“Needles?” Things just kept sounding more and more disturbing to Thomas.
“Yeah, needles.” He didn’t elaborate, and his face said he didn’t plan to.
Thomas looked up at the enormous walls covered in thick vines—desperation had finally clicked him into problem-solving mode. “Can’t we climb this thing?” He looked at Minho, who didn’t say a word. “The vines—can’t we climb them?”
Minho let out a frustrated sigh. “I swear, Greenie, you must think we’re a bunch of idiots. You really think we’ve never had the ingenious thought of climbing the freaking walls?”
For the first time, Thomas felt anger creeping in to compete with his fear and panic. “I’m just trying to help, man. Why don’t you quit moping at every word I say and talk to me?”
Minho abruptly jumped at Thomas and grabbed him by the shirt. “You don’t understand, shuck-face! You don’t know anything, and you’re just making it worse by trying to have hope! We’re dead, you hear me? Dead!”
Thomas didn’t know which he felt more strongly at that moment—anger at Minho or pity for him. He was giving up too easily.
Minho looked down at his hands clasped to Thomas’s shirt and shame washed across his face. Slowly, he let go and backed away. Thomas straightened his clothes defiantly.
“Ah, man, oh man,” Minho whispered, then crumpled to the ground, burying his face in clenched fists. “I’ve never been this scared before, dude. Not like this.”
Thomas wanted to say something, tell him to grow up, tell him to think, tell him to explain everything he knew. Something!
He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it quickly when he heard the noise. Minho’s head popped up; he looked down one of the darkened stone corridors. Thomas felt his own breath quicken.
It came from deep within the Maze, a low, haunting sound. A constant whirring that had a metallic ring every few seconds, like sharp knives rubbing against each other. It grew louder by the second, and then a series of eerie clicks joined in. Thomas thought of long fingernails tapping against glass. A hollow moan filled the air, and then something that sounded like the clanking of chains.
All of it, together, was horrifying, and the small amount of courage Thomas had gathered began to slip away.
Minho stood, his face barely visible in the dying light. But when he spoke, Thomas imagined his eyes wide with terror. “We have to split up—it’s our only chance. Just keep moving. Don’t stop moving!”
And then he turned and ran, disappearing in seconds, swallowed by the Maze and darkness.
CHAPTER 18
Thomas stared at the spot where Minho had vanished.
A sudden dislike for the guy swelled up inside him. Minho was a veteran in this place, a Runner. Thomas was a Newbie, just a few days in the Glade, a few minutes in the Maze. Yet of the two of them, Minho had broken down and panicked, only to run off at the first sign of trouble. How could he leave me here? Thomas thought. How could he do that!
The noises grew louder. The roar of engines interspersed with rolling, cranking sounds like chains hoisting machinery in an old, grimy factory. And then came the smell—something burning, oily. Thomas couldn’t begin to guess what was in store for him; he’d seen a Griever, but only a glimpse, and through a dirty window. What would they do to him? How long would he last?
Stop, he told himself. He had to quit wasting time waiting for them to come and end his life.
He turned and faced Alby, still propped against the stone wall, now only a mound of shadow in the darkness. Kneeling on the ground, Thomas found Alby’s neck, then searched for a pulse. Something there. He listened at his chest like Minho had done.
buh-bump, buh-bump, buh-bump
Still alive.
Thomas rocked back on his heels, then ran his arm across his forehead, wiping away the sweat. And at that moment, in the space of only a few seconds, he learned a lot about himself. About the Thomas that was before.
He couldn’t leave a friend to die. Even someone as cranky as Alby.
He reached down and grabbed both of Alby’s arms, then squatted into a sitting position and wrapped the arms around his neck from behind. He pulled the lifeless body onto his back and pushed with his legs, grunting with the effort.
But it was too much. Thomas collapsed forward onto his face; Alby sprawled to the side with a loud flump.
The frightening sounds of the Grievers grew closer by the second, echoing off the stone walls of the Maze. Thomas thought he could see bright flashes of light far away, bouncing off the night sky. He didn’t want to meet the source of those lights, those sounds.
Trying a new approach, he grabbed Alby’s arms again and started dragging him along the ground. He couldn’t believe how heavy the boy was, and it took only ten feet or so for Thomas to realize that it just wasn’t going to work. Where would he take him, anyway?
He pushed and pulled Alby back over to the crack that marked the entrance to the Glade, and propped him once more into a sitting position, leaning against the stone wall.
Thomas sat back against it himself, panting from exertion, thinking. As he looked into the dark recesses of the Maze, he searched his mind for a solution. He could hardly see anything, and he knew, despite what Minho had said, that it’d be stupid to run even if he could carry Alby. Not only was there the chance of getting lost, he could actually find himself running toward the Grievers instead of away from them.
He thought of the wall, the ivy. Minho hadn’t explained, but he had made it sound as if climbing the walls was impossible. Still …
A plan formed in his mind. It all depended on the unknown abilities of the Grievers, but it was the best thing he could come up with.