"Traumatizing?" Minho asked. "Who did you see in there? What did they say?"
Thomas knew he had no choice—this wasn't something he could or should keep from the others. "It was ... it was Teresa."
He expected gasps, exclamations of surprise, accusations of being a freaking liar. But in the silence that followed, you could hear the morning winds scuttle across the dusty lands surrounding them.
"What?" Minho finally said. "You're serious?"
Thomas simply nodded, staring at a triangular-shaped rock on the ground. The air had brightened considerably in just the last few minutes.
Minho was understandably shocked. "And you left her there? Dude, you need to start talking and tell us what happened."
As much as it pained him, as much as the memory of it tore at his heart, Thomas told the story. Seeing her, how she trembled and cried, how she acted like Gally—almost possessed—before he killed Chuck, the warning she'd given. He told it all; the only thing he left out was the kiss.
"Wow," Minho said in a weary voice, somehow wrapping it all up with that one simple word.
Several minutes passed. The dry wind scratched across the ground, filling the air with dust as the bright orange dome of the sun crested the horizon and officially started the day. No one spoke. Thomas heard sniffs and breaths and a few coughs. The sounds of people drinking from their water bags. The town seemed to have grown during the night, its buildings stretching toward the cloudless, purple-blue sky. It would only take another day or two to reach it.
"It was some kind of trap," he finally said. "I don't know what would've happened, or how many of us would've died. Maybe all of us. But I could see that there wasn't any doubt in her eyes when she broke away from whatever restrained her. She saved us, and I bet they make her . . ." He swallowed. "I bet they make her pay for it."
Minho reached out and squeezed Thomas's shoulder. "Dude, if those shuck WICKED people wanted her dead, she'd be rottin' under a big pile of rocks. She's just as tough as anybody else, maybe tougher. She'll survive."
Thomas took in a deep pull of air and let it out. He felt better. Impossibly, he felt better. Minho was right. "I know. Somehow I know."
Minho stood up. "We should've stopped a couple hours ago to get some sleep. But thanks to Mr. Desert Runner down here"—he lightly whacked Thomas in the head—"we ran ourselves ragged till the freaking sun came back up. I still think we need to rest for a while. Do it under the sheets, whatever, but let's try."
It ended up being no problem at all for Thomas. The brightening sun making the backs of his eyelids a murky black-splotched crimson, he fell asleep instantly, a sheet pulled all the way over his head to protect him from sunburn—and from his troubles.
CHAPTER 22
Minho let them sleep for almost four hours. Not that he had to wake many people up. The rising and intensifying sun raged its heat down on the land, and it became unbearable—impossible to ignore. By the time Thomas was up and had the food repacked after breakfast, sweat already drenched his clothes. The smell of body odor hung over them like a stinky mist, and he just hoped he wasn't the worst culprit. The showers back at the dorm seemed like pure luxury now.
The Gladers remained sullen and quiet as they readied for the journey. The more Thomas thought about it, the more he realized that there wasn't much to be happy about. Still, two things kept him going, and he hoped they did the same for the others. First, an overwhelming curiosity to find out what was in that stupid town—it looked more and more like a city as they got closer. And second, the hope that Teresa was alive and well. Maybe she'd gone through one of those Flat Trans things. Maybe she was ahead of them now. In the city, even. Thomas felt a swell of encouragement.
"Let's go," Minho said when everybody was ready. Then they were off.
Across the dry and dusty land they walked. No one needed to say it, but Thomas knew everyone was thinking the same thing—they no longer had the energy to run while the sun was up. And even if they did, they didn't have enough water to keep them alive at a faster pace.
So they walked, sheets held over their heads. As food and water dwindled, more of the packs became available to use for protection from the sun, and fewer Gladers had to walk in pairs. Thomas was one of the first to be alone, probably because no one wanted to talk to him after hearing the story about Teresa. He certainly wasn't going to complain— solitude was bliss for now.
Walking. Breaks for food and water. Walking. Heat, like a dry ocean through which they had to swim. That wind, blowing stronger now, bringing more dust and grit than relief from the heat. It whipped at the sheets, made it harder to keep them in place. Thomas kept coughing and rubbing chunks of accumulated grime from the corners of his eyes. He felt as if every swallow of water only made him want more, but their supplies had reached dangerously low levels. If there wasn't fresh water in the city when they reached it . . .
There was no good way for him to finish that line of thought.
They kept going, each step becoming just a little more agonizing, and quiet set in. No one talked. Thomas felt like even saying a couple of words would expend too much energy. It was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other, over and over and over, staring lifelessly at their goal—the ever-nearing city.
It was as if the buildings were alive, growing right before their eyes as they got closer. Soon Thomas could see what had to be stone, windows glimmering in the sunlight. Some seemed to be broken, but far less than half. From Thomas's vantage point, the streets seemed empty. No fires burned during the day. As far as he could tell, not one tree or any other kind of plant existed in the place. How would it, in this climate? How could people possibly live there? How would they grow food? What would they find?
Tomorrow. It had taken longer than he'd thought, but Thomas had no doubt they'd reach the city tomorrow. And though they'd probably be better off going around it, they had no choice. They needed to replenish their supplies.
Walking. Breaks. Heat.
When nightfall finally came, the sun disappearing below the far western horizon at a maddeningly slow pace, the wind picked up even more, and this time brought the slightest chill. Thomas enjoyed it, grateful for any relief from the heat.
By midnight, however, when Minho finally called on them to stop and get more sleep, the city and its now-burning fires ever closer, the wind had become even stronger. It blew in gales, whipping and curling with increasing power.
Soon after they stopped, as Thomas lay on his back, sheet tucked around him and pulled up tightly to his chin, he looked up at the sky. The winds were almost soothing, lulling him to sleep. Just as his mind got hazy from exhaustion, the stars seemed to fade away, and sleep brought him another dream.
He's sitting in a chair. Ten or eleven years old. Teresa—she looks so different, so much younger, yet it's still clearly her—sits across from him, a table between them. She's about his age. No one else is in the room, a dark place with only one light—a dull square of yellow in the ceiling directly overhead.
"Tom, you need to try harder," she says. Her arms are folded, and even at this younger age, it's a look he doesn't find surprising. It's very familiar. As if he has already known her a long time.
"I am trying." Again it's him speaking, but not really him. It doesn't make sense.
"They'll probably kill us if we can't do this."
"I know."
"Then try!"
"I am!"
"Fine," she says."You know what? I'm not speaking out loud to you anymore. Never ever again until you can do it." "But—"
Not inside your mind, either. She's talking in his head. That trick that still freaks him out and he still can't reciprocate. Starting now. "Teresa, just give me a few more days. I'll get it." She doesn't respond. "Okay, just one more day."
She only stares at him. Then, not even that. She looks down at the table, reaches out and starts scratching a spot in the wood with her fingernail.
"There's no way you're not gonna talk to me." No
response. And he knows her, despite what he just said. Oh, he knows her.
"Fine," he says. He closes his eyes, does what the instructor told him to do. Imagines a sea of black nothingness, interrupted only by the image of Teresa's face. Then, with every last bit of willpower, he forms the words and throws them at her.
You smell like a bag of crap.
Teresa smiles, then replies in his mind.
So do you.
CHAPTER 23
Thomas woke up to wind beating at his face and hair and clothes. It felt like invisible hands were trying to rip them off. It was still dark. And cold, too, his whole body shivering from it. Getting up on his elbows, he looked around, hardly able to see the huddled shapes sleeping near him, their sheets pulled tightly against their bodies. Their sheets.
He let out a frustrated yelp, then jumped to his feet—at some point in the night his own sheet had slipped loose and flown off. With the tearing wind, it could be ten miles away by now.
"Shuck it," he whispered; the howl of the wind stole the words before he could even hear them. The dream came back to him—or was it a memory? It had to be. That brief glimpse into a time when he and Teresa had been younger, learning how to do their telepathy trick. He felt his heart sink a little, missing her, feeling guilt over yet more proof that he'd been part of WICKED before going to the Maze. He shook it off, not wanting to think about it. He could block it out if he tried hard enough.
He looked up at black sky, then sucked in a hurried breath as the memory of the sun vanishing from the Glade came rushing back. That had been the beginning of the end. The beginning of the terror.
But common sense soon calmed his heart. The winds. The cool air. A storm. It had to be a storm.
Clouds.
Embarrassed, he sat back down, then lay on his side and curled into a ball, his arms wrapped around himself The cold wasn't unbearable, just a vast change from the horrible heat of the last couple of days. He probed his mind and wondered about the memories he'd had lately. Could they be lingering results of the Changing? Was his memory coming back?
The thought gave him mixed feelings. He wanted his memory block finally cracked for good—wanted to know who he was, where he came from. But that desire was tempered by fear of what he might find out about himself. About his role in the very things that had brought him to this point, that had done this to his friends.
He needed sleep desperately. The wind a constant roar in his ears, he finally slipped away, this time to nothing.
The light woke him to a dull, gray dawn that finally revealed the thick layer of clouds covering the sky. It also made the endless expanse of desert around them look even more dreary. The city was so close now, only a few hours away. The buildings really were tall; one of them even stretched up and disappeared in a low-hanging fog. And the glass in all those broken windows was like jagged teeth in mouths open to catch food that might be flying about in the stormy wind.
The gusty air still tore at him, and a thick layer of dirt seemed forever baked onto his face. He rubbed his head and his hair felt stiff with wind-dried grime.
Most of the other Gladers were up and about, taking in the unexpected shift in the weather, deep in conversations he couldn't hear. There was only the roar in his ears.
Minho noticed him awake and came over; he leaned into the wind as he walked, his clothes flapping around him. '"Bout time you woke up!" He was fully shouting.
Thomas rubbed the crust out of his eyes and got to his feet. "Where'd this all come from!" he yelled back."I thought we were in the middle of a desert!"
Minho looked up at the roiling gray mass of clouds, then back at Thomas. He leaned closer to speak directly in his ear. "Well, guess it has to rain in the desert sometime. Hurry and eat—we gotta get going. Maybe we can get there and find a place to hide before we're soaked by the storm."
"What if we get there and a bunch of Cranks try to kill us?"
"Then we'll fight 'em!" Minho frowned as if disappointed that Thomas had asked such a stupid question. "What else you wanna do? We're almost out of food and water."
Thomas knew Minho was right. Plus, if they could fight dozens of Grievers, a bunch of half-mad, starved sicklings shouldn't be too much of a problem. "All right, then. Let's go. I'll eat one of those granola things while we walk."
A few minutes later, they were once again heading for the city, the gray sky above them ready to burst and bleed water at any moment.
They were only a couple of miles away from the closest buildings when they came across an old man lying in the sand on his back, wrapped in several blankets. Jack had been the one to spot him first, and soon Thomas and the others were packed in a circle around the guy, staring down at him.
Thomas's stomach turned as he studied the man more closely, but he couldn't look away. The stranger had to be a hundred years old, though it was hard to tell—the wear and tear of the sun might've made him just look that way. Wrinkled, leathery face. Scabs and sores where his hair should've been. Dark, dark skin.
He was alive, breathing deeply, but he gazed at the sky with an emptiness in his eyes. As if he was waiting for some god to come down and take him away, end his miserable life. He showed no sign he'd even noticed the Gladers approach.
"Hey! Old man!" Minho shouted, always the tactful one. "What're you doing out here?"
Thomas had a hard enough time hearing the words over the ripping wind; he couldn't imagine that the ancient guy could make anything out. But was he blind as well? Maybe.
Thomas nudged Minho out of the way and knelt down right beside the man's face. The melancholy there was heartbreaking. He held his hand out and waved it right above the old guy's eyes.
Nothing. No blink, no movement. It was only after Thomas pulled his hand back that the man's eyelids slowly drooped closed, then open again. Just once.
"Sir?" Thomas asked. "Mister?" The words sounded strange to him, conjured up from the murky memories of his past. He certainly hadn't used them since being sent to the Glade and the Maze. "Can you hear me? Can you talk?"
The man did that slow blink again, but didn't say anything.
Newt knelt next to Thomas and spoke loudly over the wind. "This guy's a bloody gold mine if we can get him to tell us stuff about the city. Looks harmless, probably knows what to expect when we go in there."
Thomas sighed. "Yeah, but he doesn't even seem to be able to hear us, much less have a long talk."
"Keep trying," Minho said from behind them. "You're officially our foreign ambassador, Thomas. Get the dude to open up and tell us about the good of days."
For some odd reason Thomas wanted to say something funny back, but he couldn't think of anything. If he'd been funny in his old life, every scrap of humor had certainly vanished in the memory swipe. "Okay," he said.
He scooted as close to the man's head as he could, then positioned himself so their eyes were square, just a couple of feet apart. "Sir? We really need your help!" He felt bad for shouting, worried the old man might take it the wrong way, but he had no choice. The wind was gusting stronger and stronger. "We need you to tell us if it's safe to go inside the city! We can carry you there if you need help yourself. Sir? Sir!"
The man's dark eyes had been looking past him, up at the sky, but now they shifted, slowly, until they focused on his. Awareness faded them like dark liquid poured slowly into a glass. His lips parted, but nothing came out except a small cough.
Thomas's hopes lifted. "My name is Thomas. These are my friends. We've been walking through the desert for a couple of days, and we need more water and food. What do you . . ."
He trailed off when the man's eyes flicked back and forth, a sudden hint of panic there.
"It's okay, we won't hurt you," Thomas quickly said. "We're . . . we're the good guys. But we'd really appreciate it if—"
The man's left hand shot out from beneath the blankets wrapped around him and clasped Thomas's wrist, gripping it with a strength far greater than seemed possible. Thomas cried out in sur
prise and instinctively tried to pull his arm free, but couldn't. He was shocked by the man's strength. He could barely budge against the man's iron manacle of a fist.
"Hey!" he shouted. "Let go of me!"
The man shook his head, those dark eyes full more of fear than any kind of belligerence. His lips parted again, and a rough, indecipherable whisper rose from his mouth. He didn't loosen his grip.
Thomas gave up the struggle to free his arm; instead, he relaxed and leaned forward to put his ear close to the stranger's mouth. "What'd you say!" he shouted.
The man spoke again, a dry rasp that was unsettling, spooky. Thomas caught the words storm and terror and bad people. None of them sounded very inspiring.
"One more time!" Thomas yelled, his head still cocked so his ear rested only inches above the man's face.
This time Thomas understood most of it, missing only a few words. "Storm coming . . . full of terror . . . brings out. . . stay away . . . bad people."
The man shot up into a sitting position, his eyes full and white around his irises. "Storm! Storm! Storm!" He didn't stop, repeating the word over and over; a mucus-thick strand of saliva finally crested over his bottom lip and swung back and forth like a hypnotist's pendulum.
He released Thomas's arm, and Thomas scooted back on his butt to get away. Even as he did so, the wind intensified, seemed to go from strong gusts to outright hurricane-strength gales of terror, just like the man had said. The world was lost in the sound of roaring, screaming air. Thomas felt as if his hair and clothes might rip off at any second. Almost all of the Gladers' sheets went flying, flapping over the ground and into the air like an army of ghosts. Food skittered in all directions.
Thomas got to his feet, an almost impossible task with the wind trying to knock him over. He stumbled forward several feet until he leaned back into it; invisible hands held him up.
Minho stood nearby, frantically waving his arms as he tried to get everyone's attention. Most saw and gathered around him, including Thomas, who fought off the panic creeping along his insides. It was only a storm. Far better than Grievers or Cranks with knives. Or ropes.
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