Thomas was intrigued. Minho did make it sound easy.
They ran for a short while before they reached an intersection. They had three possible choices, but Minho went to the right without hesitating. As he did so, he pulled one of his knives from a pocket and, without missing a beat, cut a big piece of ivy off the wall. He threw it on the ground behind him and kept running.
“Bread crumbs?” Thomas asked, the old fairy tale popping into his mind. Such odd glimpses of his past had almost stopped surprising him.
“Bread crumbs,” Minho replied. “I’m Hansel, you’re Gretel.”
On they went, following the course of the Maze, sometimes turning right, sometimes turning left. After every turn, Minho cut and dropped a three-foot length of ivy. Thomas couldn’t help being impressed—Minho didn’t even need to slow down to do it.
“All right,” the Keeper said, breathing heavier now. “Your turn.”
“What?” Thomas hadn’t really expected to do anything but run and watch on his first day.
“Cut the ivy now—you gotta get used to doing it on the run. We pick ’em up as we come back, or kick ’em to the side.”
Thomas was happier than he thought he’d be at having something to do, though it took him a while to become good at it. First couple of times, he had to sprint to catch up after cutting the ivy, and once he nicked his finger. But by his tenth attempt, he could almost match Minho at the task.
On they went. After they’d run awhile—Thomas had no idea for how long or how far, but he guessed three miles—Minho slowed to a walk, then stopped altogether. “Break time.” He swung off his pack and pulled out some water and an apple.
Thomas didn’t have to be convinced to follow Minho’s lead. He guzzled his water, relishing the wet coolness as it washed down his dry throat.
“Slow down there, fishhead,” Minho yelped. “Save some for later.”
Thomas stopped drinking, sucked in a big satisfied breath, then burped. He took a bite of his apple, feeling surprisingly refreshed. For some reason, his thoughts turned back to the day Minho and Alby had gone to look at the dead Griever—when everything had gone to klunk. “You never really told me what happened to Alby that day—why he was in such bad shape. Obviously the Griever woke up, but what happened?”
Minho had already put his backpack on. He looked ready to go. “Well, shuck thing wasn’t dead. Alby poked at it with his foot like an idiot and that bad boy suddenly sprang to life, spikes flaring, its fat body rollin’ all over him. Something was wrong with it, though—didn’t really attack like usual. It seemed like it was mostly just trying to get out of there, and poor Alby was in the way.”
“So it ran away from you guys?” From what Thomas had seen only a few nights before, he couldn’t imagine it.
Minho shrugged. “Yeah, I guess—maybe it needed to get recharged or something. I don’t know.”
“What could’ve been wrong with it? Did you see an injury or anything?” Thomas didn’t know what kind of answer he was searching for, but he was sure there had to be a clue or lesson to learn from what happened.
Minho thought for a minute. “No. Shuck thing just looked dead—like a wax statue. Then boom, it was back to life.”
Thomas’s mind was churning, trying to get somewhere, only he didn’t know where or which direction to even start in. “I just wonder where it went. Where they always go. Don’t you?” He was quiet for a second, then, “Haven’t you ever thought of following them?”
“Man, you do have a death wish, don’t you? Come on, we gotta go.” And with that Minho turned and started running.
As Thomas followed, he struggled to figure out what was tickling the back of his mind. Something about that Griever being dead and then not dead, something about where it had gone once it sprang to life …
Frustrated, he put it aside and sprinted to catch up.
Thomas ran right behind Minho for two more hours, sprinkled with little breaks that seemed to get shorter every time. Good shape or not, Thomas was feeling the pain.
Finally, Minho stopped and pulled off his backpack once more. They sat on the ground, leaning against the soft ivy as they ate lunch, neither one of them talking much. Thomas relished every bite of his sandwich and veggies, eating as slowly as possible. He knew Minho would make them get up and go once the food disappeared, so he took his time.
“Anything different today?” Thomas asked, curious.
Minho reached down and patted his backpack, where his notes rested. “Just the usual wall movements. Nothing to get your skinny butt excited about.”
Thomas took a long swig of water, looking up at the ivy-covered wall opposite them. He caught a flash of silver and red, something he’d seen more than once that day.
“What’s the deal with those beetle blades?” he asked. They seemed to be everywhere. Then Thomas remembered what he’d seen in the Maze—so much had happened he hadn’t had the chance to mention it. “And why do they have the word wicked written on their backs?”
“Never been able to catch one.” Minho finished up his meal and put his lunch box away. “And we don’t know what that word means—probably just something to scare us. But they have to be spies. For them. Only thing we can reckon.”
“Who is them, anyway?” Thomas asked, ready for more answers. He hated the people behind the Maze. “Anybody have a clue?”
“We don’t know jack about the stupid Creators.” Minho’s face reddened as he squeezed his hands together like he was choking someone. “Can’t wait to rip their—”