Thomas kept a steady pace as he ran with the other Gladers along the stone pathways toward the Cliff. He’d grown used to running the Maze, but this was completely different. The sounds of shuffling feet echoed up the walls and the red lights of the beetle blades flashed more menacingly in the ivy—the Creators were certainly watching, listening. One way or another, there was going to be a fight.
Scared? Teresa asked him as they ran.
No, I love things made out of blubber and steel. Can’t wait to see them. He felt no mirth or humor and wondered if there’d ever be a time again when he would.
So funny, she responded.
She was right next to him, but his eyes stayed glued up ahead. We’ll be fine. Just stay close to me and Minho.
Ah, my Knight in Shining Armor. What, you don’t think I can fend for myself?
Actually, he thought quite the opposite—Teresa seemed as tough as anybody there. No, I’m just trying to be nice.
The group was spread out across the full width of the corridor, running at a steady but quick pace—Thomas wondered how long the non-Runners would hold up. As if in response to the thought, Newt fell back, finally tapping Minho on the shoulder. “You lead the way now,” Thomas heard him say.
Minho nodded and ran to the front, guiding the Gladers through all the turns necessary. Every step was agonizing for Thomas. What courage he’d gathered had turned to dread, and he wondered when the Grievers would finally give chase. Wondered when the fight would begin.
And so it went for him as they kept moving, those Gladers not used to running such distances gasping in huge gulps of air. But no one quit. On and on they ran, with no signs of Grievers. And as the time passed, Thomas let the slightest trickle of hope enter his system—maybe they’d make it before getting attacked. Maybe.
Finally, after the longest hour of Thomas’s life, they reached the long alley that led to the last turn before the Cliff—a short corridor to the right that branched off like the stem of the letter T.
Thomas, his heart thumping, sweat slicking his skin, had moved up right behind Minho, Teresa at his side. Minho slowed at the corner, then stopped, holding up a hand to tell Thomas and the others to do the same. Then he turned, a look of horror on his face.
“Do you hear that?” he whispered.
Thomas shook his head, trying to squash the terror Minho’s expression had given him.
Minho crept ahead and peeked around the sharp edge of stone, looking toward the Cliff. Thomas had seen him do that before, when they’d followed a Griever to this very spot. Just like that time, Minho jerked back and turned to face him.
“Oh, no,” the Keeper said through a moan. “Oh, no.”
Then Thomas heard it. Griever sounds. It was as if they’d been hiding, waiting, and now were coming to life. He didn’t even have to look—he knew what Minho was going to say before he said it.
“There’s at least a dozen of them. Maybe fifteen.” He reached up and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “They’re just waiting for us!”
The icy chill of fear bit Thomas harder than ever before. He looked over at Teresa, about to say something, but stopped when he saw the expression on her pale face—he’d never seen terror present itself so starkly.
Newt and Alby had moved up the line of waiting Gladers to join Thomas and the others. Apparently Minho’s pronouncement had already been whispered through the ranks, because the first thing Newt said was “Well, we knew we’d have to fight.” But the tremor in his voice gave him away—he was just trying to say the right thing.
Thomas felt it himself. It’d been easy to talk about—the nothing-to-lose fight, the hope that just one of them would be taken, the chance to finally escape. But now it was here, literally around the corner. Doubts that he could go through with it seeped into his mind and heart. He wondered why the Grievers were just waiting—the beetle blades had obviously let them know the Gladers were coming. Were the Creators enjoying this?
He had an idea. “Maybe they’ve already taken a kid back at the Glade. Maybe we can get past them—why else would they just be sitting—”
A loud noise from behind cut him off—he spun to see more Grievers moving down the corridor toward them, spikes flaring, metal arms groping, coming from the direction of the Glade. Thomas was just about to say something when he heard sounds from the other end of the long alley—he looked to see yet more Grievers.
The enemy was on all sides, blocking them off completely.
The Gladers surged toward Thomas, forming a tight group, forcing him to move out into the open intersection where the Cliff corridor met the long alley. He saw the pack of Grievers between them and the Cliff, spikes extended, their moist skin pulsing in and out. Waiting, watching. The other two groups of Grievers had closed in and stopped just a few dozen feet from the Gladers, also waiting, watching.
Thomas slowly turned in a circle, fought the fear as he took it all in. They were surrounded. They had no choice now—there was nowhere to go. A sharp pulsing pain throbbed behind his eyes.
The Gladers compressed into a tighter group around him, everyone facing outward, huddled together in the center of the T intersection. Thomas was pressed between Newt and Teresa—he could feel Newt trembling. No one said a word. The only sounds were the eerie moans and whirrs of machinery coming from the Grievers, sitting there as if enjoying the little trap they’d set for the humans. Their disgusting bodies heaved in and out with mechanical wheezes of breath.
What are they doing? Thomas called out to Teresa. What are they waiting for?
She didn’t answer, which worried him. He reached out and squeezed her hand. The Gladers around him stood silent, clutching their meager weapons.
Thomas looked over at Newt. “Got any ideas?”
“No,” he replied, his voice just the tiniest bit shaky. “I don’t understand what they’re bloody waitin’ for.”
“We shouldn’t have come,” Alby said. He’d been so quiet, his voice sounded odd, especially with the hollow echo the Maze walls created.
Thomas was in no mood for whining—they had to do something. “Well, we’d be no better off in the Homestead. Hate to say it, but if one of us dies, that’s better than all of us.” He really hoped the one-person-a-night thing was true now. Seeing all these Grievers close up hit home with an explosion of reality—could they really fight them all?
A long moment passed before Alby replied. “Maybe I should …” He trailed off and started walking forward—in the direction of the Cliff—slowly, as if in a trance. Thomas watched in detached awe—he couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Alby?” Newt said. “Get back here!”
Instead of responding, Alby took off running—he headed straight for the pack of Grievers between him and the Cliff.
“Alby!” Newt screamed.
Thomas started to say something himself, but Alby had already made it to the monsters and jumped on top of one. Newt moved away from Thomas’s side and toward Alby—but five or six Grievers had already burst to life and attacked the boy in a blur of metal and skin. Thomas reached out and grabbed Newt by the arms before he could go any farther, then pulled him backward.
“Let go!” Newt yelled, struggling to break loose.
“Are you nuts!” Thomas shouted. “There’s nothing you can do!”
Two more Grievers broke from the pack and swarmed over Alby, piling on top of each other, snapping and cutting at the boy, as if they wanted to rub it in, show their vicious cruelty. Somehow, impossibly, Alby didn’t scream. Thomas lost sight of the body as he struggled with Newt, thankful for the distraction. Newt finally gave up, collapsing backward in defeat.
Alby’d flipped once and for all, Thomas thought, fighting the urge to rid his stomach of its contents. Their leader had been so scared to go back to whatever he’d seen, he’d chosen to sacrifice himself instead. He was gone. Totally gone.
Thomas helped steady Newt on his feet; the Glader couldn’t stop staring at the spot where his friend had disappeared.
“I can’t believe it,” Newt whispered. “I can’t believe he just did that.”
Thomas shook his head, unable to reply. Seeing Alby go down like that … a new kind of pain he’d never felt before filled his insides—an ill, disturbed pain; it felt worse than the physical kind. And he didn’t even know if it had anything to do with Alby—he’d never much liked the guy. But the thought that what he’d just seen might happen to Chuck—or Teresa …
Minho moved closer to Thomas and Newt, squeezed Newt’s shoulder. “We can’t waste what he did.” He turned toward Thomas. “We’ll fight ’em if we have to, make a path to the Cliff for you and Teresa. Get in the Hole and do your thing—we’ll keep them off until you scream for us to follow.”
Thomas looked at each of the three sets of Grievers—not one had yet made a move toward the Gladers—and nodded. “Hopefully they’ll go dormant for a while. We should only need a minute or so to punch in the code.”
“How can you guys be so heartless?” Newt murmured, the disgust in his voice surprising Thomas.
“What do you want, Newt?” Minho said. “Should we all dress up and have a funeral?”
Newt didn’t respond, still staring at the spot where the Grievers seemed to be feeding on Alby beneath them. Thomas couldn’t help taking a peek—he saw a smear of bright red on one of the creatures’ bodies. His stomach turned and he quickly looked away.
Minho continued. “Alby didn’t wanna go back to his old life. He freaking sacrificed himself for us—and they aren’t attacking, so maybe it worked. We’d be heartless if we wasted it.”
Newt only shrugged, closed his eyes.
Minho turned and faced the huddled group of Gladers. “Listen up! Number one priority is to protect Thomas and Teresa. Get them to the Cliff and the Hole so—”
The sounds of the Grievers revving to life cut him off. Thomas looked up in horror. The creatures on both sides of their group seemed to have noticed them again. Spikes were popping in and out of blubbery skin; their bodies shuddered and pulsed. Then, in unison, the monsters moved forward, slowly, instrument-tipped appendages unfolding, pointed at Thomas and the Gladers, ready to kill. Tightening their trap formation like a noose, the Grievers steadily charged toward them.
Alby’s sacrifice had failed miserably.
Thomas grabbed Minho by the arm. “Somehow I have to get through that!” He nodded toward the rolling pack of Grievers between them and the Cliff—they looked like one big mass of rumbling, spiked blubber, glistening with flashes of lights off steel. They were even more menacing in the faded gray light.
Thomas waited for an answer as Minho and Newt exchanged a long glance. The anticipation of fighting was almost worse than the fear of it.
“They’re coming!” Teresa yelled. “We have to do something!”
“You lead,” Newt finally said to Minho, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Make a bloody path for Tommy and the girl. Do it.”
Minho nodded once, a steel look of resolve hardening his features. Then he turned toward the Gladers. “We head straight for the Cliff! Fight through the middle, push the shuckin’ things toward the walls. What matters most is getting Thomas and Teresa to the Griever Hole!”
Thomas looked away from him, back at the approaching monsters—they were only a few feet away. He gripped his poor excuse for a spear.
We have to stay close together, he told Teresa. Let them do the fighting—we have to get through that Hole. He felt like a coward, but he knew that any fighting—and any deaths—would be in vain if they didn’t get that code punched, the door to the Creators opened.
I know, she replied. Stick together.
“Ready!” Minho yelled next to Thomas, raising his barbwire-wrapped club into the air with one hand, a long silver knife in the other. He pointed the knife at the horde of Grievers; a flash glinted off the blade. “Now!”
The Keeper ran forward without waiting for a response. Newt went after him, right on his heels, and then the rest of the Gladers followed, a tight pack of roaring boys charging ahead to a bloody battle, weapons raised. Thomas held Teresa’s hand, let them all go past, felt them bump him, smelled their sweat, sensed their terror, waiting for the perfect opportunity to make his own dash.
Just as the first sounds of boys crashing into Grievers filled the air—pierced with screams and roars of machinery and wood clacking against steel—Chuck ran past Thomas, who quickly reached out and grabbed his arm.
Chuck stumbled backward, then looked up at Thomas, his eyes so full of fright Thomas felt something shatter in his heart. In that split second, he’d made a decision.
“Chuck, you’re with me and Teresa.” He said it forcefully, with authority, leaving no room for doubt.
Chuck looked ahead at the engaged battle. “But …” He trailed off, and Thomas knew the boy relished the idea though he was ashamed to admit it.
Thomas quickly tried to save his dignity. “We need your help in the Griever Hole, in case one of those things is in there waiting for us.”
Chuck nodded quickly—too quickly. Again, Thomas felt the pang of sadness in his heart, felt the urge to get Chuck home safely stronger than he’d ever felt it before.
“Okay, then,” Thomas said. “Hold Teresa’s other hand. Let’s go.”
Chuck did as he was told, trying so hard to act brave. And, Thomas noted, not saying a word, perhaps for the first time in his life.
They’ve made an opening! Teresa shouted in Thomas’s mind—it sent a quick snap of pain shooting through his skull. She pointed ahead, and Thomas saw the narrow aisle forming in the middle of the corridor, Gladers fighting wildly to push the Grievers toward the walls.
“Now!” Thomas shouted.
He sprinted ahead, pulling Teresa behind him, Teresa pulling Chuck behind her, running at full speed, spears and knives cocked for battle, forward into the bloody, scream-filled hallway of stone. Toward the Cliff.
War raged around them. Gladers fought, panic-induced adrenaline driving them on. The sounds echoing off the walls were a cacophony of terror—human screams, metal clashing against metal, motors roaring, the haunted shrieks of the Grievers, saws spinning, claws clasping, boys yelling for help. All was a blur, bloody and gray and flashes of steel; Thomas tried not to look left or right, only ahead, through the narrow gap formed by the Gladers.
Even as they ran, Thomas went through the code words again in his mind. FLOAT, CATCH, BLEED, DEATH, STIFF, PUSH. They just had to make it a few dozen feet more.
Something just sliced my arm! Teresa screamed. Even as she said it, Thomas felt a sharp stab in his leg. He didn’t look back, didn’t bother answering. The seething impossibility of their predicament was like a heavy deluge of black water flooding around him, dragging him toward surrender. He fought it, pushed himself forward.
There was the Cliff, opening out into a gray-dark sky, about twenty feet away. He surged ahead, pulling his friends.
Battles clashed on both sides of them; Thomas refused to look, refused to help. A Griever spun directly in his path; a boy, his face hidden from sight, was clutched in its claws, stabbing viciously into the thick, whalish skin, trying to escape. Thomas dodged to the left, kept running. He heard a shriek as he passed by, a throat-scorching wail that could only mean the Glader had lost the fight, met a horrific end. The scream ran on, shattering the air, overpowering the other sounds of war, until it faded in death. Thomas felt his heart tremble, hoped it wasn’t someone he knew.
Just keep going! Teresa said.
“I know!” Thomas shouted back, this time out loud.
Someone sprinted past Thomas, bumped him. A Griever charged in from the right, blades twirling. A Glader cut it off, attacked it with two long swords, metal clacking and clanging as they fought. Thomas heard a distant voice, screaming the same words over and over, something about him. About protecting him as he ran. It was Minho, desperation and fatigue radiant in his shouts.
Thomas kept going.
One almost got Chuck! Teresa yelled, a violent echo in his head.
More Grievers came at them, more Gladers helped. Winston had picked up Alby’s bow and arrow, flinging the steel-pointed shafts at anything nonhuman that moved, missing more than he hit. Boys Thomas didn’t know ran alongside him, whacking at Griever instruments with their makeshift weapons, jumping on them, attacking. The sounds—clashes, clangs, screams, moaning wails, roars of engines, spinning saws, snapping blades, the screech of spikes against the floor, hair-raising pleas for help—it all grew to a crescendo, became unbearable.
Thomas screamed, but he kept running until they made it to the Cliff. He skidded to a stop, right on the edge. Teresa and Chuck bumped into him, almost sending all three of them to an endless fall. In a split second, Thomas surveyed his view of the Griever Hole. Hanging out, in the middle of thin air, were ivy vines stretching to nowhere.
Earlier, Minho and a couple of Runners had pulled out ropes of ivy and knotted them to vines still attached to the walls. They’d then tossed the loose ends over the Cliff, until they hit the Griever Hole, where now six or seven vines ran from the stone edge to an invisible rough square, hovering in the empty sky, where they disappeared into nothingness.
It was time to jump. Thomas hesitated, feeling one last moment of stark terror—hearing the horrible sounds behind him, seeing the illusion in front of him—then snapped out of it. “You first, Teresa.” He wanted to go last to make sure a Griever didn’t get her or Chuck.
To his surprise, she didn’t hesitate. After squeezing Thomas’s hand, then Chuck’s shoulder, she leaped off the edge, immediately stiffening her legs, with her arms by her sides. Thomas held his breath until she slipped into the spot between the cut-off ivy ropes and disappeared. It looked as if she’d been erased from existence with one quick swipe.
“Whoa!” Chuck yelled, the slightest hint of his old self breaking through.
“Whoa is right,” Thomas said. “You’re next.”
Before the boy could argue, Thomas grabbed him under his arms, squeezed Chuck’s torso. “Push off with your legs and I’ll give you a lift. Ready? One, two, three!” He grunted with effort, heaved him over toward the Hole.
Chuck screamed as he flew through the air, and he almost missed the target, but his feet went through; then his stomach and arms slammed against the sides of the invisible hole before he disappeared inside. The boy’s bravery solidified something in Thomas’s heart. He loved the kid. He loved him as if they had the same mom.
Thomas tightened the straps on his backpack, held his makeshift fighting spear tightly in his right fist. The sounds behind him were awful, horrible—he felt guilty for not helping. Just do your part, he told himself.
Steeling his nerves, he tapped his spear against the stone ground, then planted his left foot on the very edge of the Cliff and jumped, catapulting up and into the twilight air. He pulled the spear close to his torso, pointed his toes downward, stiffened his body.
Then he hit the Hole.
A line of icy cold shot across Thomas’s skin as he entered the Griever Hole, starting from his toes and continuing up his whole body, as if he’d jumped through a flat plane of freezing water. The world went even darker around him as his feet thumped to a landing on a slippery surface, then shot out from under him; he fell backward into Teresa’s arms. She and Chuck helped him stand. It was a miracle Thomas hadn’t stabbed someone’s eye out with his spear.
The Griever Hole would’ve been pitch-black if not for the beam of Teresa’s flashlight cutting through the darkness. As Thomas got his bearings, he realized they were standing in a ten-foot-high stone cylinder. It was damp, and covered in shiny, grimy oil, and it stretched out in front of them for dozens of yards before it faded into darkness. Thomas peered up at the Hole through which they’d come—it looked like a square window into a deep, starless space.
“The computer’s over there,” Teresa said, grabbing his attention.
Several feet down the tunnel, she had aimed her light at a small square of grimy glass that shone a dull green color. Beneath it, a keyboard was set into the wall, angling out enough for someone to type on it with ease if standing. There it was, ready for the code. Thomas couldn’t help thinking it seemed too easy, too good to be true.
“Put the words in!” Chuck yelled, slapping Thomas on the shoulder. “Hurry!”
Thomas motioned for Teresa to do it. “Chuck and I’ll keep watch, make sure a Griever doesn’t come through the Hole.” He just hoped the Gladers had turned their attention from making the aisle in the Maze to keeping the creatures away from the Cliff.
“Okay,” Teresa said—Thomas knew she was too smart to waste time arguing about it. She stepped up to the keyboard and screen, then started typing.
Wait! Thomas called to her mind. Are you sure you know the words?
She turned to him and scowled. “I’m not an idiot, Tom. Yes, I’m perfectly capable of remembering—”
A loud bang from above and behind them cut her off, made Thomas jump. He spun around to see a Griever plop through the Griever Hole, appearing as if by magic from the dark square of black. The thing had retracted its spikes and arms to enter—when it landed with a squishy thump, a dozen sharp and nasty objects popped back out, looking deadlier than ever.
Thomas pushed Chuck behind him and faced the creature, holding out his spear as if that would ward it off. “Just keep typing, Teresa!” he yelled.
A skinny metallic rod burst out of the Griever’s moist skin, unfolding into a long appendage with three spinning blades, which moved directly toward Thomas’s face.
He gripped the end of his spear with both hands, squeezing tightly as he lowered the knife-laced point to the ground in front of him. The bladed arm moved within two feet, ready to slice his skin to bits. When it was just a foot away, Thomas tensed his muscles and swung the spear up, around, and toward the ceiling as hard as he could. It smacked the metal arm and pivoted the thing skyward, revolving in an arc until it slammed back into the body of the Griever. The monster let out an angry shriek and pulled back several feet, its spikes retracting into its body. Thomas heaved breaths in and out.
Maybe I can hold it off, he said quickly to Teresa. Just hurry!
I’m almost done, she replied.
The Griever’s spikes appeared again; it surged ahead and another arm popped out of its skin and shot forward, this one with huge claws, snapping to grab the spear. Thomas swung, this time from above his head, throwing every bit of strength into the attack. The spear crashed into the base of the claws. With a loud clunk, and then a squishing sound, the entire arm ripped free of its socket, falling to the floor. Then, from some kind of mouth that Thomas couldn’t see, the Griever let out a long, piercing shriek and pulled back again; the spikes disappeared.
“These things are beatable!” Thomas shouted.
It won’t let me enter the last word! Teresa said in his mind.
Barely hearing her, not quite understanding, he yelled out a roar and charged ahead to take advantage of the Griever’s moment of weakness. Swinging his spear wildly, he jumped on top of the creature’s bulbous body, whacking two metal arms away from him with a loud crack. He lifted the spear above his head, braced his feet—felt them sink into the disgusting blubber—then thrust the spear down and into the monster. A slimy yellow goo exploded from the flesh, splashing over Thomas’s legs as he drove the spear as far as it would sink into the thing’s body. Then he released the hilt of the weapon and jumped away, running back to Chuck and Teresa.
Thomas watched in sick fascination as the Griever twitched uncontrollably, spewing the yellow oil in every direction. Spikes popped in and out of the skin; its remaining arms swung around in mass confusion, at times impaling its own body. Soon it began to slow, losing energy with every ounce of blood—or fuel—it lost.
A few seconds later, it stopped moving altogether. Thomas couldn’t believe it. He absolutely couldn’t believe it. He’d just defeated a Griever, one of the monsters that had terrorized the Gladers for more than two years.
He glanced behind him at Chuck, standing there with eyes wide.
“You killed it,” the boy said. He laughed, as if that one act had solved all their problems.
“Wasn’t so hard,” Thomas muttered, then turned to see Teresa frantically typing away at the keyboard. He knew immediately that something was wrong.
“What’s the problem?” he asked, almost shouting. He ran up to look over her shoulder and saw that she kept typing the word PUSH over and over, but nothing appeared on the screen.
She pointed at the dirty square of glass, empty but for its greenish glow of life. “I put in all the words and one by one they appeared on the screen; then something beeped and they’d disappear. But it won’t let me type in the last word. Nothing’s happening!”
Cold filled Thomas’s veins as Teresa’s words sank in. “Well … why?”
“I don’t know!” She tried again, then again. Nothing appeared.
“Thomas!” Chuck screamed from behind them. Thomas turned to see him pointing at the Griever Hole—another creature was making its way through. As he watched, it plopped down on top of its dead brother and another Griever started entering the Hole.
“What’s taking so long!” Chuck cried frantically. “You said they’d turn off when you punched in the code!”
Both Grievers had righted themselves and extended their spikes, had started moving toward them.
“It won’t let us enter the word PUSH,” Thomas said absently, not really speaking to Chuck but trying to think of a solution …
I don’t get it, Teresa said.
The Grievers were coming, only a few feet away. Feeling his will fade into blackness, Thomas braced his feet and held up his fists halfheartedly. It was supposed to work. The code was supposed to—
“Maybe you should just push that button,” Chuck said.
Thomas was so surprised by the random statement that he turned away from the Grievers, looked at the boy. Chuck was pointing at a spot near the floor, right underneath the screen and keyboard.
Before he could move, Teresa was already down there, crouching on her knees. And consumed by curiosity, by a fleeting hope, Thomas joined her, collapsing to the ground to get a better look. He heard the Griever moan and roar behind him, felt a sharp claw grab his shirt, felt a prick of pain. But he could only stare.
A small red button was set into the wall only a few inches above the floor. Three black words were printed there, so obvious he couldn’t believe he’d missed it earlier.
Kill the Maze
More pain snapped Thomas out of his stupor. The Griever had grabbed him with two instruments, had started dragging him backward. The other one had gone after Chuck and was just about to swipe at the kid with a long blade.
A button.
“Push!” Thomas screamed, louder than he’d thought possible for a human being to scream.
And Teresa did.
She pushed the button and everything went perfectly silent. Then, from somewhere down the dark tunnel, came the sound of a door sliding open.