THE SCORCH TRIALS tmr-2

by Джеймс Дашнер

  "I hate when you're right," Frypan grumbled under his breath.

  Thomas couldn't quit staring past the open door, into the pool of inky darkness. He felt a now-all-too-familiar clench of apprehension, knowing that something had to be wrong or the people who'd rescued them would've come for them a long time ago. But Minho and Newt were right—they had to go out there and find some answers.

  "Shuck it," Minho said. "I'll go first."

  Without waiting for a response he walked through the open door, his body vanishing in the gloom almost instantly. Newt gave Thomas a hesitant look, then followed. For some reason Thomas thought it should be up to him to go next, so he did.

  Step by step, he left the dorm room and entered the darkness of the common area, hands reaching out in front of him.

  The glow of light coming from behind didn't do much to illuminate things; he might as well have been walking with his eyes squeezed shut. And the place smelled. Horrible.

  Minho yelped up ahead, then called back. "Whoa, be careful. Something . . . weird's hanging from the ceiling."

  Thomas heard a slight squeak or groan, something creaking. As if Minho had bumped into a low-hanging chandelier, sending it swaying back and forth. A grunt from Newt somewhere to the right was followed by the squeal of metal dragging across the floor.

  "Table," Newt announced. "Watch out for tables."

  Frypan spoke up behind Thomas. "Does anyone remember where the light switches were?"

  "That's where I'm heading," Newt responded. "I swear I remember seeing a set of them somewhere over here."

  Thomas continued walking blindly forward. His eyes had adjusted a little; where before, everything had been a wall of blackness, now he could see traces of shadows against shadows. Yet something was off. He was still a little disoriented, but things seemed to be in places they shouldn't be. It was almost as if—

  "Bluh-huh-huh," Minho groaned, a shudder of repulsion, like he'd just stepped in a pile of klunk. Another creaking sound cut through the room.

  Before Thomas could ask what had happened, he bumped into something himself. Hard. Awkwardly shaped. The feel of cloth. "Found it!" Newt shouted.

  A few clicks were heard; then the room suddenly blazed with fluorescent lights, temporarily blinding Thomas. He stumbled away from the thing he'd bumped into, rubbing his eyes, ran into another stiff figure, sent it swaying away from him.

  "Whoa!" Minho yelled.

  Thomas squinted; his vision cleared. He forced himself to look at the scene of horror around him.

  Throughout the large room, people hung from the ceiling—at least a dozen. They'd all been strung up by the neck, the ropes twisted and trenched into purple, bloated skin. The stiff bodies swung to and fro ever so slightly, pale pink tongues lolling out of their white-lipped mouths. All of them had eyes open, though glazed over with certain death. By the looks of it, they'd been that way for hours. Their clothes and some of their faces looked familiar.

  Thomas dropped to his knees.

  He knew these dead people.

  They were the ones who'd rescued the Gladers. Just the day before.

  CHAPTER 4

  Thomas tried not to look at any of the dead bodies as he stood up. He half walked, half stumbled over to Newt, who was still by the bank of light switches, his terrified gaze darting between the corpses hanging throughout the room.

  Minho joined them, swearing under his breath. Other Gladers were emerging from the dorm room, shouting as they realized what they were seeing; Thomas heard a couple of them throw up, gagging and spitting. He felt the sudden urge himself, but fought it. What had happened? How could everything be taken away from them so fast? His stomach tightened up as despair threatened to bowl him over.

  Then he remembered Teresa.

  Teresa! he called out with his mind. Teresa! Again and again, mentally screaming it with his eyes closed and jaw clenched. Where are you!

  "Tommy," Newt said, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. "What's bloody wrong with you?"

  Thomas opened his eyes, realized he was doubled over, arms wrapped around his stomach. He slowly straightened, tried to push away the panic eating him inside. "What. . . what do you think? Look around us."

  "Yeah, but you looked like you were in pain or something."

  "I'm fine—just trying to reach her in my mind. But I can't." He wasn't fine. He hated reminding the others that he and Teresa could speak telepathically. And if all these people were dead . . . "We've gotta find where they put her," he blurted out, grasping urgently for a task to clear his mind. He scanned the room, trying his best not to focus on the corpses, looking for a door that might lead to her room. She'd said it was across the common area from where they'd all slept.

  There. A yellow door with a brass handle.

  "He's right," Minho said to the group. "Spread out, find her!"

  "Might've already." Thomas was on the move, surprised at how quickly he'd recovered his senses. He ran toward the door, dodging tables and bodies. She had to be in there, safe like they'd been. The door was closed; that was a good sign. Probably locked. Maybe she'd fallen into a deep sleep like him. That was why she'd been quiet, unresponsive.

  He had almost reached the door when he remembered that they might need something to break into the room. "Someone grab that fire extinguisher!" he yelled over his shoulder. The smell in the common area was horrendous; he gagged as he sucked in a deep breath.

  "Winston, go get it," Minho ordered behind him.

  Thomas reached the door first and tried the handle. It didn't budge, locked tight. Then he noticed a small, clear-plastic display hanging on the wall to the right, about five inches square. A sheet of paper had been slipped into the thin slot, several words typed on its surface. Teresa Agnes. Group A, Subject Al. The Betrayer.

  Oddly, the thing that stood out the most to Thomas was Teresa's last name. Or at least, what appeared to be her last name. Agnes. He didn't know why, but it surprised him. Teresa Agnes. He couldn't think of anyone within the splotchy knowledge of history floating in his still-scarce memories who matched that name. He himself had been renamed after Thomas Edison, the great inventor. But Teresa Agnes? He'd never heard of her.

  Of course, all their names were more of a joke than anything, probably a callous way for the Creators—WICKED or whoever had done this to them—to distance themselves from the real people they'd stolen from real mothers and fathers. Thomas couldn't wait until the day he learned what he'd been called at birth, what name lay stamped in the minds of his parents, whoever they were. Wherever they were.

  The sketchy memories he'd initially regained from going through the Changing had made him think that he didn't have parents who loved him. That whoever they were, they didn't want him. That he'd been taken from horrible circumstances. But now he refused to believe it, especially after having dreamed about his mom during the night.

  Minho snapped his fingers in front of Thomas's eyes. "Hello? Calling Thomas? Not a good time to daydream. Lots of dead bodies, smells like Frypan's pits. Wake up."

  Thomas turned to him. "Sorry. Just thought it was weird that Teresa's last name was Agnes."

  Minho clucked his tongue. "Who cares about that? What's this freakin' stuff about her being the Betrayer?"

  "And what's 'Group A, Subject Al' mean?" This was Newt, who handed over the fire extinguisher to Thomas. "Anyway, your turn to break a buggin' door handle."

  Thomas grabbed it, suddenly angry at himself for wasting even a few seconds thinking about the stupid label. Teresa was in there, and she needed their help. Trying not to be bothered by the word betrayer, he gripped the cylinder and slammed it against the brass knob. A jolt ran up his arms as the clang of metal against metal rang through the air. He'd felt it give a little, and two smashes later the handle fell off and the door popped open an inch or two.

  Thomas threw the extinguisher to the side and grabbed the door, swung it all the way out. Itchy anticipation mixed with dread at what he might find. He was the first to s
tep into the lighted room.

  It was a smaller version of the boys' dorm, just four bunk beds, two dressers and a closed door, presumably leading to another bathroom. All the beds were made up nicely except one, its blankets tossed to the side and a pillow hanging off the edge, the sheet rumpled. But there was no sign of Teresa.

  "Teresa!" Thomas called out, his throat straining with panic as he yelled.

  The swirly, swooshing sound of a toilet flushing came through the closed door and a sudden relief burst through Thomas. It was so strong he almost had to sit down. She was here, she was safe. He steadied himself and started walking toward the bathroom, but Newt reached out and grabbed his arm.

  "You're used to living with a bunch of boys," Newt said. "I don't think it's polite to go stomping into the bloody ladies' room. Just wait till she comes out."

  "Then we need to get everybody in here and have a Gathering," Minho added. "It doesn't stink in here, and there aren't any windows for Cranks to scream at us."

  Thomas hadn't noticed the lack of windows until that moment, though it should've been the most obvious thing, considering the chaos of their own dorm room. Cranks. He'd almost forgotten.

  "I wish she'd hurry up," he murmured.

  "I'll get everyone over here," Minho said; he turned and walked back into the common area.

  Thomas stared at the bathroom door. Newt and Frypan and a few other Gladers pushed their way into the room and took seats on the beds, all of them leaning forward, elbows on knees, rubbing their hands together absently, the anxiety and worry evident in their body language.

  Teresa? Thomas said in his mind. Can you hear me? We're waiting for you out here.

  No response. And he still felt that bubble of emptiness, as if her presence itself had been permanently taken away.

  There was a click. The handle on the door to the bathroom turned; then the door opened, swinging toward Thomas. He stepped forward, ready to pull Teresa into a hug—he didn't care who was there to see it. But the person who walked into the dorm room wasn't Teresa. Thomas stopped midstride and almost tripped. Everything inside him seemed to fall.

  It was a boy.

  He wore the same kind of clothes they'd all been given the night before—clean pajamas with a button-up shirt and flannel pants, light blue. He had olive skin, and his dark hair was cut surprisingly short. The look of innocent surprise on his face was the only thing that prevented Thomas from grabbing the shank by the collar and shaking him until some answers came out.

  "Who are you?" Thomas asked, not caring that the words sounded harsh.

  "Who am I?" the boy responded, somewhat sarcastically. "Who are you?”

  Newt had gotten back to his feet, actually standing even closer to the new guy than Thomas was. "Don't bloody mess around. There are a lot more of us than there are of you. Tell us who you are."

  The boy folded his arms, a defiance coming over his whole body. "Fine. My name's Aris. What else you wanna know?"

  Thomas wanted to punch the guy. Him acting all high and mighty while Teresa was missing. "How'd you get here? Where's the girl who slept here last night?"

  "Girl? What girl? I'm the only one here, and it's been that way since they put me here last night."

  Thomas turned to point back in the direction of the door to the common area. "There's a sign right out there that says this is her room. Teresa . . . Agnes. No mention of a shank named Arts."

  Something in his tone must've made the boy realize this wasn't a joke. He held out his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Look, man, I don't know what you're talking about. They put me in here last night, I slept in that bed"—he pointed to the one with the rumpled sheet and blanket—"and I woke up about five minutes ago and took a pee. Never heard the name Teresa Agnes in my life. Sorry."

  The brief moment of relief Thomas had felt when he'd heard the toilet flush officially shattered. He shared a look with Newt, not knowing what to ask next.

  Newt shrugged slightly, then turned back to Aris." Who put you in here last night?"

  Aris threw his arms up in the air, then let them come back down and slap against his sides. "I don't even know, man. A bunch of people with guns who rescued us, told us everything would be okay now."

  "Rescued you from what?" Thomas asked. This was getting weird. Really, really weird. Aris looked down at the floor and his shoulders fell. It looked as if a wave of some terrible memory had washed over him. He sighed, then finally looked back up at Thomas and answered.

  "From the Maze, man. From the Maze."

  CHAPTER 5

  Something softened in Thomas. This kid wasn't lying—he could just tell. The look of horror that had taken hold of Aris was one he knew well. Thomas had felt it himself and had seen it on too many other faces. He knew exactly what kind of terrible memories made someone look like that. He also knew that Aris had no clue what had happened to Teresa.

  "Maybe you should sit down," Thomas said. "I think we have a lot to talk about."

  "What do you mean?" Aris asked. "Who are you guys? Where'd you come from?"

  Thomas let out a slight laugh. "The Maze. The Grievers. WICKED. You name it." So much had happened, where could he start? Not to mention that worry over Teresa was making his head spin, making him want to run out of the room and search for her immediately, but he stayed.

  "You're lying," Aris said, his voice having dropped to a whisper, his face now a full shade paler.

  "No, we're not," Newt responded. "Tommy's right. We need to talk. Sounds like we've come from similar places."

  "Who's that guy?"

  Thomas turned around to see that Minho had returned, a pack of Gladers standing behind him on the other side of the doorway. Their faces were scrunched up in disgust at the smell out there, their eyes still full of the terror of seeing what filled the room just behind them.

  "Minho, meet Aris," Thomas said, taking a step to the side and gesturing toward the other boy. "Aris, meet Minho."

  Minho stuttered out a few unintelligible words, as if he couldn't quite decide where to start.

  "Look," Newt said. "Let's take down these top beds and move them around the room. Then we can all sit and figure out what's bloody going on."

  Thomas shook his head. "No. First, we need to go find Teresa. She must be in some other room." "Isn't one," Minho said. "What do you mean?"

  "I just checked this whole place out. There's the big common area, this room, our dorm room, and some seriously shucked doors that lead outside—where we came in from the bus yesterday. Locked and chained from the inside. Doesn't make any sense, but I don't see any other doors or exits."

  Thomas shook his head in confusion. It felt like a million spiders had just spun cobwebs through his brain. "But. . . what about last night? Where'd the food come from? Didn't anyone notice other rooms, a kitchen, anything?" He looked around, hoping for an answer, but no one said a word.

  "Maybe there's a hidden door," Newt finally said. "Look, we can only do one thing at a time. We need to—"

  "No!"Thomas shouted. "We've got all day to talk to this Aris guy. The label by the door said Teresa should be here somewhere—we need to find her!" Without waiting for a response, he headed for the door back to the common area, pushing his way past boys until he was through. The smell hit him as if a bucket of raw sewage had been spilled over his head. The bloated and purple bodies hung like carcasses of game set out by hunters to dry. Their lifeless eyes stared back at him.

  A familiar, sickening tickle of revulsion filled his stomach and triggered his gag reflex. Closing his eyes for a second, he willed his insides to settle. When they finally did, he began his search for some sign of Teresa, concentrating with all his might on not looking at the dead people.

  But then a horrible thought struck him. What if she . . .

  He ran through the room, searching the faces of the bodies. None of them was her. Relief dissolved the fleeting moment of panic, and he focused on the room itself.

  The walls surrounding the common area were
as plain as could be; smooth plaster painted white, no decoration of any kind. And for some reason, no windows. He walked quickly around its entire circumference, running his left hand along the wall as he did so. He came to the door to the boys' dorm room, went past it, then made it to the big entrance through which they'd come the day before. There had been a torrential downpour at the time, which seemed impossible now, considering the bright sun he'd seen shining behind the crazy man earlier.

  The entrance—or exit—consisted of two large steel doors, their surfaces a shiny silver. And just like Minho said, a massive chain—with links a full inch thick—had been threaded through the handles on the doors and pulled tight, two big key locks snapped shut to keep it that way. Thomas reached out and pulled on the chains to check their strength. The metal felt cool under his hands, and it didn't give at all.

  He expected thumps from the other side—Cranks trying to get in just as they were at the windows in the dorm room. But the room remained silent. The only sounds were muted and coming from the two dorms—distant shouts and screams from the Cranks and murmurs of conversation from the Gladers.

  Frustrated, Thomas continued his trek along the walls until he made it back to the room that was supposed to be Teresa's. Nothing, not even a crack or seam to indicate another exit. The large room wasn't even a square—it was a big oval, round and cornerless.

  He was completely perplexed. He thought back to the night before, when they'd all sat there and eaten pizza like the starved people they'd been. Surely they'd seen other doors, a kitchen, something. But the more he thought about it, the more he tried to picture what things had looked like, the fuzzier it became. An alarm went off in his head—their brains had been tinkered with before. Had it happened again? Had their memories been altered or wiped?

  And what had happened to Teresa?