The Maze Runner (41 page)

But as he jiggled and swayed with the movements of the bus, felt Teresa’s head thump against his shoulder every once in a while when they hit big bumps, heard her stir and fall back to sleep, heard the
murmurs of other conversations from other Gladers, his thoughts kept returning to one thing.

Chuck.

Two hours later, the bus stopped.

They had pulled into a muddy parking lot that surrounded a nondescript building with several rows of windows. The woman and other rescuers shuffled the nineteen boys and one girl through the front door and up a flight of stairs, then into a huge dormitory with a series of bunk beds lined up along one of the walls. On the opposite side were some dressers and tables. Curtain-covered windows checkered each wall of the room.

Thomas took it all in with a distant and muted wonder—he was far past being surprised or overcome by anything ever again.

The place was full of color. Bright yellow paint, red blankets, green curtains. After the drab grayness of the Glade, it was as if they’d been transported to a living rainbow. Seeing it all, seeing the beds and the dressers, all made up and fresh—the sense of normalcy was almost overwhelming. Too good to be true. Minho said it best on entering their new world: “I’ve been shucked and gone to heaven.”

Thomas found it hard to feel joy, as if he’d betray Chuck by doing so. But there was something there. Something.

Their bus-driving leader left the Gladers in the hands of a small staff—nine or ten men and women dressed in pressed black pants and white shirts, their hair immaculate, their faces and hands clean. They were smiling.

The colors. The beds. The staff. Thomas felt an impossible happiness trying to break through inside him. An enormous pit lurked in the middle of it, though. A dark depression that might never leave—memories of Chuck and his brutal murder. His sacrifice. But despite
that, despite everything, despite all the woman on the bus had told them about the world they’d reentered, Thomas felt safe for the very first time since coming out of the Box.

Beds were assigned, clothes and bathroom things were passed out, dinner was served. Pizza. Real, bona fide, greasy-fingers pizza. Thomas devoured each bite, hunger trumping everything else, the mood of contentment and relief around him palpable. Most of the Gladers had remained quiet through it all, perhaps worried that speaking would make everything vanish. But there were plenty of smiles. Thomas had gotten so used to looks of despair, it was almost unsettling to see happy faces. Especially when he was having such a hard time feeling it himself.

Soon after eating, no one argued when they were told it was time for bed.

Certainly not Thomas. He felt as if he could sleep for a month.

Thomas shared a bunk with Minho, who insisted on sleeping up top; Newt and Frypan were right next to them. The staff put Teresa up in a separate room, shuffling her away before she could even say goodbye. Thomas missed her desperately three seconds after she was gone.

As Thomas was settling into the soft mattress for the night, he was interrupted.

“Hey, Thomas,” Minho said from above him.

“Yeah?” Thomas was so tired the word barely came out.

“What do you think happened to the Gladers who stayed behind?”

Thomas hadn’t thought about it. His mind had been occupied with Chuck and now Teresa. “I don’t know. But based on how many of us died getting here, I wouldn’t like to be one of them right now. Grievers are probably swarming all over them.” He couldn’t believe how nonchalant his voice sounded as he said it.

“You think we’re safe with these people?” Minho asked.

Thomas pondered the question for a moment. There was only one answer to hold on to. “Yeah, I think we’re safe.”

Minho said something else, but Thomas didn’t hear. Exhaustion consuming him, his mind wandered to his short time in the Maze, his time as a Runner and how much he’d wanted it—ever since that first night in the Glade. It felt like a hundred years ago. Like a dream.

Murmurs of conversation floated through the room, but to
Thomas they seemed to come from another world. He stared at the crossed wooden boards of the bed above him, feeling the pull of sleep. But wanting to talk to Teresa, he fought it off.

How’s your room?
he asked in his mind.
Wish you were in here
.

Oh, yeah?
she replied.
With all those stinky boys? Think not
.

Guess you’re right. I think Minho’s farted three times in the last minute
. Thomas knew it was a lame attempt at a joke, but it was the best he could do.

He sensed her laughing, wished he could do the same. There was a long pause.
I’m really sorry about Chuck
, she finally said.

Thomas felt a sharp pang and closed his eyes as he sank deeper into the misery of the night.
He could be so annoying
, he said. He paused, thought of that night when Chuck had scared the crap out of Gally in the bathroom
. But it hurts. Feels like I lost a brother
.

I know
.

I promised
—

Stop, Tom
.

What?
He wanted Teresa to make him feel better, say something magic to make the pain go away.

Stop with the promise stuff. Half of us made it. We all would’ve died if we’d stayed in the Maze
.

But Chuck didn’t make it
, Thomas said. Guilt racked him because he knew for a certainty he would trade any one of the Gladers in that room for Chuck.

He died saving you
, Teresa said.
He made the choice himself. Just don’t ever waste it
.

Thomas felt tears swell under his eyelids; one escaped and trickled down his right temple, into his hair. A full minute passed without any words between them. Then he said,
Teresa?

Yeah?

Thomas was scared to share his thoughts, but did.
I wanna remember you. Remember us. Ya know, before
.

Me too
.

Seems like we
… He didn’t know how to say it after all.

I know
.

Wonder what tomorrow’ll be like
.

We’ll find out in a few hours
.

Yeah. Well, good night
. He wanted to say more, much more. But nothing came.

Good night
, she said, just as the lights went out.

Thomas rolled over, glad it was dark so no one could see the look that had settled across his face.

It wasn’t a smile, exactly. Not quite a happy expression. But almost.

And for now, almost was good enough.

WICKED
Memorandum, Date 232.1.27, Time 22:45

TO
: My Associates

FROM
: Ava Paige, Chancelor

RE
: THOUGHTS ON MAZE TRIALS, Group A

    By any reckoning, I think we’d all agree that the Trials were a success. Twenty survivors, all well qualified for our planned endeavor. The responses to the Variables were satisfactory and encouraging. The boy’s murder and the “rescue” proved to be a valuable finale. We needed to shock their systems, see their responses. Honestly, I’m amazed that in the end, despite everything, we were able to collect such a large population of kids that just never gave up.

Oddly enough, seeing them this way, thinking all is well, has been the hardest thing for me to observe. But there’s no time for regret. For the good of our people, we will move forward.

I know I have my own feelings as to who should be chosen as the leader, but I’ll refrain from saying at this time so as not to influence any decisions. But to me, it’s an obvious choice.

We are all well aware of what’s at stake. I, for one, am encouraged. Remember what the girl wrote on her arm before losing her memory? The one thing she chose to clasp on to?
WICKED is good
.

The subjects will eventually recall and understand the purpose of
the hard things we have done and plan to do to them. The mission of WICKED is to serve and preserve humanity, no matter the cost. We are, indeed, “good.”

Please respond with your own reactions. The subjects will be allowed one full night’s sleep before Stage 2 implementation. At this time, let’s allow ourselves to feel hopeful.

Group B’s trial results were also most extraordinary. I need time to process the data, but we can touch on it in the morning.

Until tomorrow, then.

END OF BOOK ONE

Editor and friend Stacy Whitman, for helping me see what I could not see.

Faithful fan Jacoby Nielsen, for his feedback and constant support.

Fellow authors Brandon Sanderson, Aprilynne Pike, Julie Wright, J. Scott Savage, Sara Zarr, Emily Wing Smith, and Anne Bowen, for being there.

My agent, Michael Bourret, for making my dream a reality.

Also, sincere thanks to Lauren Abramo and everyone at Dystel & Goderich.

And Krista Marino, for an editing job that defies description. You are a genius, and your name should be on the cover with mine.

James Dashner was born and raised in Georgia but now lives and writes in the Rocky Mountains. He is also the author of the series The 13th Reality. To learn more about him and his books, visit
www.jamesdashner.com
.