Alby stood up so quickly his chair fell over backward. His bloodshot eyes stood out against the white bandage on his forehead. He took two steps forward before stopping, as if he’d been about to charge and attack Thomas.
“Now you’re being a shuck idiot,” he said, glaring at Thomas. “Or a traitor. How can we trust a word you say if you helped design this place, put us here! We can’t handle one Griever on our own ground, much less fight a whole horde of them in their little hole. What are you really up to?”
Thomas was furious. “What am I up to? Nothing! Why would I make all this up?”
Alby’s arms stiffened, fists clenched. “For all we know you were sent here to get us all killed. Why should we trust you?”
Thomas stared, incredulous. “Alby, do you have a short-term memory problem? I risked my life to save you out in the Maze—you’d be dead if it wasn’t for me!”
“Maybe that was a trick to gain our trust. If you’re in league with the shucks who sent us here, you wouldn’t have had to worry about the Grievers hurting you—maybe it was all an act.”
Thomas’s anger lessened slightly at that, turned into pity. Something was odd here—suspicious.
“Alby,” Minho finally interjected, relieving Thomas. “That’s about the dumbest theory I’ve ever heard. He just about got freaking torn apart three nights ago. You think that’s part of the act?”
Alby nodded once, curtly. “Maybe.”
“I did it,” Thomas said, throwing all the annoyance he could into his voice, “on the chance that I could get my memories back, help all of us get out of here. Do I need to show you the cuts and bruises all over my body?”
Alby said nothing, his face still quivering with rage. His eyes watered and veins popped out on his neck. “We can’t go back!” he finally yelled, turning to look at everyone in the room. “I’ve seen what our lives were like—we can’t go back!”
“Is that what this is about?” Newt asked. “Are you kidding?”
Alby turned on him, fiercely, even held up a clenched fist. But he stopped, lowered his arm, then went over and sank into his chair, put his face in his hands, and broke down. Thomas couldn’t have been more surprised. The fearless leader of the Gladers was crying.
“Alby, talk to us,” Newt pressed, not willing to let it drop. “What’s going on?”
“I did it,” Alby said through a racking sob. “I did it.”
“Did what?” Newt asked. He looked as confused as Thomas felt.
Alby looked up, his eyes wet with tears. “I burned the Maps. I did it. I slammed my head on the table so you’d think it was someone else, I lied, burned it all. I did it!”
The Keepers exchanged looks, shock clear in their wide eyes and raised eyebrows. For Thomas, though, it all made sense now. Alby remembered how awful his life was before he came here and he didn’t want to go back.
“Well, it’s a good thing we saved those Maps,” Minho said, completely straight-faced, almost mocking. “Thanks for the tip you gave us after the Changing—to protect them.”
Thomas looked to see how Alby would respond to Minho’s sarcastic, almost cruel, remark, but he acted as if he hadn’t even heard.
Newt, instead of showing anger, asked Alby to explain. Thomas knew why Newt wasn’t mad—the Maps were safe, the code figured out. It didn’t matter.
“I’m telling you.” Alby sounded like he was begging—near hysterical. “We can’t go back to where we came from. I’ve seen it, remembered awful, awful things. Burned land, a disease—something called the Flare. It was horrible—way worse than we have it here.”
“If we stay here, we’ll all die!” Minho yelled. “It’s worse than that?”
Alby stared at Minho a long time before answering. Thomas could only think of the words he’d just said. The Flare. Something about it was familiar, right on the edge of his mind. But he was certain he hadn’t remembered anything about that when he’d gone through the Changing.
“Yes,” Alby finally said. “It’s worse. Better to die than go home.”
Minho snickered and leaned back in his chair. “Man, you are one butt-load of sunshine, let me tell you. I’m with Thomas. I’m with Thomas one hundred percent. If we’re gonna die, let’s freakin’ do it fighting.”
“Inside the Maze or out of it,” Thomas added, relieved that Minho was firmly on his side. He turned to Alby then, and looked at him gravely. “We still live inside the world you remembered.”
Alby stood again, his face showing his defeat. “Do what you want.” He sighed. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll die no matter what.” And with that, he walked to the door and left the room.
Newt let out a deep breath and shook his head. “He’s never been the same since being stung—must’ve been one bugger of a memory. What in the world is the Flare?”
“I don’t care,” Minho said. “Anything’s better than dying here. We can deal with the Creators once we’re out. But for now we gotta do what they planned. Go through the Griever Hole and escape. If some of us die, so be it.”
Frypan snorted. “You shanks are driving me nuts. Can’t get out of the Maze, and this idea of hanging with the Grievers at their bachelor pad sounds as stupid as anything I’ve ever heard in my life. Might as well slit our wrists.”
The other Keepers burst out in argument, everyone talking over everyone else. Newt finally screamed for them to shut up.
Thomas spoke again once things settled. “I’m going through the Hole or I’ll die trying to get there. Looks like Minho will, too. And I’m sure Teresa’s in. If we can fight off the Grievers long enough for someone to punch in the code and shut them down, then we can go through the door they come through. We’ll have passed the tests. Then we can face the Creators themselves.”
Newt’s grin had no humor in it. “And you think we can fight off Grievers? Even if we don’t die, we’ll probably all get stung. Every last one of them might be waiting for us when we get to the Cliff—the beetle blades are out there constantly. The Creators’ll know when we make our run for it.”
He’d been dreading it, but Thomas knew it was time to tell them the last part of his plan. “I don’t think they’ll sting us—the Changing was a Variable meant for us while we lived here. But that part will be over. Plus, we might have one thing going for us.”
“Yeah?” Newt asked, rolling his eyes. “Can’t wait to hear it.”
“It doesn’t do the Creators any good if we all die—this thing is meant to be hard, not impossible. I think we finally know for sure that the Grievers are programmed to only kill one of us each day. So somebody can sacrifice himself to save the others while we run to the Hole. I think this might be how it’s supposed to happen.”
The room went silent until the Blood House Keeper barked a loud laugh. “Excuse me?” Winston asked. “So your suggestion is that we throw some poor kid to the wolves so the rest of us can escape? This is your brilliant suggestion?”
Thomas refused to admit how bad that sounded, but an idea hit him. “Yes, Winston, I’m glad you’re so good at paying attention.” He ignored the glare that got him. “And it seems obvious who the poor kid should be.”
“Oh, yeah?” Winston asked. “Who?”
Thomas folded his arms. “Me.”
The meeting erupted into a chorus of arguments. Newt very calmly stood up, walked over to Thomas and grabbed him by the arm; he pulled him toward the door. “You’re leaving. Now.”
Thomas was stunned. “Leaving? Why?”
“Think you’ve said enough for one meeting. We need to talk and decide what to do—without you here.” They had reached the door and Newt gave him a gentle push outside. “Wait for me by the Box. When we’re done, you and I’ll talk.”
He started to turn around, but Thomas reached out and grabbed him. “You gotta believe me, Newt. It’s the only way out of here—we can do it, I swear. We’re meant to.”
Newt got in his face and spoke in an angry rasp of a whisper. “Yeah, I especially loved the bit where you volunteered to get yourself killed.”
“I’m perfectly willing to do it.” Thomas meant it, but only because of the guilt that racked him. Guilt that he’d somehow helped design the Maze. But deep down, he held on to the hope that he could fight long enough for someone to punch in the code and shut down the Grievers before they killed him. Open the door.
“Oh, really?” Newt asked, seeming irritated. “Mr. Noble himself, aren’t ya?”
“I have plenty of my own reasons. In some ways it’s my fault we’re here in the first place.” He stopped, took a breath to compose himself. “Anyway, I’m going no matter what, so you better not waste it.”
Newt frowned, his eyes suddenly filled with compassion. “If you really did help design the Maze, Tommy, it’s not your fault. You’re a kid—you can’t help what they forced you to do.”
But it didn’t matter what Newt said. What anyone said. Thomas bore the responsibility anyway—and it was growing heavier the more he thought about it. “I just … feel like I need to save everyone. To redeem myself.”
Newt stepped back, slowly shaking his head. “You know what’s funny, Tommy?”
“What?” Thomas replied, wary.
“I actually believe you. You just don’t have an ounce of lying in those eyes of yours. And I can’t bloody believe I’m about to say this.” He paused. “But I’m going back in there to convince those shanks we should go through the Griever Hole, just like you said. Might as well fight the Grievers rather than sit around letting them pick us off one by one.” He held up a finger. “But listen to me—I don’t want another buggin’ word about you dying and all that heroic klunk. If we’re gonna do this, we’ll take our chances—all of us. You hear me?”
Thomas held his hands up, overwhelmed with relief. “Loud and clear. I was just trying to make the point that it’s worth the risk. If someone’s going to die every night anyway, we might as well use it to our advantage.”
Newt frowned. “Well, ain’t that just cheery?”
Thomas turned to walk away, but Newt called out to him. “Tommy?”
“Yeah?” He stopped, but didn’t look back.
“If I can convince those shanks—and that’s a big if—the best time to go would be at night. We can hope that a lot of the Grievers might be out and about in the Maze—not in that Hole of theirs.”
“Good that.” Thomas agreed with him—he just hoped Newt could convince the Keepers. He turned to look at Newt and nodded.
Newt smiled, a barely-there crack in his worried grimace. “We should do it tonight, before anyone else is killed.” And before Thomas could say anything, Newt disappeared back into the Gathering.
Thomas, a little shocked at the last statement, left the Homestead and walked to an old bench near the Box and took a seat, his mind a whirlwind. He kept thinking of what Alby had said about the Flare, and what it could mean. The older boy had also mentioned burned earth and a disease. Thomas didn’t remember anything like that, but if it was all true, the world they were trying to get back to didn’t sound so good. Still—what other choice did they have? Besides the fact that the Grievers were attacking every night, the Glade had basically shut down.
Frustrated, worried, tired of his thoughts, he called out to Teresa. Can you hear me?
Yeah, she replied. Where are you?
By the Box.
I’ll come in a minute.
Thomas realized how badly he needed her company. Good. I’ll tell you the plan; I think it’s on.
What is it?
Thomas leaned back on the bench and put his right foot up on his knee, wondering how Teresa would react to what he was going to say. We gotta go through the Griever Hole. Use that code to shut the Grievers down and open a door out of here.
A pause. I figured it was something like that.
Thomas thought for a second, then added, Unless you’ve got any better ideas?
No. It’s gonna be awful.
He punched his right fist against his other hand, even though he knew she couldn’t see him. We can do this.
Doubtful.
Well, we have to try.
Another pause, this one longer. He could feel her resolve. You’re right.
I think we’re leaving tonight. Just come out here and we can talk more about it.
I’ll be there in a few minutes.
Thomas’s stomach tightened into a knot. The reality of what he had suggested, the plan Newt was trying to convince the Keepers to accept, was starting to hit him. He knew it was dangerous, but the idea of actually fighting the Grievers—not just running from them—was terrifying. The absolute best-case scenario was that only one of them would die—but even that couldn’t be trusted. Maybe the Creators would just reprogram the creatures. And then all bets were off.
He tried not to think about it.
Sooner than Thomas expected, Teresa had found him and was sitting next to him, her body pressed against his despite plenty of room on the bench. She reached out and took his hand. He squeezed back, so hard he knew it must’ve hurt.
“Tell me,” she said.
Thomas did, reciting every word he’d told the Keepers, hating how Teresa’s eyes filled with worry—and terror. “The plan was easy to talk about,” he said after he’d told her everything. “But Newt thinks we should go tonight. It doesn’t sound so good now.” It especially terrified him to think about Chuck and Teresa out there—he’d faced the Grievers down already and knew all too well what it was like. He wanted to be able to protect his friends from the horrible experience, but he knew he couldn’t.
“We can do it,” she said in a quiet voice.
Hearing her say that only made him worry more. “Holy crap, I’m scared.”
“Holy crap, you’re human. You should be scared.”
Thomas didn’t respond, and for a long time they just sat there, holding hands, no words spoken, in their minds or aloud. He felt the slightest hint of peace, as fleeting as it was, and tried to enjoy it for however long it might last.
Thomas was almost sad when the Gathering finally ended. When Newt came out of the Homestead he knew that the time for rest was over.
The Keeper spotted them and approached at a limping run. Thomas noticed he’d let go of Teresa’s hand without thinking about it. Newt finally came to a halt and crossed his arms over his chest as he looked down at them sitting on the bench. “This is bloody nuts, you know that, right?” His face was impossible to read, but there seemed to be a hint of victory in his eyes.
Thomas stood up, feeling a rush of excitement flooding his body. “So they agreed to go?”
Newt nodded. “All of them. Wasn’t as hard as I thought it’d be. Those shanks’ve seen what happens at night with those bloody Doors open. We can’t get out of the stupid Maze. Gotta try something.” He turned and looked at the Keepers, who’d started to gather their respective work groups. “Now we just have to convince the Gladers.”
Thomas knew that would be even more difficult than persuading the Keepers had been.
“You think they’ll go for it?” Teresa asked, finally standing to join them.
“Not all of them,” Newt said, and Thomas could see the frustration in his eyes. “Some’ll stay and take their chances—guarantee it.”
Thomas didn’t doubt people would blanch at the thought of making a run for it. Asking them to fight the Grievers was asking a lot. “What about Alby?”
“Who knows?” Newt responded, looking around the Glade, observing the Keepers and their groups. “I’m convinced that bugger really is more scared to go back home than he is of the Grievers. But I’ll get him to go with us, don’t worry.”
Thomas wished he could bring back memories of those things that were tormenting Alby, but there was nothing. “How are you going to convince him?”
Newt laughed. “I’ll make up some klunk. Tell him we’ll all find a new life in another part of the world, live happily ever after.”
Thomas shrugged. “Well, maybe we can. I promised Chuck I’d get him home, you know. Or at least find him a home.”
“Yeah, well,” Teresa murmured. “Anything’s better than this place.”
Thomas looked around at the arguments breaking out across the Glade, Keepers doing their best to convince people they should take a chance and battle their way through the Griever Hole. Some Gladers stomped away, but most seemed to listen and at least consider.
“So what’s next?” Teresa asked.
Newt took a deep breath. “Figure out who’s going, who’s staying. Get ready. Food, weapons, all that. Then we go. Thomas, I’d put you in charge since it was your idea, but it’s going to be hard enough to get people on our side without making the Greenie our leader—no offense. So just lay low, okay? We’ll leave the code business to you and Teresa—you can handle that from the background.”
Thomas was more than fine with lying low—finding that computer station and punching in the code was more than enough responsibility for him. Even with that much on his shoulders he had to fight the rising flood of panic he felt. “You sure make it sound easy,” he finally said, trying his best to lighten up the situation. Or at least sound like he was.
Newt folded his arms again, looked at him closely. “Like you said—stay here, one shank’ll die tonight. Go, one shank’ll die. What’s the difference?” He pointed at Thomas. “If you’re right.”
“I am.” Thomas knew he was right about the Hole, the code, the door, the need to fight. But whether one person or many would die, he had no clue. However, if there was one thing his gut told him, it was not to admit to any doubt.
Newt clapped him on the back. “Good that. Let’s get to work.”
The next few hours were frantic.
Most of the Gladers ended up agreeing to go—even more than Thomas would’ve guessed. Even Alby decided to make the run. Though no one admitted it, Thomas bet most of them were banking on the theory that only one person would be killed by the Grievers, and they figured their chances of not being the unlucky sap were decent. Those who decided to stay in the Glade were few but adamant and loud. They mainly walked around sulking, trying to tell others how stupid they were. Eventually, they gave up and kept their distance.
As for Thomas and the rest of those committed to the escape, there was a ton of work to be done.
Backpacks were handed out and stuffed full of supplies. Frypan—Newt told Thomas that the Cook had been one of the last Keepers to agree to go—was in charge of gathering all the food and figuring out a way to distribute it evenly among the packs. Syringes of Grief Serum were included, even though Thomas didn’t think the Grievers would sting them. Chuck was in charge of filling water bottles and getting them out to everyone. Teresa helped him, and Thomas asked her to sugarcoat the trip as much as she could, even if she had to flat-out lie, which was mostly the case. Chuck had tried to act brave from the time he first found out they were going for it, but his sweaty skin and dazed eyes revealed the truth.
Minho went to the Cliff with a group of Runners, taking ivy ropes and rocks to test the invisible Griever Hole one last time. They had to hope the creatures would keep to their normal schedule and not come out during daytime hours. Thomas had contemplated just jumping into the Hole right away and trying to punch in the code quickly, but he had no idea what to expect or what might be waiting for him. Newt was right—they’d better wait until night and hope that most of the Grievers were in the Maze, not inside their Hole.
When Minho returned, safe and sound, Thomas thought he seemed very optimistic that it really was an exit. Or entrance. Depending on how you looked at it.
Thomas helped Newt distribute the weapons, and even more innovative ones were created in their desperation to be prepared for the Grievers. Wooden poles were carved into spears or wrapped in barbwire; the knives were sharpened and fastened with twine to the ends of sturdy branches hacked from trees in the woods; chunks of broken glass were duct-taped to shovels. By the end of the day, the Gladers had turned into a small army. A very pathetic, ill-prepared army, Thomas thought, but an army all the same.
Once he and Teresa were done helping, they went to the secret spot in the Deadheads to strategize about the station inside the Griever Hole and how they planned to punch in the code.
“We have to be the ones to do it,” Thomas said as they leaned their backs against craggy trees, the once-green leaves already starting to turn gray from the lack of artificial sunlight. “That way if we get separated, we can be in contact and still help each other.”
Teresa had grabbed a stick and was peeling off the bark. “But we need backup in case something happens to us.”
“Definitely. Minho and Newt know the code words—we’ll tell them they have to get them punched into the computer if we … well, you know.” Thomas didn’t want to think about all the bad things that might happen.
“Not much to the plan, then.” Teresa yawned, as if life were completely normal.
“Not much at all. Fight the Grievers, punch in the code, escape through the door. Then we deal with the Creators—whatever it takes.”
“Six code words, who knows how many Grievers.” Teresa broke the stick in half. “What do you think WICKED stands for, anyway?”
Thomas felt like he’d been hit in the stomach. For some reason, hearing the word at that moment, from someone else, knocked something loose in his mind and it clicked. He was stunned he hadn’t made the connection sooner. “That sign I saw out in the Maze—remember? The metal one with words stamped on it?” Thomas’s heart had started to race with excitement.
Teresa crinkled her forehead in confusion for a second, but then a light seemed to blink on behind her eyes. “Whoa. World In Catastrophe: Killzone Experiment Department. WICKED. WICKED is good—what I wrote on my arm. What does that even mean?”
“No idea. Which is why I’m scared to death that what we’re about to do is a whole pile of stupid. Could be a bloodbath.”
“Everyone knows what they’re getting into.” Teresa reached out and took his hand. “Nothing to lose, remember?”
Thomas remembered, but for some reason Teresa’s words fell flat—they didn’t have much hope in them. “Nothing to lose,” he repeated.
Just before the normal Door-closing time, Frypan prepared one last meal to carry them through the night. The mood hanging over the Gladers as they ate couldn’t have been more somber or sodden with fear. Thomas found himself sitting next to Chuck, absently picking at his food.
“So … Thomas,” the boy said through a huge bite of mashed potatoes. “Who am I nicknamed after?”
Thomas couldn’t help shaking his head—here they were, about to embark on probably the most dangerous task of their lives, and Chuck was curious where he’d gotten his nickname. “I don’t know, Darwin, maybe? The dude who figured out evolution.”
“I bet no one’s ever called him a dude before.” Chuck took another big bite, and seemed to think that was the best time to talk, full mouth and all. “You know, I’m really not all that scared. I mean, last few nights, sitting in the Homestead, just waiting for a Griever to come in and steal one of us was the worst thing I’ve ever done. At least now we’re taking it to them, trying something. And at least …”
“At least what?” Thomas asked. He didn’t believe for a second that Chuck wasn’t scared; it almost hurt to see him acting brave.
“Well, everyone’s speculating they can only kill one of us. Maybe I sound like a shuck, but it gives me some hope. At least most of us will make it through—just leaves one poor sucker to die. Better than all of us.”
It made Thomas sick to think people were hanging on to that hope of just one person dying; the more he thought about it, the less he believed it was true. The Creators knew the plan—they might reprogram the Grievers. But even false hope was better than nothing. “Maybe we can all make it. As long as everyone fights.”
Chuck stopped stuffing his face for a second and looked at Thomas carefully. “You really think that, or you just trying to cheer me up?”
“We can do it.” Thomas ate his last bite, took a big drink of water. He’d never felt like such a liar in his life. People were going to die. But he was going to do everything possible to make sure Chuck wasn’t one of them. And Teresa. “Don’t forget my promise. You can still plan on it.”
Chuck frowned. “Big deal—I keep hearing the world is in klunky shape.”
“Hey, maybe so, but we’ll find the people who care about us—you’ll see.”
Chuck stood up. “Well, I don’t wanna think about it,” he announced. “Just get me out of the Maze, and I’ll be one happy dude.”
“Good that,” Thomas agreed.
A commotion from the other tables caught his attention. Newt and Alby were gathering the Gladers, telling everyone it was time to go. Alby seemed mostly himself, but Thomas still worried about the guy’s mental state. In Thomas’s mind, Newt was in charge, but he could also be a loose cannon sometimes.
The icy fear and panic Thomas had experienced so often the last few days swept over him once again in full force. This was it. They were going. Trying not to think about it, to just act, he grabbed his backpack. Chuck did the same, and they headed for the West Door, the one leading to the Cliff.
Thomas found Minho and Teresa talking to each other near the left side of the Door, going over the hastily made plans to enter the escape code once they got into the Hole.
“You shanks ready?” Minho asked when they came up. “Thomas, this was all your idea, so it better work. If not, I’ll kill ya before the Grievers can.”
“Thanks,” Thomas said. But he couldn’t shake the twisting feeling in his gut. What if somehow he was wrong? What if the memories he’d had were false ones? Planted somehow? The thought terrified him, and he pushed it aside. There was no going back.
He looked at Teresa, who shifted from foot to foot, wringing her hands. “You okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she answered with a small smile, clearly not fine at all. “Just anxious to get it over with.”
“Amen, sister,” Minho said. He looked the calmest to Thomas, the most confident, the least scared. Thomas envied him.
When Newt finally had everyone gathered, he called for quiet, and Thomas turned to hear what he had to say. “There’re forty-one of us.” He pulled the backpack he was holding onto his shoulders, and hoisted a thick wooden pole with barbwire wrapped around its tip. The thing looked deadly. “Make sure you’ve got your weapons. Other than that, isn’t a whole lot to buggin’ say—you’ve all been told the plan. We’re gonna fight our way through to the Griever Hole, and Tommy here’s gonna punch in his little magic code and then we’re gonna get payback on the Creators. Simple as that.”
Thomas barely heard Newt, having seen Alby sulking over to the side, away from the main group of the Gladers, alone. Alby picked at the string of his bow while he stared at the ground. A quiver of arrows hung over his shoulder. Thomas felt a rising tide of worry that somehow Alby was unstable, that somehow he’d screw everything up. He decided to watch him carefully if he could.
“Shouldn’t someone give a pep talk or something?” Minho asked, pulling Thomas’s attention away from Alby.
“Go ahead,” Newt replied.
Minho nodded and faced the crowd. “Be careful,” he said dryly. “Don’t die.”
Thomas would have laughed if he could, but he was too scared for it to come out.
“Great. We’re all bloody inspired,” Newt answered, then pointed over his shoulder, toward the Maze. “You all know the plan. After two years of being treated like mice, tonight we’re making a stand. Tonight we’re taking the fight back to the Creators, no matter what we have to go through to get there. Tonight the Grievers better be scared.”
Someone cheered, and then someone else. Soon shouts and battle calls broke out, rising in volume, filling the air like thunder. Thomas felt a trickle of courage inside him—he grasped it, clung to it, urged it to grow. Newt was right. Tonight, they’d fight. Tonight, they’d make their stand, once and for all.
Thomas was ready. He roared with the other Gladers. He knew they should probably be quiet, not bring any more attention to themselves, but he didn’t care. The game was on.
Newt thrust his weapon into the air and yelled, “Hear that, Creators! We’re coming!”
And with that, he turned and ran into the Maze, his limp barely noticeable. Into the gray air that seemed darker than the Glade, full of shadows and blackness. The Gladers around Thomas, still cheering, picked up their weapons and ran after him, even Alby. Thomas followed, falling into line between Teresa and Chuck, hefting a big wooden spear with a knife tied at its tip. The sudden feeling of responsibility for his friends almost overwhelmed him—made it hard to run. But he kept going, determined to win.
You can do this, he thought. Just make it to that Hole.