“Why would you want to do this for me?” she asked, most of her tough persona gone for the moment. “Aside from the fact that it’s not going to be as easy as you say to get out of here, what’s in it for you?”
“It can’t be any harder than you trying to bribe your way out, then sneak back in with a daughter. Plus, going all by yourself? That whole plan just gives me a sick feeling inside. I doubt Dante would ever see you again.”
Keisha sighed. “I said aside from all that. What’s in it for you?”
Newt stood up and put his backpack on, acting as if she’d already made her decision. “I need something to live for. I need a purpose. I need to accomplish something good before I lose my mind. And I want to help Dante. And you.” He meant every word of it, utterly. “And I wanna meet that daughter of yours, see if Jackie’s as stubborn as her mum.”
Keisha wiped away a tear. “You’re a slick son of a gun, aren’t you?”
“Whatever that means. Yeah, sure.” He held a hand out and she took it, then delicately got to her feet, balancing Dante on one hip.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’m in.”
Chapter Twelve
The best result of their shenanigans for the day was the large bag of food in their possession, at least half of it edible. And another bag apparently buried in the dirt behind the hut. Newt intended to retrieve his clothes and journal before sunset, but first he wanted something to eat. He and Keisha had been digging through the canvas bag.
Newt held up a can of pre-cooked chili. The label was faded and the expiration date had passed but he didn’t care. In the apocalypse, beggars can’t be choosers. He wanted chili. He wanted chili bad.
“This,” he said. “This is our dinner. Please tell me that as you burgled half the neighborhood, you also burgled a can-opener.”
“Didn’t need to, smarty pants. I’ve got one of those fancy pocket knives that can do one-thousand-and-one things. Believe it or not, it even has a knife!”
She cackled at that one, thinking she was pretty damn clever. Newt liked to see it.
“Does your magical pocket knife also have some matches?” he asked. “I’m completely willing to suck down this chili cold, but if we can heat it up, I’ll be one happy Newt.”
“No, but I have flint and steel. Don’t tell me you don’t know how to do that or this whole thing is off. Surely, in this world of ours, you can start a fire without any matches.”
“Duh. Of course I can.” He couldn’t. They’d always had matches in the Glade.
“Good. Let’s gather some wood. I’m starving.”
* * *
Later that night, after he’d written in his journal and long after the sun went down, Newt lay curled up in the same corner he’d slept the night before—which seemed like a gazillion years ago. All was dark and all was quiet. Mostly quiet. Crickets chirped outside and Keisha was back to her soothing ocean-sound snore. Dante’s snore was also soft; Newt could almost believe a little puppy slept on the other side of the room. Weariness pulled at him like a sinking tide.
What had he gotten himself into? He didn’t regret what he’d done, what he’d promised Keisha. In fact, he cringed at the thought of not having done it. His mind kept going down rabbit holes of alternate endings to the day’s events. Chickening out. Keisha saying no. Not getting to Keisha in time, before she attempted bribing her way past the guards. Of course, the day could’ve gone a hundred disastrous ways—Crank Palace, apocalypse, all that. But they were alive, and they had a goal. He felt good.
But that didn’t mean he wasn’t bloody nervous. Nervous as hell.
But a good nervous all the same.
When he’d written that curt, heartless note to Thomas and the others inside the Berg, telling them he was going to live with the other Cranks, he’d thought he had a plan. What an idiot. What did Minho always call idiots? Slinthead. That’s what Newt was and always would be.
But now he did have a plan. His plan even had steps. Find the man with the greasy hair. Jonesy. Tell him what he wanted. Figure out how to do it. Then do it. Simple as that. Save Keisha and Dante and then what happened after that, who cared. If that little family could—
A sharp pain stabbed Newt right behind the eyes. He heaved himself off his back, rocked forward, curled into a ball, grabbed the sides of his head with both hands. The pain didn’t stop, kept slicing back and forth inside his skull, as if someone were trying to saw his brain in half. He muffled the cries that wanted to leap from his chest; on some misty level of awareness he didn’t want to wake Keisha, didn’t want to alarm her. He squeezed his head, rubbed at his temples, prayed to all known gods that it would go away.
The pain lasted a minute at most. Probably more like 30 seconds. But then it faded, quickly descending into a dull ache, and then going away completely. He sat up, pushed his back into the corner, tried to catch his breath without being too loud. Holy hell, that had hurt. The relief from its absence was about as blissful a feeling as he’d ever had. He blew out a heavy huff and closed his eyes, leaned his head against the wall. It had something to do with his memories, the Swipe. The virus had attacked it, maybe.
The episode had been triggered by those thoughts of Keisha and her kids. A mom, a son, a daughter. A mom, a brother, a sister. Newt didn’t understand the why’s or how’s or what’s. This is what he knew—he’d been stabbed with pain, and then the pain had vanished. And now...
Mom. Dad. Sister.
Newt remembered a little more.
Just enough to make him sad. Just enough to confirm that he needed something to keep him occupied or he would sink forever into the darkness. Sink and never see the light again. Yes. He had to keep occupied. Had to keep busy and leave a last tiny mark on the world.
Which is exactly what he planned to do.
Tomorrow, he’d talk to that Jonesy guy.
Part 2
Light at the End of the Freeway
Chapter Thirteen
The bowling alley was hot.
And it stank. It stank to high heaven—something his mom used to say. Usually in regards to his bedroom. No matter how much he pushed his dirty clothes and socks into the deepest reaches of the closet, the stench always wafted out when his mom walked into that room. He’d then say she attracted such things like moth to a flame, like fingers to a booger, just to make his sister laugh.
He laughed right then, in the present day, no sister in sight, a nice belt of a chortle that made everyone within 20 feet give him a wary look. That made him laugh even harder. Jonesy, his new bodyguard, greasy hair still greasy, gave him a courtesy chuckle of his own, though he couldn’t possibly know what had set Newt off.
A few days had passed since Newt’s headache. Since Keisha had agreed to his plan. Since a few memories of his family had come back to haunt him, as much of it written in his journal as possible. He kept the thing with him at all times, tucked into various pockets, some homemade.
But Newt was starting to... slip.
To slip into an abyss.
The abyss.
He couldn’t deny it anymore. His mind... jittered, now. It quaked. The bloody thing had the bloody palsy. Keeping his thoughts still amongst all that squishy commotion had become tougher with every passing hour of every passing day. His hold on reality was loosening, in both the here and now and in that beautiful, painful, remembered past, loosening with each hour that ticked on by with no remorse.
But for the moment, he only had one thing to hold onto. And that was enough.
He sat on the far left lane of the old alley, where the crowd was sparse, staring at the fires that roared in the pin caves, a long row of them, like teeth of flames. He had the Launcher cradled in his lap—he’d had to take it back from a guard three times already, each one successively with a little more violence. He thought they’d pretty much leave him alone after what had happened that morning. As Newt had joked when one of the women in the alley saw him all scratched up—”You should’ve seen the other guys.”
/> He sat. And pondered. Wrote in his journal. Rested. Tried to contain his excitement for the big plan tomorrow.
“Hey, Newt!” He didn’t answer. He never answered. People bugged him all the time—“all the time” being a relative term considering he’d only been there a few days—and he’d found that if it was something important they’d actually come up to him. So he kept quiet, mostly. He was the closest thing to famous they had in the Crank Palace.
“Newt, man!” Someone nudged him on the shoulder.
He turned around.
Jonesy stood there with two of the Munie guards—the short fat one and the tall dude with the mustache. All of the guards were on highest alert because of the small riot that morning, and they knew that part of keeping the peace now included playing it cool with Newt and his cronies. Newt liked to think of them as cronies. He’d always wanted cronies.
“What’s going on?” Newt asked. Maybe they’d decided to arrest him.
The short guy answered. He was always the first one to open his trap.
“Some people are here to see you,” he said. Every word he ever uttered showed just how much he hated his job—like each syllable was a stone to be lifted.
Newt sighed. “Tell them what I tell everyone else. No stories about the Maze, no stories about WICKED, no stories about anything. I’m an un-storyteller.”
“I’m not gonna sit here and argue with you, Mr. God-Almighty. They paid me to deliver a message and that’s why I did. I don’t give a rat’s patooty whether you see them or not.”
“Paid you?” Jonesy asked. “People are paying to see him, now?” There was a hint of regret in his voice, as if their planned escape with Keisha might prevent him a golden business opportunity.
“They came here in a Berg,” Tall Mustache said. “They’re not your typical lowlife Cranks.”
Newt didn’t hear the last few words. All he heard was “Berg.” After that a roaring sound buzzed in his ears. The bowling alley tilted before his eyes. Nausea swam up his gut, up his throat. He had to swallow back some bile.
He composed himself. “What do you mean they came here in a Berg? What...”
He wanted it to be true. He wanted it not to be true.
“Exactly what part of that sentence did you not understand?” Short and Fat said. “Now do you want to see them or not? Yes or no?”
“Did they give you any names?” Newt asked, stalling more than anything. He knew the answer before they were spoken, almost as if he were manipulating the guard’s mouth as he answered.
“Thomas... Minho... Brenda, I think. Some other guy who was the pilot.”
Newt had spent several days building himself back up, even as he felt his mind slipping. He’d solidified his little security group with Jonesy and his cronies—sounded like a damn rock band in the old world—he’d gotten used to a post-Thomas, post-WICKED life, planned an escape, settled on short-term goals to wrap up his life. That very morning he’d willingly and almost gleefully taken part in a riot, the recipient of only one or two less punches than he’d given. It had felt great, exhilarating, intoxicating. Tomorrow they were going on the last and great adventure of their lifetimes.
And this stupid, petulant, arrogant guard who barely came to Newt’s chest had just taken it all away with a few words. Why? Why would Tommy come here? What would it take for him to leave Newt alone, to let him deal with having the Flare in the way he needed? Newt had finally come to terms, finally felt whole. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone?
“Hey!” the guard yelled, snapping Newt out of his frustrated line of thoughts. “Yes or no? What’s wrong with you? You’ve got three seconds to answer.”
Newt couldn’t. He simply couldn’t. It would break him, shatter him once and for all.
“No,” he replied in as firm a voice as he could muster. “Tell them I said to get lost.”
“You’re su—” Tall Mustache started to say.
“NO!” Newt screamed. “Don’t let them come near me! Ever!”
Lights swam before his eyes. He expected a retaliation, the butt of a Launcher slammed into his face, or worse. But he had taken them by surprise, preempted any normal response they may have chosen.
Without saying a word, the short guard and his tall, hairy-lipped friend left the bowling alley.
Newt closed his eyes and tried not to see Tommy in the darkness of his mind. Tried not to see Minho. Tried not to see Jorge or Brenda, Teresa or Alby, Gally or Chuck.
He saw them all.
Chapter Fourteen
Newt faced the wall, his back to the departing guards, to the front entrance, to his new posse, to the world. He fumed as silently as possible, aware that the spectacular anger he felt was beyond irrational, but still unable to do anything about it. Every breath hurt his chest, only filled half his lungs. The decision he’d made to leave his friends and the Berg had been almost impossible, unbearable—but the right one. How could they place this burden on him, forcing him to make that same decision again? He shook with rage, cradled the Launcher in his arms like a baby, considered turning it on himself to snap him out of these spiraling thoughts. It wouldn’t kill him, after all. But it sure would wake him up.
“Newt, you okay?”
Jonesy. How had Newt chosen to cast his lot with someone like Jonesy instead of relying on his best friends on the planet? He really was losing his mind. No, he berated himself. He’d done the only thing he could. Having the Flare was bad enough. Having Tommy and the others around to remind him of just how sad that was... He couldn’t take it. He simply couldn’t. There was no going back.
“Newt?” Jonesy again.
“I’m fine!” Newt yelled. He turned his head to look at the sallow face of his bodyguard, framed by that ridiculous greasy black hair. “Just leave me alone!”
Jonesy’s girlfriend—Newt couldn’t remember her name and was pretty sure he never would—lay flat on the ground just a few feet away, groaning after a dose of the Bliss. Newt had never wanted to take the medication so badly as he did in that moment. But his head was muddled enough. He couldn’t risk lapsing even further and making a decision he might regret. What could be worse than going back with his friends and then deciding to leave again?
He turned back to the wall. Lowered his head. Closed his eyes. Tried to suppress the anger that welled up in him like a surge of acid, like gasoline, lit with a spark, burning and burning. Why had they come back! Why!
Some time passed, his entire body feeling suspended in space, floating in a bubble of hot rage. It might’ve been an hour. It might’ve been five minutes, he didn’t know. But it took every ounce of his willpower just to keep himself from erupting at anyone within a hundred feet of him. More than once he had to push down the urge to shoot someone else with the Launcher, just to make himself feel better.
“Newt,” Jonesy whispered from a few feet away, the harsh kind of breathy whisper that anyone nearby could hear. “The Munie guards brought those people back here! The ones you ran away from!”
Newt’s head snapped around. He looked at the front entrance of the bowling alley just as Minho walked into the building, his face shadowed by the outside light behind him. But there was no mistake. And then Tommy entered, right behind him, holding Brenda’s hand like a child.
Newt turned back to the wall so quickly that a dizzy spell buzzed his head. He’d caught a glimpse of Jorge right before he’d swiveled.
They’d come for him, anyway. Despite everything. Despite the note he’d written Tommy. Despite the note he’d left in the Berg. Despite the message he’d sent back with that stupid Munie guard. They’d come. A fury came over him that was like a fog of poison gas. On the inside. On the outside, prickling his skin. He shook with it, couldn’t stop it. His heart hurt so badly. What was happening to him? Was this what it was like to push past that final barrier of the Flare, into the mad world of the Gone?
“They’re almost over here,” Jonesy whispered fiercely, panicked for the first time since Newt had met
him several days ago. He probably didn’t want to lose his new prized possession to its prior owners.
Newt sensed his friends. He heard Minho’s breathing, heard the pattern of Tommy’s footsteps. He knew these people better than anyone. And for some reason he wanted to yell at them and beat them to a pulp. I really and truly am slipping, he thought. At least I don’t have to dread it, anymore.
It finally spilled out. Newt screamed when he spoke, trying to remember the odd words they’d used in the Glade like a badge of rebellion against their captors. “I told you bloody shanks to get lost!” His pulse took on a life of its own, thumping almost unnaturally in his temples, in his neck, in his wrists, in his chest. He could hear it. He swear he could hear it.
Thump, thump, thump. A pounding in his ears, in his brain.
“We need to talk to you.”
Minho said this, definitely Minho, though Newt could barely hear him over the rancid drumbeat in his mind. Like someone pumped acid through his heart along with the blood, all of it with a powerful machine, the regular surge of it getting louder within.
Newt sensed a shadow creep over his shoulder. “Don’t come any closer.” He tried speaking calmly but with vile. “Those thugs brought me here for a reason. They thought I was a bloody Immune holed up in that shuck Berg. Imagine their surprise when they could tell I had the Flare eating my brain. Said they were doing their civic duty when they dumped me in this rat hole.” Words rushed out of him in a spasm of lies and deceit, truth no longer mattering. He needed them to leave, at any cost.
Tommy responded, a voice that felt like ice in Newt’s ears. “Why do you think we’re here, Newt? I’m sorry you had to stay back and got caught. I’m sorry they brought you here. But we can break you out—it doesn’t look like...”
The words faded into a roaring static, a buzzing that hurt Newt’s skull, all of it kept to the relentless beat of his pulse, which refused to stop, refused to quiet itself to sanity. Newt had the strange sensation that he was deaf, though noise came from everywhere, from inside and out. He felt a panicked loosening of his hold to reality, as if the entire bowling alley were fading from his existence. Movement was all he could do to latch back onto it.
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