The Maze Runner (30 page)

“You think maybe each day is trying to reveal a word?” Teresa asked. “With the wall movements?”

Thomas nodded. “Or maybe a letter a day, I don’t know. But they’ve always thought the movements would reveal how to escape, not spell something. They’ve been studying it like a map, not like a picture of something. We’ve gotta—” Then he stopped, remembering what he’d just been told by Newt. “Oh, no.”

Teresa’s eyes flared with worry. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh no oh no oh no …” Thomas let go of the bars and stumbled back a step as the realization hit him. He turned to look at the Map
Room. The smoke had lessened, but it still wafted out the door, a dark, hazy cloud covering the entire area.

“What’s wrong?” Teresa repeated. She couldn’t see the Map Room from her angle.

Thomas faced her again. “I didn’t think it mattered….”

“What!”
she demanded.

“Someone
burned
all the Maps. If there was a code, it’s gone.”

“I’ll be back,” Thomas said, turning to go. His stomach was full of acid. “I gotta find Newt, see if any of the Maps survived.”

“Wait!” Teresa yelled. “Get me out of here!”

But there was no time, and Thomas felt awful about it. “I can’t—I’ll be back, I promise.” He turned before she could protest and set off at a sprint for the Map Room and its foggy black cloud of smoke. Needles of pain pricked his insides. If Teresa was right, and they’d been that close to figuring out some kind of clue to get out of there, only to see it literally lost in flames … It was so upsetting it hurt.

The first thing Thomas saw when he ran up was a group of Gladers huddled just outside the large steel door, still ajar, its outer edge blackened with soot. But as he got closer, he realized they were surrounding something on the ground, all of them looking down at it. He spotted Newt, kneeling there in the middle, leaning over a body.

Minho was standing behind him, looking distraught and dirty, and spotted Thomas first. “Where’d you go?” he asked.

“To talk to Teresa—what happened?” He waited anxiously for the next dump of bad news.

Minho’s forehead creased in anger. “Our Map Room was set on fire and you ran off to talk to your shuck girlfriend? What’s wrong with you?”

Thomas knew the rebuke should’ve stung, but his mind was too preoccupied. “I didn’t think it mattered anymore—if you haven’t figured out the Maps by now …”

Minho looked disgusted, the pale light and fog of smoke making his face seem almost sinister. “Yeah, this’d be a great freaking time to give up. What the—”

“I’m sorry—just tell me what happened.” Thomas leaned over the shoulder of a skinny boy standing in front of him to get a look at the body on the ground.

It was Alby, flat on his back, a huge gash on his forehead. Blood seeped down both sides of his head, some into his eyes, crusting there. Newt was cleaning it with a wet rag, gingerly, asking questions in a whisper too low to hear. Thomas, concerned for Alby despite his recent ill-tempered ways, turned back to Minho and repeated his question.

“Winston found him out here, half dead, the Map Room blazing. Some shanks got in there and put it out, but way too late. All the trunks are burned to a freaking crisp. I suspected Alby at first, but whoever did it slammed his shuck head against the table—you can see where. It’s nasty.”

“Who do you think did it?” Thomas was hesitant to tell him about the possible discovery he and Teresa had made. With no Maps, the point was moot.

“Maybe Gally before he showed up in the Homestead and went psycho? Maybe the Grievers? I don’t know, and I don’t care. Doesn’t matter.”

Thomas was surprised at the sudden change of heart. “Now who’s the one giving up?”

Minho’s head snapped up so quickly, Thomas took a step backward. There was a flash of anger there, but it quickly melted into an odd expression of surprise or confusion. “That’s not what I meant, shank.”

Thomas narrowed his eyes in curiosity. “What did—”

“Just shut your hole for now.” Minho put his fingers to his lips, his
eyes darting around to see if anyone was looking at him. “Just shut your hole. You’ll find out soon enough.”

Thomas took a deep breath and thought. If he expected the other boys to be honest, he should be honest too. He decided he’d better share about the possible Maze code, Maps or no Maps. “Minho, I need to tell you and Newt something. And we need to let Teresa out—she’s probably starving and we could use her help.”

“That stupid girl is the last thing I’m worried about.”

Thomas ignored the insult. “Just give us a few minutes—we have an idea. Maybe it’ll still work if enough Runners remember their Maps.”

This seemed to get Minho’s full attention—but again, there was that same strange look, as if Thomas was missing something very obvious. “An idea? What?”

“Just come over to the Slammer with me. You and Newt.”

Minho thought for a second. “Newt!” he called out.

“Yeah?” Newt stood up, refolding his bloody rag to find a clean spot. Thomas couldn’t help noticing that every inch was drenched in red.

Minho pointed down at Alby. “Let the Med-jacks take care of him. We need to talk.”

Newt gave him a questioning look, then handed the rag to the closest Glader. “Go find Clint—tell him we got worse problems than guys with buggin’ splinters.” When the kid ran off to do as he was told, Newt stepped away from Alby. “Talk about what?”

Minho nodded at Thomas, but didn’t say anything.

“Just come with me,” Thomas said. Then he turned and headed for the Slammer without waiting for a response.

“Let her out.” Thomas stood by the cell door, arms folded. “Let her out, and then we’ll talk. Trust me—you wanna hear it.”

Newt was covered in soot and dirt, his hair matted with sweat. He certainly didn’t seem to be in a very good mood. “Tommy, this is—”

“Please
. Just open it—let her out. Please.” He wouldn’t give up this time.

Minho stood in front of the door with his hands on his hips. “How can we trust her?” he asked. “Soon as she woke up, the whole place fell to pieces. She even
admitted
she triggered something.”

“He’s got a point,” Newt said.

Thomas gestured through the door at Teresa. “We can trust her. Every time I’ve talked to her, it’s something about trying to get out of here. She was sent here just like the rest of us—it’s stupid to think she’s responsible for any of this.”

Newt grunted. “Then what the bloody shuck did she mean by sayin’ she triggered something?”

Thomas shrugged, refusing to admit that Newt had a good point. There had to be an explanation. “Who knows—her mind was doing all kinds of weird stuff when she woke up. Maybe we all went through that in the Box, talking gibberish before we came totally awake. Just let her out.”

Newt and Minho exchanged a long look.

“Come on,” Thomas insisted. “What’s she gonna do, run around and stab every Glader to death? Come on.”

Minho sighed. “Fine. Just let the stupid girl out.”

“I’m not stupid!” Teresa shouted, her voice muffled by the walls. “And I can hear every word you morons are saying!”

Newt’s eyes widened. “Real sweet girl you picked up, Tommy.”

“Just hurry,” Thomas said. “I’m sure we have a lot to do before the Grievers come back tonight—if they don’t come during the day.”

Newt grunted and stepped up to the Slammer, pulling his keys out as he did so. A few clinks later the door swung wide open. “Come on.”

Teresa walked out of the small building, glowering at Newt as she passed him. She gave a just-as-unpleasant glance toward Minho, then stopped to stand right next to Thomas. Her arm brushed against his; tingles shot across his skin, and he felt mortally embarrassed.

“All right, talk,” Minho said. “What’s so important?”

Thomas looked at Teresa, wondering how to say it.

“What?” she said. “You talk—they obviously think I’m a serial killer.”

“Yeah, you look so dangerous,” Thomas muttered, but he turned his attention to Newt and Minho. “Okay, when Teresa was first coming out of her deep sleep, she had memories flashing through her mind. She, um”—he just barely stopped himself from saying she’d said it inside his mind—”she told me later that she remembers that the Maze is a
code
. That maybe instead of solving it to find a way out, it’s trying to send us a message.”

“A
code?”
Minho asked. “How’s it a code?”

Thomas shook his head, wishing he could answer. “I don’t know for sure—you’re way more familiar with the Maps than I am. But I have a theory. That’s why I was hoping you guys could remember some of them.”

Minho glanced at Newt, his eyebrows raised in question. Newt nodded.

“What?” Thomas asked, fed up with them keeping information from him. “You guys keep acting like you have a secret.”

Minho rubbed his eyes with both hands, took a deep breath. “We hid the Maps, Thomas.”

At first it didn’t compute. “Huh?”

Minho pointed at the Homestead. “We hid the freaking Maps in
the weapons room, put dummies in their place. Because of Alby’s warning. And because of the so-called
Ending
your girlfriend triggered.”

Thomas was so excited to hear this news he temporarily forgot how awful things had become. He remembered Minho acting suspicious the day before, saying he had a special assignment. Thomas looked over at Newt, who nodded.

“They’re all safe and sound,” Minho said. “Every last one of those suckers. So if you have a theory, get talking.”

“Take me to them,” Thomas said, itching to have a look.

“Okay, let’s go.”

Minho switched on the light, making Thomas squint for a second until his eyes got used to it. Menacing shadows clung to the boxes of weapons scattered across the table and floor, blades and sticks and other nasty-looking devices seeming to wait there, ready to take on a life of their own and kill the first person stupid enough to come close. The dank, musty smell only added to the creepy feel of the room.

“There’s a hidden storage closet back here,” Minho explained, walking past some shelves into a dark corner. “Only a couple of us know about it.”

Thomas heard the creak of an old wooden door, and then Minho was dragging a cardboard box across the floor; the scrape of it sounded like a knife on bone. “I put each trunk’s worth in its own box, eight boxes total. They’re all in there.”

“Which one is this?” Thomas asked; he knelt down next to it, eager to get started.

“Just open it and see—each page is marked, remember?”

Thomas pulled on the crisscrossed lid flaps until they popped open. The Maps for Section Two lay in a messy heap. Thomas reached in and pulled out a stack.

“Okay,” he said. “The Runners have always compared these day to day, looking to see if there was a pattern that would somehow help figure out a way to an exit. You even said you didn’t really know
what
you were looking for, but you kept studying them anyway. Right?”

Minho nodded, arms folded. He looked as if someone were about to reveal the secret of immortal life.

“Well,” Thomas continued, “what if all the wall movements had nothing to do with a map or a maze or anything like that? What if instead the pattern spelled
words?
Some kind of clue that’ll help us escape.”

Minho pointed at the Maps in Thomas’s hand, letting out a frustrated sigh. “Dude, you have any idea how much we’ve studied these things? Don’t you think we would’ve noticed if it were spelling out freaking
words?”

“Maybe it’s too hard to see with the naked eye, just comparing one day to the next. And maybe you weren’t supposed to compare one day to the next, but look at it one day at a time?”

Newt laughed. “Tommy, I might not be the sharpest guy in the Glade, but sounds like you’re talkin’ straight out your butt to me.”

While he’d been talking, Thomas’s mind had been spinning even faster. The answer was within his grasp—he knew he was almost there. It was just so hard to put into words.

“Okay, okay,” he said, starting over. “You’ve always had one Runner assigned to one section, right?”

“Right,” Minho replied. He seemed genuinely interested and ready to understand.

“And that Runner makes a Map every day, and then compares it to Maps from previous days,
for that section
. What if, instead, you were supposed to compare the eight sections to
each other
, every day? Each day being a separate clue or code? Did you ever compare sections to other sections?”

Minho rubbed his chin, nodding. “Yeah, kind of. We tried to see if they made something when put together—of course we did that. We’ve tried everything.”

Thomas pulled his legs up underneath him, studying the Maps in
his lap. He could just barely see the lines of the Maze written on the second page through the page resting on top. In that instant, he knew what they had to do. He looked up at the others.

“Wax paper.”

“Huh?” Minho asked. “What the—”

“Just trust me. We need wax paper and scissors. And every black marker and pencil you can find.”

Frypan wasn’t too happy having a whole box of his wax paper rolls taken away from him, especially with their supplies being cut off. He argued that it was one of the things he always requested, that he used it for baking. They finally had to tell him what they needed it for to convince him to give it up.

After ten minutes of hunting down pencils and markers—most had been in the Map Room and were destroyed in the fire—Thomas sat around the worktable in the weapons basement with Newt, Minho and Teresa. They hadn’t found any scissors, so Thomas had grabbed the sharpest knife he could find.

“This better be good,” Minho said. Warning laced his voice, but his eyes showed some interest.

Newt leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table, as if waiting for a magic trick. “Get on with it, Greenie.”

“Okay.” Thomas was eager to do so, but was also scared to death it might end up being nothing. He handed the knife to Minho, then pointed at the wax paper. “Start cutting rectangles, about the size of the Maps. Newt and Teresa, you can help me grab the first ten or so Maps from each section box.”