"The Scorch Trials" by James Dashner, Chapters 11–20

Thomas knew he should be upset by the absurd notion that up to this point things had been easy for them.

Sun flares have ravaged many parts of the earth. Also, a disease unlike any before known to man has been ravaging the earth’s people—a disease called the Flare.

And you’ll have every incentive to work with us, because, sad to say, each one of you has already caught the virus.

No need to worry—the Flare takes a while to set in and show symptoms. But at the end of these Trials, the cure will be your reward, and you’ll never see the...debilitating effects.

Thomas stared at Rat Man, transfixed.

The last word seemed to finally snap everyone out of their stupor, all of them speaking up at once.

But before Thomas could see what happened, the invisible wall separating them started to fog up, whitening to an opaque blur in a matter of seconds.

It was clear now that the rescue from the Maze had been a sham. But who were the pawns WICKED had used to pull the Gladers from the Creators’ chamber, put them on that bus and bring them here?

They finally lulled into silence.

“Those of us who made it this far got here for a reason. All the idiots are dead by now.” He looked sideways at Thomas, as if worried Thomas might think he’d included Chuck in that assessment.

Newt shook his head adamantly.

So he and the Gladers spent the rest of the evening making crude packs out of bedsheets for carrying the food and the extra clothes that had appeared in the dressers.

Thomas knew as well as anybody that they needed someone to be in charge, so he was relieved when Minho grudgingly agreed.

He had no idea how he would muster the will to go on in the morning.

Then he walked after the rest of the group, letting his hand slide along the wall to keep his bearings.

Thomas thought about what he’d heard, and in retrospect, it did seem like those two words had been in there somewhere.

Thomas tried not to think about how ominous the last four words had been.

His fingers brushed the kid’s jeans, then his shirt, but the boy’s body convulsed all over the place, impossible to catch, and his shrieks continued to pierce the air.

Thomas put an elbow and forearm on the chest of the Glader for leverage, then reached out to grab his hair or his face.

Then the ball slipped from under Thomas’s fingers and rolled away, making a hollow grating sound until it thumped into the closest wall and came to a stop.

Thomas quickly found his food and water; then some unspoken communication permeated the group and they set off running, far enough apart not to trip over each other.

Thomas heard a heavy scrape, then a clonk, and the darkness returned. Warily, he dropped his hands and squinted; spots danced across his vision.

On the ceiling, just a few feet above their heads, a big glob of liquid silver was coalescing, seeping out of the metal as if melting into a large teardrop.

It grew bigger and bigger as Thomas stared at it, forming in a matter of seconds into a wavering, slowly rippling ball of molten goop.

Despite the boy’s olive complexion, it looked to Thomas as if Minho's skin shone like white fire.

He opened his mouth to speak and a raw plume of dry warmth shot down his throat, seeming to obliterate any air or moisture in its path.

A line of jagged and barren mountains rose far in the distance.

The blurry mirage of upward-melting heat obscured the two figures until they were only a hundred yards or so away.

Their shirts and pants were a hodgepodge of filthy clothing sewn together, tied with ratty strips of denim in some places.

The two words came from the woman, a short burst of guttural annoyance.

For no discernible reason she pointed across the Gladers back toward the town from which they’d run.

Minho let out an exasperated sigh.

“Once again, Thomas gives us a cheerful pep talk,” Frypan announced; he tried to sound jovial, but it came out more like a spiteful rub.

“Once again, Thomas gives us a cheerful pep talk,” Frypan announced; he tried to sound jovial, but it came out more like a spiteful rub.

No one had any answers, of course, only meaningless speculations.

Were the setups meant to instigate certain conflicts or provoke reactions for WICKED’s studies?

As he asked it Thomas could feel the weariness brought on by the run settling in; his throat felt like someone had poured a glassful of sand down his gullet.

The abscess left when she disappeared was still in his head—like an empty pool.

His shoes crunched against the gritty dirt and rocks, breaking the silence.

He’d expected greasy hair and a smudged and sunburned face. But instead she wore fresh clothes; her clean hair cascaded to her shoulders. Nothing marred the pale skin of her face or arms.