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A hand slammed down on Thomas’s shoulder from behind; he cried out and spun around to see Minho staring past him at the maniac screaming through the window.
“They’re everywhere,” Minho said. His voice had a gloom to it that perfectly matched how Thomas felt. It seemed as if everything they’d dared hope for the previous night had dissolved to nothing. “And there’s no sign of those shanks who rescued us,” he added.
Thomas had lived in fear and terror the past few weeks, but this was almost too much. To feel safe only to have that snatched away again. Shocking even himself, though, he quickly set aside that small part of him that wanted to jump back into his bed and bawl his eyes out. He pushed away the lingering ache of remembering his mom and the stuff about his dad and people going crazy. Thomas knew that someone had to take charge—they needed a plan if they were going to survive this, too.
“Have any of them gotten in yet?” he asked, a strange calm washing over him. “Do all the windows have these bars?”
Minho nodded toward one of the many lining the walls of the long rectangular room. “Yeah. It was too dark to notice them last night, especially with those stupid frilly curtains. But I’m sure glad for ’em.”
Thomas looked at the Gladers around them, some running from window to window to get a look outside, others huddling in small groups. Everyone had a look of half disbelief, half terror. “Where’s Newt?”
“Right here.”
Thomas turned to see the older boy, not knowing how he’d missed him. “What’s goin’ on?”
“You think I have a bloody clue? Bunch of crazies want to eat us for breakfast, by the looks of it. We need to find another room, have a Gathering. All this noise is driving nails through my buggin’ skull.”
Thomas nodded absently; he agreed with the plan but hoped Newt and Minho would take care of it. He was eager to make contact with Teresa—he hoped her warning had just been part of a dream, a hallucination from the drug of deep and exhausted slumber. And that vision of his mom …
His two friends moved away, calling out and waving their arms to collect Gladers. Thomas took a tremulous glance back at the shredded madman at the window, then looked away immediately, wishing he hadn’t reminded his brain of the blood and torn flesh, the insane eyes, the hysterical screaming.
Kill me! Kill me! Kill me!
Thomas stumbled to the farthest wall, leaned heavily against it.
Teresa , he called out again with his mind. Teresa. Can you hear me?
He waited, closing his eyes to concentrate. Reaching out with invisible hands, trying to grasp some trace of her. Nothing. Not even a passing shadow or brush of feeling, much less a response.
Teresa , he said more urgently, clenching his teeth with the effort. Where are you? What happened?
Nothing. His heart seemed to slow until it almost stopped, and he felt like he’d swallowed a big hairy lump of cotton. Something had happened to her.
He opened his eyes to see the Gladers gathered around the green-painted door that led to the common area where they’d eaten pizza the night before. Minho was jerking on the round brass handle to no avail. Locked.
The only other door was to a shower and locker room, from which no other exits existed. There was that, and the windows. All with those metal bars. Thank goodness. Each one had raging lunatics screaming and yelling on the other side.
Even though worry ate at him like spilled acid in his veins, Thomas gave up momentarily on trying to contact Teresa and joined the other Gladers. Newt was having a go at the door, with the same useless result.
“It’s locked,” he muttered when he finally gave up, his arms falling weakly to his sides.
“Really, genius?” Minho said, his powerful arms folded and tensed, veins bulging all over the place. Thomas thought for a split second he could actually see the blood pumping through them. “No wonder you were named after Isaac Newton—such an amazing ability to think.”
Newt wasn’t in the mood. Or maybe he’d just learned long ago to ignore Minho’s smart-aleck remarks. “Let’s break this bloody handle off.” He looked around as if he expected someone to give him a sledgehammer.
“I wish those shuck … Cranks would shut up!” Minho yelled, turning to glower at the closest one, a woman who looked even more hideous than the first man Thomas had seen. A bleeding wound crossed her face, ending on the side of her head.
“Cranks?” Frypan repeated. The hairy cook had been silent until then, barely noticeable. Thomas thought he looked even more frightened than when they’d been about to battle the Grievers to escape the Maze. Maybe this was worse. When they’d settled into bed last night, everything had seemed good and safe. Yeah, maybe this was worse, to have that suddenly taken away.
Minho pointed at the screaming, bloody woman. “That’s what they keep calling themselves. Haven’t you heard it?”
“I don’t care if you call ’em pussy willows,” Newt snapped. “Find me something to break through this stupid door!”
“Here,” a shorter boy said, carrying a slender but solid fire extinguisher he’d taken off the wall—Thomas remembered seeing it earlier. Again, he felt guilty for not even knowing this kid’s name.
Newt grabbed the red cylinder, ready to pile-drive the door handle. Thomas stood as close as he could, eager to see what was on the other side of the door, though he had a very bad feeling that whatever it was, they weren’t going to like it.
Newt lifted the extinguisher, then slammed it down on the round brass handle. The loud crack was accompanied by a deeper crunch, and it took only three more whacks before the entire unit of the handle crashed to the floor with a jangle of broken metal pieces. The door inched outward, cracked open just enough to show darkness on the other side.
Newt stood quietly, staring at that long, narrow gap of blackness as if he expected demons from the underworld to come flying through. Absently, he handed the extinguisher back to the boy who’d found it. “Let’s go,” he said. Thomas thought he heard the slightest quaver in his voice.
“Wait,” Frypan called out. “We sure we wanna go out there? Maybe that door was locked for a reason.”
Thomas couldn’t help but agree; something felt wrong about this.
Minho stepped up to stand right next to Newt; he looked back at Frypan, then made eye contact with Thomas. “What else’re we gonna do? Sit here and wait for those loonies to get in? Come on.”
“Those freaks aren’t breaking through the window bars anytime soon,” Frypan retorted. “Let’s just think for a second”
“Time for thinking’s done,” Minho said. He kicked out with his foot and the door swung completely open; if anything, it seemed to grow even darker on the other side. “Plus, you should’ve spoken up before we blasted the lock to bits, slinthead. Too late now.”
“I hate when you’re right,” Frypan grumbled under his breath.
Thomas couldn’t quit staring past the open door, into the pool of inky darkness. He felt a now-all-too-familiar clench of apprehension, knowing that something had to be wrong or the people who’d rescued them would’ve come for them a long time ago. But Minho and Newt were right—they had to go out there and find some answers.
“Shuck it,” Minho said. “I’ll go first.”
Without waiting for a response he walked through the open door, his body vanishing in the gloom almost instantly. Newt gave Thomas a hesitant look, then followed. For some reason Thomas thought it should be up to him to go next, so he did.
Step by step, he left the dorm room and entered the darkness of the common area, hands reaching out in front of him.
The glow of light coming from behind didn’t do much to illuminate things; he might as well have been walking with his eyes squeezed shut. And the place smelled. Horrible.
Minho yelped up ahead, then called back. “Whoa, be careful. Something … weird’s hanging from the ceiling.”
Thomas heard a slight squeak or groan, something creaking. As if Minho had bumped into a low-hanging chandelier, sending it swaying back and forth. A grunt from Newt somewhere to the right was followed by the squeal of metal dragging across the floor.
“Table,” Newt announced. “Watch out for tables.”
Frypan spoke up behind Thomas. “Does anyone remember where the light switches were?”
“That’s where I’m heading,” Newt responded. “I swear I remember seeing a set of them somewhere over here.”
Thomas continued walking blindly forward. His eyes had adjusted a little; where before, everything had been a wall of blackness, now he could see traces of shadows against shadows. Yet something was off. He was still a little disoriented, but things seemed to be in places they shouldn’t be. It was almost as if—
“Bluh-huh-huh,” Minho groaned, a shudder of repulsion, like he’d just stepped in a pile of klunk. Another creaking sound cut through the room.
Before Thomas could ask what had happened, he bumped into something himself. Hard. Awkwardly shaped. The feel of cloth.
“Found it!” Newt shouted.
A few clicks were heard; then the room suddenly blazed with fluorescent lights, temporarily blinding Thomas. He stumbled away from the thing he’d bumped into, rubbing his eyes, ran into another stiff figure, sent it swaying away from him.
“Whoa!” Minho yelled.
Thomas squinted; his vision cleared. He forced himself to look at the scene of horror around him.
Throughout the large room, people hung from the ceiling—at least a dozen. They’d all been strung up by the neck, the ropes twisted and trenched into purple, bloated skin. The stiff bodies swung to and fro ever so slightly, pale pink tongues lolling out of their white-lipped mouths. All of them had eyes open, though glazed over with certain death. By the looks of it, they’d been that way for hours. Their clothes and some of their faces looked familiar.
Thomas dropped to his knees.
He knew these dead people.
They were the ones who’d rescued the Gladers. Just the day before.
