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A half hour passed.
Neither Thomas nor Minho had moved an inch.
Thomas had finally stopped crying; he couldn’t help wondering what Minho would think of him, or if he’d tell others, calling him a sissy. But there wasn’t a shred of self-control left in him; he couldn’t have prevented the tears, he knew that. Despite his lack of memory, he was sure he’d just been through the most traumatic night of his life. And his sore hands and utter exhaustion didn’t help.
He crawled to the edge of the Cliff once more, stuck his head over again to get a better look now that dawn was in full force. The open sky in front of him was a deep purple, slowly fading into the bright blue of day, with tinges of orange from the sun on a distant, flat horizon.
He stared straight down, saw that the stone wall of the Maze went toward the ground in a sheer cliff until it disappeared into whatever lay far, far below. But even with the ever-increasing light, he still couldn’t tell what was down there. It seemed as if the Maze was perched on a structure several miles above the ground.
But that was impossible, he thought. It can’t be. Has to be an illusion .
He rolled over onto his back, groaning at the movement. Things seemed to hurt on him and inside him that he’d never known existed before. At least the Doors would be opening soon, and they could return to the Glade. He looked over at Minho, huddled against the hall of the corridor. “I can’t believe we’re still alive,” he said.
Minho said nothing, just nodded, his face devoid of expression.
“Are there more of them? Did we just kill them all?”
Minho snorted. “Somehow we made it to sunrise, or we would’ve had ten more on our butts before long.” He shifted his body, wincing and groaning. “I can’t believe it. Seriously. We made it through the whole night—never been done before.”
Thomas knew he should feel proud, brave, something. But all he felt was tired and relieved. “What did we do differently?”
“I don’t know. It’s kind of hard to ask a dead guy what he did wrong.”
Thomas couldn’t stop wondering about how the Grievers’ enraged cries had ended as they fell from the Cliff, and how he hadn’t been able to see them plummeting to their deaths. There was something very strange and unsettling about it. “Seems like they disappeared or something after they went over the edge.”
“Yeah, that was kinda psycho. Couple of Gladers had a theory that other things had disappeared, but we proved ’em wrong. Look.”
Thomas watched as Minho tossed a rock over the Cliff, then followed its path with his eyes. Down and down it went, not leaving his sight until it grew too small to see. He turned back toward Minho. “How does that prove them wrong?”
Minho shrugged. “Well, the rock didn’t disappear, now, did it?”
“Then what do you think happened?” There was something significant here, Thomas could feel it.
Minho shrugged again. “Maybe they’re magic. My head hurts too much to think about it.”
With a jolt, all thoughts of the Cliff were forgotten. Thomas remembered Alby. “We have to get back.” Straining, he forced himself to get to his feet. “Gotta get Alby off the wall.” Seeing the look of confusion on Minho’s face, he quickly explained what he’d done with the ropes of ivy.
Minho looked down, his eyes dejected. “No way he’s still alive.”
Thomas refused to believe it. “How do you know? Come on.” He started limping back along the corridor.
“Because no one’s ever made it …”
He trailed off, and Thomas knew what he was thinking. “That’s because they’ve always been killed by the Grievers by the time you found them. Alby was only stuck with one of those needles, right?”
Minho stood up and joined Thomas in his slow walk back toward the Glade. “I don’t know, I guess this has never happened before. A few guys have been stung by the needles during the day. And those are the ones who got the Serum and went through the Changing. The poor shanks who got stuck out in the Maze all night weren’t found until later—days later, sometimes, if at all. And all of them were killed in ways you don’t wanna hear about.”
Thomas shuddered at the thought. “After what we just went through, I think I can imagine.”
Minho looked up, surprise transforming his face. “I think you just figured it out. We’ve been wrong—well, hopefully we’ve been wrong. Because no one who’d been stung and didn’t make it back by sunset has ever survived, we just assumed that was the point of no return—when it’s too late to get the Serum.” He seemed excited by his line of thinking.
They turned yet another corner, Minho suddenly taking the lead. The boy’s pace was picking up, but Thomas stayed on his heels, surprised at how familiar he felt with the directions, usually even leaning into turns before Minho showed the way.
“Okay—this Serum,” Thomas said. “I’ve heard that a couple of times now. What is that? And where does it come from?”
“Just what it sounds like, shank. It’s a serum. The Grief Serum.”
Thomas forced out a pathetic laugh. “Just when I think I’ve learned everything about this stupid place. Why is it called that? And why are Grievers called Grievers?”
Minho explained as they continued through the endless turns of the Maze, neither one of them leading now. “I don’t know where we got the names, but the Serum comes from the Creators—or that’s what we call them, at least. It’s with the supplies in the Box every week, always has been. It’s a medicine or antidote or something, already inside a medical syringe, ready to use.” He made a show of sticking a needle in his arm. “Stick that sucker in someone who’s been stung and it saves ’em. They go through the Changing—which sucks—but after that, they’re healed.”
A minute or two passed in silence as Thomas processed the information; they made a couple more turns. He wondered about the Changing, and what it meant. And for some reason, he kept thinking of the girl.
“Weird, though,” Minho finally continued. “We’ve never talked about this before. If he’s still alive, there’s really no reason to think Alby can’t be saved by the Serum. We somehow got it into our klunk heads that once the Doors closed, you were done—end of story. I gotta see this hanging-on-the-wall thing myself—I think you’re shuckin’ me.”
The boys kept walking, Minho almost looking happy, but something was nagging at Thomas. He’d been avoiding it, denying it to himself. “What if another Griever got Alby after I diverted the one chasing me?”
Minho looked over at him, a blank expression on his face.
“Let’s just hurry, is all I’m saying,” Thomas said, hoping all that effort to save Alby hadn’t been wasted.
They tried to pick up the pace, but their bodies hurt too much and they settled back into a slow walk despite the urgency. The next time they rounded a corner, Thomas faltered, his heart skipping a beat when he saw movement up ahead. Relief washed through him an instant later when he realized it was Newt and a group of Gladers. The West Door to the Glade towered over them and it was open. They’d made it back.
At the boys’ appearance, Newt limped over to them. “What happened?” he asked; he sounded almost angry. “How in the bloody—”
“We’ll tell you later,” Thomas interrupted. “We have to save Alby.”
Newt’s face went white. “What do you mean? He’s alive?”
“Just come here.” Thomas headed to the right, craning his neck to look high up at the wall, searching along the thick vines until he found the spot where Alby hung by his arms and legs far above them. Without saying anything, Thomas pointed up, not daring to be relieved yet. He was still there, and in one piece, but there was no sign of movement.
Newt finally saw his friend hanging in the ivy, and looked back at Thomas. If he’d seemed shocked before, now he looked completely bewildered. “Is he … alive?”
Please let him be , Thomas thought. “I don’t know. Was when I left him up there.”
“When you left him …” Newt shook his head. “You and Minho get your butts inside, get yourselves checked by the Med-jacks. You look bloody awful. I want the whole story when they’re done and you’re rested up.”
Thomas wanted to wait and see if Alby was okay. He started to speak but Minho grabbed him by the arm and forced him to walk toward the Glade. “We need sleep. And bandages. Now.”
And Thomas knew he was right. He relented, glancing back up at Alby, then followed Minho out and away from the Maze.
The walk back into the Glade and then to the Homestead seemed endless, a row of Gladers on both sides gawking at them. Their faces showed complete awe, as if they were watching two ghosts strolling through a graveyard. Thomas knew it was because they’d accomplished something never done before, but he was embarrassed by the attention.
He almost stopped walking altogether when he spotted Gally up ahead, arms folded and glaring, but he kept moving. It took every ounce of his willpower, but he looked directly into Gally’s eyes, never breaking contact. When he got to within five feet, the other boy’s stare fell to the ground.
It almost disturbed Thomas how good that felt. Almost.
The next few minutes were a blur. Escorted into the Homestead by a couple of Med-jacks, up the stairs, a glimpse through a barely ajar door of someone feeding the comatose girl in her bed—he felt an incredibly strong urge to go see her, to check on her—into their own rooms, into bed, food, water, bandages. Pain. Finally, he was left alone, his head resting on the softest pillow his limited memory could recall.
But as he fell asleep, two things wouldn’t leave his mind. First, the word he’d seen scrawled across the torso of both beetle blades— WICKED —ran through his thoughts again and again.
The second thing was the girl.
Hours later—days for all he knew—Chuck was there, shaking him awake. It took several seconds for Thomas to get his bearings and see straight. He focused in on Chuck, groaned. “Let me sleep, you shank.”
“I thought you’d want to know.”
Thomas rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Know what?” He looked at Chuck again, confused by his big smile.
“He’s alive,” he said. “Alby’s okay—the Serum worked.”
Thomas’s grogginess instantly washed away, replaced with relief—it surprised him how much joy the information brought. But then Chuck’s next words made him reconsider.
“He just started the Changing.”
As if brought on by the words, a blood-chilling scream erupted from a room down the hall.