THE SCORCH TRIALS tmr-2

by Джеймс Дашнер

  She paused before answering, maybe afraid to ask the questions that eventually came to him. Does any of it help us? Do you remember much of it?

  Most of it. But there wasn't enough there to really mean a whole lot.

  What did you see?

  Thomas told her about each little segment of memory—or dream— he'd seen over the last couple of weeks. About seeing his mom, about overhearing conversations about surgery, about him and her spying on members of WICKED, hearing things that didn't make a whole lot of sense. About them testing and practicing their telepathy. And, finally, about saying goodbye right before he went to the Glade.

  So Aris was there? she asked, but before he could answer, she continued. Of course, I already knew that. That the three of us were all part of this. But weird about everyone dying, the replacements, all that. What do you think it means?

  I don't know, he answered. But I feel like if we had the time to just sit and talk about it we could help each other bring it all back.

  Me too. Tom, I'm really sorry. I can tell you're having a hard time forgiving me.

  Would you be any different?

  No. I kind of accepted it, in a way. That saving you was worth losing what we might've had.

  Thomas had no clue how to respond to that.

  Not that they could've talked much more even if he wanted to. With the wind howling and the dust and debris flying through the air and the clouds churning and blackening and the distance to the others getting shorter . . .

  There just wasn't time.

  And so they kept running.

  ***

  The two groups ahead of them eventually met up in the distance. More interesting to Thomas, though, was that it didn't appear to be an accident at all. The girls of Group B had reached a point and stopped; then Minho—Thomas could make him out now and was relieved to see him alive and well—and the Gladers had changed direction to go east to meet them.

  And now, just a half-mile away, they all stood around something Thomas couldn't see, packing in a tight circle to look at whatever it was. What's going on up there? Teresa asked Thomas in his mind. Don't know, he answered.

  The two of them, along with Aris, picked up the pace.

  It only took another few minutes across the dusty wind-whipped plain before they reached Groups A and B.

  Minho had stepped away from the larger pack of people and stood facing them when they finally made it. His arms were folded, his clothes filthy, his hair greasy, his face still showing signs of his burns. But somehow he was smiling. Thomas couldn't believe how good it felt to see that smirky grin again.

  "It's about time you slowpokes caught up with us!" Minho yelled at them.

  Thomas stopped right in front of him and doubled over to catch his breath for a few seconds, then straightened. "I thought you'd be fightin' tooth and nail with these girls after what they did to us. To me, anyway."

  Minho looked back at the now-mingling group of boys and girls, then returned his gaze to Thomas. "Well, first of all, they have nastier weapons, not to mention bows and arrows. Plus, some chick named Harriet explained everything. We're the ones who should be surprised— that you're still with them." He gave a nasty glare to Teresa, then Aris. "Never trusted either one of those shuck traitors."

  Thomas tried to hide his mixed emotions. "They're on our side. Trust me." And in a twisted, backward way he really was starting to believe it. As sick as it made him feel.

  Minho laughed bitterly. "Figured you'd say something like that. Let me guess, it's a long story?"

  "Yeah, very long story," Thomas answered, then changed the subject. "Why'd you all stop here? What's everybody looking at?"

  Minho stepped to the side, sweeping his arm behind him. "Have a peeky-peek yourself." Then he yelled to the two groups, "You guys make a path!"

  Several Gladers and girls looked back, then slowly shuffled to the side until a narrow break in the crowd formed. Thomas immediately saw that the object that held everyone's attention was a simple stick poking out of the arid ground. An orange strip of ribbon hung from the top, whipping in the wind. Letters were printed on the thin banner.

  Thomas and Teresa exchanged a look; then Thomas pushed ahead for a closer inspection. Even before he got there, he could read the words printed on the ribbon, black on orange.

  THE SAFE HAVEN

  CHAPTER 57

  Despite the wind and the hubbub of people, the world quieted around Thomas for a minute, as if his ears had been stuffed with cotton. He fell to his knees and numbly reached out to touch the flapping orange ribbon. This was the safe haven? Not a building, a shelter, something?

  Then, as quickly as it had disappeared, sound rushed back in, snapping him back to reality. Mostly the rush of wind and the chatter of conversation.

  He turned back to Teresa and Minho, who stood side by side, Aris behind them peeking over their shoulders.

  Thomas glanced at his watch. "We have over an hour left. Our safe haven is a stick in the ground?" Confusion muddled his mind—he wasn't quite sure what to think or say.

  "Wasn't so bad, when you think about it," Minho said. "More than half of us made it here. Looks like even more of the girlie group."

  Thomas stood up, trying to control his anger. "The Flare turn you crazy already? Yeah, we got here. Safe and sound. To a stick."

  Minho scoffed at him. "Dude, they wouldn't send us here for no reason. We made it in the time they gave us. Now we just wait until the clock ticks down and something'll happen."

  "That's what worries me," Thomas said.

  "Hate to say it," Teresa added, "but I agree with Thomas. After everything they've done to us, it'd be way too easy to have a little sign here, and then they come get us in a nice helicopter as a reward. Something bad's gonna happen."

  "Whatever you say, traitor," Minho said, his face hiding none of the hatred he felt for Teresa. "I don't want to hear another word from you." He walked away, angrier than Thomas had ever seen him.

  Thomas looked at Teresa, who was visibly taken aback. "You shouldn't be surprised."

  She just shrugged. "I'm sick of apologizing. I did what I had to do."

  Thomas couldn't believe she was serious. "Whatever. I need to find Newt. I want—"

  Before he could finish, Brenda appeared out of the crowd, glancing back and forth between him and Teresa. The wind tore through her long hair, whipping it frenziedly so that she kept pushing it behind her ears only to have it fly out again.

  "Brenda," he said. For some reason he felt guilty.

  "Hey there," Brenda said, walking up to stand right in front of him and Teresa. "This the girl you were tellin' me about? When you and I were snuggling in that truck?"

  "Yeah." The word popped out of Thomas's mouth before he could stop it. "No. I mean . . . yeah."

  Teresa held her hand out to Brenda, who shook it. "I'm Teresa."

  "Nice to meet you," Brenda replied. "I'm a Crank. I'm slowly going crazy. I keep wanting to chew off my own fingers and randomly kill people. Thomas here promised to save me." Though she was obviously joking, she didn't even crack a smile.

  Thomas had to hide a wince. "Funny, Brenda."

  "Glad to see you still have a sense of humor about it," Teresa said. But her face could've turned water to ice.

  Thomas looked down at his watch. Fifty-five minutes left. "I, um, need to talk to Newt." He turned and quickly walked away before either girl could say anything. He wanted to be as far away from both of them as possible.

  Newt was sitting on the ground with Frypan and Minho, all three looking as if they were waiting for the end of the world.

  The tearing wind had gained a moisture to it, and the billowing, churning clouds above them had lowered considerably, like a dark fog dropping to swallow the earth. Glimpses of light flashed here and there in the sky, burning patches of purple and orange in the grayness. Thomas hadn't seen an actual lightning bolt yet, but he knew they were coming. The first big storm had begun just like this.

  "Hey,
Tommy," Newt said when Thomas joined them. He sat down next to his friend and wrapped his arms around his knees. Two simple words with nothing behind them. It was as if Thomas had just gone for a leisurely walk instead of being kidnapped and almost killed.

  "Glad to see you guys made it here," Thomas said.

  Frypan snorted his usual animal-like bark of a laugh. "Same back at ya. Looks like you had more fun, though. Hangin' with your love goddess. Guess you two kissed and made up?"

  "Not exactly," Thomas said. "It wasn't fun."

  "Well, what happened?" Minho asked. "How can you trust her after all that?"

  Thomas hesitated at first, but he knew he had to tell them everything. And there was no better time than the present. He sucked in a deep breath and started talking. He told them about WICKED's plan for him, the camp, his talk with Group B, the gas chamber. Still none of it made sense, but he felt a little better telling his friends.

  "And you forgave that witch?" Minho asked when Thomas finally finished. "I won't. Whatever those shuck WICKED people wanna do, fine by me. Whatever you wanna do, fine by me. But I don't trust her, I don't trust Aris, and I don't like either one of them."

  Newt seemed to consider it more deeply. "They went through all that—all that planning and acting—just to make you feel betrayed? Doesn't make any bloody sense."

  "Tell me about it," Thomas muttered. "And no, I haven't forgiven her. But for now I think we're in the same boat." He looked around—most people were sitting down, staring off into the distance. Not much conversation, and not a whole lot of mingling between the two groups. "What about you guys? How'd you make it here?"

  "Found a gap through the mountains," Minho answered. "Had to fight through some Cranks camping in a cave, but other than that, no problems. Food and water's almost out, though. And my feet hurt. And I'm pretty sure another big bolt of shuck lightning's about to come down and make me look like a piece of Frypan's bacon."

  "Yeah," Thomas said. He glanced back at the mountains, guessed that all in all they'd probably come about four miles from the base. "Maybe we should bag this whole safe haven thing and try to find shelter." But even as he said it, he knew it wasn't an option. At least not until the time ran out.

  "No way," Newt replied. "We didn't come this far to go back now. Let's just hope the buggin' storm holds off a little longer." He looked up at the almost black clouds with a grimace.

  The other three Gladers had grown silent. The wind had continued to pick up, and its rushing roars and whips now made it hard to hear each other anyway. Thomas looked at his watch.

  Thirty-five minutes. No way this storm would hold for—

  "What's that!" Minho shouted, jumping to his feet; he pointed at a spot over Thomas's shoulder.

  Thomas turned to look as he stood up, alarm igniting inside him. The terror on Minho's face had been unmistakable.

  About thirty feet from the group, a large section of the desert ground was . . . opening. A perfect square—maybe fifteen feet wide—pivoted on a diagonal axis as the dirt-packed side slowly spun away from them and what had lain underneath rose up to replace it. The sound of groaning, twisting steel pierced the air, louder than the roaring wind. Soon the rotating square had fully flipped, and where once had been desert ground now lay a section of black material, with an odd object sitting on top of it.

  It was oblong and white with rounded edges. Thomas had seen something just like it before. Several of them, in fact. After they'd escaped the Maze and entered the huge chamber where the Grievers had come from, they'd seen several of these coffinlike containers. He hadn't had much time to think about it then, but seeing it now, he thought those must've been where the Grievers stayed—slept?—when not hunting humans in the Maze.

  Before he had time to react, more sections of the desert floor— surrounding their group in a large circle—started to rotate open like dark, gaping jaws.

  Dozens of them.

  CHAPTER 58

  The squeal of metal was deafening as the square sections slowly spun on their axles. Thomas had his hands to his ears, trying to keep the sound out. The others in the group were doing the same. All around them, scattered evenly and fully encircling the area in which they stood, patches of desert ground rotated until they disappeared, each one eventually replaced with a large black square when it finally settled with a loud clank, one of those bulbous white coffins resting on top. At least thirty in all.

  The scream of metal rubbing against metal stopped. No one spoke. The wind ripped across the land, blowing dust and dirt in streams across the rounded containers. It made a gritty pinging sound. There was so much of it, it blended into a noise that made Thomas's spine itch; he had to squint to keep stuff out of his eyes. Nothing else had moved since the foreign, almost alien objects had been revealed. There was only that sound and wind and cold and stinging eyes.

  Tom? Teresa called to him.

  Yeah.

  You remember those, right? Yeah.

  You think Grievers are inside?

  Thomas realized that was exactly what he thought, but he'd also finally accepted that he could never expect anything. He reasoned it out for a second before he answered. I don't know. I mean, the Grievers had really moist bodies—it'd be hard on them out here. It seemed like a stupid thing to say, but he was grasping for anything.

  Maybe we're meant to . . . get inside them, she said after a pause. Maybe they are the safe haven, or they'll transport us somewhere.

  Thomas hated the idea, but thought that maybe she was right. He tore his eyes away from the large pods and looked for her. She was already walking toward him. Fortunately, she was alone. He couldn't handle both her and Brenda right then.

  "Hey," he said out loud, but the wind seemed to carry the sound away before it even left his mouth. He started to reach out for her hand but then pulled it back, almost forgetting how things had changed. She didn't seem to notice as she walked over to Minho and Newt and nudged both of them in greeting. They turned to face her and Thomas moved closer to conference with them.

  "So what do we do?" Minho asked. He gave Teresa an annoyed look like he didn't want her to be any part of the decision making.

  Newt answered. "If those things have bloody Grievers in 'em, we best start gettin' ready to fight the shuck buggers."

  "What're you guys talking about?"

  Thomas turned to see Harriet and Sonya—it'd been Harriet who'd spoken. And Brenda stood right behind them, with Jorge by her side.

  "Oh, great," Minho muttered. "The two queens of glorious Group B."

  Harriet just acted like she hadn't heard. "I'm assuming you all saw those pods back in your WICKED chamber, too. They had to be where the Grievers charged up or whatever it was they did."

  "Yeah," Newt said. "Gotta be that."

  In the sky above, thunder crackled and boomed, and those flashes of light grew brighter. The wind tore at everyone's clothes and hair and everything smelled wet but dusty—a strange combination. Thomas checked the time again. "We've only got twenty-five minutes. We're either gonna be fighting Grievers or we need to get inside those big coffins at the right time. Maybe they're the—"

  A sharp hiss cut through the air from all directions. The sound pierced Thomas's eardrums and he clamped his hands to the sides of his head again. Movement on the perimeter surrounding them caught his attention, and he watched carefully what was happening with the large white pods.

  A line of dark blue light had appeared on one side of each container, then expanded as the top half of the object began to move upward, opening on hinges like the lid of a coffin. It made no sound, at least not enough to be heard over the rushing wind and rumbling thunder. Thomas sensed the Gladers and the others slowly moving closer together, forming a tighter knot. Everyone was trying to get as far away from the pods as possible—and soon they were a coiled pack of bodies encircled by the thirty or so rounded white containers.

  The lids continued moving until they'd all swung open and dropped to the ground. Something bul
ky rested inside each vessel. Thomas couldn't make out much, but from where he stood he couldn't see anything like the odd appendages of the Grievers. Nothing moved, but he knew not to let his guard down.

  Teresa? he said to her mind. He didn't dare try talking loudly enough to be heard—but he had to talk to someone or go nuts.

  Yeah?

  Someone should go take a look. See what's in it. He said it, but he really didn't want to be the one to do it.

  Let's go together, she said easily.

  She surprised him with her courage. Sometimes you have the worst ideas, he responded. He'd tried to make it feel sarcastic, but he knew the truth of it far more than he wanted to admit to himself. He was terrified.

  "Thomas!" Minho called. The wind, still wild, was drowned out by the approaching thunder and lightning now, cracking and exploding in brilliant displays above them and on the horizon. The storm was about to fully beat down its fury on them.

  "What?" Thomas yelled back.

  "You, me, and Newt! Let's go check it out!"

  Thomas was just about to move when something slipped out of one of the pods. A collective gasp escaped those closest to Thomas, and he turned for a better look. Things were moving in all the pods, things he couldn't quite understand at first. Whatever they were, they were definitely coming out of their oblong homes. Thomas focused on the pod nearest to him, strained his eyes to discern what exactly he was about to face.

  A misshapen arm hung over the edge, and its hand dangled a few inches above the ground. On it were four disfigured fingers—stubs of sickly beige flesh—none of them the same length. They wiggled and grasped for something that wasn't there, as if the creature inside was searching to get a grip to pull itself out. The arm was covered with wrinkles and lumps, and there was something completely strange right where what passed for an elbow was located. A perfectly rounded protrusion or growth, maybe four inches in diameter, glowing bright orange.