Thomas refused to talk to anyone the rest of the day.
Teresa tried several times. But he kept telling her he didn’t feel good, that he just wanted to be alone and sleep in his spot behind the forest, maybe spend some time thinking. Try to discover a hidden secret within his mind that would help them know what to do.
But in truth, he was psyching himself up for what he had planned for that evening, convincing himself it was the right thing to do. The only thing to do. Plus, he was absolutely terrified and he didn’t want the others to notice.
Eventually, when his watch showed that evening had arrived, he went to the Homestead with everyone else. He barely noticed he’d been hungry until he started eating Frypan’s hastily prepared meal of biscuits and tomato soup.
And then it was time for another sleepless night.
The Builders had boarded up the gaping holes left by the monsters who’d carried off Gally and Adam. The end result looked to Thomas like an army of drunk guys had done the work, but it was solid enough. Newt and Alby, who finally felt well enough to walk around again, his head heavily bandaged, insisted on a plan for everyone to rotate where they slept each night.
Thomas ended up in the large living room on the bottom floor of the Homestead with the same people he’d slept with two nights before. Silence settled over the room quickly, though he didn’t know if it was because people were actually asleep or just scared, quietly hoping against hope the Grievers didn’t come again. Unlike two nights ago, Teresa was allowed to stay in the building with the rest of the Gladers. She was near him, curled up in two blankets. Somehow, he could sense that she was sleeping. Actually sleeping.
Thomas certainly couldn’t sleep, even though he knew his body needed it desperately. He tried—he tried so hard to keep his eyes closed, force himself to relax. But he had no luck. The night dragged on, the heavy sense of anticipation like a weight on his chest.
Then, just as they’d all expected, came the mechanical, haunted sounds of the Grievers outside. The time had come.
Everyone crowded together against the wall farthest from the windows, doing their best to keep quiet. Thomas huddled in a corner next to Teresa, hugging his knees, staring at the window. The reality of the dreadful decision he’d made earlier squeezed his heart like a crushing fist. But he knew that everything might depend on it.
The tension in the room rose at a steady pace. The Gladers were quiet, not a soul moved. A distant scraping of metal against wood echoed through the house; it sounded to Thomas like a Griever was climbing on the back side of the Homestead, opposite where they were. More noises joined in a few seconds later, coming from all directions, the closest right outside their own window. The air in the room seemed to freeze into solid ice, and Thomas pressed his fists against his eyes, the anticipation of the attack killing him.
A booming explosion of ripping wood and broken glass thundered from somewhere upstairs, shaking the whole house. Thomas went numb as several screams erupted, followed by the pounding of fleeing footsteps. Loud creaks and groans announced a whole horde of Gladers running to the first floor.
“It’s got Dave!” someone yelled, the voice high-pitched with terror.
No one in Thomas’s room moved a muscle; he knew each of them was probably feeling guilty about their relief—that at least it wasn’t them. That maybe they were safe for one more night. Two nights in a row only one boy had been taken, and people had started to believe that what Gally had said was true.
Thomas jumped as a terrible crash sounded right outside their door, accompanied by screams and the splintering of wood, like some iron-jawed monster was eating the entire stairwell. A second later came another explosion of ripping wood: the front door. The Griever had come right through the house and was now leaving.
An explosion of fear ripped through Thomas. It was now or never.
He jumped up and ran to the door of the room, yanking it open. He heard Newt yell, but he ignored him and ran down the hall, sidestepping and jumping over hundreds of splintered pieces of wood. He could see that where the front door had been there now stood a jagged hole leading out into the gray night. He headed straight for it and ran out into the Glade.
Tom! Teresa screamed inside his head. What are you doing!
He ignored her. He just kept running.
The Griever holding Dave—a kid Thomas had never spoken to—was rolling along on its spikes toward the West Door, churning and whirring. The other Grievers had already gathered in the courtyard and followed their companion toward the Maze. Without hesitating, knowing the others would think he was trying to commit suicide, Thomas sprinted in their direction until he found himself in the middle of the pack of creatures. Having been taken by surprise, the Grievers hesitated.
Thomas jumped on the one holding Dave, tried to jerk the kid free, hoping the creature would retaliate. Teresa’s scream inside his mind was so loud it felt as if a dagger had been driven through his skull.
Three of the Grievers swarmed on him at once, their long pincers and claspers and needles flying in from all directions. Thomas flailed his arms and legs, knocking away the horrible metallic arms as he kicked at the pulsating blubber of the Grievers’ bodies—he only wanted to be stung, not taken like Dave. Their relentless attack intensified, and Thomas felt pain erupt over every inch of his body—needle pricks that told him he’d succeeded. Screaming, he kicked and pushed and thrashed, throwing his body into a roll, trying to get away from them. Struggling, bursting with adrenaline, he finally found an open spot to get his feet under him and ran with all his power.
As soon as he escaped the immediate reach of the Grievers’ instruments, they gave up and retreated, disappearing into the Maze. Thomas collapsed to the ground, groaning from the pain.
Newt was on him in a second, followed immediately by Chuck, Teresa, several others. Newt grabbed him by the shoulders and lifted him up, gripping him under both arms. “Get his legs!” he yelled.
Thomas felt the world swimming around him, felt delirious, nauseated. Someone, he couldn’t tell who, obeyed Newt’s order; he was being carried across the courtyard, through the front door of the Homestead, down the shattered hall, into a room, placed on a couch. The world continued to twist and pitch.
“What were you doing!” Newt yelled in his face. “How could you be so bloody stupid!”
Thomas had to speak before he faded into blackness. “No … Newt … you don’t understand….”
“Shut up!” Newt shouted. “Don’t waste your energy!”
Thomas felt someone examining his arms and legs, ripping his clothes away from his body, checking for damage. He heard Chuck’s voice, couldn’t help feeling relief that his friend was okay. A Med-jack said something about him being stung dozens of times.
Teresa was by his feet, squeezing his right ankle with her hand. Why, Tom? Why would you do that?
Because… He didn’t have the strength to concentrate.
Newt yelled for the Grief Serum; a minute later Thomas felt a pinprick on his arm. Warmth spread from that point throughout his body, calming him, lessening the pain. But the world still seemed to be collapsing in on itself, and he knew it would all be gone from him in just a few seconds.
The room spun, colors morphing into each other, churning faster and faster. It took all of his effort, but he said one last thing before the darkness took him for good.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered, hoping they could hear him. “I did it on purpose….”
Thomas had no concept of time as he went through the Changing.
It started much like his first memory of the Box—dark and cold. But this time he had no sensation of anything touching his feet or body. He floated in emptiness, stared into a void of black. He saw nothing, heard nothing, smelled nothing. It was as if someone had stolen his five senses, leaving him in a vacuum.
Time stretched on. And on. Fear turned into curiosity, which turned into boredom.
Finally, after an interminable wait, things began to change.
A distant wind picked up, unfelt but heard. Then a swirling mist of whiteness appeared far in the distance—a spinning tornado of smoke that formed into a long funnel, stretching out until he could see neither the top nor the bottom of the white whirlwind. He felt the gales then, sucking into the cyclone so that it blew past him from behind, ripping at his clothes and hair like they were shredded flags caught in a storm.
The tower of thick mist began to move toward him—or he was moving toward it, he couldn’t tell—increasing its speed at an alarming rate. Where seconds before he’d been able to see the distinct form of the funnel, he now could see only a flat expanse of white.
And then it consumed him; he felt his mind taken by the mist, felt memories flood into his thoughts.
Everything else turned into pain.
“Thomas.”
The voice was distant, warbled, like an echo in a long tunnel.
“Thomas, can you hear me?”
He didn’t want to answer. His mind had shut down when it could no longer take the pain; he feared it would all return if he allowed himself back into consciousness. He sensed light on the other side of his eyelids, but knew it would be unbearable to open them. He did nothing.
“Thomas, it’s Chuck. Are you okay? Please don’t die, dude.”
Everything came crashing back into his mind. The Glade, the Grievers, the stinging needle, the Changing. Memories. The Maze couldn’t be solved. Their only way out was something they’d never expected. Something terrifying. He was crushed with despair.
Groaning, he forced his eyes open, squinting at first. Chuck’s pudgy face was there, staring with frightened eyes. But then they lit up and a smile spread across his face. Despite it all, despite the terrible crappiness of it all, Chuck smiled.
“He’s awake!” the boy yelled to no one in particular. “Thomas is awake!”
The booming sound of his voice made Thomas wince; he shut his eyes again. “Chuck, do you have to scream? I don’t feel so good.”
“Sorry—I’m just glad you’re alive. You’re lucky I don’t give you a big kiss.”
“Please don’t do that, Chuck.” Thomas opened his eyes again and forced himself to sit up in the bed in which he lay, pushing his back against the wall and stretching out his legs. Soreness ate at his joints and muscles. “How long did it take?” he asked.
“Three days,” Chuck answered. “We put you in the Slammer at night to keep you safe—brought you back here during the days. Thought you were dead for sure about thirty times since you started. But check you out—you look brand-new!”
Thomas could only imagine how non-great he looked. “Did the Grievers come?”
Chuck’s jubilation visibly crashed to the ground as his eyes sank down toward the floor. “Yeah—they got Zart and a couple others. One a night. Minho and the Runners have scoured the Maze, trying to find an exit or some use for that stupid code you guys came up with. But nothing. Why do you think the Grievers are only taking one shank at a time?”
Thomas’s stomach turned sour—he knew the exact answer to that question, and some others now. Enough to know that sometimes knowing sucked.
“Get Newt and Alby,” he finally said in answer. “Tell them we need to have a Gathering. Soon as possible.”
“Serious?”
Thomas let out a sigh. “Chuck, I just went through the Changing. Do you think I’m serious?”
Without a word, Chuck jumped up and ran out of the room, his calls for Newt fading the farther he went.
Thomas closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall. Then he called out to her with his mind.
Teresa.
She didn’t answer at first, but then her voice popped into his thoughts as clearly as if she were sitting next to him. That was really stupid, Tom. Really, really stupid.
Had to do it, he answered.
I pretty much hated you the last couple days. You should’ve seen yourself. Your skin, your veins…
You hated me? He was thrilled she’d cared so much about him.
She paused. That’s just my way of saying I would’ve killed you if you’d died.
Thomas felt a burst of warmth in his chest, reached up and actually touched it, surprised at himself. Well … thanks. I guess.
So, how much do you remember?
He paused. Enough. What you said about the two of us and what we did to them…
It was true?
We did some bad things, Teresa. He sensed frustration from her, like she had a million questions and no idea where to start.
Did you learn anything to help us get out of here? she asked, as if she didn’t want to know what part she’d had in all of this. A purpose for the code?
Thomas paused, not really wanting to talk about it yet—not before he really gathered his thoughts. Their only chance for escape might be a death wish. Maybe, he finally said, but it won’t be easy. We need a Gathering. I’ll ask for you to be there—I don’t have the energy to say it all twice.
Neither one of them said anything for a while, a sense of hopelessness wafting between their minds.
Teresa?
Yeah?
The Maze can’t be solved.
She paused for a long time before answering. I think we all know that now.
Thomas hated the pain in her voice—he could feel it in his mind. Don’t worry; the Creators meant for us to escape, though. I have a plan. He wanted to give her some hope, no matter how scarce.
Oh, really.
Yeah. It’s terrible, and some of us might die. Sound promising?
Big-time. What is it?
We have to—
Before he could finish, Newt walked into the room, cutting him off.
I’ll tell you later, Thomas quickly finished.
Hurry! she said, then was gone.
Newt had walked over to the bed and sat down next to him. “Tommy—you barely look sick.”
Thomas nodded. “I feel a little queasy, but other than that, I’m fine. Thought it’d be a lot worse.”
Newt shook his head, his face a mixture of anger and awe. “What you did was half brave and half bloody stupid. Seems like you’re pretty good at that.” He paused, shook his head. “I know why you did it. What memories came back? Anything that’ll help?”
“We need to have a Gathering,” Thomas said, shifting his legs to get more comfortable. Surprisingly, he didn’t feel much pain, just wooziness. “Before I start forgetting some of this stuff.”
“Yeah, Chuck told me—we’ll do it. But why? What did you figure out?”
“It’s a test, Newt—the whole thing is a test.”
Newt nodded. “Like an experiment.”
Thomas shook his head. “No, you don’t get it. They’re weeding us out, seeing if we’ll give up, finding the best of us. Throwing variables at us, trying to make us quit. Testing our ability to hope and fight. Sending Teresa here and shutting everything down was only the last part, one more … final analysis. Now it’s time for the last test. To escape.”
Newt’s brow crinkled in confusion. “What do you mean? You know a way out?”
“Yeah. Call the Gathering. Now.”
An hour later, Thomas sat in front of the Keepers for the Gathering, just like he had a week or two before. They hadn’t let Teresa in, which ticked him off just as much as it did her. Newt and Minho trusted her now, but the others still had their doubts.
“All right, Greenie,” Alby said, looking much better as he sat in the middle of the semicircle of chairs, next to Newt. The other chairs were all occupied except two—a stark reminder that Zart and Gally had been taken by the Grievers. “Forget all the beat-around-the-bush klunk. Start talking.”
Thomas, still a bit queasy from the Changing, forced himself to take a second and gain his composure. He had a lot to say, but wanted to be sure it came out sounding as non-stupid as possible.
“It’s a long story,” he began. “We don’t have time to go through it all, but I’ll tell you the gist of it. When I went through the Changing, I saw flashes of images—hundreds of them—like a slide show in fast forward. A lot came back to me, but only some of it’s clear enough to talk about. Other stuff has faded or is fading.” He paused, gathering his thoughts one last time. “But I remember enough. The Creators are testing us. The Maze was never meant to be solved. It’s all been a trial. They want the winners—or survivors—to do something important.” He trailed off, already confused at what order he should tell things in.
“What?” Newt asked.
“Let me start over,” Thomas said, rubbing his eyes. “Every single one of us was taken when we were really young. I don’t remember how or why—just glimpses and feelings that things had changed in the world, that something really bad happened. I have no idea what. The Creators stole us, and I think they felt justified in doing it. Somehow they figured out that we have above-average intelligence, and that’s why they chose us. I don’t know, most of this is sketchy and doesn’t matter that much anyway.
“I can’t remember anything about my family or what happened to them. But after we were taken, we spent the next few years learning in special schools, living somewhat normal lives until they were finally able to finance and build the Maze. All our names are just stupid nicknames they made up—like Alby for Albert Einstein, Newt for Isaac Newton, and me—Thomas. As in Edison.”
Alby looked like he’d been slapped in the face. “Our names … these ain’t even our real names?”
Thomas shook his head. “As far as I can tell, we’ll probably never know what our names were.”
“What are you saying?” Frypan asked. “That we’re freakin’ orphans raised by scientists?”
“Yes,” Thomas said, hoping his expression didn’t give away just how depressed he felt. “Supposedly we’re really smart and they’re studying every move we make, analyzing us. Seeing who’d give up and who wouldn’t. Seeing who’d survive it all. No wonder we have so many beetle blade spies running around this place. Plus, some of us have had things … altered in our brains.”
“I believe this klunk about as much as I believe Frypan’s food is good for you,” Winston grumbled, looking tired and indifferent.
“Why would I make this up?” Thomas said, his voice rising. He’d gotten stung on purpose to remember these things! “Better yet, what do you think is the explanation? That we live on an alien planet?”
“Just keep talking,” Alby said. “But I don’t get why none of us remembered this stuff. I’ve been through the Changing, but everything I saw was …” He looked around quickly, like he’d just said something he shouldn’t have. “I didn’t learn nothin’.”
“I’ll tell you in a minute why I think I learned more than others,” Thomas said, dreading that part of the story. “Should I keep going or not?”
“Talk,” Newt said.
Thomas sucked in a big breath, as if he were about to start a race. “Okay, somehow they wiped our memories—not just our childhood, but all the stuff leading up to entering the Maze. They put us in the Box and sent us up here—a big group to start and then one a month over the last two years.”
“But why?” Newt asked. “What’s the bloody point?”
Thomas held up a hand for silence. “I’m getting there. Like I said, they wanted to test us, see how we’d react to what they call the Variables, and to a problem that has no solution. See if we could work together—build a community, even. Everything was provided for us, and the problem was laid out as one of the most common puzzles known to civilization—a maze. All this added up to making us think there had to be a solution, just encouraging us to work all the harder while at the same time magnifying our discouragement at not finding one.” He paused to look around, making sure they were all listening. “What I’m saying is, there is no solution.”
Chatter broke out, questions overlapping each other.
Thomas held his hands up again, wishing he could just zap his thoughts into everyone else’s brains. “See? Your reaction proves my point. Most people would’ve given up by now. But I think we’re different. We couldn’t accept that a problem can’t be solved—especially when it’s something as simple as a maze. And we’ve kept fighting no matter how hopeless it’s gotten.”
Thomas realized his voice had steadily risen as he spoke, and he felt heat in his face. “Whatever the reason, it makes me sick! All of this—the Grievers, the walls moving, the Cliff—they’re just elements of a stupid test. We’re being used and manipulated. The Creators wanted to keep our minds working toward a solution that was never there. Same thing goes for Teresa being sent here, her being used to trigger the Ending—whatever that means—the place being shut down, gray skies, on and on and on. They’re throwing crazy things at us to see our response, test our will. See if we’ll turn on each other. In the end, they want the survivors for something important.”
Frypan stood up. “And killing people? That’s a nice little part of their plan?”
Thomas felt a moment of fear, worried that the Keepers might take out their anger on him for knowing so much. And it was only about to get worse. “Yes, Frypan, killing people. The only reason the Grievers are doing it one by one is so we don’t all die before it ends the way it’s supposed to. Survival of the fittest. Only the best of us will escape.”
Frypan kicked his chair. “Well, you better start talking about this magical escape, then!”
“He will,” Newt said, quietly. “Shut up and listen.”
Minho, who’d been mostly silent the whole time, cleared his throat. “Something tells me I’m not gonna like what I’m about to hear.”
“Probably not,” Thomas said. He closed his eyes for a second and folded his arms. The next few minutes were going to be crucial. “The Creators want the best of us for whatever it is they have planned. But we have to earn it.” The room fell completely silent, every eye on him. “The code.”
“The code?” Frypan repeated, his voice lighting up with a trace of hope. “What about it?”
Thomas looked at him, paused for effect. “It was hidden in the wall movements of the Maze for a reason. I should know—I was there when the Creators did it.”
For a long moment, no one said anything, and all Thomas saw were blank faces. He felt the sweat beading on his forehead, slicking his hands; he was terrified to keep going.
Newt looked completely baffled and finally broke the silence. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, first there’s something I have to share. About me and Teresa. There’s a reason Gally accused me of so much stuff, and why everyone who’s gone through the Changing recognizes me.”
He expected questions—an eruption of voices—but the room was dead silent.
“Teresa and I are … different,” he continued. “We were part of the Maze Trials from the very beginning—but against our will, I swear it.”
Minho was the one to speak up now. “Thomas, what’re you talking about?”
“Teresa and I were used by the Creators. If you had your full memories back, you’d probably want to kill us. But I had to tell you this myself to show you we can be trusted now. So you’ll believe me when I tell you the only way we can get out of here.”
Thomas quickly scanned the faces of the Keepers, wondering one last time if he should say it, if they would understand. But he knew he had to. He had to.
Thomas took a deep breath, then said it. “Teresa and I helped design the Maze. We helped create the whole thing.”
Everyone seemed too stunned to respond. Blank faces stared back at him once again. Thomas figured they either didn’t understand or didn’t believe him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Newt finally asked. “You’re a bloody sixteen-year-old. How could you have created the Maze?”
Thomas couldn’t help doubting it a little himself—but he knew what he’d remembered. As crazy as it was, he knew it for the truth. “We were … smart. And I think it might be part of the Variables. But most importantly, Teresa and I have a … gift that made us very valuable as they designed and built this place.” He stopped, knowing it must all sound absurd.
“Speak!” Newt yelled. “Spit it out!”
“We’re telepathic! We can talk to each other in our freaking heads!” Saying it out loud almost made him feel ashamed, as if he’d just admitted he was a thief.
Newt blinked in surprise; someone coughed.
“But listen to me,” Thomas continued, in a hurry to defend himself. “They forced us to help. I don’t know how or why, but they did.” He paused. “Maybe it was to see if we could gain your trust despite having been a part of them. Maybe we were meant all along to be the ones to reveal how to escape. Whatever the reason, with your Maps we figured out the code and we need to use it now.”
Thomas looked around, and surprisingly, astonishingly, no one seemed angry. Most of the Gladers continued to stare blankly at him or shook their heads in wonder or disbelief. And for some odd reason, Minho was smiling.
“It’s true, and I’m sorry,” Thomas continued. “But I can tell you this—I’m in the same boat with you now. Teresa and I were sent here just like anyone else, and we can die just as easily. But the Creators have seen enough—it’s time for the final test. I guess I needed the Changing to add the final pieces of the puzzle. Anyway, I wanted you to know the truth, to know there’s a chance we can do this.”
Newt shook his head back and forth, staring at the ground. Then he looked up, took in the other Keepers. “The Creators—those shanks did this to us, not Tommy and Teresa. The Creators. And they’ll be sorry.”
“Whatever,” Minho said, “who gives a klunk about all that—just get on with the escape already.”
A lump formed in Thomas’s throat. He was so relieved he almost couldn’t speak. He’d been sure they’d put him under major heat for his confession, if not throw him off the Cliff. The rest of what he had to say almost seemed easy now. “There’s a computer station in a place we’ve never looked before. The code will open a door for us to get out of the Maze. It also shuts down the Grievers so they can’t follow us—if we can just survive long enough to get to that point.”
“A place we’ve never looked before?” Alby asked. “What do you think we’ve been doing for two years?”
“Trust me, you’ve never been to this spot.”
Minho stood up. “Well, where is it?”
“It’s almost suicide,” Thomas said, knowing he was putting off the answer. “The Grievers will come after us whenever we try to do it. All of them. The final test.” He wanted to make sure they understood the stakes. The odds of everyone surviving were slim.
“So where is it?” Newt asked, leaning forward in his chair.
“Over the Cliff,” Thomas answered. “We have to go through the Griever Hole.”