The Game of Lives (25 page)

“Sounds good!” Michael yelled back, flashing the same sign.

Man, did it ever sound good.

Michael sat in the completely repaired tree house on the outskirts of
Lifeblood
, exhausted. Darkness had fallen hours before, and it was well past his bedtime. Helga didn't mind, though. She knew exactly what he'd been working on the last few weeks. And she knew he was close. She'd probably gone to bed by now anyway.

Even though he was skilled enough to access the code of his surrounding world within the Deep, he'd made a promise to himself—and Helga—that he wouldn't do it while in that world. They both needed to adopt some semblance of a real life, to keep things steady and stable—and
Lifeblood Deep
had become that place for him. He could dink around on a NetScreen or WallScreen anytime he wanted, but to truly immerse himself, he had to Lift up a level, to the Sleep that the vast majority of citizens experienced when they Sank.

What an odd life he lived.

He settled himself in Bryson's beanbag chair, its worn and cracked surface feeling like an old friend. He leaned his head back and took a deep breath. His eyes hurt from working so much. Working and searching and analyzing. It'd taken every last ounce of his skill and strength, but he'd done an excellent job.
If I do say so myself
, he thought.

Sitting there in the quiet, which was broken every now and then by a branch scraping against the outside wall, he thought about it all. About the insane turn his life had taken. Finding out he was a string of code. Traveling the world, both real and virtual. Fighting enemies that the biggest and baddest armies in the world couldn't stop. Watching Sarah die. Horribly. Twice. If that didn't scar a kid for life, what would?

But it had all turned out okay, hadn't it?

Here he was, alive and well. Because of the Mortality Doctrine, he had an understanding of a person's intelligence—their consciousness—far beyond that of the average person. He was real, and that was that. No one could take that away from him.

With a big stretch, he sat up straighter. For weeks he'd been working his tail off. Late nights, bloodshot eyes at school, walking around like a Flare-infested Crank, falling asleep at the dinner table. He'd done that once and he still couldn't believe it. His face had almost fallen right into a bowl of tomato soup. Helga had just shaken her head.

But it had all been worth it. So worth it. He had it now. He was almost one hundred percent positive. After scouring the Sleep from one end to the other, searching high and low,
gathering data, and breaking into so many high-security places it was a wonder he hadn't been thrown in jail.

Gathering, gathering.

Collecting.

Piece by piece, string of code by string of code, and now he had it all in one place. In a mixed-up, confusing, jumbled mess, sure, but it was all there.

Tomorrow was a Saturday, and he had one last, long day of work.

He almost twitched with excitement, eager to get on with it. But he'd wait. Make sure he was well rested and up to the task. Make sure he got a nice, filling breakfast from Helga before he came back to the tree house. Yes, he'd wait one more day.

Tomorrow, he'd start coding Sarah back together again.

As we come to the conclusion of this trilogy, I'm so thankful for the people who made it happen. My agent, Michael Bourret. My editor, Krista Marino. My international agent, Lauren Abramo. All the awesome people at Random House, far too many to try naming without getting in trouble. My publishers abroad, who've taken my stories and given them to countless cultures and languages. The many bookstore workers, librarians, and teachers who've connected me with readers. The retail outlets, in all their shapes and forms, making the books so widely available (often on sale!).

Thank you, all of you.

And, as always, never changing, most importantly, I thank you, the one who decided to read this book. Thank you. With all that I have, thank you.

James Dashner was born and raised in Georgia but now lives and writes in the Rocky Mountains. He is the author of the #1
New York Times
bestselling Maze Runner series:
The Maze Runner, The Scorch Trials, The Death Cure
, and
The Kill Order. The Game of Lives
is the final book in the Mortality Doctrine series. Look for the first two books in the series,
The Eye of Minds
and
The Rule of Thoughts
, also available from Delacorte Press. To learn more about James and his books, visit
jamesdashner.com
, follow
@jamesdashner
on Twitter, and find
dashnerjames
on Instagram.

If you loved
The Game of Lives
,
turn the page for a sneak peek at the first book in James Dashner's Maze Runner series:

Excerpt copyright © 2009 by James Dashner.

Published by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children's Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

He began his new life standing up, surrounded by cold darkness and stale, dusty air.

Metal ground against metal; a lurching shudder shook the floor beneath him. He fell down at the sudden movement and shuffled backward on his hands and feet, drops of sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air. His back struck a hard metal wall; he slid along it until he hit the corner of the room. Sinking to the floor, he pulled his legs up tight against his body, hoping his eyes would soon adjust to the darkness.

With another jolt, the room jerked upward like an old lift in a mine shaft.

Harsh sounds of chains and pulleys, like the workings of an ancient steel factory, echoed through the room, bouncing off the walls with a hollow, tinny whine. The lightless elevator swayed back and forth as it ascended, turning the boy's stomach sour with nausea; a smell like burnt oil invaded his senses, making him feel worse. He wanted to cry, but no tears came; he could only sit there, alone, waiting.

My name is Thomas
, he thought.

That…that was the only thing he could remember about his life.

He didn't understand how this could be possible. His mind functioned without flaw, trying to calculate his surroundings and predicament. Knowledge flooded his thoughts, facts and images, memories and details of the world and how it works. He pictured snow on trees, running down a leaf-strewn road, eating a hamburger, the moon casting a
pale glow on a grassy meadow, swimming in a lake, a busy city square with hundreds of people bustling about their business.

And yet he didn't know where he came from, or how he'd gotten inside the dark lift, or who his parents were. He didn't even know his last name. Images of people flashed across his mind, but there was no recognition, their faces replaced with haunted smears of color. He couldn't think of one person he knew, or recall a single conversation.

The room continued its ascent, swaying; Thomas grew immune to the ceaseless rattling of the chains that pulled him upward. A long time passed. Minutes stretched into hours, although it was impossible to know for sure because every second seemed an eternity. No. He was smarter than that. Trusting his instincts, he knew he'd been moving for roughly
half
an hour.

Strangely enough, he felt his fear whisked away like a swarm of gnats caught in the wind, replaced by an intense curiosity. He wanted to know where he was and what was happening.

With a groan and then a clonk, the rising room halted; the sudden change jolted Thomas from his huddled position and threw him across the hard floor. As he scrambled to his feet, he felt the room sway less and less until it finally stilled. Everything fell silent.

A minute passed. Two. He looked in every direction but saw only darkness; he felt along the walls again, searching for a way out. But there was nothing, only the cool metal. He groaned in frustration; his echo amplified through the air, like the haunted moan of death. It faded, and silence returned. He screamed, called for help, pounded on the walls with his fists.

Nothing.

Thomas backed into the corner once again, folded his arms and shivered, and the fear returned. He felt a worrying shudder in his chest, as if his heart wanted to escape, to flee his body.

“Someone…help…me!”
he screamed; each word ripped his throat raw.

A loud clank rang out above him and he sucked in a startled breath as he looked up. A straight line of light appeared across the ceiling of the room, and Thomas watched as it expanded. A heavy grating sound revealed double sliding doors being forced open. After so long in darkness, the light stabbed his eyes; he looked away, covering his face with both hands.

He heard noises above—voices—and fear squeezed his chest.

“Look at that shank.”

“How old is he?”

“Looks like a klunk in a T-shirt.”

“You're the klunk, shuck-face.”

“Dude, it smells like
feet
down there!”

“Hope you enjoyed the one-way trip, Greenie.”

“Ain't no ticket back, bro.”

Thomas was hit with a wave of confusion, blistered with panic. The voices were odd, tinged with echo; some of the words were completely foreign—others felt familiar. He willed his eyes to adjust as he squinted toward the light and those speaking. At first he could see only shifting shadows, but they soon turned into the shapes of bodies—people bending over the hole in the ceiling, looking down at him, pointing.

And then, as if the lens of a camera had sharpened its focus, the faces cleared. They were boys, all of them—some young, some older. Thomas didn't know what he'd expected, but seeing those faces puzzled him. They were just teenagers. Kids. Some of his fear melted away, but not enough to calm his racing heart.

Someone lowered a rope from above, the end of it tied into a big loop. Thomas hesitated, then stepped into it with his right foot and
clutched the rope as he was yanked toward the sky. Hands reached down, lots of hands, grabbing him by his clothes, pulling him up. The world seemed to spin, a swirling mist of faces and color and light. A storm of emotions wrenched his gut, twisted and pulled; he wanted to scream, cry, throw up. The chorus of voices had grown silent, but someone spoke as they yanked him over the sharp edge of the dark box. And Thomas knew he'd never forget the words.

“Nice to meet ya, shank,” the boy said. “Welcome to the Glade.”