Текст книги "The maze runner"

Автор книги: James Dashner

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He fell to his knees by one of the scraggly trees on the outskirts of the forest and threw up, retching as he coughed and spat out every last morsel of the acidic, nasty bile from his stomach. His whole body shook, and it seemed like the vomiting would never end.

And then, as if his brain were mocking him, trying to make it worse, he had a thought.

He'd now been at the Glade for roughly twenty-four hours. One full day. That was it. And look at all the things that had happened. All the terrible things.

Surely it could only get better.

That night, Thomas lay staring at the sparkling sky, wondering if he'd ever sleep again. Every time he closed his eyes, the monstrous image of Ben leaping at him, the boy's face set in lunacy, filled his mind. Eyes opened or not, he could swear he kept hearing the moist thunk of the arrow slamming into Ben's cheek.

Thomas knew he'd never forget those few terrible minutes in the graveyard.

"Say something," Chuck said for the fifth time since they'd set out their sleeping bags.

"No," Thomas replied, just as he had before.

"Everyone knows what happened. It's happened once or twice– some Griever-stung shank flipped out and attacked somebody. Don't think you're special."

For the first time, Thomas thought Chucks personality had gone from mildly irritating to intolerable. "Chuck, be glad I'm not holding Alby's bow right about now."

"I'm just play—"

"Shut up, Chuck. Go to sleep." Thomas just couldn't handle it right then.

Eventually, his "buddy" did doze off, and based on the rumble of snores across the Glade, so did everyone else. Hours later, deep in the night, Thomas was still the only one awake. He wanted to cry, but didn't. He wanted to find Alby and punch him, for no reason whatsoever, but didn't. He wanted to scream and kick and spit and open up the Box and jump into the blackness below. But he didn't.

He closed his eyes and forced the thoughts and dark images away and at some point he fell asleep.

Chuck had to drag Thomas out of his sleeping bag in the morning, drag him to the showers, and drag him to the dressing rooms. The whole time, Thomas felt mopey and indifferent, his head aching, his body wanting more sleep. Breakfast was a blur, and an hour after it was over, Thomas couldn't remember what he'd eaten. He was so tired, his brain felt like someone had gone in and stapled it to his skull in a dozen places. Heartburn ravaged his chest.

But from what he could tell, naps were frowned upon in the giant working farm of the Glade.

He stood with Newt in front of the barn of the Blood House, getting ready for his first training session with a Keeper. Despite the rough morning, he was actually excited to learn more, and for the chance to get his mind off Ben and the graveyard. Cows mooed, sheep bleated, pigs squealed all around him. Somewhere close by, a dog barked, making Thomas hope Frypan didn't bring new meaning to the word hot dog. Hot dog, he thought. When's the last time I had a hot dog? Who did I eat it with?

"Tommy, are you even listening to me?"

Thomas snapped out of his daze and focused on Newt, who'd been talkig for who knew how long; Thomas hadn't heard a word of it. "Yeah, sorry. Couldn't sleep last night."

Newt attempted a pathetic smile. "Can't blame ya there. Went through the buggin' ringer, you did. Probably think I'm a slinthead shank for gettin' you ready to work your butt off today after an episode the likes of that."

Thomas shrugged. "Work's probably the best thing I could do. Anything to get my mind off it."

Newt nodded, and his smile became more genuine. "You're as smart as you look, Tommy. That's one of the reasons we run this place all nice and busylike. You get lazy, you get sad. Start givin' up. Plain and simple." Thomas nodded, absently kicking a loose rock across the dusty, cracked stone floor of the Glade. "So what's the latest on that girl from yesterday?" If anything had penetrated the haze of his long morning, it had been thoughts of her. He wanted to know more about her, understand the odd connection he felt to her.

"Still in a coma, sleepin'. Med-jacks are spoon-feeding her whatever soups Frypan can cook up, checking her vitals and such. She seems okay, just dead to the world for now."

"That was just plain weird." If it hadn't been for the whole Ben-in-the-graveyard incident, Thomas was sure she would've been all he'd thought about last night. Maybe he wouldn't have been able to sleep for an entirely different reason. He wanted to know who she was and if he really did know her somehow.

"Yeah," Newt said. "Weird's as good a word as any, I 'spect." Thomas looked over Newt's shoulder at the big faded-red barn, pushing thoughts of the girl aside. "So what's first? Milk cows or slaughter some poor little pigs?"

Newt laughed, a sound Thomas realized he hadn't heard much since he'd arrived. "We always make the Newbies start with the bloody Slicers. Don't worry, cuttin' up Frypan's victuals ain't but a part. Slicers do anything and everything dealin' with the beasties."

"Too bad I can't remember my whole life. Maybe I love killing animals." He was just joking, but Newt didn't seem to get it.

Newt nodded toward the barn. "Oh, you'll know good and well by the time sun sets tonight. Let's go meet Winston—he's the Keeper."

Winston was an acne-covered kid, short but muscular, and it seemed to Thomas the Keeper liked his job way too much. Maybe he was sent here for being a serial killer, he thought.

Winston showed Thomas around for the first hour, pointing out which pens held which animals, where the chicken and turkey coops were, what went where in the barn. The dog, a pesky black Lab named Bark, took quickly to Thomas, hanging at his feet the entire tour. Wondering where the dog came from, Thomas asked Winston, who said Bark had just always been there. Luckily, he seemed to have gotten his name as a joke, because he was pretty quiet.

The second hour was spent actually working with the farm animals– feeding, cleaning, fixing a fence, scraping up klunk. Klunk. Thomas found himself using the Glader terms more and more.

The third hour was the hardest for Thomas. He had to watch as Winston slaughtered a hog and began preparing its many parts for future eating. Thomas swore two things to himself as he walked away for lunch break. First, his career would not be with the animals; second, he'd never again eat something that came out of a pig.

Winston had said for him to go on alone, that he'd hang around the Blood House, which was fine with Thomas. As he walked toward the East Door, he couldn't stop picturing Winston in a dark corner of the barn, gnawing on raw pigs' feet. The guy gave him the willies.

Thomas was just passing the Box when he was surprised to see Someone enter the Glade from the Maze, through the West Door, to his left—an Asian kid with strong arms and short black hair, who looked a little older than Thomas. The Runner stopped three steps in, then bent over and put his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. He looked like he'd just run twenty miles, face red, skin covered in sweat, clothes soaked.

Thomas stared, overcome with curiosity—he'd yet to see a Runner up close or talk to one. Plus, based on the last couple of days, the Runner was home hours early. Thomas stepped forward, eager to meet him and ask questions.

But before he could form a sentence, the boy collapsed to the ground.

CHAPTER 12

Thomas didn't move for a few seconds. The boy lay in a crumpled heap, barely moving, but Thomas was frozen by indecision, afraid to get involved. What if something was seriously wrong with this guy? What if he'd been . . . stung? What if—

Thomas snapped out of it—the Runner obviously needed help.

"Alby!" he shouted. "Newt! Somebody get them!"

Thomas sprinted to the older boy and knelt down beside him. "Hey—you okay?" The Runner's head rested on outstretched arms as he panted, his chest heaving. He was conscious, but Thomas had never seen someone so exhausted.

"I'm . . . fine," he said between breaths, then looked up. "Who the klunk are you?"

"I'm new here." It hit Thomas then that the Runners were out in the Maze during the day and hadn't witnessed any of the recent events firsthand. Did this guy even know about the girl? Probably– surely someone had told him. "I'm Thomas—been here just a couple of days."

The Runner pushed himself up into a sitting position, his black hair matted to his skull with sweat. "Oh, yeah, Thomas," he huffed. "Newbie. You and the chick."

Alby jogged up then, clearly upset. "What're you doin' back, Minho? What happened?"

"Calm your wad, Alby," the Runner replied, seeming to gain strength by the second. "Make yourself useful and get me some water– I dropped my pack out there somewhere."

But Alby didn't move. He kicked Minho in the leg—too hard to be playful. "What happened?"

"I can barely talk, shuck-face!" Minho yelled, his voice raw. "Get me some water!"

Alby looked over at Thomas, who was shocked to see the slightest hint of a smile flash across his face before vanishing in a scowl. "Minho's the only shank who can talk to me like that without getting his butt kicked off the Cliff."

Then, surprising Thomas even more, Alby turned and ran off, presumably to get Minho some water.

Thomas turned toward Minho. "He lets you boss him around?"

Minho shrugged, then wiped fresh beads of sweat off his forehead You scared of that pip-squeak? Dude, you got a lot to learn. Freakin' Newbies."

The rebuke hurt Thomas far more than it should have, considering he'd known this guy all of three minutes. "Isn't he the leader?"

"Leader?" Minho barked a grunt that was probably supposed to be a laugh. "Yeah, call him leader all you want. Maybe we should call him El Presidente. Nah, nah—Admiral Alby. There you go." He rubbed his eyes, snickering as he did so.

Thomas didn't know what to make of the conversation—it was hard to tell when Minho was joking. "So who is the leader if he isn't?"

"Greenie, just shut it before you confuse yourself more." Minho sighed as if bored, then muttered, almost to himself, "Why do you shanks always come in here asking stupid questions? It's really annoying."

"What do you expect us to do?" Thomas felt a flush of anger. Like you were any different when you first came, he wanted to say.

"Do what you're told, keep your mouth shut. That's what I expect."

Minho had looked him square in the face for the first time with that last sentence, and Thomas scooted back a few inches before he could stop himself. He realized immediately he'd just made a mistake—he couldn't let this guy think he could talk to him like that.

He pushed himself back up onto his knees so he was looking down a the older boy. "Yeah, I'm sure that's exactly what you did as a Newbie."

Minho looked at Thomas carefully. Then, again staring straight in his eyes, said, "I was one of the first Gladers, slinthead. Shut your hole till you know what you're talking about."

Thomas, now slightly scared of the guy but mostly fed up with his attitude, moved to get up. Minho's hand snapped out and grabbed his arm.

"Dude, sit down. I'm just playin' with your head. It's too much fun—you'll see when the next Newbie . . ." He trailed off, a perplexed look wrinkling his eyebrows. "Guess there won't be another Newbie, huh?"

Thomas relaxed, returned to a sitting position, surprised at how easily he'd been put back at ease. He thought of the girl and the note saying she was the last one ever. "Guess not."

Minho squinted slightly, as if he was studying Thomas. "You saw the chick, right? Everybody says you probably know her or something."

Thomas felt himself grow defensive. "I saw her. Doesn't really look familiar at all." He felt immediately guilty for lying—even if it was just a little lie.

"She hot?"

Thomas paused, not having thought of her in that way since she'd freaked out and delivered the note and her one-liner—Everything is going to change. But he remembered how beautiful she was. "Yeah, I guess she's hot."

Minho leaned back until he lay flat, eyes closed. "Yeah, you guess. If you got a thing for chicks in comas, right?" He snickered again.

"Right." Thomas was having the hardest time figuring out if he liked Minho or not—his personality seemed to change every minute. After a long pause, Thomas decided to take a chance. "So ..." he asked cautiously, "did you find anything today?"

Minho's eyes opened wide; he focused on Thomas. "You know what, Greenie? That's usually the dumbest shuck-faced thing you could ask a Runner." He closed his eyes again. "But not today."

"What do you mean?" Thomas dared to hope for information. An answer, he thought. Please just give me an answer!

"Just wait till the fancy admiral gets back. I don't like saying stuff twice. Plus, he might not want you to hear it anyway."

Thomas sighed. He wasn't in the least bit surprised at the non-answer. "Well, at least tell me why you look so tired. Don't you run out there every day?"

Minho groaned as he pulled himself up and crossed his legs under him. "Yeah, Greenie, I run out there every day. Let's just say I got a little excited and ran extra fast to get my bee-hind back here."

"Why?" Thomas desperately wanted to hear about what happened out in the Maze.

Minho threw his hands up. "Dude. I told you. Patience. Wait for General Alby."

Something in his voice lessened the blow, and Thomas made his decision. He liked Minho. "Okay, I'll shut up. Just make sure Alby lets me hear the news, too."

Minho studied him for a second. "Okay, Greenie. You da boss."

Alby walked up a moment later with a big plastic cup full of water and handed it to Minho, who gulped down the whole thing without stopping once for breath.

"Okay," Alby said, "out with it. What happened?" Minho raised his eyebrows and nodded toward Thomas. "He's fine," Alby replied. "I don't care what this shank hears. Just talk!"

Thomas sat quietly in anticipation as Minho struggled to stand up, wincing with every move, his whole demeanor just screaming exhaustion. The Runner balanced himself against the wall, gave both of them a cold look. "I found a dead one."

"Huh?" Alby asked. "A dead what?"

Minho smiled. "A dead Griever."

CHAPTER 13

Thomas was fascinated at the mention of a Griever. The nasty creature was terrifying to think about, but he wondered why finding a dead one was such a big deal. Had it never happened before?

Alby looked like someone had just told him he could grow wings and fly. "Ain't a good time for jokes," he said.

"Look," Minho answered, "I wouldn't believe me if I were you, either. But trust me, I did. Big fat nasty one."

It's definitely never happened before, Thomas thought. "You found a dead Griever," Alby repeated.

"Yes, Alby," Minho said, his words laced with annoyance. "A couple of miles from here, out near the Cliff."

Alby looked out at the Maze, then back at Minho. "Well . . . why didn't you bring it back with you?"

Minho laughed again, a half-grunt, half-giggle. "You been drinkin' Frypan's saucy-sauce? Those things must weigh half a ton, dude. Plus, I wouldn't touch one if you gave me a free trip out of this place."

Alby persisted with the questions. "What did it look like? Were the metal spikes in or out of its body? Did it move at all—was its skin still moist?"

Thomas was bursting with questions—Metal spikes? Moist skin?

What in the world?—but held his tongue, not wanting to remind them he was there. And that maybe they should talk in private.

"Slim it, man," Minho said. "You gotta see it for yourself. It's... weird."

"Weird?" Alby looked confused.

"Dude, I'm exhausted, starving, and sun-sick. But if you wanna haul it right now, we could probably make it there and back before the walls shut."

Alby looked at his watch. "Better wait till the wake-up tomorrow."

"Smartest thing you've said in a week." Minho righted himself from leaning on the wall, hit Alby on the arm, then started walking toward the Homestead with a slight limp. He spoke over his shoulder as he shuffled away—it looked like his whole body was in pain. "I should go back out there, but screw it. I'm gonna go eat some of Frypan's nasty casserole."

Thomas felt a wash of disappointment. He had to admit Minho did look like he deserved a rest and a bite to eat, but he wanted to learn more.

Then Alby turned to Thomas, surprising him. "If you know something and ain't tellin' me . . ."

Thomas was sick of being accused of knowing things. Wasn't that the problem in the first place? He didn't know anything. He looked at the boy square in the face and asked, simply, "Why do you hate me so much?"

The look that came over Alby's face was indescribable—part con fusion, part anger, part shock. "Hate you? Boy, you ain't learned nothin' since showing up in that Box. This ain't got nothin' to do with no hat or like or love or friends or anything. All we care about is surviving Drop your sissy side and start using that shuck brain if you got one."

Thomas felt like he'd been slapped. "But . . . why do you keep accusing—"

"Cuz it can't be a coincidence, slinthead! You pop in here, then we get us a girl Newbie the next day, a crazy note, Ben tryin' to bite ya, dead Grievers. Somethings goin' on and I ain't restin' till I figure it out."

"I don't know anything, Alby" It felt good to put some heat into his words. "I don't even know where I was three days ago, much less why this Minho guy would find a dead thing called a Griever. So back off!"

Alby leaned back slightly, stared absently at Thomas for several seconds. Then he said, "Slim it, Greenie. Grow up and start thinkin'. Ain't got nothin' to do with accusing nobody of nothin'. But if you remember anything, if something even seems familiar, you better start talking. Promise me."

Not until I have a solid memory, Thomas thought. Not unless I want to share. "Yeah, I guess, but—" "Just promise!"

Thomas paused, sick of Alby and his attitude. "Whatever," he finally said. "I promise."

At that Alby turned and walked away, not saying another word.

Thomas found a tree in the Deadheads, one of the nicer ones on the edge of the forest with plenty of shade. He dreaded going back to work with Winston the Butcher and knew he needed to eat lunch, but he didn't want to be near anybody for as long as he could get away with it. Leaning back against the thick trunk, he wished for a breeze but didn't get one.

He'd just felt his eyelids droop when Chuck ruined his peace and quiet.

"Thomas! Thomas!" the boy shrieked as he ran toward him, pumping his arms, his face lit up with excitement.

Thomas rubbed his eyes and groaned; he wanted nothing in the world more than a half-hour nap. It wasn't until Chuck stopped right in front of him, panting to catch his breath, that he finally looked up, "What?"

Words slowly fell from Chuck, in between his gasps for breath, "Ben . . . Ben ... he isn't . . . dead."

All signs of fatigue catapulted out of Thomas's system. He jumped up to stand nose to nose with Chuck. "What?"

"He . . . isn't dead. Baggers went to get him . . . arrow missed brain . . . Med-jacks patched him up."

Thomas turned away to stare into the forest where the sick boy had attacked him just the night before. "You gotta be kidding. I saw him. . . ." He wasn't dead? Thomas didn't know what he felt most strongly: confusion, relief, fear that he'd be attacked again . . .

"Well, so did I," Chuck said. "He's locked up in the Slammer, a huge bandage covering half his head."

Thomas spun to face Chuck again. "The Slammer? What do you mean?"

"The Slammer. It's our jail on the north side of the Homestead." Chuck pointed in that direction. "They threw him in it so fast, the Med-jacks had to patch him up in there."

Thomas rubbed his eyes. Guilt consumed him when he realized how he truly felt—he'd been relieved that Ben was dead, that he didn't have to worry about facing him again. "So what are they gonna do with him?"

"Already had a Gathering of the Keepers this morning—made a unanimous decision by the sounds of it. Looks like Ben'll be wishing that arrow had found a home inside his shuck brain after all."

Thomas squinted, confused by what Chuck had said. "What are you talking about?"

"He's being Banished. Tonight, for trying to kill you."

"Banished? What does that mean?" Thomas had to ask, though he knew it couldn't be good if Chuck thought it was worse than being dead.

And then Thomas saw perhaps the most disturbing thing he'd seen since he'd arrived at the Glade. Chuck didn't answer; he only smiled. Smiled, despite it all, despite the sinister sound of what he'd just announced. Then he turned and ran, maybe to tell someone else the exciting news.

That night, Newt and Alby gathered every last Glader at the East Door about a half hour before it closed, the first traces of twilight's dimness creeping across the sky. The Runners had just returned and entered the mysterious Map Room, clanging the iron door shut; Minho had already gone in earlier. Alby told the Runners to hurry about their business– he wanted them back out in twenty minutes.

It still bothered Thomas how Chuck had smiled when breaking the news about Ben being Banished. Though he didn't know exactly what it meant, it certainly didn't sound like a good thing. Especially since they were all standing so close to the Maze. Are they going to put him out there? he wondered. With the Grievers?

The other Gladers murmured their conversations in hushed tones, an intense feeling of dreadful anticipation hanging over them like a patch of thick fog. But Thomas said nothing, standing with arms folded, waiting for the show. He stood quietly until the Runners finally came out of their building, all of them looking exhausted, their faces pinched from deep thinking. Minho had been the first to exit, which made Thomas wonder if he was the Keeper of the Runners.

"Bring him out!" Alby shouted, startling Thomas out of his thoughts.

His arms fell to his sides as he turned, looking around the Glade for a sign of Ben, trepidation building within him as he wondered what the boy would do when he saw him.

From around the far side of the Homestead, three of the bigger boys appeared, literally dragging Ben along the ground. His clothes were tattered, barely hanging on; a bloody, thick bandage covered half his head and face. Refusing to put his feet down or help the progress in any way, he seemed as dead as the last time Thomas had seen him. Except for one thing.

His eyes were open, and they were wide with terror.

"Newt," Alby said in a much quieter voice; Thomas wouldn't have heard him if he hadn't been standing just a few feet away. "Bring out the Pole."

Newt nodded, already on the move toward a small tool shed used for the Gardens; he'd clearly been waiting for the order.

Thomas turned his focus back to Ben and the guards. The pale, miserable boy still made no effort to resist, letting them drag him across the dusty stone of the courtyard. When they reached the crowd, they pulled Ben to his feet in front of Alby, their leader, where Ben hung his head, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.

"You brought this on yourself, Ben," Alby said. Then he shook his head and looked toward the shack to which Newt had gone.

Thomas followed his gaze just in time to see Newt walk though the slanted door. He was holding several aluminum poles, connecting the ends to make a shaft maybe twenty feet long. When he was finished, he grabbed something odd-shaped on one of the ends and dragged the whole thing along toward the group. A shiver ran up Thomas's spine at the metallic scrape of the pole on the stone ground as Newt walked.

Thomas was horrified by the whole affair—he couldn't help feeling responsible even though he'd never done anything to provoke Ben.

How was any of this his fault? No answer came to him, but he felt the guilt all the same, like a disease in his blood.

Finally, Newt stepped up to Alby and handed over the end of the pole he was holding. Thomas could see the strange attachment now. A loop of rough leather, fastened to the metal with a massive staple. A large button snap revealed that the loop could be opened and closed, and its purpose became obvious. It was a collar.

CHAPTER 14

Thomas watched as Alby unbuttoned the collar, then wrapped it around Ben's neck; Ben finally looked up just as the loop of leather snapped closed with a loud pop. Tears glistened in his eyes; dribbles of snot oozed from his nostrils. The Gladers looked on, not a word from any of them.

"Please, Alby," Ben pleaded, his shaky voice so pathetic that Thomas couldn't believe it was the same guy who'd tried to bite his throat off the day before. "I swear I was just sick in the head from the Changing. I never would've killed him—just lost my mind for a second. Please, Alby, please."

Every word from the kid was like a fist punching Thomas in the gut, making him feel more guilty and confused.

Alby didn't respond to Ben; he pulled on the collar to make sure it was both firmly snapped and solidly attached to the long pole. He walked past Ben and along the pole, picking it up off the ground as he slid its length through his palm and fingers. When he reached the end, he gripped it tightly and turned to face the crowd. Eyes bloodshot, face wrinkled in anger, breathing heavily—to Thomas, he suddenly looked evil.

And it was an odd sight on the other side: Ben, trembling, crying, a roughly cut collar of old leather wrapped around his pale, scrawny neck, attached to a long pole that stretched from him to Alby, twenty feet away. The shaft of aluminum bowed in the middle, but only a little. Even from where Thomas was standing, it looked surprisingly strong.

Alby spoke in a loud, almost ceremonious voice, looking at no one and everyone at the same time. "Ben of the Builders, you've been sentenced to Banishment for the attempted murder of Thomas the Newbie. The Keepers have spoken, and their word ain't changing. And you ain't coming back. Ever." A long pause. "Keepers, take your place on the Banishment Pole."

Thomas hated that his link to Ben was being made public—hated the responsibility he felt. Being the center of attention again could only bring more suspicion about him. His guilt transformed into anger and blame. More than anything, he just wanted Ben gone, wanted it all to be over.

One by one, boys were stepping out of the crowd and walking over to the long pole; they grabbed it with both hands, gripped it as if readying for a tug-of-war match. Newt was one of them, as was Minho, confirming Thomas's guess that he was the Keeper of the Runners. Winston the Butcher also took up a position.

Once they were all in place—ten Keepers spaced evenly apart between Alby and Ben—the air grew still and silent. The only sounds were the muffled sobs of Ben, who kept wiping at his nose and eyes. He was looking left and right, though the collar around his neck prevented him from seeing the pole and Keepers behind him.

Thomas's feelings changed again. Something was obviously wrong with Ben. Why did he deserve this fate? Couldn't something be done for him? Would Thomas spend the rest of his days feeling responsible? Just end, he screamed in his head. Just be over!

"Please," Ben said, his voice rising in desperation. "Pllllleeeeeeeeease! Somebody, help me! You can't do this to me!"

"Shut up!" Alby roared from behind.

But Ben ignored him, pleading for help as he started to pull on the leather looped around his neck. "Someone stop them! Help me!

Please!" He glanced from boy to boy, begging with his eyes. Without fail, everyone looked away. Thomas quickly stepped behind a taller boy to avoid his own confrontation with Ben. I can't look into those eyes again, he thought.

"If we let shanks like you get away with that stuff," Alby said, "we never would've survived this long. Keepers, get ready."

"No, no, no, no, no," Ben was saying, half under his breath. "I swear I'll do anything! I swear I'll never do it again! Pllllleeeeeee—"

His shrill cry was cut off by the rumbling crack of the East Door beginning to close. Sparks flew from the stone as the massive right wall slid to the left, groaning thunderously as it made its journey to close off the Glade from the Maze for the night. The ground shook beneath them, and Thomas didn't know if he could watch what he knew was going to happen next.

"Keepers, nowl" Alby shouted.

Ben's head snapped back as he was jerked forward, the Keepers pushing the pole toward the Maze outside the Glade. A strangling cry erupted from Ben's throat, louder than the sounds of the closing Door. He fell to his knees, only to be jerked back to his feet by the Keeper in front, a thick guy with black hair and a snarl on his face.

"Noooooooooo!" Ben screamed, spit flying from his mouth as he thrashed about, tearing at the collar with his hands. But the combined strength of the Keepers was way too much, forcing the condemned boy closer and closer to the edge of the Glade, just as the right wall was almost there. "Noooo!" he screamed again, and then again.

He tried to plant his feet at the threshold, but it only lasted for a split second; the pole sent him into the Maze with a lurch. Soon he was fully four feet outside the Glade, jerking his body from side to side as he tried to escape his collar. The walls of the Door were only seconds from sealing shut.

With one last violent effort, Ben was finally able to twist his neck in the circle of leather so that his whole body turned to face the Gladers. Thomas couldn't believe he was still looking upon a human being—the madness in Ben's eyes, the phlegm flying from his mouth, the pale skin stretched taut across his veins and bones. He looked as alien as anything Thomas could imagine. "Hold!" Alby shouted.

Ben screamed then, without pause, a sound so piercing that Thomas covered his ears. It was a bestial, lunatic cry, surely ripping the boy's vocal cords to shreds. At the last second, the front Keeper somehow loosened the larger pole from the piece attached to Ben and yanked it back into the Glade, leaving the boy to his Banishment. Ben's final screams were cut off when the walls closed with a terrible boom.