The Maze Runner Series Complete Collection

by James Dashner

  “Dude, you tried to slice my you-know-whats off!”

  Thomas laughed, something he hadn’t done in a long time. He welcomed it happily. “Too bad I didn’t. Could’ve saved the world from future little Minhos.”

  “Just remember you owe me one.”

  “Good that.” He owed them all.

  Brenda, Jorge, and Hans walked in, all three of them looking serious, and the smile fell from Thomas’s face.

  “Gally stop by and give you guys another pep talk?” Thomas asked, forcing a lighthearted tone to his voice. “You look downright depressed.”

  “When did you get so cheerful, muchacho?” Jorge responded. “A few hours ago you were stabbing at us with a knife.”

  Thomas opened his mouth to apologize—to explain—but Hans shushed him. He leaned over the bed and flashed a little light into both of Thomas’s eyes. “Looks like your head’s clearing up pretty well. The pain should be gone soon—your operation was a little worse because of that fail-safe.”

  Thomas turned his attention to Brenda. “Is it fixed?”

  “It worked,” she said. “Judging from the fact that you’re not trying to kill us anymore, it’s deactivated. And …”

  “And what?”

  “Well, you shouldn’t be able to talk to or hear from Teresa or Aris again.”

  Thomas might’ve felt a pang of sadness at that even the day before, but now he felt only relief. “Suits me fine. Any sign of trouble yet?”

  She shook her head. “No, but they can’t take any chances—Hans and his wife are going to leave, but he wanted to tell you something first.”

  Hans had stepped back to stand by the wall, probably to give them a little space. He came forward now, his eyes downcast. “I wish I could go with you and help, but I have a wife, and she’s my family. She’s my first concern. I wanted to wish you luck. I hope you can do what I don’t have the courage to try.”

  Thomas nodded. The change in the man’s attitude was marked—maybe the recent incident had reminded him of what WICKED was capable of. “Thanks. And if we can stop WICKED, we’ll come back for you.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Hans murmured. “We’ll see about a lot of things.”

  Hans turned and walked back to his position by the wall. Thomas was sure that the man carried around many dark memories in his mind.

  “What next?” Brenda asked.

  Thomas knew they didn’t have time to rest. And his mind was set on what they needed to do. “We find our other friends, convince them to join us. Then we go back to Gally. The only thing I’ve accomplished in life is to help set up an experiment that failed and tormented a bunch of kids. It’s time to add something else to that list. We’re going to stop the entire operation before they do it to new Immunes all over again.”

  Jorge spoke for the first time in a while. “We? What’re you saying, hermano?”

  Thomas shifted his gaze to the man, his resolve solidifying. “We have to help the Right Arm.”

  No one said anything.

  “Okay,” Minho finally said. “But first let’s get something to eat.”

  CHAPTER 29

  They went to a coffee shop nearby, recommended by Hans and his wife.

  Thomas had never been in such a place before. At least, not that he remembered. Customers lined up at the counter, getting coffee and pastries, then heading for a table or back out the door. He watched as a nervous older woman kept lifting her surgical mask to sip her hot drink. One of those red-shirted guards stood at the door, randomly testing people for the Flare with his handheld device every couple of minutes or so; an odd metal apparatus covered his own mouth and nose.

  Thomas sat with Minho and Brenda at a table in the back corner while Jorge went to get food and drinks. Thomas’s eyes kept coming back to a man, maybe thirty-five or forty years old, who sat at a nearby bench in front of a large window onto the street. He hadn’t touched his coffee since Thomas and his friends had arrived, and steam no longer rose from the cup. The man just hunched over, elbows on knees, hands loosely clasped, staring at a spot on the other side of the shop.

  There was something disturbing about the look on his face. Blank. His eyes were almost floating in their sockets, and yet there was a hint of pleasure there. When Thomas pointed it out to Brenda, she whispered that the guy was probably on the Bliss and would be jailed if he got caught. It gave Thomas the willies. He hoped the man would leave soon.

  Jorge returned with sandwiches and steaming cups of coffee and the four of them ate and drank in silence. Thomas knew they all realized the urgency of their situation, but he was grateful to rest and get some strength back.

  They finished up and were getting ready to leave, but Brenda remained in her seat. “Would you guys mind waiting outside for a few minutes?” she asked. Her look made it obvious that she meant Jorge and Minho.

  “Excuse me?” Minho responded, his tone exasperated. “More secrets?”

  “No. Nothing like that. I promise. I just need a moment. I want to tell Thomas something.”

  Thomas was surprised but curious. He sat back down. “Just go,” he said, addressing Minho. “You know I won’t keep anything from you. And she knows it, too.”

  His friend grumbled, but finally went with Jorge, and the two of them stood out on the sidewalk near the closest window. Minho flashed Thomas a goofy grin and waved, his sarcasm making it obvious he wasn’t exactly happy. Thomas waved back, then focused on Brenda.

  “So? What’s this all about?” he asked.

  “I know we need to hurry, so I’ll be really quick. We haven’t had time to be alone, and I just want to make sure you know that what happened in the Scorch wasn’t an act. I was there on a job, I was there to help things play out, but I did grow close to you and it did change me. And there are a few things I think you deserve to know. About me, about Chancellor Paige, about—”

  Thomas held his hand up to cut her off. “Please just stop.”

  She pulled back, a look of surprise on her face. “What? Why?”

  “I don’t want to know anything. Not one more thing. All I care about is what we’re going to do from here out, not stuff about my past or yours or WICKED’s. Nothing. And we need to move.”

  “But—”

  “No, Brenda. I mean it. We’re here and we have a goal and that’s all we need to focus on. No more talking.”

  She held his gaze without saying anything, then looked down at her hands resting on the table. “Then all I’ll say is I know you’re doing the right thing, going in the right direction. And I’ll keep helping as best I can.”

  Thomas hoped he hadn’t hurt her feelings, but he meant what he’d said. It was time to let go, even though she was obviously itching to tell him something. As he searched for a response, his eyes wandered back to the odd man on the bench. He’d pulled something Thomas couldn’t see out of his pocket and was pressing it against the crook of his right elbow. He closed his eyes in a long blink, looking a little dazed when they opened again. His head slowly drifted backward until it rested on the window.

  The red-shirted Flare tester stepped into the café and Thomas leaned over to get a better look. Red Shirt walked toward the bench where the drugged-out man was still resting peacefully. A short woman moved along next to the tester, whispering into his ear and fidgeting nervously.

  “Thomas?” Brenda asked.

  He put a finger to his lips, then nodded toward the potential confrontation. She turned in her seat to see what was going on.

  Red Shirt kicked the toe of the guy on the bench, who flinched and looked up. The men started exchanging words, but Thomas couldn’t hear what they were saying over the bustle and buzz of the crowded coffee shop. The man who’d been relaxing there suddenly looked scared.

  Brenda turned back to Thomas. “We need to get out of here. Now.”

  “Why?” The air seemed to have thickened, and Thomas was curious about what was going to happen.

  Brenda was already standing. “Just come on!�
�

  She turned and walked briskly toward the exit, and Thomas finally moved to follow her. He’d just risen from his chair when Red Shirt pulled out a gun and pointed it at the man on the bench, then leaned in to place his testing device on the man’s face. But the man swatted it away and rushed forward, tackling the tester. Thomas stared, frozen in shock, as the gun skittered away and disappeared under a counter. The two men crashed into a table and slammed to the floor.

  Red Shirt started yelling; his voice sounded almost robotic coming through the protective metal mask covering his mouth and nose. “We’ve got an infected! Everyone evacuate the building!”

  The place turned into pandemonium, screams filling the air as everyone fled toward the only exit.

  CHAPTER 30

  Thomas wished he hadn’t hesitated. He should’ve run when he’d had the chance. A pack of bodies pressed forward, blocking the door. Brenda wouldn’t have been able to come back even if she’d tried. Thomas was stuck at the table, watching in stunned silence as the two men struggled on the floor, punching and grabbing and trying to gain the advantage.

  Thomas realized that though it was possible he could get hurt by the fleeing crowd, he really had nothing to worry about. He was immune. The rest of the people in the shop had freaked out knowing the virus was so close. And understandably—odds were at least one of them had caught it. But as long as he could stay out of the way of the commotion, he was probably safe right where he was.

  Someone pounded on the window and Thomas turned to see Brenda next to Minho and Jorge on the sidewalk—she was motioning frantically for him to get out. But Thomas wanted to watch what was happening.

  Red Shirt had finally pinned the man to the ground. “It’s over! They’re already on their way,” he shouted, again in that creepy mechanized voice.

  The infected man stopped struggling, burst into lurching sobs. It was then that Thomas realized the crowd had fully evacuated and the coffee shop was empty except for the two men and Thomas. An eerie silence settled on the place.

  Red Shirt glanced at him. “Why’re you still here, kid—got a death wish?” The man didn’t let Thomas answer, though. “If you’re gonna stick around, make yourself useful. Find me the gun.” He turned his attention back to the man he’d restrained.

  Thomas felt like he was in a dream. He’d seen a lot of violence, but this was different somehow. He went to fetch the gun from under the counter where it had disappeared. “I’m … I’m immune,” he stammered. He got down on his knees and reached, straining until his fingers found the cool metal. He pulled the gun out and walked over to Red Shirt.

  The man didn’t offer any thanks. He took his gun and jumped back to his feet, pointing the weapon at the infected man’s face. “This is bad, really bad. Been happening more and more—you can tell when someone’s drugged out on the Bliss.”

  “So it was the Bliss,” Thomas murmured.

  “You knew?” Red Shirt asked.

  “Well, he’s looked weird ever since I got here.”

  “And you didn’t say anything?” The skin around the guard’s mask almost matched the color of his shirt. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Thomas was taken aback by Red Shirt’s sudden anger. “I … I’m sorry. I didn’t really know what was going on.”

  The infected man had curled up into a ball on the ground and was sobbing. Red Shirt finally stepped away from him and looked sternly at Thomas. “You didn’t know? What kind of … Where are you from?”

  Now Thomas really wished he had run. “I’m … my name’s Thomas. I’m nobody. I just …” He searched for something to say—to explain himself. “I’m not from around here. Sorry.”

  Red Shirt turned the gun on him. “Sit down. Sit down right there.” He flicked the gun toward a nearby chair.

  “Wait! I swear I’m immune!” Thomas’s heart thudded in his chest. “That’s why I—”

  “Sit your butt down! Now!”

  Thomas’s knees gave out and he plopped into the chair. He glanced toward the door and his chest loosened a bit when he saw Minho standing there, with Brenda and Jorge right behind him. But Thomas didn’t want his friends involved—didn’t want to chance getting them hurt. He quickly shook his head to tell them to stay out of it.

  Red Shirt ignored the people in the doorway, concentrating purely on Thomas. “If you’re so sure about being a Munie, then you won’t mind testing to prove it, now, will you?”

  “No.” The idea actually relieved him—maybe the man would let him go once he realized he was telling the truth. “Do it, go ahead.”

  Red Shirt holstered his gun and stepped up to Thomas. He retrieved his device and leaned forward to put it on Thomas’s face.

  “Look into it, eyes open,” the man said. “It’ll only take a few seconds.”

  Thomas did as he was told, wanting to get it over with as quickly as possible. He saw the same flash of colorful lights he’d seen at the city gates, felt the same puff of air and prick in his neck.

  Red Shirt took the device back, looked at the readings on a small screen. “Well, what do ya know? You’re a damn Munie after all. You care to explain to me how you came to be in Denver and how you don’t know squat about the Bliss or how to spot a user when you see one?”

  “I work for WICKED.” It came out before he’d really thought it through. He just wanted to get out of there.

  “I believe that crap about as much as I believe this guy’s drug problem has nothing to do with the Flare. You keep your butt glued right there or I’ll start shooting.”

  Thomas swallowed. He wasn’t so much scared as he was mad at himself for having gotten into such a ridiculous situation. “Okay,” he said.

  But Red Shirt had already turned around. His help had arrived—four people covered from head to toe with a thick green plastic, except for their faces. Their eyes were fitted with big goggles, and beneath those was a mask like the one Red Shirt wore. Images flashed through Thomas’s mind, but the one that stuck was the most complete memory—the time he’d been taken from the Scorch after his bullet wound had gotten infected. Everyone on that Berg had been wearing the same type of gear as these four people.

  “What in the world?” one of them said, his voice also mechanized. “You caught two of ’em?”

  “Not really,” Red Shirt replied. “Got us a Munie, thinks he wants to sit around and see the show.”

  “A Munie?” The other man sounded like he couldn’t believe what he’d heard.

  “A Munie. He stayed put when everyone else jackrabbited out of here, claims he wanted to see what happened. To make it worse, he says he suspected our future Crank here was on the Bliss and didn’t tell anyone, just went on drinking his coffee like all was right with the world.”

  Everyone looked over at Thomas, but he was speechless. He just shrugged.

  Red Shirt stepped back as the four protected workers surrounded the still-sobbing infected man, lying curled up on his side on the ground. One of the newcomers had a thick blue plastic object gripped in both hands. It had an odd nozzle on the end, and the guy was pointing it at the man on the ground as if it were a weapon. Its purpose seemed ominous, and Thomas searched his memory-depleted mind to work out what it could possibly be but came up empty.

  “We need you to straighten out your legs, sir,” the lead worker said. “Keep your body still, don’t move, try to relax.”

  “I didn’t know!” the man wailed. “How was I supposed to know?”

  “You knew!” Red Shirt yelled from the side. “No one takes the Bliss just for kicks.”

  “I like the way it feels!” The pleading in the man’s voice made Thomas feel incredibly sorry for him.

  “Plenty of cheaper drugs than that. Quit lying and shut your mouth.” Red Shirt waved a hand as if swatting a fly. “Who cares. Bag the sucker.”

  Thomas watched as the infected man curled up even tighter, gripping his legs to his chest with both arms. “It’s not fair. I didn’t know! Just kick me out of the city. I
swear I’ll never come back. I swear. I swear!” He broke into another agonizing series of lurching sobs.

  “Oh, they’ll put you out, all right,” Red Shirt said, glancing over at Thomas for some reason. It looked as if he was smiling behind the mask—his eyes shone with something like glee. “Keep watching, Munie. You’re gonna like this.”

  Thomas suddenly hated Red Shirt as much as he’d ever hated anyone. He broke eye contact and returned his focus to the four suited people, now crouching as they inched closer to the poor guy on the floor.

  “Straighten out your legs!” one of them repeated. “Or this is gonna hurt something awful. Straighten them. Now!”

  “I can’t! Please just let me leave!”

  Red Shirt stomped over to the man, pushing one of the workers out of the way, then leaned over and placed the end of his gun against the sick man’s head. “Straighten your legs, or I’ll put a bullet in your brain and make it easier on everybody. Do it!” Thomas couldn’t believe the guard’s complete lack of compassion.

  Whimpering, eyes filled with terror, the infected man slowly let go of his legs and extended them, his whole body shaking as he lay flat on the ground. Red Shirt stepped out of the way, sliding his gun back into its holster.

  The person with the odd blue object immediately moved so that he stood behind the man’s head, then placed the nozzle so it rested on the crown of his skull, pressing it into his hair.

  “Try not to move.” It was a woman, and if anything, her voice, filtered through her mask, sounded even creepier to Thomas than the mens’. “Or you’ll lose something.”

  Thomas barely had time to wonder what that meant before she pressed a button and a gel-like substance shot out of the nozzle. It was blue and viscous but moved quickly, spreading over the man’s head, then down around his ears and face. He screamed, but the sound was cut off as the gel washed over his mouth, down to his neck and shoulders. The substance hardened as it moved, freezing into a shell-like coating that Thomas could see through. In a matter of seconds, half the infected man’s body was rigid, wrapped in a tight sheet of the stuff, which seeped into every crevice of his skin and wrinkle of his clothing.