"Yes. I mean, no. I mean . . . yes, the answer to both questions is no."
Jorge smiled—nothing but an uptick of the right corner of his mouth—and Thomas thought he must be enjoying every second of this. "The Flare works in stages, muchacho. Every person in this city has it, and I'm not shocked to hear that you and your sissy friends do, too. Someone like me is in the beginning, a Crank in name only. I caught it just a few weeks ago, tested positive at the quarantine checkpoint— government's trying their damnedest to keep the sick and the well separate. Ain't working. Saw my whole world go straight in the crap hole. Was sent here. Fought to capture this building with a bunch of other newbies."
At that word, Thomas's breath caught in his throat like a mote of dust. It brought back too many memories of the Glade.
"My friends out there with the weapons are all in the same boat as me. But you go and take a nice stroll around the city and you'll see what happens as time goes by. You'll see the stages, see what it's like to be past the Gone, though you might not live to remember it for very long. And we don't even have any of the numbing agent here. The Bliss. None."
"Who sent you here?"Thomas asked, saving his curiosity about this numbing agent for later.
"WICKED—same as you. Only we're not special like you say you are. WICKED was set up by the surviving governments to fight the disease, and they claim that this city has something to do with it. Don't know much else."
Thomas felt a mixture of surprise and confusion, then a hope for answers. "Who is WICKED? What is WICKED?"
Jorge looked just about as confused as Thomas felt. "I told you all I know. Why're you asking me that, anyway? I thought the whole point here was that you were special to them, that they were behind this whole story you told me."
"Look, everything I told you is the honest truth. We've been promised things, but we still don't know much about them. They don't give us any details. Like they're testing us to see if we can make it through all this klunk even though we have no idea what's happening."
"And what makes you think they have a cure?"
Now Thomas had to keep his voice steady, think back to what he'd heard from the Rat Man. "The guy in the white suit I told you about. He told us it's why we have to make it to the safe haven."
"Mmm-hmm," Jorge said, one of those noises that sounded like a yes but meant exactly the opposite. "And what in the world makes you think they'll let us just ride in on a horse with you and get the cure, too?"
Thomas had to keep playing it nice and calm. "Obviously I don't know that at all. But why not at least try? If you help us get there, you have a small chance. If you kill us, you have zero chance. Only a full-gone Crank would choose the second option."
Jorge gave that pathetic smile again, then let out a small bark of a laugh. "There's something about you, Thomas. Few minutes ago I wanted to stab your friend in the eyeballs and then do the same to the rest of ya. But I'll be licked if you haven't half convinced me."
Thomas shrugged, trying to keep his face calm. "All I care about is surviving one more day. All I want is to make it through this city, and then I'll worry about what comes next. And you know what else?" He braced himself to act tougher than he felt.
Jorge raised his eyebrows. "What's that?"
"If stabbing you in the eyeballs could get me to tomorrow, I'd do it right now. But I need you. We all need you." Thomas wondered if he could ever actually do such a thing even as he said it. But it worked.
The Crank eyed Thomas for a drawn-out moment, then stuck out a hand across the table. "I believe we have ourselves a deal, hermano. For many reasons."
Thomas reached out and shook. And even though he was filled with relief, it took everything he had not to show it.
But then Jorge brought it all crashing down. "I just have one condition. That ratty kid who junked me on the ground? Think I heard you call him Minho?"
"Yeah?" Thomas asked in a weak voice, his heart thumping all over again.
"He dies."
CHAPTER 28
"No."
Thomas said it with every ounce of finality and firmness he could muster.
"No?" Jorge repeated with a look of surprise. "I offer you a chance to make it through a city full of vicious Cranks ready to eat you alive, and you say no? To my one little itsy-bitsy request? That does not make me happy."
"It wouldn't be smart," Thomas said. He had no idea how he was able to maintain his calm expression, where this bravery was coming from. But something told him it was the only way he could survive with this Crank.
Jorge leaned forward again, placed his elbows on the table. But this time he didn't clasp his hands; instead, he balled them into fists. His knuckles cracked. "Is it your goal in life to piss me off until I cut your arteries open one by one?"
"You saw what he did to you," Thomas countered. "You know the guts that took. If you kill him, you lose the skills he brings. He's our best fighter, and he's not scared of anything. Maybe he's crazy, but we need him."
Thomas was trying to sound so practical. Pragmatic. But if there was a person other than Teresa on the planet he could truly call a friend, it was Minho. And he couldn't handle losing him, too.
"But he made me angry," Jorge said tightly; his fists had not relaxed in the slightest. "He made me look like a little girl in front of my people. And that's not. . . acceptable."
Thomas shrugged like he didn't care, like it was a small and meaningless point. "So punish him. Make him look like a little girl. But killing him doesn't help us. The more bodies we have that can fight, the better our chances. I mean, you live here. Do I really need to tell you this?"
Finally, finally, Jorge loosened his white-knuckled grips. He also let out a breath that Thomas hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"Okay," the Crank said. "Okay. But it has nothing to do with you lame attempt to talk me into it. I'll spare him because I just made up my mind about something. Because of two reasons, actually. One of which you should have thought of yourself."
"What?" Thomas didn't mind his relief showing anymore—the effort to hide things was exhausting him. Plus, he was now too intrigued by what Jorge had to say.
"First off, you don't really know all the details behind this test or experiment or whatever it is that WICKED is putting you through. Maybe the more of you that make it back—to that safe haven—the better chances you have of getting the cure. Ever thought that this Group B you mentioned are probably your competitors? I think it's in my best interests to make sure all eleven of you make it now."
Thomas nodded, but didn't say anything. He didn't want to take the slightest chance of ruining the victory here: Jorge believed him about the Rat Man and the cure.
"Which leads to my second reason," he continued. "The thing I've made up my mind about."
"And what's that?" Thomas asked.
"I'm not taking all those Cranks out there with me. With us." "Huh? Why? I thought the whole point was that you guys could help us fight our way through the city."
Jorge adamantly shook his head as he leaned back in his chair and assumed a much less threatening position, folding his arms across his chest."No. If we're gonna do this, stealth will work way better than muscle. We've been sneaking around this hellhole ever since we got here, and I think our chances of making it through—and getting all the food and supplies we need—are way better if we take what we've learned and use it. Tiptoe our way past the long-gone-crazy Cranks instead of slashing through them like a bunch of wannabe warriors."
"You're hard to figure out," Thomas said. "Not to be rude, but it sure seems like warriors are exactly what you guys want to be. Ya know, based on all the ugly outfits and sharp things."
A long moment of silence passed, and Thomas was just starting to think he'd made a mistake when Jorge burst out laughing.
"Oh, muchacho, you're one lucky sucker I like you. Not sure why, but I do. Otherwise I would've killed you three times already."
"Can you do that?"Thomas asked.
"Huh?"
"Kill someone three times." "I'd figure out a way." "Then I'll try to be nicer."
Jorge slapped the table and stood up. "Okay. So here's the deal. We need to get all eleven of you punks to your safe haven. To do it, I'm only taking one other person—her name is Brenda, and she's a genius. We need her mind. And if we do make it, and it ends up that there's no cure for us, then I don't think I need to tell you what the consequences will be."
"Come on," Thomas said sarcastically. "I thought we were friends now."
"Pshh. We ain't friends, hermano. We're partners. I'll deliver you to WICKED. You get me a cure. That's the deal or there's gonna be a lot of death."
Thomas stood as well; his chair creaked against the floor. "We already agreed on that, didn't we?"
"Yeah. Yeah, we did. Now listen, don't you dare say a word out there. Getting away from those other Cranks is gonna be . . . tricky."
"What's the plan?"
Jorge thought for a minute, his eyes glued to Thomas as he did. Then he broke his silence. "Just keep your tongue-hole shut and let me do my thing." He started to move toward the door to the hallway, but stopped short. "Oh, and I don't think your compadre Minho is going to like it very much."
As they walked down the hallway to join the others, Thomas realized how achingly hungry he was. The cramps in his stomach had spread to the rest of his body, as if his internal organs and muscles were starting to eat each other.
"All right, everybody listen!" Jorge announced when they reentered the large torn-up room. "Me and the bird-face here have come to a resolution."
Bird face? Thomas thought.
The Cranks still stood at attention, nasty weapons gripped tightly, glaring at the Gladers, all of whom sat around the edges of the space, backs against the walls. Light beamed through the shattered windows and holes above.
Jorge came to a stop in the middle of the room and slowly turned to address the whole group. Thomas thought he looked ridiculous—like he was trying too hard.
"First, we need to get these people food. I know it seems crazy to share our hard-earned grub with a bunch of strangers, but I think we could use their help. Give 'em the pork and beans—I'm sick of that horse crap anyway." One of the Cranks snickered, a skinny runt of a kid whose eyes darted back and forth. "Second, being the grand gentleman and saint that I am, I've decided not to kill the punk who attacked me."
Thomas heard a few disappointed groans break out and wondered just how far along some of these people were with the Flare. But one girl, a pretty, older teenager with long hair that was surprisingly clean, rolled her eyes and shook her head as if she thought the noise was idiotic. Thomas found himself hoping she was the Brenda girl Jorge had mentioned.
Jorge pointed at Minho, who, not shockingly to Thomas at all, smiled and waved at the crowd.
"Pretty happy, are you?" Jorge grunted. "That's good to know. Means you'll take the news well."
"What news?" Minho asked sharply.
Thomas glanced over at Jorge, wondering what was about to come out of the guy's mouth.
The Crank leader spoke matter-of-factly. "After we get you stragglers fed so you don't go dying of starvation on us, you get to have your punishment for attacking me."
"Oh yeah?" If Minho was scared, he didn't show any sign of it."And what's that gonna be?"
Jorge just stared back at Minho—a blank expression spread eerily across his face. "You punched me with both of your fists. So we're gonna cut a finger off each hand."
CHAPTER 29
Thomas didn't understand at all how threatening to cut off Minho's fingers was going to set the groundwork for them escaping from the rest of the Cranks. And he certainly wasn't stupid enough to trust Jorge after just one brief meeting. He began to panic that things were about to go terribly, horribly wrong.
But then Jorge looked at him, even as his Crank friends started to hoot and holler, and there was something there, in his eyes. Something that put Thomas at ease.
Minho, on the other hand, was a different story. He'd stood up as soon as Jorge had pronounced his punishment, and would've charged if the pretty girl hadn't stepped right up to him and placed her blade under his chin. It drew a drop of blood, bright red in the daylight pouring through the busted doors. He couldn't even talk without risking serious bodily harm.
"Here's the plan," Jorge said calmly. "Brenda and I will escort these moochers to the stash, let 'em eat up. Then we'll all meet on the Tower, let's say one hour from now." He looked at his watch. "Make that noon on the dot. We'll bring up lunch for the rest of you."
"Why just you and Brenda?" someone asked. Thomas didn't see who at first, then realized a man had said it—probably the oldest person in the room. "What if they jump you? There's eleven of them to two of you."
Jorge squinted—a scoffing look."Thanks for the math lesson, Barkley. Next time I forget how many toes I have, I'll be sure and spend some counting time with you. For now, shut your flappin' lips and lead everybody to the Tower. If these punks try anything, Brenda will slash Mr. Minho to tiny bits while I beat the living hell out of the rest of'em. They can barely stand they're so weak. Now get!"
Relief swam through Thomas. Once separated from the others, surely Jorge meant to run. Surely he didn't mean to go through with the punishment.
The man named Barkley was old but looked tough, veined muscles stretching the sleeves of his shirt. He held a nasty dagger in one hand and a big hammer in the other. "Fine," he said after a long stare down with his leader. "But if they do jump you and slit your throat, we'll get along just fine without ya."
"Thanks for the kind words, hermano. Now get, or we'll have double the fun on the Tower."
Barkley laughed as if to salvage some dignity, then started off down the same hallway Thomas and Jorge had used. He waved his arm in a "follow me" gesture and soon every last Crank was shuffling after him except Jorge and the pretty girl with the long brown hair. She still had her knife at Minho's neck, but the good part was that she had to be Brenda.
Once the main group of Flare-infected people left the room, Jorge shared an almost relieved look with Thomas; then he subtly shook his head, as if the others might still be able to hear them.
Movement from Brenda grabbed Thomas's attention. He looked to see her drop the knife away from Minho and step back, absently wiping the small trace of blood there on her pants. "I really would've killed you, ya know," she said in a slightly scratchy voice. Almost husky. "Charge Jorge again and I'll sever an artery."
Minho wiped at his small wound with a thumb, then looked at the bright red smear. "That's one sharp knife. Makes me like you more."
Newt and Frypan groaned simultaneously.
"Looks like I'm not the only Crank standing here," Brenda responded. "You're even more gone than me."
"None of us are crazy yet," Jorge added, walking over to stand next to her. "But it won't be long. Come on. We need to get over to the stash and put some food in you people. You all look like a bunch of starved zombies."
Minho didn't seem to like the idea. "You think I'm just gonna waltz over to have a sit-down with you psychos, then let you cut my freaking fingers off?"
"Just shut up for once," Thomas snapped, trying to communicate something different with his eyes. "Let's go eat. I don't care what happens to your beautiful hands after that."
Minho squinted in confusion, but seemed to pick up that something was off. "Whatever. Let's go."
Brenda stepped in front of Thomas unexpectedly, her face only a few inches from his. She had eyes so dark it made the whites seem to glow brightly. "You the leader?"
Thomas shook his head. "No—it's the guy you just nipped with your knife."
Brenda looked over at Minho, then back at Thomas. She grinned. "Well, then that's stupid. I know I'm on the verge of crazy, but I would've picked you. You seem like the leader type."
"Um, thanks." Thomas felt a rush of embarrassment, then remembered Minho's tattoo. Remembered his own, how he was supposed to be
killed. He scrambled to say something to hide his sudden mood shift. "I, uh, would've picked you, too, instead of Jorge over there."
The girl leaned forward and kissed Thomas on the cheek. "You're sweet. I really hope we don't end up killing you, at least."
"All right." Jorge was already motioning everyone toward the broken doors that led outside."Enough of this lovefest. Brenda, we have a lot to talk about once we get to the stash. Come on, let's go."
Brenda didn't take her eyes off Thomas. As for him, he still felt the tingle that had shot through his entire body when she'd touched him with her lips.
"I like you," she said.
Thomas swallowed, his mind empty of a comeback. Brenda's tongue touched the corner of her mouth and she grinned, then finally turned away from him and walked to the doors, slipping her knife into a pants pocket. "Let's go!" she yelled without looking back.
Thomas knew every single Glader was staring at him, but he refused to make eye contact with any of them. Instead, he hitched up his shirt and walked forward, not caring about the slight smile on his face. Soon the others fell into step behind him, and the group exited the building and emerged into the white heat of the sun beating down on the broken pavement outside.
Brenda led while Jorge took up the rear. Thomas had a hard time adjusting to the brightness, shielding his eyes and squinting as they walked close to the wall to stay in the scant shade. The other buildings and streets around him seemed to shine with unearthly luminescence, as if they were made of some sort of magic stone.
Brenda moved along the walls of the structure they'd just exited until they reached what Thomas thought must be the back. There, a set of steps disappeared into the pavement, reminding him of something in his past life. An entrance to some kind of underground train system, perhaps.
She didn't hesitate. Without waiting to make sure the others were behind her, she bounced down the stairs. But Thomas noticed that the knife had reappeared in her right hand, gripped tightly and held a few inches from the side of her body—a stealthy attempt at being ready to attack—or defend—on a moment's notice.
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