Текст книги "The maze runner"
Автор книги: James Dashner
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
Just as the first sounds of boys crashing into Grievers filled the air– pierced with screams and roars of machinery and wood clacking against steel—Chuck ran past Thomas, who quickly reached out and grabbed his arm.
Chuck stumbled backward, then looked up at Thomas, his eyes so full of fright Thomas felt something shatter in his heart. In that split second, he'd made a decision.
"Chuck, you're with me and Teresa." He said it forcefully, with authority, leaving no room for doubt.
Chuck looked ahead at the engaged battle. "But. . ." He trailed off, and Thomas knew the boy relished the idea though he was ashamed to admit it.
Thomas quickly tried to save his dignity. "We need your help in the Griever Hole, in case one of those things is in there waiting for us."
Chuck nodded quickly—too quickly. Again, Thomas felt the pang of sadness in his heart, felt the urge to get Chuck home safely stronger than he'd ever felt it before.
"Okay, then," Thomas said. "Hold Teresa's other hand. Let's go."
Chuck did as he was told, trying so hard to act brave. And, Thomas noted, not saying a word, perhaps for the first time in his life.
They've made an opening! Teresa shouted in Thomas's mind—it sent a quick snap of pain shooting through his skull. She pointed ahead, and Thomas saw the narrow aisle forming in the middle of the corridor, Gladers fighting wildly to push the Grievers toward the walls.
"Now!" Thomas shouted.
He sprinted ahead, pulling Teresa behind him, Teresa pulling Chuck behind her, running at full speed, spears and knives cocked for battle, forward into the bloody, scream-filled hallway of stone. Toward the Cliff.
War raged around them. Gladers fought, panic-induced adrenaline driving them on. The sounds echoing off the walls were a cacophony of terror—human screams, metal clashing against metal, motors roaring, the haunted shrieks of the Grievers, saws spinning, claws clasping, boys yelling for help. All was a blur, bloody and gray and flashes of steel; Thomas tried not to look left or right, only ahead, through the narrow gap formed by the Gladers.
Even as they ran, Thomas went through the code words again in his mind. FLOAT, CATCH, BLEED, DEATH, STIFF, PUSH. They just had to make it a few dozen feet more.
Something just sliced my arm! Teresa screamed. Even as she said it, Thomas felt a sharp stab in his leg. He didn't look back, didn't bother answering. The seething impossibility of their predicament was like a heavy deluge of black water flooding around him, dragging him toward surrender. He fought it, pushed himself forward.
There was the Cliff, opening out into a gray-dark sky, about twenty feet away. He surged ahead, pulling his friends.
Battles clashed on both sides of them; Thomas refused to look, refused to help. A Griever spun directly in his path; a boy, his face hidden from sight, was clutched in its claws, stabbing viciously into the thick, whalish skin, trying to escape. Thomas dodged to the left, kept running. He heard a shriek as he passed by, a throat-scorching wail that could only mean the Glader had lost the fight, met a horrific end. The scream ran on, shattering the air, overpowering the other sounds of war, until it faded in death. Thomas felt his heart tremble, hoped it wasn't someone he knew. Just keep going! Teresa said.
"I know!" Thomas shouted back, this time out loud.
Someone sprinted past Thomas, bumped him. A Griever charged in from the right, blades twirling. A Glader cut it off, attacked it with two long swords, metal clacking and clanging as they fought. Thomas heard a distant voice, screaming the same words over and over, something about him. About protecting him as he ran. It was Minho, desperation and fatigue radiant in his shouts.
Thomas kept going.
One almost got Chuck! Teresa yelled, a violent echo in his head.
More Grievers came at them, more Gladers helped. Winston had picked up Alby's bow and arrow, flinging the steel-pointed shafts at anything nonhuman that moved, missing more than he hit. Boys Thomas didn't know ran alongside him, whacking at Griever instruments with their makeshift weapons, jumping on them, attacking. The sounds– clashes, clangs, screams, moaning wails, roars of engines, spinning saws, snapping blades, the screech of spikes against the floor, hair-raising pleas for help—it all grew to a crescendo, became unbearable.
Thomas screamed, but he kept running until they made it to the Cliff. He skidded to a stop, right on the edge. Teresa and Chuck bumped into him, almost sending all three of them to an endless fall. In a split second, Thomas surveyed his view of the Griever Hole. Hanging out, in the middle of thin air, were ivy vines stretching to nowhere.
Earlier, Minho and a couple of Runners had pulled out ropes of ivy and knotted them to vines still attached to the walls. They'd then tossed the loose ends over the Cliff, until they hit the Griever Hole, where now six or seven vines ran from the stone edge to an invisible rough square, hovering in the empty sky, where they disappeared into nothingness.
It was time to jump. Thomas hesitated, feeling one last moment of stark terror—hearing the horrible sounds behind him, seeing the illusion in front of him—then snapped out of it. "You first, Teresa." He wanted to go last to make sure a Griever didn't get her or Chuck.
To his surprise, she didn't hesitate. After squeezing Thomas's hand, then Chuck's shoulder, she leaped off the edge, immediately stiffening her legs, with her arms by her sides. Thomas held his breath until she slipped into the spot between the cut-off ivy ropes and disappeared. It looked as if she'd been erased from existence with one quick swipe.
"Whoa!" Chuck yelled, the slightest hint of his old self breaking through.
" Whoa is right," Thomas said. "You're next."
Before the boy could argue, Thomas grabbed him under his arms, squeezed Chuck's torso. "Push off with your legs and I'll give you a lift. Ready? One, two, three!" He grunted with effort, heaved him over toward the Hole.
Chuck screamed as he flew through the air, and he almost missed the target, but his feet went through; then his stomach and arms slammed against the sides of the invisible hole before he disappeared inside. The boy's bravery solidified something in Thomas's heart. He loved the kid. He loved him as if they had the same mom.
Thomas tightened the straps on his backpack, held his makeshift fighting spear tightly in his right fist. The sounds behind him were awful, horrible—he felt guilty for not helping. Just do your part, he told himself.
Steeling his nerves, he tapped his spear against the stone ground, then planted his left foot on the very edge of the Cliff and jumped, catapulting up and into the twilight air. He pulled the spear close to his torso, pointed his toes downward, stiffened his body.
Then he hit the Hole.
CHAPTER 57
A line of icy cold shot across Thomas's skin as he entered the Griever Hole, starting from his toes and continuing up his whole body, as if he'd jumped through a flat plane of freezing water. The world went even darker around him as his feet thumped to a landing on a slippery surface, then shot out from under him; he fell backward into Teresa's arms. She and Chuck helped him stand. It was a miracle Thomas hadn't stabbed someone's eye out with his spear.
The Griever Hole would've been pitch-black if not for the beam of Teresa's flashlight cutting through the darkness. As Thomas got his bearings, he realized they were standing in a ten-foot-high stone cylinder. It was damp, and covered in shiny, grimy oil, and it stretched out in front of them for dozens of yards before it faded into darkness. Thomas peered up at the Hole through which they'd come—it looked like a square window into a deep, starless space.
"The computer's over there," Teresa said, grabbing his attention.
Several feet down the tunnel, she had aimed her light at a small square of grimy glass that shone a dull green color. Beneath it, a keyboard was set into the wall, angling out enough for someone to type on it with ease if standing. There it was, ready for the code. Thomas couldn't help thinking it seemed too easy, too good to be true.
"Put the words in!" Chuck yelled, slapping Thomas on the shoulder. "Hurry!"
Thomas motioned for Teresa to do it. "Chuck and I'll keep watch, make sure a Griever doesn't come through the Hole." He just hoped the Gladers had turned their attention from making the aisle in the Maze to keeping the creatures away from the Cliff.
"Okay," Teresa said—Thomas knew she was too smart to waste time arguing about it. She stepped up to the keyboard and screen, then started typing.
Wait! Thomas called to her mind. Are you sure you know the words?
She turned to him and scowled. "I'm not an idiot, Tom. Yes, I'm perfectly capable of remembering—"
A loud bang from above and behind them cut her off, made Thomas jump. He spun around to see a Griever plop through the Griever Hole, appearing as if by magic from the dark square of black. The thing had retracted its spikes and arms to enter—when it landed with a squishy thump, a dozen sharp and nasty objects popped back out, looking deadlier than ever.
Thomas pushed Chuck behind him and faced the creature, holding out his spear as if that would ward it off. "Just keep typing, Teresa!" he yelled.
A skinny metallic rod burst out of the Griever's moist skin, unfolding into a long appendage with three spinning blades, which moved directly toward Thomas's face.
He gripped the end of his spear with both hands, squeezing tightly as he lowered the knife-laced point to the ground in front of him. The bladed arm moved within two feet, ready to slice his skin to bits. When it was just a foot away, Thomas tensed his muscles and swung the spear up, around, and toward the ceiling as hard as he could. It smacked the metal arm and pivoted the thing skyward, revolving in an arc until it slammed back into the body of the Griever. The monster let out an angry shriek and pulled back several feet, its spikes retracting into its body. Thomas heaved breaths in and out.
Maybe I can hold it off, he said quickly to Teresa. Just hurry!
I'm almost done, she replied.
The Grievers spikes appeared again; it surged ahead and another arm popped out of its skin and shot forward, this one with huge claws, snapping to grab the spear. Thomas swung, this time from above his head, throwing every bit of strength into the attack. The spear crashed into the base of the claws. With a loud clunk, and then a squishing sound, the entire arm ripped free of its socket, falling to the floor. Then, from some kind of mouth that Thomas couldn't see, the Griever let out a long, piercing shriek and pulled back again; the spikes disappeared.
"These things are beatable!" Thomas shouted.
It won't let me enter the last word! Teresa said in his mind.
Barely hearing her, not quite understanding, he yelled out a roar and charged ahead to take advantage of the Grievers moment of weakness. Swinging his spear wildly, he jumped on top of the creature's bulbous body, whacking two metal arms away from him with a loud crack. He lifted the spear above his head, braced his feet–felt them sink into the disgusting blubber—then thrust the spear down and into the monster. A slimy yellow goo exploded from the flesh, splashing over Thomas's legs as he drove the spear as far as it would sink into the thing's body. Then he released the hilt of the weapon and jumped away, running back to Chuck and Teresa.
Thomas watched in sick fascination as the Griever twitched uncontrollably, spewing the yellow oil in every direction. Spikes popped in and out of the skin; its remaining arms swung around in mass confusion, at times impaling its own body. Soon it began to slow, losing energy with every ounce of blood—or fuel—it lost.
A few seconds later, it stopped moving altogether. Thomas couldn't believe it. He absolutely couldn't believe it. He'd just defeated a Griever, one of the monsters that had terrorized the Gladers for more than two years.
He glanced behind him at Chuck, standing there with eyes wide.
"You killed it," the boy said. He laughed, as if that one act had solved all their problems.
"Wasn't so hard," Thomas muttered, then turned to see Teresa frantically typing away at the keyboard. He knew immediately that something was wrong.
"What's the problem?" he asked, almost shouting. He ran up to look over her shoulder and saw that she kept typing the word PUSH over and over, but nothing appeared on the screen.
She pointed at the dirty square of glass, empty but for its greenish glow of life. "I put in all the words and one by one they appeared on the screen; then something beeped and they'd disappear. But it won't let me type in the last word. Nothing's happening!"
Cold filled Thomas's veins as Teresa's words sank in. "Well . . . why?"
"I don't know!" She tried again, then again. Nothing appeared.
"Thomas!" Chuck screamed from behind them. Thomas turned to see him pointing at the Griever Hole—another creature was making its way through. As he watched, it plopped down on top of its dead brother and another Griever started entering the Hole.
"What's taking so long!" Chuck cried frantically. "You said they'd turn off when you punched in the code!"
Both Grievers had righted themselves and extended their spikes, had started moving toward them.
"It won't let us enter the word PUSH," Thomas said absently, not really speaking to Chuck but trying to think of a solution . . .
I don't get it, Teresa said.
The Grievers were coming, only a few feet away. Feeling his will fade into blackness, Thomas braced his feet and held up his fists halfheartedly. It was supposed to work. The code was supposed to—
"Maybe you should just push that button," Chuck said.
Thomas was so surprised by the random statement that he turned away from the Grievers, looked at the boy. Chuck was pointing at a spot near the floor, right underneath the screen and keyboard.
Before he could move, Teresa was already down there, crouching on her knees. And consumed by curiosity, by a fleeting hope, Thomas joined her, collapsing to the ground to get a better look. He heard the Griever moan and roar behind him, felt a sharp claw grab his shirt, felt a prick of pain. But he could only stare.
A small red button was set into the wall only a few inches above the floor. Three black words were printed there, so obvious he couldn't believe he'd missed it earlier.
Kill the Maze
More pain snapped Thomas out of his stupor. The Griever had grabbed him with two instruments, had started dragging him backward. The other one had gone after Chuck and was just about to swipe at the kid with a long blade.
A button.
"Push!" Thomas screamed, louder than he'd thought possible for a human being to scream. And Teresa did.
She pushed the button and everything went perfectly silent. Then, from somewhere down the dark tunnel, came the sound of a door sliding open.
CHAPTER 58
Almost at once the Grievers had shut down completely, their instruments sucked back through their blubbery skin, their lights turned off, their inside machines dead quiet. And that door . . .
Thomas fell to the floor after being released by his captor's claws, and despite the pain of several lacerations across his back and shoulders, elation surged through him so strongly he didn't know how to react. He gasped, then laughed, then choked on a sob before laughing again.
Chuck had scooted away from the Grievers, bumping into Teresa—she held him tightly, squeezing him in a fierce hug.
"You did it, Chuck," Teresa said. "We were so worried about the stupid code words, we didn't think to look around for something to push—the last word, the last piece of the puzzle."
Thomas laughed again, in disbelief that such a thing could be possible so soon after what they'd gone through. "She's right, Chuck—you saved us, man! I told you we needed you!" Thomas scrambled to his feet and joined the other two in a group hug, almost delirious. "Chuck's a shucking hero!"
"What about the others?" Teresa said with a nod toward the Griever Hole. Thomas felt his elation wither, and he stepped back and turned toward the Hole.
As if in answer to her question, someone fell through the black square—it was Minho, looking as if he'd been scratched or stabbed on ninety percent of his body.
"Minho!" Thomas shouted, filled with relief. "Are you okay? What about everybody else?"
Minho stumbled toward the curved wall of the tunnel, then leaned there, gulping big breaths. "We lost a ton of people. . . . It's a mess of blood up there . . . then they all just shut down." He paused, taking in a really deep breath and letting it go in a rush of air. "You did it. I can't believe it actually worked."
Newt came through then, followed by Frypan. Then Winston and others. Before long eighteen boys had joined Thomas and his friends in the tunnel, making a total of twenty-one Gladers in all. Every last one of those who'd stayed behind and fought was covered in Griever sludge and human blood, their clothes ripped to shreds.
"The rest?" Thomas asked, terrified of the answer.
"Half of us," Newt said, his voice weak. "Dead."
No one said a word then. No one said a word for a very long time.
"You know what?" Minho said, standing up a little taller. "Half might've died, but half of us shucking lived. And nobody got stung– just like Thomas thought. We've gotta get out of here."
Too many, Thomas thought. Too many by far. His joy dribbled away, turned into a deep mourning for the twenty people who'd lost their lives. Despite the alternative, despite knowing that if they hadn't tried to escape, all of them might've died, it still hurt, even though he hadn't known them very well. Such a display of death—how could it be considered a victory?
"Let's get out of here," Newt said. "Right now."
"Where do we go?" Minho asked.
Thomas pointed down the long tunnel. "I heard the door open down that way." He tried to push away the ache of it all—the horrors of the battle they'd just won. The losses. He pushed it away, knowing they were nowhere near safe yet.
"Well—let's go," Minho answered. And the older boy turned and started walking up the tunnel without waiting for a response.
Newt nodded, ushering the other Gladers past him to follow. One by one they went until only he remained with Thomas and Teresa.
"I'll go last," Thomas said.
No one argued. Newt went, then Chuck, then Teresa, into the black tunnel. Even the flashlights seemed to get swallowed by the darkness. Thomas followed, not even bothering to look back at the dead Grievers.
After a minute or so of walking, he heard a shriek from ahead, followed by another, then another. Their cries faded, as if they were falling. . . .
Murmurs made their way down the line, and finally Teresa turned to Thomas. "Looks like it ends in a slide up there, shooting downward."
Thomas's stomach turned at the thought. It seemed like it was a game—for whoever had built the place, at least.
One by one he heard the Gladers' dwindling shouts and hoots up ahead. Then it was Newt's turn, then Chuck's. Teresa shone her light down on a steeply descending, slick black chute of metal.
Guess we have no choice, she said to his mind.
Guess not. Thomas had a strong feeling it wasn't a way out of their nightmare; he just hoped it didn't lead to another pack of Grievers.
Teresa slipped down the slide with an almost cheerful shriek, and Thomas followed her before he could talk himself out of it—anything was better than the Maze.
His body shot down a steep decline, slick with an oily goo that smelled awful—like burnt plastic and overused machinery. He twisted his body until he got his feet in front of him, then tried to hold his hands out to slow himself down. It was useless—the greasy stuff covered every inch of the stone; he couldn't grip anything.
The screams of the other Gladers echoed off the tunnel walls as they slid down the oily chute. Panic gripped Thomas's heart. He couldn't fight off the image that they'd been swallowed by some gigantic beast and were sliding down its long esophagus, about to land in its stomach at any second. And as if his thoughts had materialized, the smells changed—to something more like mildew and rot. He started gagging; it took all his effort not to throw up on himself.
The tunnel began to twist, turning in a rough spiral, just enough to slow them down, and Thomas's feet smacked right into Teresa, hitting her in the head; he recoiled and a feeling of complete misery sank over him. They were still falling. Time seemed to stretch out, endless.
Around and around they went down the tube. Nausea burned in his stomach—the squishing of the goo against his body, the smell, the circling motion. He was just about to turn his head to the side to throw up when Teresa let out a sharp cry—this time there was no echo. A second later, Thomas flew out of the tunnel and landed on her.
Bodies scrambled everywhere, people on top of people, groaning and squirming in confusion as they tried to push away from each other. Thomas wiggled his arms and legs to scoot away from Teresa, then crawled a few more feet to throw up, emptying his stomach.
Still shuddering from the experience, he wiped at his mouth with his hand, only to realize it was covered in slimy filth. He sat up, rubbing both hands on the ground, and he finally got a good look at where they'd arrived. As he gaped, he saw, also, that everyone else had pulled themselves together into a group, taking in the new surroundings.
Thomas had seen glimpses of it during the Changing, but didn't truly remember it until that very moment.
They were in a huge underground chamber big enough to hold nine or ten Homesteads. From top to bottom, side to side, the place was covered in all kinds of machinery and wires and ducts and computers. On one side of the room—to his right—there was a row of forty or so large white pods that looked like enormous coffins. Across from that on the other side stood large glass doors, although the lighting made it impossible to see what was on the other side.
"Look!" someone shouted, but he'd already seen it, his breath catching in his throat. Goose bumps broke out all over him, a creepy fear trickling down his spine like a wet spider.
Directly in front of them, a row of twenty or so darkly tinged windows stretched across the compound horizontally, one after the other. Behind each one, a person—some men, some women, all of them pale and thin—sat observing the Gladers, staring through the glass with squinted eyes. Thomas shuddered, terrified—they all looked like ghosts. Angry, starving, sinister apparitions of people who'd never been happy when alive, much less dead.
But Thomas knew they were not, of course, ghosts. They were the people who'd sent them all to the Glade. The people who'd taken their lives away from them.
The Creators.
CHAPTER 59
Thomas took a step backward, noticing others doing the same. A deathly silence sucked the life out of the air as every last Glader stared at the row of windows, at the row of observers. Thomas watched one of them look down to write something, another reach up and put on a pair of glasses. They all wore black coats over white shirts, a word stitched on their right breast—he couldn't quite make out what it said. None of them wore any kind of discernible facial expression—they were all sallow and gaunt, miserably sad to look upon.
They continued to stare at the Gladers; a man shook his head, a woman nodded. Another man reached up and scratched his nose—the most human thing Thomas had seen any of them do.
"Who are those people?" Chuck whispered, but his voice echoed throughout the chamber with a raspy edge.
"The Creators," Minho said; then he spat on the floor. "I'm gonna break your faces!" he screamed, so loudly Thomas almost held his hands over his ears.
"What do we do?" Thomas asked. "What are they waiting on?"
"They've probably revved the Grievers back up," Newt said "They're probably coming right—"
A loud, slow beeping sound cut him off, like the warning alarm o a huge truck driving in reverse, but much more powerful. It came from everywhere, booming and echoing throughout the chamber.
"What now?" Chuck asked, not hiding the concern in his voice.
For some reason everyone looked at Thomas; he shrugged in answer—he'd only remembered so much, and now he was just as clueless as anyone else. And scared. He craned his neck as he scanned the place top to bottom, trying to find the source of the beeps. But nothing had changed. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the other Gladers looking in the direction of the doors. He did as well; his heart quickened when he saw that one of the doors was swinging open toward them.
The beeping stopped, and a silence as deep as outer space settled on the chamber. Thomas waited without breathing, braced himself for something horrible to come flying through the door.
Instead, two people walked into the room.
One was a woman. An actual grown-up. She seemed very ordinary, wearing black pants and a button-down white shirt with a logo on the breast—wicked spelled in blue capital letters. Her brown hair was cut at the shoulder, and she had a thin face with dark eyes. As she walked toward the group, she neither smiled nor frowned—it was almost as if she didn't notice or care they were standing there.
I know her, Thomas thought. But it was a cloudy kind of recollection—he couldn't remember her name or what she had to do with the Maze, but she seemed familiar. And not just her looks, but the way she walked, her mannerisms—stiff, without a hint of joy. She stopped several feet in front of the Gladers and slowly looked left to right, taking them all in.
The other person, standing next to her, was a boy wearing an overly large sweatshirt, its hood pulled up over his head, concealing his face.
"Welcome back," the woman finally said. "Over two years, and so few dead. Amazing."
Thomas felt his mouth drop open—felt anger redden his face.
"Excuse me?" Newt asked.
Her eyes scanned the crowd again before falling on Newt. "Everything has gone according to plan, Mr. Newton. Although we expected a few more of you to give up along the way."
She glanced over at her companion, then reached out and pulled the hood off the boy. He looked up, his eyes wet with tears. Every Glader in the room sucked in a breath of surprise. Thomas felt his knees buckle.
It was Gally.
Thomas blinked, then rubbed his eyes, like something out of a cartoon. He was consumed with shock and anger. It was Gally.
"What's he doing here!" Minho shouted.
"You're safe now," the woman responded as if she hadn't heard him. "Please, be at ease."
"At ease?" Minho barked. "Who are you, telling us to be at ease? We wanna see the police, the mayor, the president—somebody!" Thomas worried what Minho might do—then again, Thomas kind of wanted him to go punch her in the face.
She narrowed her eyes as she looked at Minho. "You have no idea what you're talking about, boy. I'd expect more maturity from someone who's passed the Maze Trials." Her condescending tone shocked Thomas.
Minho started to retort, but Newt elbowed him in the gut. "Gally" Newt said. "What's going on?"
The dark-haired boy looked at him; his eyes flared for a moment, his head shaking slightly. But he didn't respond. Something's off with him, Thomas thought. Worse than before.
The woman nodded as if proud of him. "One day you'll all be grateful for what we've done for you. I can only promise this, and trust your minds to accept it. If you don't, then the whole thing was a mistake. Dark times, Mr. Newton. Dark times."
She paused. "There is, of course, one final Variable." She stepped back.
Thomas focused on Gally. The boy's whole body trembled, his face pasty white, making his wet, red eyes stand out like bloody splotches on paper. His lips pressed together; the skin around them twitched, as if he were trying to speak but couldn't.
"Gally?" Thomas asked, trying to suppress the complete hatred he had for him.
Words burst from Gally's mouth. "They . . . can control me ... I don't—" His eyes bulged, a hand went to his throat as if he were choking. "I . . . have . . . to . . ." Each word was a croaking cough. Then he stilled, his face calming, his body relaxing.
It was just like Alby in bed, back in the Glade, after he went through the Changing. The same type of thing had happened to him. What did it—
But Thomas didn't have time to finish his thought. Gally reached behind himself, pulled something long and shiny from his back pocket. The lights of the chamber flashed off the silvery surface—a wicked-looking dagger, gripped tightly in his fingers. With unexpected speed, he reared back and threw the knife at Thomas. As he did so, Thomas heard a shout to his right, sensed movement. Toward him.
The blade windmilled, its every turn visible to Thomas, as if the world had turned to slow motion. As if it did so for the sole purpose of allowing him to feel the terror of seeing such a thing. On the knife came, flipping over and over, straight at him. A strangled cry was forming in his throat; he urged himself to move but he couldn't.
Then, inexplicably, Chuck was there, diving in front of him. Thomas felt as if his feet had been frozen in blocks of ice; he could only stare at the scene of horror unfolding before him, completely helpless.
With a sickening, wet thunk, the dagger slammed into Chuck's chest, burying itself to the hilt. The boy screamed, fell to the floor, his body already convulsing. Blood poured from the wound, dark crimson. His legs slapped against the floor, feet kicking aimlessly with onrushing death. Red spit oozed from between his lips. Thomas felt as if the world were collapsing around him, crushing his heart.
He fell to the ground, pulled Chuck's shaking body into his arms.
"Chuck!" he screamed; his voice felt like acid ripping through his throat. "Chuck!"
The boy shook uncontrollably, blood everywhere, wetting Thomas's hands. Chuck's eyes had rolled up in their sockets, dull white orbs. Blood trickled out of his nose and mouth.
