Текст книги "The maze runner"
Автор книги: James Dashner
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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
Thomas, a little shocked at the last statement, left the Homestead and walked to an old bench near the Box and took a seat, his mind a whirlwind. He kept thinking of what Alby had said about the Flare, and what it could mean. The older boy had also mentioned burned earth and a disease. Thomas didn't remember anything like that, but if it was all true, the world they were trying to get back to didn't sound so good. Still—what other choice did they have? Besides the fact that the Grievers were attacking every night, the Glade had basically shut down.
Frustrated, worried, tired of his thoughts, he called out to Teresa. Can you hear me?
Yeah, she replied. Where are you?
By the Box.
I'll come in a minute.
Thomas realized how badly he needed her company. Good. I'll tell you the plan; I think it's on. What is it?
Thomas leaned back on the bench and put his right foot up on his knee, wondering how Teresa would react to what he was going to say. We gotta go through the Griever Hole. Use that code to shut the Grievers down and open a door out of here.
A pause. I figured it was something like that.
Thomas thought for a second, then added, Unless you've got any better ideas?
No. It's gonna be awful.
He punched his right fist against his other hand, even though he knew she couldn't see him. We can do this. Doubtful.
Well, we have to try.
Another pause, this one longer. He could feel her resolve. You're right.
I think we're leaving tonight. Just come out here and we can talk more about it.
I'll be there in a few minutes.
Thomas's stomach tightened into a knot. The reality of what he had suggested, the plan Newt was trying to convince the Keepers to accept, was starting to hit him. He knew it was dangerous, but the idea of actually fighting the Grievers—not just running from them—was terrifying. The absolute best-case scenario was that only one of them would die—but even that couldn't be trusted. Maybe the Creators would just reprogram the creatures. And then all bets were off.
He tried not to think about it.
Sooner than Thomas expected, Teresa had found him and was sitting next to him, her body pressed against his despite plenty of room on the bench. She reached out and took his hand. He squeezed back, so hard he knew it must've hurt. "Tell me," she said.
Thomas did, reciting every word he'd told the Keepers, hating how Teresa's eyes filled with worry—and terror. "The plan was easy to talk about," he said after he'd told her everything. "But Newt thinks we should go tonight. It doesn't sound so good now." It especially terrified him to think about Chuck and Teresa out there—he'd faced the Grievers down already and knew all too well what it was like. He wanted to be able to protect his friends from the horrible experience, but he knew he couldn't.
"We can do it," she said in a quiet voice.
Hearing her say that only made him worry more. "Holy crap, I'm scared."
"Holy crap, you're human. You should be scared."
Thomas didn't respond, and for a long time they just sat there, holding hands, no words spoken, in their minds or aloud. He felt the slightest hint of peace, as fleeting as it was, and tried to enjoy it for however long it might last.
CHAPTER 53
Thomas was almost sad when the Gathering finally ended. When Newt came out of the Homestead he knew that the time for rest was over.
The Keeper spotted them and approached at a limping run Thomas noticed he'd let go of Teresa's hand without thinking about it. Newt finally came to a halt and crossed his arms over his chest as he looked down at them sitting on the bench. "This is bloody nuts, you know that, right?" His face was impossible to read, but there seemed to be a hint of victory in his eyes.
Thomas stood up, feeling a rush of excitement flooding his body "So they agreed to go?"
Newt nodded. "All of them. Wasn't as hard as I thought it'd be. Those shanks've seen what happens at night with those bloody Doors open. We can't get out of the stupid Maze. Gotta try something." He turned and looked at the Keepers, who'd started to gather their respective work groups. "Now we just have to convince the Gladers."
Thomas knew that would be even more difficult than persuading the Keepers had been.
"You think they'll go for it?" Teresa asked, finally standing to join them.
"Not all of them," Newt said, and Thomas could see the frustration in his eyes. "Some'll stay and take their chances—guarantee it."
Thomas didn't doubt people would blanch at the thought of making a run for it. Asking them to fight the Grievers was asking a lot. "What about Alby?"
"Who knows?" Newt responded, looking around the Glade, observing the Keepers and their groups. "I'm convinced that bugger really is more scared to go back home than he is of the Grievers. But I'll get him to go with us, don't worry."
Thomas wished he could bring back memories of those things that were tormenting Alby, but there was nothing. "How are you going to convince him?"
Newt laughed. "I'll make up some klunk. Tell him we'll all find a new life in another part of the world, live happily ever after."
Thomas shrugged. "Well, maybe we can. I promised Chuck I'd get him home, you know. Or at least find him a home."
"Yeah, well," Teresa murmured. "Anything's better than this place."
Thomas looked around at the arguments breaking out across the Glade, Keepers doing their best to convince people they should take a chance and battle their way through the Griever Hole. Some Gladers stomped away, but most seemed to listen and at least consider.
"So what's next?" Teresa asked.
Newt took a deep breath. "Figure out who's going, who's staying. Get ready. Food, weapons, all that. Then we go. Thomas, I'd put you in charge since it was your idea, but it's going to be hard enough to get people on our side without making the Greenie our leader—no offense. So just lay low, okay? We'll leave the code business to you and Teresa—you can handle that from the background."
Thomas was more than fine with lying low—finding that computer station and punching in the code was more than enough responsibility for him. Even with that much on his shoulders he had to fight the rising flood of panic he felt. "You sure make it sound easy," he finally said, trying his best to lighten up the situation. Or at least sound like he was.
Newt folded his arms again, looked at him closely. "Like you said– stay here, one shank'll die tonight. Go, one shank'll die. What's the difference?" He pointed at Thomas, "if you're right."
"I am." Thomas knew he was right about the Hole, the code, the door, the need to fight. But whether one person or many would die, he had no clue. However, if there was one thing his gut told him, it was not to admit to any doubt.
Newt clapped him on the back. "Good that. Let's get to work."
The next few hours were frantic.
Most of the Gladers ended up agreeing to go—even more than Thomas would've guessed. Even Alby decided to make the run. Though no one admitted it, Thomas bet most of them were banking on the theory that only one person would be killed by the Grievers, and they figured their chances of not being the unlucky sap were decent. Those who decided to stay in the Glade were few but adamant and loud. They mainly walked around sulking, trying to tell others how stupid they were. Eventually, they gave up and kept their distance.
As for Thomas and the rest of those committed to the escape, there was a ton of work to be done.
Backpacks were handed out and stuffed full of supplies. Frypan– Newt told Thomas that the Cook had been one of the last Keepers to agree to go—was in charge of gathering all the food and figuring out a way to distribute it evenly among the packs. Syringes of Grief Serum were included, even though Thomas didn't think the Grievers would sting them. Chuck was in charge of filling water bottles and getting them out to everyone. Teresa helped him, and Thomas asked her to sugarcoat the trip as much as she could, even if she had to flat-out lie, which was mostly the case. Chuck had tried to act brave from the time he first found out they were going for it, but his sweaty skin and dazed eyes revealed the truth.
Minho went to the Cliff with a group of Runners, taking ivy ropes and rocks to test the invisible Griever Hole one last time. They had to hope the creatures would keep to their normal schedule and not come out during daytime hours. Thomas had contemplated just jumping into the Hole right away and trying to punch in the code quickly, but he had no idea what to expect or what might be waiting for him. Newt was right—they'd better wait until night and hope that most of the Grievers were in the Maze, not inside their Hole.
When Minho returned, safe and sound, Thomas thought he seemed very optimistic that it really was an exit. Or entrance. Depending on how you looked at it.
Thomas helped Newt distribute the weapons, and even more innovative ones were created in their desperation to be prepared for the Grievers. Wooden poles were carved into spears or wrapped in barb-wire; the knives were sharpened and fastened with twine to the ends of sturdy branches hacked from trees in the woods; chunks of broken glass were duct-taped to shovels. By the end of the day, the Gladers had turned into a small army. A very pathetic, ill-prepared army, Thomas thought, but an army all the same.
Once he and Teresa were done helping, they went to the secret spot in the Deadheads to strategize about the station inside the Griever Hole and how they planned to punch in the code.
"We have to be the ones to do it," Thomas said as they leaned their backs against craggy trees, the once-green leaves already starting to turn gray from the lack of artificial sunlight. "That way if we get separated, we can be in contact and still help each other."
Teresa had grabbed a stick and was peeling off the bark. "But we need backup in case something happens to us."
"Definitely. Minho and Newt know the code words—we'll tell them they have to get them punched into the computer if we . . . well you know." Thomas didn't want to think about all the bad things that might happen.
"Not much to the plan, then." Teresa yawned, as if life were completely normal.
"Not much at all. Fight the Grievers, punch in the code, escape through the door. Then we deal with the Creators—whatever it takes."
"Six code words, who knows how many Grievers." Teresa broke the stick in half. "What do you think WICKED stands for, anyway?"
Thomas felt like he'd been hit in the stomach. For some reason, hearing the word at that moment, from someone else, knocked something loose in his mind and it clicked. He was stunned he hadn't made the connection sooner. "That sign I saw out in the Maze—remember? The metal one with words stamped on it?" Thomas's heart had started to race with excitement.
Teresa crinkled her forehead in confusion for a second, but then a light seemed to blink on behind her eyes. "Whoa. World In Catastrophe: Killzone Experiment Department. WICKED. WICKED is good– what I wrote on my arm. What does that even mean?"
"No idea. Which is why I'm scared to death that what we're about to do is a whole pile of stupid. Could be a bloodbath."
"Everyone knows what they're getting into." Teresa reached out and took his hand. "Nothing to lose, remember?"
Thomas remembered, but for some reason Teresa's words fell flat– they didn't have much hope in them. "Nothing to lose," he repeated.
CHAPTER 54
Just before the normal Door-closing time, Frypan prepared one last meal to carry them through the night. The mood hanging over the Gladers as they ate couldn't have been more somber or sodden with fear. Thomas found himself sitting next to Chuck, absently picking at his food.
"So . . . Thomas," the boy said through a huge bite of mashed potatoes. "Who am I nicknamed after?"
Thomas couldn't help shaking his head—here they were, about to embark on probably the most dangerous task of their lives, and Chuck was curious where he'd gotten his nickname. "I don't know, Darwin, maybe? The dude who figured out evolution."
"I bet no one's ever called him a dude before." Chuck took another big bite, and seemed to think that was the best time to talk, full mouth and all. "You know, I'm really not all that scared. I mean, last few nights, sitting in the Homestead, just waiting for a Griever to come in and steal one of us was the worst thing I've ever done. At least now we're taking it to them, trying something. And at least . . ."
"At least what?" Thomas asked. He didn't believe for a second that Chuck wasn't scared; it almost hurt to see him acting brave.
"Well, everyone's speculating they can only kill one of us. Maybe I sound like a shuck, but it gives me some hope. At least most of us will make it through—just leaves one poor sucker to die. Better than all of us."
It made Thomas sick to think people were hanging on to that hope of just one person dying; the more he thought about it, the less he believed it was true. The Creators knew the plan—they might reprogram the Grievers. But even false hope was better than nothing. "Maybe we can all make it. As long as everyone fights."
Chuck stopped stuffing his face for a second and looked at Thomas carefully. "You really think that, or you just trying to cheer me up?"
"We can do it." Thomas ate his last bite, took a big drink of water. He'd never felt like such a liar in his life. People were going to die. But he was going to do everything possible to make sure Chuck wasn't one of them. And Teresa. "Don't forget my promise. You can still plan on it."
Chuck frowned. "Big deal—I keep hearing the world is in klunky shape."
"Hey, maybe so, but we'll find the people who care about us– you'll see."
Chuck stood up. "Well, I don't wanna think about it," he announced. "Just get me out of the Maze, and I'll be one happy dude." "Good that," Thomas agreed.
A commotion from the other tables caught his attention. Newt and Alby were gathering the Gladers, telling everyone it was time to go. Alby seemed mostly himself, but Thomas still worried about the guy's mental state. In Thomas's mind, Newt was in charge, but he could also be a loose cannon sometimes.
The icy fear and panic Thomas had experienced so often the last few days swept over him once again in full force. This was it. They were going. Trying not to think about it, to just act, he grabbed his backpack. Chuck did the same, and they headed for the West Door, the one leading to the Cliff.
Thomas found Minho and Teresa talking to each other near the left side of the Door, going over the hastily made plans to enter the escape code once they got into the Hole.
"You shanks ready?" Minho asked when they came up. "Thomas, this was all your idea, so it better work. If not, I'll kill ya before the Grievers can."
"Thanks," Thomas said. But he couldn't shake the twisting feeling in his gut. What if somehow he was wrong? What if the memories he'd had were false ones? Planted somehow? The thought terrified him, and he pushed it aside. There was no going back.
He looked at Teresa, who shifted from foot to foot, wringing her hands. "You okay?" he asked.
"I'm fine," she answered with a small smile, clearly not fine at all. "Just anxious to get it over with."
"Amen, sister," Minho said. He looked the calmest to Thomas, the most confident, the least scared. Thomas envied him.
When Newt finally had everyone gathered, he called for quiet, and Thomas turned to hear what he had to say. "There're forty-one of us." He pulled the backpack he was holding onto his shoulders, and hoisted a thick wooden pole with barbwire wrapped around its tip. The thing looked deadly. "Make sure you've got your weapons. Other than that, isn't a whole lot to buggin' say—you've all been told the plan. We're gonna fight our way through to the Griever Hole, and Tommy here's gonna punch in his little magic code and then we're gonna get payback on the Creators. Simple as that."
Thomas barely heard Newt, having seen Alby sulking over to the side, away from the main group of the Gladers, alone. Alby picked at the string of his bow while he stared at the ground. A quiver of arrows hung over his shoulder. Thomas felt a rising tide of worry that somehow Alby was unstable, that somehow he'd screw everything up. He decided to watch him carefully if he could.
"Shouldn't someone give a pep talk or something?" Minho asked, pulling Thomas's attention away from Alby.
"Go ahead," Newt replied. Minho nodded and faced the crowd. "Be careful," he said dryly. "Don't die."
Thomas would have laughed if he could, but he was too scared for it to come out.
"Great. We're all bloody inspired," Newt answered, then pointed over his shoulder, toward the Maze. "You all know the plan. After two years of being treated like mice, tonight we're making a stand. Tonight we're taking the fight back to the Creators, no matter what we have to go through to get there. Tonight the Grievers better be scared."
Someone cheered, and then someone else. Soon shouts and battle calls broke out, rising in volume, filling the air like thunder. Thomas felt a trickle of courage inside him—he grasped it, clung to it, urged it to grow. Newt was right. Tonight, they'd fight. Tonight, they'd make their stand, once and for all.
Thomas was ready. He roared with the other Gladers. He knew they should probably be quiet, not bring any more attention to themselves, but he didn't care. The game was on.
Newt thrust his weapon into the air and yelled, "Hear that, Creators! We're coming!"
And with that, he turned and ran into the Maze, his limp barely noticeable. Into the gray air that seemed darker than the Glade, full of shadows and blackness. The Gladers around Thomas, still cheering, picked up their weapons and ran after him, even Alby. Thomas followed, falling into line between Teresa and Chuck, hefting a big wooden spear with a knife tied at its tip. The sudden feeling of responsibility for his friends almost overwhelmed him—made it hard to run. But he kept going, determined to win.
You can do this, he thought. Just make it to that Hole.
CHAPTER 55
Thomas kept a steady pace as he ran with the other Gladers along the stone pathways toward the Cliff. He'd grown used to running the Maze, but this was completely different. The sounds of shuffling feet echoed up the walls and the red lights of the beetle blades flashed more menacingly in the ivy—the Creators were certainly watching, listening. One way or another, there was going to be a fight. Scared? Teresa asked him as they ran.
No, I love things made out of blubber and steel. Can't wait to see them. He felt no mirth or humor and wondered if there'd ever be a time again when he would.
So funny, she responded.
She was right next to him, but his eyes stayed glued up ahead. We'll be fine. Just stay close to me and Minho.
Ah, my Knight in Shining Armor. What, you don't think I can fend for myself?
Actually, he thought quite the opposite—Teresa seemed as tough as anybody there. No, I'm just trying to be nice.
The group was spread out across the full width of the corridor, running at a steady but quick pace—Thomas wondered how long the non-Runners would hold up. As if in response to the thought, Newt fell back, finally tapping Minho on the shoulder. "You lead the way now," Thomas heard him say.
Minho nodded and ran to the front, guiding the Gladers through all the turns necessary. Every step was agonizing for Thomas. What courage he'd gathered had turned to dread, and he wondered when the Grievers would finally give chase. Wondered when the fight would begin.
And so it went for him as they kept moving, those Gladers not used to running such distances gasping in huge gulps of air. But no one quit. On and on they ran, with no signs of Grievers. And as the time passed, Thomas let the slightest trickle of hope enter his system—maybe they'd make it before getting attacked. Maybe.
Finally, after the longest hour of Thomas's life, they reached the long alley that led to the last turn before the Cliff—a short corridor to the right that branched off like the stem of the letter T.
Thomas, his heart thumping, sweat slicking his skin, had moved up right behind Minho, Teresa at his side. Minho slowed at the corner, then stopped, holding up a hand to tell Thomas and the others to do the same. Then he turned, a look of horror on his face.
"Do you hear that?" he whispered.
Thomas shook his head, trying to squash the terror Minho's expression had given him.
Minho crept ahead and peeked around the sharp edge of stone, looking toward the Cliff. Thomas had seen him do that before, when they'd followed a Griever to this very spot. Just like that time, Minho jerked back and turned to face him.
"Oh, no," the Keeper said through a moan. "Oh, no."
Then Thomas heard it. Griever sounds. It was as if they'd been hiding, waiting, and now were coming to life. He didn't even have to look–he knew what Minho was going to say before he said it.
"There's at least a dozen of them. Maybe fifteen." He reached up and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "They're just waiting for us!"
The icy chill of fear bit Thomas harder than ever before. He looked over at Teresa, about to say something, but stopped when he saw the expression on her pale face—he'd never seen terror present itself so starkly.
Newt and Alby had moved up the line of waiting Gladers to join Thomas and the others. Apparently Minho's pronouncement had already been whispered through the ranks, because the first thing Newt said was "Well, we knew we'd have to fight." But the tremor in his voice gave him away—he was just trying to say the right thing.
Thomas felt it himself. It'd been easy to talk about—the nothing-to-lose fight, the hope that just one of them would be taken, the chance to finally escape. But now it was here, literally around the corner. Doubts that he could go through with it seeped into his mind and heart. He wondered why the Grievers were just waiting—the beetle blades had obviously let them know the Gladers were coming. Were the Creators enjoying this?
He had an idea. "Maybe they've already taken a kid back at the Glade. Maybe we can get past them—why else would they just be sitting—"
A loud noise from behind cut him off–he spun to see more Grievers moving down the corridor toward them, spikes flaring, metal arms groping, coming from the direction of the Glade. Thomas was just about to say something when he heard sounds from the other end of the long alley—he looked to see yet more Grievers.
The enemy was on all sides, blocking them off completely.
The Gladers surged toward Thomas, forming a tight group, forcing him to move out into the open intersection where the Cliff corridor met the long alley. He saw the pack of Grievers between them and the Cliff, spikes extended, their moist skin pulsing in and out. Waiting, watching. The other two groups of Grievers had closed in and stopped just a few dozen feet from the Gladers, also waiting, watching.
Thomas slowly turned in a circle, fought the fear as he took it all in. They were surrounded. They had no choice now—there was nowhere to go. A sharp pulsing pain throbbed behind his eyes.
The Gladers compressed into a tighter group around him, everyone facing outward, huddled together in the center of the T intersection. Thomas was pressed between Newt and Teresa—he could feel Newt trembling. No one said a word. The only sounds were the eerie moans and whirrs of machinery coming from the Grievers, sitting there as if enjoying the little trap they'd set for the humans. Their disgusting bodies heaved in and out with mechanical wheezes of breath.
What are they doing? Thomas called out to Teresa. What are they waiting for?
She didn't answer, which worried him. He reached out and squeezed her hand. The Gladers around him stood silent, clutching their meager weapons.
Thomas looked over at Newt. "Got any ideas?"
"No," he replied, his voice just the tiniest bit shaky. "I don't understand what they're bloody waitin' for."
"We shouldn't have come," Alby said. He'd been so quiet, his voice sounded odd, especially with the hollow echo the Maze walls created.
Thomas was in no mood for whining—they had to do something. "Well, we'd be no better off in the Homestead. Hate to say it, but if one of us dies, that's better than all of us." He really hoped the one-person-a-night thing was true now. Seeing all these Grievers close up hit home with an explosion of reality—could they really fight them all?
A long moment passed before Alby replied. "Maybe I should He trailed off and started walking forward–in the direction of the Cliff—slowly, as if in a trance. Thomas watched in detached awe—he couldn't believe his eyes.
"Alby?" Newt said. "Get back here!"
Instead of responding, Alby took off running—he headed straight for the pack of Grievers between him and the Cliff. "Alby!" Newt screamed.
Thomas started to say something himself, but Alby had already made it to the monsters and jumped on top of one. Newt moved away from Thomas's side and toward Alby—but five or six Grievers had already burst to life and attacked the boy in a blur of metal and skin. Thomas reached out and grabbed Newt by the arms before he could go any farther, then pulled him backward.
"Let go!" Newt yelled, struggling to break loose.
"Are you nuts!" Thomas shouted. "There's nothing you can do!"
Two more Grievers broke from the pack and swarmed over Alby, piling on top of each other, snapping and cutting at the boy, as if they wanted to rub it in, show their vicious cruelty. Somehow, impossibly, Alby didn't scream. Thomas lost sight of the body as he struggled with Newt, thankful for the distraction. Newt finally gave up, collapsing backward in defeat.
Alby'd flipped once and for all, Thomas thought, fighting the urge to rid his stomach of its contents. Their leader had been so scared to go back to whatever he'd seen, he'd chosen to sacrifice himself instead. He was gone. Totally gone.
Thomas helped steady Newt on his feet; the Glader couldn't stop staring at the spot where his friend had disappeared.
"I can't believe it," Newt whispered. "I can't believe he just did that."
Thomas shook his head, unable to reply. Seeing Alby go down like that ... a new kind of pain he'd never felt before filled his insides– an ill, disturbed pain; it felt worse than the physical kind. And he didn't even know if it had anything to do with Alby—he'd never much liked the guy. But the thought that what he'd just seen might happen to Chuck—or Teresa . . .
Minho moved closer to Thomas and Newt, squeezed Newt's shoulder. "We can't waste what he did." He turned toward Thomas. "We'll fight 'em if we have to, make a path to the Cliff for you and Teresa. Get in the Hole and do your thing—we'll keep them off until you scream for us to follow."
Thomas looked at each of the three sets of Grievers—not one had yet made a move toward the Gladers—and nodded. "Hopefully they'll go dormant for a while. We should only need a minute or so to punch in the code."
"How can you guys be so heartless?" Newt murmured, the disgust in his voice surprising Thomas.
"What do you want, Newt?" Minho said. "Should we all dress up and have a funeral?"
Newt didn't respond, still staring at the spot where the Grievers seemed to be feeding on Alby beneath them. Thomas couldn't help taking a peek—he saw a smear of bright red on one of the creatures' bodies. His stomach turned and he quickly looked away.
Minho continued. "Alby didn't wanna go back to his old life. He freaking sacrificed himself for us—and they aren't attacking, so maybe it worked. We'd be heartless if we wasted it."
Newt only shrugged, closed his eyes.
Minho turned and faced the huddled group of Gladers. "Listen up! Number one priority is to protect Thomas and Teresa. Get them to the Cliff and the Hole so—"
The sounds of the Grievers revving to life cut him off. Thomas looked up in horror. The creatures on both sides of their group seemed to have noticed them again. Spikes were popping in and out of blubbery skin; their bodies shuddered and pulsed. Then, in unison, the monsters moved forward, slowly, instrument-tipped appendages unfolding, pointed at Thomas and the Gladers, ready to kill. Tightening their trap formation like a noose, the Grievers steadily charged toward them.
Alby's sacrifice had failed miserably.
CHAPTER 56
Thomas grabbed Minho by the arm. "Somehow I have to get through that!" He nodded toward the rolling pack of Grievers between them and the Cliff–they looked like one big mass of rumbling, spiked blubber, glistening with flashes of lights off steel. They were even more menacing in the faded gray light.
Thomas waited for an answer as Minho and Newt exchanged a long glance. The anticipation of fighting was almost worse than the fear of it.
"They're coming]" Teresa yelled. "We have to do something!"
"You lead," Newt finally said to Minho, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Make a bloody path for Tommy and the girl. Do it."
Minho nodded once, a steel look of resolve hardening his features. Then he turned toward the Gladers. "We head straight for the Cliff! Fight through the middle, push the shuckin' things toward the walls. What matters most is getting Thomas and Teresa to the Griever Hole!"
Thomas looked away from him, back at the approaching monsters—they were only a few feet away. He gripped his poor excuse for a spear.
We have to stay close together, he told Teresa. Let them do the fighting– we have to get through that Hole. He felt like a coward, but he knew that any fighting—and any deaths—would be in vain if they didn't get that code punched, the door to the Creators opened.
I know, she replied. Stick together.
"Ready!" Minho yelled next to Thomas, raising his barbwire-wrapped club into the air with one hand, a long silver knife in the other. He pointed the knife at the horde of Grievers; a flash glinted off the blade. "Now!"
The Keeper ran forward without waiting for a response. Newt went after him, right on his heels, and then the rest of the Gladers followed, a tight pack of roaring boys charging ahead to a bloody battle, weapons raised. Thomas held Teresa's hand, let them all go past, felt them bump him, smelled their sweat, sensed their terror, waiting for the perfect opportunity to make his own dash.
