Authors: James Dashner
There were a few snickers as Zart, the quiet big guy who watched over the Gardens, shifted in his seat. He looked to Thomas more out of place than a carrot on a tomato plant.
“Well,” Zart began, his eyes darting around almost like he was waiting for someone else to tell him what to say. “I don’t know. He broke one of our most important rules. We can’t just let people think that’s okay.” He paused and looked down at his hands, rubbing them
together. “But then again, he’s … changed things. Now we know we can survive out there, and that we can beat the Grievers.”
Relief flooded Thomas. He had someone else on his side. He made a promise to himself to be extra nice to Zart.
“Oh, give me a break,” Gally spurted. “I bet Minho’s the one who actually got rid of the stupid things.”
“Gally, shut your hole!” Newt yelled, standing for effect this time; once again Thomas felt like cheering. “I’m the bloody Chair right now, and if I hear one more buggin’ word out of turn from you, I’ll be arrangin’ another Banishing for your sorry butt.”
“Please,” Gally whispered sarcastically, the ridiculous scowl returning as he slouched back into his chair again.
Newt sat down and motioned to Zart. “Is that it? Any official recommendations?”
Zart shook his head.
“Okay. You’re next, Frypan.”
The cook smiled through his beard and sat up straighter. “Shank’s got more guts than I’ve fried up from every pig and cow in the last year.” He paused, as if expecting a laugh, but none came. “How stupid is this—he saves Alby’s life, kills a couple of Grievers, and we’re sitting here yappin’ about what to do with him. As Chuck would say, this is a pile of klunk.”
Thomas wanted to walk over and shake Frypan’s hand—he’d just said exactly what Thomas himself had been thinking about all of this.
“So what’re ya recommendin’?” Newt asked.
Frypan folded his arms. “Put him on the freaking Council and have him train us on everything he did out there.”
Voices erupted from every direction, and it took Newt half a minute to calm everyone down. Thomas winced; Frypan had gone too
far with that recommendation, almost invalidating his well-stated opinion of the whole mess.
“All right, writin’ her down,” Newt said as he did just that, scribbling on a notepad. “Now everyone keep their bloody mouths shut, I mean it. You know the rules—no idea’s unacceptable—and you’ll all have your say when we vote on it.” He finished writing and pointed to the third member of the Council, a kid Thomas hadn’t met yet with black hair and a freckly face.
“I don’t really have an opinion,” he said.
“What?” Newt asked angrily. “Lot of good it did to choose you for the Council, then.”
“Sorry, I honestly don’t.” He shrugged. “If anything, I agree with Frypan, I guess. Why punish a guy for saving someone’s life?”
“So you do have an opinion—is that it?” Newt insisted, pencil in hand.
The kid nodded and Newt scribbled a note. Thomas was feeling more and more relieved—it seemed like most of the Keepers were for him, not against him. Still, he was having a hard time just sitting there; he desperately wanted to speak on his own behalf. But he forced himself to follow Newt’s orders and keep quiet.
Next was acne-covered Winston, Keeper of the Blood House. “I think he should be punished. No offense, Greenie, but Newt, you’re the one always harping about
order
. If we don’t punish him, we’ll set a bad example. He broke our Number One Rule.”
“Okay,” Newt said, writing on his pad. “So you’re recommendin’ punishment. What kind?”
“I think he should be put in the Slammer for a week with only bread and water—and we need to make sure everyone knows about it so they don’t get any ideas.”
Gally clapped, earning a scowl from Newt. Thomas’s heart fell just a bit.
Two more Keepers spoke, one for Frypan’s idea, one for Winston’s. Then it was Newt’s turn.
“I agree with the lot of ya. He should be punished, but then we need to figure out a way to use him. I’m reservin’ my recommendation until I hear everyone out. Next.”
Thomas hated all this talk about punishment, even more than he hated having to keep his mouth shut. But deep inside he couldn’t bring himself to disagree—as odd as it seemed after what he’d accomplished, he
had
broken a major rule.
Down the line they went. Some thought he should be praised, some thought he should be punished. Or both. Thomas could barely listen anymore, anticipating the comments from the last two Keepers, Gally and Minho. The latter hadn’t said a word since Thomas had entered the room; he just sat there, drooped in his chair, looking like he hadn’t slept in a week.
Gally went first. “I think I’ve made my opinions pretty clear already.”
Great
, Thomas thought.
Then just keep your mouth shut
.
“Good that,” Newt said with yet another roll of the eyes. “Go on, then, Minho.”
“No!” Gally yelled, making a couple of Keepers jump in their seats. “I still wanna say something.”
“Then bloody say it,” Newt replied. It made Thomas feel a little better that the temporary Council Chair despised Gally almost as much as he did. Though Thomas wasn’t that afraid of him anymore, he still hated the guy’s guts.
“Just think about it,” Gally began. “This slinthead comes up in the Box, acting all confused and scared. A few days later, he’s running around the Maze with Grievers, acting like he owns the place.”
Thomas shrank into his chair, hoping that others hadn’t been thinking anything like that.
Gally continued his rant. “I think it was all an act. How could he have done what he did out there after just a few days? I ain’t buyin’ it.”
“What’re you tryin’ to say, Gally?” Newt asked. “How ’bout having a bloody
point?”
“I think he’s a spy from the people who put us here.”
Another uproar exploded in the room; Thomas could do nothing but shake his head—he just didn’t get how Gally could come up with all these ideas. Newt finally calmed everyone down again, but Gally wasn’t finished.
“We can’t trust this shank,” he continued. “Day after he shows up, a psycho girl comes, spoutin’ off that things are gonna change, clutching that freaky note. We find a dead Griever. Thomas conveniently finds himself in the Maze for the night, then tries to convince everyone he’s a hero. Well, neither Minho nor anyone else actually
saw
him do anything in the vines. How do we know it was the Greenie who tied Alby up there?”
Gally paused; no one said a word for several seconds, and panic rose inside Thomas’s chest. Could they actually believe what Gally was saying? He was anxious to defend himself and almost broke his silence for the first time—but before he could get a word in, Gally was talking again.
“There’s too many weird things going on, and it all started when this shuck-face Greenie showed up. And he just happens to be the first person to survive a night out in the Maze. Something ain’t right, and until we figure it out, I officially recommend that we lock his butt in the Slammer—for a month, and then have another review.”
More rumblings broke out, and Newt wrote something on his pad, shaking his head the whole time—which gave Thomas a tinge of hope.
“Finished, Captain Gally?” Newt asked.
“Quit being such a smart aleck, Newt,” he spat, his face flushing red. “I’m dead serious. How can we trust this shank after less than a week? Quit voting me down before you even
think
about what I’m saying.”
For the first time, Thomas felt a little empathy for Gally—he did have a point about how Newt was treating him. Gally was a Keeper, after all.
But I still hate him
, Thomas thought.
“Fine, Gally,” Newt said. “I’m sorry. We heard you, and we’ll all consider your bloody recommendation. Are you done?”
“Yes, I’m done. And I’m
right.”
With no more words for Gally, Newt pointed at Minho. “Go ahead, last but not least.”
Thomas was elated that it was finally Minho’s turn; surely he’d defend him to the end.
Minho stood quickly, taking everyone off guard. “I was out there; I saw what this guy did—he stayed strong while I turned into a panty-wearin’ chicken. No blabbin’ on and on like Gally. I want to say my recommendation and be done with it.”
Thomas held his breath, wondering what he’d say.
“Good that,” Newt said. “Tell us, then.”
Minho looked at Thomas. “I nominate this shank to replace me as Keeper of the Runners.”
Complete silence filled the room, as if the world had been frozen, and every member of the Council stared at Minho. Thomas sat stunned, waiting for the Runner to say he’d been kidding.
Gally finally broke the spell, standing up. “That’s ridiculous!” He faced Newt and pointed back at Minho, who had taken his seat again. “He should be kicked off the Council for saying something so stupid.”
Any pity Thomas had felt for Gally, however remote, completely vanished at that statement.
Some Keepers seemed to actually agree with Minho’s recommendation—like Frypan, who clapped to drown out Gally, clamoring to take a vote. Others didn’t. Winston shook his head adamantly, saying something that Thomas couldn’t quite make out. When everyone started talking at once, Thomas put his head in his hands to wait it out, terrified and awed at the same time. Why had Minho said that?
Has to be a joke
, he thought.
Newt said it takes forever just to
become
a Runner, much less the Keeper
. He looked back up, wishing he were a thousand miles away.
Finally, Newt put his notepad down and stepped out from the semicircle, screaming at people to shut up. Thomas watched on as at first no one seemed to hear or notice Newt at all. Gradually, though, order was restored and everyone sat down.
“Shuck it,” Newt said. “I’ve never seen so many shanks acting like teat-suckin’ babies. We may not look it, but around these parts we’re
adults. Act like it, or we’ll disband this bloody Council and start from scratch.” He walked from end to end of the curved row of sitting Keepers, looking each of them in the eye as he spoke. “Are we clear?”
Quiet had swept across the group. Thomas expected more outbursts, but was surprised when everyone nodded their consent, even Gally.
“Good that.” Newt walked back to his chair and sat down, putting the pad in his lap. He scratched out a few lines on the paper, then looked up at Minho. “That’s some pretty serious klunk, brother. Sorry, but you need to talk it up to move it forward.”
Thomas couldn’t help feeling eager to hear the response.
Minho looked exhausted, but he started defending his proposal. “It’s sure easy for you shanks to sit here and talk about something you’re stupid on. I’m the only Runner in this group, and the only other one here who’s even
been
out in the Maze is Newt.”
Gally interjected: “Not if you count the time I—”
“I don’t!” Minho shouted. “And believe me, you or nobody else has the slightest clue what it’s like to be out there. The only reason you were stung is because you broke the same rule you’re blaming Thomas for. That’s called
hypocrisy
, you shuck-faced piece of—”
“Enough,” Newt said. “Defend your proposal and be done with it.”
The tension was palpable; Thomas felt like the air in the room had become glass that could shatter at any second. Both Gally and Minho looked as if the taut, red skin of their faces was about to burst—but they finally broke their stare.
“Anyway, listen to me,” Minho continued as he took his seat. “I’ve never seen anything like it. He didn’t panic. He didn’t whine and cry, never seemed scared. Dude, he’d been here for just a few days. Think about what we were all like in the beginning. Huddling in corners, disoriented, crying every hour, not trusting anybody, refusing to do
anything. We were all like that, for weeks or months, till we had no choice but to shuck it and live.”
Minho stood back up, pointed at Thomas. “Just a few days after this guy shows up, he steps out in the Maze to save two shanks he hardly knows. All this klunk about him breaking a rule is just beyond stupid. He didn’t get the rules yet. But plenty of people had told him what it’s like in the Maze, especially at night. And he still stepped out there, just as the Door was closing, only caring that two people needed help.” He took a deep breath, seeming to gain strength the more he spoke.
“But that was just the beginning. After that, he saw me give up on Alby, leave him for dead. And I was the veteran—the one with all the experience and knowledge. So when Thomas saw me give up, he shouldn’t have questioned it. But he did. Think about the willpower and strength it took him to push Alby up that wall, inch by inch. It’s psycho. It’s freaking crazy.
“But that wasn’t it. Then came the Grievers. I told Thomas we had to split up and I started the practiced evasive maneuvers, running in the patterns. Thomas, when he should’ve been wettin’ his pants, took control, defied all laws of physics and gravity to get Alby up onto that wall, diverted the Grievers away from him, beat one off, found—”
“We get the point,” Gally snapped. “Tommy here is a lucky shank.”
Minho rounded on him. “No, you worthless shuck, you
don’t
get it! I’ve been here two years, and I’ve never seen anything like it. For you to say anything …”
Minho paused, rubbing his eyes, groaning in frustration. Thomas realized his own mouth had dropped wide open. His emotions were scattered: appreciation for Minho standing up to everybody on his behalf, disbelief at Gally’s continuous belligerence, fear of what the final decision would be.
“Gally,” Minho said in a calmer voice, “you’re nothing but a sissy
who has never, not once, asked to be a Runner or tried out for it. You don’t have the right to talk about things you don’t understand. So shut your mouth.”
Gally stood up again, fuming. “Say one more thing like that and I’ll break your neck, right here in front of everybody.” Spit flew from his mouth as he spoke.
Minho laughed, then raised the palm of his hand and shoved Gally in the face. Thomas half stood as he watched the Glader crash down into his chair, tipping it over backward, cracking it in two pieces. Gally sprawled across the floor, then scrambled to stand up, struggling to get his hands and feet under him. Minho stepped closer and stomped the bottom of his foot down on Gally’s back, driving his body flat to the ground.