The Maze Runner

A surge of heat pulsed through Thomas’s veins. “I’ve never seen you before in my life. I have no idea who you are, and I couldn’t care less,” he spat. But really, how would he know? And how could this kid remember him?

The bully snickered, a short burst of laughter mixed with a phlegm-filled snort. Then his face grew serious, his eyebrows slanting inward. “I’ve … seen you, shank. Not too many in these parts can say they’ve been stung.” He pointed up the stairs. “I have. I know what old Benny baby’s going through. I’ve been there. And I saw you during the Changing.”

He reached out and poked Thomas in the chest. “And I bet your first meal from Frypan that Benny’ll say he’s seen ya, too.”

Thomas refused to break eye contact but decided to say nothing. Panic ate at him once again. Would things ever stop getting worse?

“Griever got ya wettin’ yourself?” the boy said through a sneer. “A little scared now? Don’t wanna get stung, do ya?”

There was that word again. Stung. Thomas tried not to think about it and pointed up the stairs, from where the moans of the sick kid echoed through the building. “If Newt went up there, then I wanna talk to him.”

The boy said nothing, stared at Thomas for several seconds. Then he shook his head. “You know what? You’re right, Tommy—I shouldn’t be so mean to Newbies. Go on upstairs and I’m sure Alby and Newt’ll fill you in. Seriously, go on. I’m sorry.”

He lightly slapped Thomas’s shoulder, then stepped back, gesturing up the stairs. But Thomas knew the kid was up to something. Losing parts of your memory didn’t make you an idiot.

“What’s your name?” Thomas asked, stalling for time while he tried to decide if he should go up after all.

“Gally. And don’t let anyone fool you. I’m the real leader here, not the two geezer shanks upstairs. Me. You can call me Captain Gally if you want.” He smiled for the first time; his teeth matched his disgusting nose. Two or three were missing, and not a single one approached anything close to the color white. His breath escaped just enough for Thomas to get a whiff, reminding him of some horrible memory that was just out of reach. It made his stomach turn.

“Okay,” he said, so sick of the guy he wanted to scream, punch him in the face. “Captain Gally it is.” He exaggerated a salute, feeling a rush of adrenaline, as he knew he’d just crossed a line.

A few snickers escaped the crowd, and Gally looked around, his face bright red. He peered back at Thomas, hatred furrowing his brow and crinkling his monstrous nose.

“Just go up the stairs,” Gally said. “And stay away from me, you little slinthead.” He pointed up again but didn’t take his eyes off Thomas.

“Fine.” Thomas looked around one more time, embarrassed, confused, angry. He felt the heat of blood in his face. No one made a move to stop him from doing as Gally asked, except for Chuck, who stood at the front door, shaking his head.

“You’re not supposed to,” the younger boy said. “You’re a Newbie—you can’t go up there.”

“Go,” said Gally with a sneer. “Go on up.”

Thomas regretted having come inside in the first place—but he did want to talk to that Newt guy.

He started up the stairs. Each step groaned and creaked under his weight; he might’ve stopped for fear of falling through the old wood if he weren’t leaving such an awkward situation below. Up he went, wincing at every splintered sound. The stairs reached a landing, turned left, then came upon a railed hallway leading to several rooms. Only one door had a light coming through the crack at the bottom.

“The Changing!” Gally shouted from below. “Look forward to it, shuck-face!”

As if the taunting gave Thomas a sudden burst of courage, he walked over to the lit door, ignoring the creaking floorboards and laughter downstairs—ignoring the onslaught of words he didn’t understand, suppressing the dreadful feelings they induced. He reached down, turned the brass handle, and opened the door.

Inside the room, Newt and Alby crouched over someone lying on a bed.

Thomas leaned in closer to see what the fuss was all about, but when he got a clear look at the condition of the patient, his heart went cold. He had to fight the bile that surged up his throat.

The look was fast—only a few seconds—but it was enough to haunt him forever. A twisted, pale figure writhing in agony, chest bare and hideous. Tight, rigid cords of sickly green veins webbed across the boy’s body and limbs, like ropes under his skin. Purplish bruises covered the kid, red hives, bloody scratches. His bloodshot eyes bulged, darting back and forth. The image had already burned into Thomas’s mind before Alby jumped up, blocking the view but not the moans and screams, pushing Thomas out of the room, then slamming the door shut behind them.

“What’re you doing up here, Greenie!” Alby yelled, his lips taut with anger, eyes on fire.

Thomas felt weak. “I … uh … want some answers,” he murmured, but he couldn’t put any strength in his words—felt himself give up inside. What was wrong with that kid? Thomas slouched against the railing in the hallway and stared at the floor, not sure what to do next.

“Get your runtcheeks down those stairs, right now,” Alby ordered. “Chuck’ll help you. If I see you again before tomorrow morning, you ain’t reachin’ another one alive. I’ll throw you off the Cliff myself, you get me?”

Thomas was humiliated and scared. He felt like he’d shrunk to the size of a small rat. Without saying a word, he pushed past Alby and headed down the creaky steps, going as fast as he dared. Ignoring the gaping stares of everyone at the bottom—especially Gally—he walked out the door, pulling Chuck by the arm as he did so.

Thomas hated these people. He hated all of them. Except Chuck. “Get me away from these guys,” Thomas said. He realized that Chuck might actually be his only friend in the world.

“You got it,” Chuck replied, his voice chipper, as if thrilled to be needed. “But first we should get you some food from Frypan.”

“I don’t know if I can ever eat again.” Not after what he’d just seen.

Chuck nodded. “Yeah, you will. I’ll meet you at the same tree as before. Ten minutes.”

Thomas was more than happy to get away from the house, and headed back toward the tree. He’d only known what it was like to be alive here for a short while and he already wanted it to end. He wished for all the world he could remember something about his previous life. Anything. His mom, his dad, a friend, his school, a hobby. A girl.

He blinked hard several times, trying to get the image of what he’d just seen in the shack out of his mind.

The Changing. Gally had called it the Changing.

It wasn’t cold, but Thomas shuddered once again.

CHAPTER 4

Thomas leaned against the tree as he waited for Chuck. He scanned the compound of the Glade, this new place of nightmares where he seemed destined to live. The shadows from the walls had lengthened considerably, already creeping up the sides of the ivy-covered stone faces on the other side.

At least this helped Thomas know directions—the wooden building crouched in the northwest corner, wedged in a darkening patch of shadow, the grove of trees in the southwest. The farm area, where a few workers were still picking their way through the fields, spread across the entire northeast quarter of the Glade. The animals were in the southeast corner, mooing and crowing and baying.

In the exact middle of the courtyard, the still-gaping hole of the Box lay open, as if inviting him to jump back in and go home. Near that, maybe twenty feet to the south, stood a squat building made of rough concrete blocks, a menacing iron door its only entrance—there were no windows. A large round handle resembling a steel steering wheel marked the only way to open the door, just like something within a submarine. Despite what he’d just seen, Thomas didn’t know which he felt more strongly—curiosity to know what was inside, or dread at finding out.

Thomas had just moved his attention to the four vast openings in the middle of the main walls of the Glade when Chuck arrived, a couple of sandwiches cradled in his arms, along with apples and two metal cups of water. The sense of relief that flooded through Thomas surprised him—he wasn’t completely alone in this place.

“Frypan wasn’t too happy about me invading his kitchen before suppertime,” Chuck said, sitting down next to the tree, motioning to Thomas to do the same. He did, grabbed the sandwich, but hesitated, the writhing, monstrous image of what he’d seen in the shack popping back into his mind. Soon, though, his hunger won out and he took a huge bite. The wonderful tastes of ham and cheese and mayonnaise filled his mouth.

“Ah, man,” Thomas mumbled through a mouthful. “I was starving.”

“Told ya.” Chuck chomped into his own sandwich.

After another couple of bites, Thomas finally asked the question that had been bothering him. “What’s actually wrong with that Ben guy? He doesn’t even look human anymore.”

Chuck glanced over at the house. “Don’t really know,” he muttered absently. “I didn’t see him.”

Thomas could tell the boy was being less than honest but decided not to press him. “Well, you don’t want to see him, trust me.” He continued to eat, munching on the apples as he studied the huge breaks in the walls. Though it was hard to make out from where he sat, there was something odd about the stone edges of the exits to the outside corridors. He felt an uncomfortable sense of vertigo looking at the towering walls, as if he hovered above them instead of sitting at their base.

“What’s out there?” he asked, finally breaking the silence. “Is this part of a huge castle or something?”

Chuck hesitated. Looked uncomfortable. “Um, I’ve never been outside the Glade.”

Thomas paused. “You’re hiding something,” he finally replied, finishing off his last bite and taking a long swig of water. The frustration at getting no answers from anyone was starting to grind his nerves. It only made it worse to think that even if he did get answers, he wouldn’t know if he’d be getting the truth. “Why are you guys so secretive?”

“That’s just the way it is. Things are really weird around here, and most of us don’t know everything. Half of everything.”

It bothered Thomas that Chuck didn’t seem to care about what he’d just said. That he seemed indifferent to having his life taken away from him. What was wrong with these people? Thomas got to his feet and started walking toward the eastern opening. “Well, no one said I couldn’t look around.” He needed to learn something or he was going to lose his mind.

“Whoa, wait!” Chuck cried, running to catch up. “Be careful, those puppies are about to close.” He already sounded out of breath.

“Close?” Thomas repeated. “What are you talking about?”

“The Doors, you shank.”

“Doors? I don’t see any doors.” Thomas knew Chuck wasn’t just making stuff up—he knew he was missing something obvious. He grew uneasy and realized he’d slowed his pace, not so eager to reach the walls anymore.

“What do you call those big openings?” Chuck pointed up at the enormously tall gaps in the walls. They were only thirty feet away now.

“I’d call them big openings,” Thomas said, trying to counter his discomfort with sarcasm and disappointed that it wasn’t working.

“Well, they’re doors. And they close up every night.”

Thomas stopped, thinking Chuck had to have said something wrong. He looked up, looked side to side, examined the massive slabs of stone as the uneasy feeling blossomed into outright dread. “What do you mean, they close?”

“Just see for yourself in a minute. The Runners’ll be back soon; then those big walls are going to move until the gaps are closed.”

“You’re jacked in the head,” Thomas muttered. He couldn’t see how the mammoth walls could possibly be mobile—felt so sure of it he relaxed, thinking Chuck was just playing a trick on him.

They reached the huge split that led outside to more stone pathways. Thomas gaped, his mind emptying of thought as he saw it all firsthand.

“This is called the East Door,” Chuck said, as if proudly revealing a piece of art he’d created.

Thomas barely heard him, shocked by how much bigger it was up close. At least twenty feet across, the break in the wall went all the way to the top, far above. The edges that bordered the vast opening were smooth, except for one odd, repeating pattern on both sides. On the left side of the East Door, deep holes several inches in diameter and spaced a foot apart were bored into the rock, beginning near the ground and continuing all the way up.

On the right side of the Door, foot-long rods jutted out from the wall edge, also several inches in diameter, in the same pattern as the holes facing them on the other side. The purpose was obvious.

“Are you kidding?” Thomas asked, the dread slamming back into his gut. “You weren’t playing with me? The walls really move?”

“What else would I have meant?”

Thomas had a hard time wrapping his mind around the possibility. “I don’t know. I figured there was a door that swung shut or a little mini-wall that slid out of the big one. How could these walls move? They’re huge, and they look like they’ve been standing here for a thousand years.” And the idea of those walls closing and trapping him inside this place they called the Glade was downright terrifying.

Chuck threw his arms up, clearly frustrated. “I don’t know, they just move. Makes one heck of a grinding noise. Same thing happens out in the Maze—those walls shift every night, too.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">