finally reached the wall where he and Alby hung. It paused by the closed Door that led into the Glade, only a few yards to Thomas’s right.
Please go the other way, Thomas pleaded silently.
Turn.
Go.
That way.
Please!
The Griever’s spikes popped out; its body rolled toward Thomas and Alby.
whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
click-click-click
It came to a stop, then rolled once more, right up to the wall.
Thomas held his breath, not daring to make the slightest sound. The Griever now sat directly below them. Thomas wanted to look down so badly, but knew any movement might give him away. The beams of light from the creature shone all over the place, completely random, never settling in one spot.
Then, without warning, they went out.
The world turned instantly dark and silent. It was as if the creature had turned off. It didn’t move, made no sound—even the haunting groans had stopped completely. And with no more lights, Thomas couldn’t see a single thing.
He was blind.
He took small breaths through his nose; his pumping heart needed oxygen desperately. Could it hear him? Smell him? Sweat drenched his hair, his hands, his clothes, everything. A fear he had never known filled him to the point of insanity.
Still, nothing. No movement, no light, no sound. The anticipation of trying to guess its next move was killing Thomas.
Seconds passed. Minutes. The ropy plant dug into Thomas’s flesh—his chest felt numb. He wanted to scream at the monster below him: Kill me or go back to your hiding hole!
Then, in a sudden burst of light and sound, the Griever came back to life, whirring and clicking.
And then it started to climb the wall.
The Griever’s spikes tore into the stone, throwing shredded ivy and rock chips in every direction. Its arms shifted about like the legs of the beetle blade, some with sharp picks that drove into the stone of the wall for support. A bright light on the end of one arm pointed directly at Thomas, only this time, the beam didn’t move away.
Thomas felt the last drop of hope drain from his body.
He knew the only option left was to run. I’m sorry, Alby, he thought as he unraveled the thick vine from his chest. Using his left hand to hold tight to the foliage above him, he finished unwrapping himself and prepared to move. He knew he couldn’t go up—that would bring the Griever across the path of Alby. Down, of course, was only an option if he wanted to die as quickly as possible.
He had to go to the side.
Thomas reached out and grabbed a vine two feet to the left of where he hung. Wrapping it around his hand, he yanked on it with a sharp tug. It held true, just like all the others. A quick glance below revealed that the Griever had already halved the distance between them, and it was moving faster yet, no more pauses or stops.
Thomas let go of the rope he’d used around his chest and heaved his body to the left, scraping along the wall. Before his pendulum swing took him back toward Alby, he reached out for another vine, catching a nice thick one. This time he grabbed it with both hands and turned to plant the bottom of his feet on the wall. He shuffled his body to the right as far as the plant would let him, then let go and grabbed another one. Then another. Like some tree-climbing monkey, Thomas found he could move more quickly than he ever could’ve hoped.
The sounds of his pursuer went on relentlessly, only now with the bone-shuddering addition of cracking and splitting rock joined in. Thomas swung to the right several more times before he dared to look back.
The Griever had altered its course from Alby to head directly for Thomas. Finally, Thomas thought, something went right. Pushing off with his feet as strongly as he could, swing by swing, he fled the hideous thing.
Thomas didn’t need to look behind him to know the Griever was gaining on him with every passing second. The sounds gave it away. Somehow, he had to get back to the ground, or it would all end quickly.
On the next switch, he let his hand slip a bit before clasping tightly. The ivy-rope burned his palm, but he’d slipped several feet closer to the ground. He did the same with the next vine. And the next. Three swings later he’d made his way halfway to the Maze floor. Scorching pain flared up both his arms; he felt the sting of raw skin on his hands. The adrenaline rushing through his body helped push away his fear—he just kept moving.
On his next swing, the darkness prevented Thomas from seeing a new wall looming in front of him until it was too late; the corridor ended and turned to the right.
He slammed into the stone ahead, losing his grip on the vine. Throwing his arms out, Thomas flailed, reaching and grabbing to stop his plunge to the hard stone below. At the same instant, he saw the Griever out of the corner of his left eye. It had altered its course and was almost on him, reaching out with its clasping claw.
Thomas found a vine halfway to the ground and grasped it, his arms almost ripping out of their sockets at the sudden stop. He pushed off the wall with both feet as hard as he could, swinging his body away from it just as the Griever charged in with its claw and needles. Thomas kicked out with his right leg, connecting with the arm attached to the claw. A sharp crack revealed a small victory, but any elation ended when he realized that the momentum of his swing was now pulling him back down to land right on top of the creature.
Pulsing with adrenaline, Thomas drew his legs together and pulled them tight against his chest. As soon as he made contact with the Griever’s body, disgustingly sinking inches into its gushy skin, he kicked out with both feet to push off, squirming to avoid the swarm of needles and claws coming at him from all directions. He swung his body out and to the left; then he jumped toward the wall of the Maze, trying to grab another vine; the Griever’s vicious tools snapped and clawed at him from behind. He felt a deep scratch on his back.
Flailing once again, Thomas found a new vine and clutched it with both hands. He gripped the plant just enough to slow him down as he slid to the ground, ignoring the horrible burn. As soon as his feet hit the solid stone floor, he took off, running despite the scream of exhaustion from his body.
A booming crash sounded behind him, followed by the rolling, cracking, whirring of the Griever. But Thomas refused to look back, knowing every second counted.
He rounded a corner of the Maze, then another. Pounding the stone with his feet, he fled as fast as he possibly could. Somewhere in his mind he tracked his own movements, hoping he’d live long enough to use the information to return to the Door again.
Right, then left. Down a long corridor, then right again. Left. Right. Two lefts. Another long corridor. The sounds of pursuit from behind didn’t relent or fade, but he wasn’t losing ground, either.
On and on he ran, his heart ready to blow its way out of his chest. With great, sucking heaves of breath, he tried to get oxygen in his lungs, but he knew he couldn’t last much longer. He wondered if it’d just be easier to turn and fight, get it over with.
When he rounded the next corner, he skidded to a halt at the sight in front of him. Panting uncontrollably, he stared.
Three Grievers were up ahead, rolling along as they dug their spikes into the stone, coming directly toward him.
Thomas turned to see his original pursuer still coming, though it had slowed a bit, clasping and unclasping a metal claw as if mocking him, laughing.
It knows I’m done, he thought. After all that effort, here he was, surrounded by Grievers. It was over. Not even a week of salvageable memory, and his life was over.
Almost consumed by grief, he made a decision. He’d go down fighting.
Much preferring one over three, he ran straight toward the Griever that had chased him there. The ugly thing retracted just an inch, stopped moving its claw, as if shocked at his boldness. Taking heart at the slight falter, Thomas started screaming as he charged.
The Griever came to life, spikes popping out of its skin; it rolled forward, ready to collide head-on with its foe. The sudden movement almost made Thomas stop, his brief moment of insane courage washing away, but he kept running.
At the last second before collision, just as he got a close look at the metal and hair and slime, Thomas planted his left foot and dove to the right. Unable to stop its momentum, the Griever zoomed straight past him before it shuddered to a halt—Thomas noticed the thing was moving a lot faster now. With a metallic howl, it swiveled and readied to pounce on its victim. But now, no longer surrounded, Thomas had a clear shot away, back down the path.
He scrambled to his feet and sprinted forward. Sounds of pursuit, this time from all four Grievers, followed close behind. Sure that he was pushing his body beyond its physical limits, he ran on, trying to rid himself of the hopeless feeling that it was only a matter of time before they got him.
Then, three corridors down, two hands suddenly reached out and yanked him into the adjoining hallway. Thomas’s heart leaped into his throat as he struggled to free himself. He stopped when he realized it was Minho.
“What—”
“Shut up and follow me!” Minho yelled, already dragging Thomas away until he was able to get his feet under him.
Without a moment to think, Thomas collected himself. Together, they ran through corridors, taking turn after turn. Minho seemed to know exactly what he was doing, where he was going; he never paused to think about which way they should run.
As they rounded the next corner, Minho attempted to speak. Between heaving breaths, he gasped, “I just saw … the dive move you did … back there … gave me an idea … we only have to last … a little while longer.”
Thomas didn’t bother wasting his own breath on questions; he just kept running, following Minho. Without having to look behind him, he knew the Grievers were gaining ground at an alarming rate. Every inch of his body hurt, inside and out; his limbs cried for him to quit running. But he ran on, hoped his heart didn’t quit pumping.
A few turns later, Thomas saw something ahead of them that didn’t register with his brain. It seemed … wrong. And the faint light emanating from their pursuers made the oddity up ahead all the more apparent.
The corridor didn’t end in another stone wall.
It ended in blackness.
Thomas narrowed his eyes as they ran toward the wall of darkness, trying to comprehend what they were approaching. The two ivy-covered walls on either side of him seemed to intersect with nothing but sky up ahead. He could see stars. As they got closer, he finally realized that it was an opening—the Maze ended.
How? he wondered. After years of searching, how did Minho and I find it this easily?
Minho seemed to sense his thoughts. “Don’t get excited,” he said, barely able to get the words out.
A few feet before the end of the corridor, Minho pulled up, holding his hand out over Thomas’s chest to make sure he stopped, too. Thomas slowed, then walked up to where the Maze opened out into open sky. The sounds of the onrushing Grievers grew closer, but he had to see.
They had indeed reached a way out of the Maze, but like Minho had said, it was nothing to get excited about. All Thomas could see in every direction, up and down, side to side, was empty air and fading stars. It was a strange and unsettling sight, like he was standing at the edge of the universe, and for a brief moment he was overcome by vertigo, his knees weakening before he steadied himself.
Dawn was beginning to make its mark, the sky seeming to have lightened considerably even in the last minute or so. Thomas stared in complete disbelief, not understanding how it could all be possible. It was like somebody had built the Maze and then set it afloat in the sky to hover there in the middle of nothing for the rest of eternity.
“I don’t get it,” he whispered, not knowing if Minho could even hear him.
“Careful,” the Runner replied. “You wouldn’t be the first shank to fall off the Cliff.” He grabbed Thomas’s shoulder. “Did you forget something?” He nodded back toward the inside of the Maze.
Thomas remembered hearing the word Cliff before, but couldn’t place it at the moment. Seeing the vast, open sky in front of and below him had put him into some kind of hypnotized stupor. He shook himself back to reality and turned to face the oncoming Grievers. They were now only dozens of yards away, single file, charging in with a vengeance, moving surprisingly fast.
Everything clicked, then, even before Minho explained what they were going to do.
“These things may be vicious,” Minho said, “but they’re dumb as dirt. Stand here, close to me, facing—”
Thomas cut him off. “I know. I’m ready.”
They shuffled their feet until they stood scrunched up together in front of the drop-off at the very middle of the corridor, facing the Grievers. Their heels were only inches from the edge of the Cliff behind them, nothing but air waiting after that.
The only thing left for them was courage.
“We need to be in sync!” Minho yelled, almost drowned out by the earsplitting sounds of the thundering spikes rolling along the stone. “On my mark!”
Why the Grievers had lined up single file was a mystery. Maybe the Maze proved just narrow enough to make it awkward for them to travel side by side. But one after the other, they rolled down the stone hallway, clicking and moaning and ready to kill. Dozens of yards had become dozens of feet, and the monsters were only seconds away from crashing into the waiting boys.
“Ready,” Minho said steadily. “Not yet … not yet …”
Thomas hated every millisecond of waiting. He just wanted to close his eyes and never see another Griever again.
“Now!” screamed Minho.
Just as the first Griever’s arm extended out to nip at them, Minho and Thomas dove in opposite directions, each toward one of the outer walls of the corridor. The tactic had worked for Thomas earlier, and judging by the horrible screeching sound that escaped the first Griever, it had worked again. The monster flew off the edge of the Cliff. Oddly, its battle cry cut off sharply instead of fading as it plummeted to the depths beyond.
Thomas landed against the wall and spun just in time to see the second creature tumble over the edge, not able to stop itself. The third one planted a heavily spiked arm into the stone, but its momentum was too much. The nerve-grinding squeal of the spike cutting through the ground sent a shiver up Thomas’s spine, though a second later the Griever tumbled into the abyss. Again, neither of them made a sound as they fell—as if they’d disappeared instead of falling.
The fourth and final approaching creature was able to stop in time, teetering on the very edge of the cliff, a spike and a claw holding it in place.
Instinctively Thomas knew what he had to do. Looking to Minho, he nodded, then turned. Both boys ran in at the Griever and jumped feetfirst at the creature, kicking out at the last second with every waning bit of strength. They both connected, sending the last monster plummeting to its death.
Thomas quickly scrambled to the edge of the abyss, poking his head over to see the falling Grievers. But impossibly, they were gone—not even a sign of them in the emptiness that stretched below. Nothing.
His mind couldn’t process the thought of where the Cliff led or what had happened to the terrible creatures. His last ounce of strength disappeared, and he curled into a ball on the ground.
Then, finally, came the tears.