The Maze Runner Series Complete Collection (22 page)

He wanted to scream, run until he could run no more. He made it to the East Door and sprinted through it, out of the Glade. Kept going, through corridor after corridor, deep into the heart of the Maze, rules or no rules. But he still couldn’t escape the voice.

It was you and me, Tom
. We
did this to them. To us
.

Thomas didn’t stop until the voice had gone for good.

It shocked him when he realized he’d been running for almost an hour—the shadows of the walls ran long toward the east, and soon the sun would set for the night and the Doors would close. He had to get back. It only peripherally hit him then that without thinking he’d recognized the direction and the time. That his instincts were strong.

He had to get back.

But he didn’t know if he could face her again. The voice in his head. The strange things she’d said.

He had no choice. Denying the truth would solve nothing. And as bad—as weird—as the invasion of his mind had been, it beat another date with the Grievers any day.

As he ran toward the Glade, he learned a lot about himself. Without meaning to or realizing it, he’d pictured in his mind his exact route through the Maze as he escaped the voice. Not once did he falter on his return, turning left and right and running down long corridors in reverse of the way he had come. He knew what it meant.

Minho had been right. Soon, Thomas would be the best Runner.

The second thing he learned about himself, as if the night in the Maze hadn’t proved it already, was that his body was in perfect shape. Just a day earlier he’d been at the end of his strength and sore from top to bottom. He’d recovered quickly, and ran now with almost no effort, despite nearing the end of his second hour of running. It didn’t take a
math genius to calculate that his speed and time combined meant he’d run roughly half a marathon by the time he returned to the Glade.

Never before had the sheer size of the Maze truly hit him. Miles and miles and miles. With its walls that moved, every night, he finally understood why the Maze was so hard to solve. He’d doubted it until now, wondered how the Runners could be so inept.

On he ran, left and right, straight, on and on. By the time he’d crossed the threshold into the Glade, the Doors were only minutes away from closing for the night. Exhausted, he headed straight for the Deadheads, went deep into the forest until he reached the spot where the trees crowded against the southwest corner. More than anything, he wanted to be alone.

When he could hear only the sounds of distant Glader conversations, as well as faint echoes of bleating sheep and snorting pigs, his wish was granted; he found the junction of the two giant walls and collapsed into the corner to rest. No one came, no one bothered him. The south wall eventually moved, closing for the night; he leaned forward until it stopped. Minutes later, his back once again comfortably pressed against thick layers of ivy, he fell asleep.

The next morning, someone gently shook him awake.

“Thomas, wake up.” It was Chuck—the kid seemed to be able to find him anywhere.

Groaning, Thomas leaned forward, stretched out his back and arms. A couple of blankets had been placed over him during the night—someone playing the Glade Mother.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“You’re almost too late for breakfast.” Chuck tugged on his arm. “Come on, get up. You need to start acting normal or things’ll just get worse.”

The events of the previous day came crashing into Thomas’s mind, and his stomach seemed to twist inside out.
What are they going to do to me?
he thought.
Those things she said. Something about me and her doing this to them. To us. What did that
mean
?

Then it hit him that maybe he was crazy. Maybe the stress of the Maze had driven him insane. Either way, only
he
had heard the voice inside his head. No one else knew the weird things Teresa had said, or accused him of. They didn’t even know that she had told him her name. Well, no one except Newt.

And he would keep it that way. Things were bad enough—no way he’d make it worse by telling people about voices in his head. The only problem was Newt. Thomas would have to convince him somehow that stress had finally overwhelmed him and a good night’s rest had solved everything.
I’m not crazy
, Thomas told himself. Surely he wasn’t.

Chuck was looking at him with eyebrows raised.

“Sorry,” Thomas said as he stood up, acting as normal as he could. “Just thinking. Let’s eat, I’m starving.”

“Good that,” Chuck said, slapping Thomas on the back.

They headed for the Homestead, Chuck yapping the whole time. Thomas wasn’t complaining—it was the closest thing to normal in his life.

“Newt found you last night and told everyone to let you sleep.
And
he told us what the Council decided about you—one day in the cell, then you’ll enter the Runner training program. Some shanks grumbled, some cheered, most acted like they couldn’t care less. As for me, I think it’s pretty awesome.” Chuck paused to take a breath, then kept going. “That first night, when you were bragging about being a Runner and all that klunk—shuck it, I was laughing inside so hard. I kept telling myself, this sucker’s in for a rude awakening. Well, you proved
me
wrong, huh?”

But Thomas didn’t feel like talking about it. “I just did what anyone else would’ve done. It’s not my fault Minho and Newt want me to be a Runner.”

“Yeah, right. Quit being modest.”

Being a Runner was the last thing on Thomas’s mind. What he couldn’t stop thinking about was Teresa, the voice in his head, what she’d
said
. “I guess I’m a little excited.” Thomas forced a grin, though he cringed at the thought of hanging out in the Slammer by himself all day before he got to start.

“We’ll see how you feel after running your guts out. Anyway, as long as you know old Chucky is proud of you.”

Thomas smiled at his friend’s enthusiasm. “If only you were my mom,” Thomas murmured, “life’d be a peach.”
My mom
, he thought. The world seemed to darken for a moment—he couldn’t even remember his own mother. He pushed the thought away before it consumed him.

They made it to the kitchen and grabbed a quick breakfast, taking two empty seats at the big table inside. Every Glader going in and out the door gave Thomas a stare; a few came up and offered congratulations. Other than a sprinkling of dirty looks here and there, most people seemed to be on his side. Then he remembered Gally.

“Hey, Chuck,” he asked after taking a bite of eggs, trying to sound casual. “Did they ever find Gally?”

“No. I was gonna tell you—someone said they saw him run out into the Maze after he left the Gathering. Hasn’t been seen since.”

Thomas dropped his fork, not knowing what he’d expected or hoped for. Either way, the news stunned him. “What? You’re serious? He went into the Maze?”

“Yeah. Everyone knows he went nuts—some shank even accused you of killing him when you ran out there yesterday.”

“I can’t believe …” Thomas stared at his plate, trying to understand why Gally would do that.

“Don’t worry about it, dude. No one liked him except for his few shuck cronies. They’re the ones accusing you of stuff.”

Thomas couldn’t believe how casually Chuck spoke about it. “Ya know, the guy is probably dead. You’re talking about him like he went on vacation.”

A contemplative look came over Chuck. “I don’t think he’s dead.”

“Huh? Then where is he? Aren’t Minho and I the only ones who’ve survived a night out there?”

“That’s what I’m saying. I think his buddies are hiding him inside the Glade somewhere. Gally was an idiot, but he couldn’t possibly be stupid enough to stay out in the Maze all night. Like you.”

Thomas shook his head. “Maybe that’s
exactly
why he stayed out there. Wanted to prove he could do anything I can do. The guy hates me.” A pause. “Hated me.”

“Well, whatever.” Chuck shrugged as if they were arguing over what to have for breakfast. “If he’s dead, you guys’ll probably find him eventually. If not, he’ll get hungry and show up to eat. I don’t care.”

Thomas picked up his plate and took it to the counter. “All I want is one normal day—one day to relax.”

“Then your bloody wish is granted,” said a voice from the kitchen door behind him.

Thomas turned to see Newt there, smiling. That grin sent a wave of reassurance through Thomas, as if he were finding out the world was okay again.

“Come on, ya buggin’ jailbird,” Newt said. “You can take it easy while you’re hangin’ in the Slammer. Let’s go. Chucky’ll bring ya some lunch at noon.”

Thomas nodded and headed out the door, Newt leading the way. Suddenly a day in prison sounded excellent. A day to just sit and relax.

Though something told him there was a better chance of Gally bringing him flowers than of passing a day in the Glade with nothing strange happening.

The Slammer stood in an obscure place between the Homestead and the north Glade wall, hidden behind thorny, ragged bushes that looked like they hadn’t been trimmed in ages. It was a big block of roughly cut concrete, with one tiny, barred window and a wooden door that was locked with a menacing rusty metal latch, like something out of the Dark Ages.

Newt took out a key and opened it up, then motioned for Thomas to enter. “There’s only a chair in there and nothin’ at all for ya to do. Enjoy yourself.”

Thomas groaned inwardly as he stepped inside and saw the one piece of furniture—an ugly, rickety chair with one leg obviously shorter than the rest, probably on purpose. Didn’t even have a cushion.

“Have fun,” Newt said before closing the door. Thomas turned back to his new home and heard the latch close and the lock click behind him. Newt’s head appeared at the little glassless window, looking through the bars, a smirk on his face. “Nice reward for breakin’ the rules. You saved some lives, Tommy, but ya still need to learn—”

“Yeah, I know.
Order.”

Newt smiled. “You’re not half bad, shank. But friends or no, gotta run things properly, keep us buggers alive. Think about that while ya sit here and stare at the bloody walls.”

And then he was gone.

* * *

The first hour passed, and Thomas felt boredom creep in like rats under the door. By hour number two, he wanted to bang his head against the wall. Two hours after that he started to think having dinner with Gally and the Grievers would beat sitting inside that stupid Slammer. He sat and tried to bring back memories, but every effort evaporated into oblivious mist before anything formed.

Thankfully, Chuck arrived with lunch at noon, relieving Thomas from his thoughts.

After passing some pieces of chicken and a glass of water through the window, he took up his usual role of talking Thomas’s ear off.

“Everything’s getting back to normal,” the boy announced. “The Runners are out in the Maze, everyone’s working—maybe we’ll survive after all. Still no sign of Gally—Newt told the Runners to come back lickety-splickety if they found his body. And, oh, yeah—Alby’s up and around. Seems fine—and Newt’s glad he doesn’t have to be the big boss anymore.”

The mention of Alby pulled Thomas’s attention from his food. He pictured the older boy thrashing around, choking himself the day before. Then he remembered that no one else knew what Alby had said after Newt left the room—before the seizure. But that didn’t mean Alby would keep it between them now that he was up and walking around.

Chuck continued talking, taking a completely unexpected turn. “Thomas, I’m kinda messed up, man. It’s weird to feel sad and homesick, but have no idea what it is you wish you could go back to, ya know? All I know is I don’t want to be here. I want to go back to my family. Whatever’s there, whatever I was taken from. I wanna
remember.”

Thomas was a little surprised. He’d never heard Chuck say something so deep and so true. “I know what you mean,” he murmured.

Chuck was too short for his eyes to reach where Thomas could see them as he spoke, but from his next statement, Thomas imagined them filling with a bleak sadness, maybe even tears. “I used to cry. Every night.”

This made thoughts of Alby leave Thomas’s mind. “Yeah?”

“Like a pants-wettin’ baby. Almost till the day you got here. Then I just got used to it, I guess. This became home, even though we spend every day hoping to get out.”

“I’ve only cried once since showing up, but that was after almost getting eaten alive. I’m probably just a shallow shuck-face.” Thomas might not have admitted it if Chuck hadn’t opened up.

“You cried?” he heard Chuck say through the window. “Then?”

“Yeah. When the last one finally fell over the Cliff, I broke down and sobbed till my throat and chest hurt.” Thomas remembered all too well. “Everything crushed in on me at once. Sure made
me
feel better—don’t feel bad about crying. Ever.”

“Kinda
does
make ya feel better, huh? Weird how that works.”

A few minutes passed in silence. Thomas found himself hoping Chuck wouldn’t leave.

“Hey, Thomas?” Chuck asked.

“Still here.”

“Do you think I have parents?
Real
parents?”

Thomas laughed, mostly to push away the sudden surge of sadness the statement caused. “Of course you do, shank. You need me to explain the birds and bees?” Thomas’s heart hurt—he could remember getting that lecture but not who’d given it to him.

“That’s not what I meant,” Chuck said, his voice completely devoid of cheer. It was low and bleak, almost a mumble. “Most of the
guys who’ve gone through the Changing remember terrible things they won’t even talk about, which makes me doubt I have anything good back home. So, I mean, you think it’s really possible I have a mom and a dad out in the world somewhere, missing me? Do you think
they
cry at night?”

Thomas was completely shocked to realize his eyes had filled with tears. Life had been so crazy since he’d arrived, he’d never really thought of the Gladers as real people with real families, missing them. It was strange, but he hadn’t even really thought of himself that way. Only about what it all meant, who’d sent them there, how they’d ever get out.