“Works for me,” Minho said. Thomas wanted to agree, but didn’t know if it was his place.
Alby put his feet back on the floor, sat up straighter. “Ya know, it was really stupid for us to sleep in here tonight. We should’ve been out in the Map Room, working.”
Thomas thought that was the smartest thing he’d heard Alby say in a long time.
Minho shrugged. “Probably right.”
“Well … I’ll go,” Alby said with a confident nod. “Right now.”
Newt shook his head. “Forget that, Alby. Already heard the bloody Grievers moaning out there. We can wait till the wake-up.”
Alby leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Hey, you shucks are the ones giving me all the pep talks. Don’t start whining when I actually listen. If I’m gonna do this, I gotta do it, be the old me. I need something to dive into.”
Relief flooded Thomas. He’d grown sick of all the contention.
Alby stood up. “Seriously, I need this.” He moved toward the door of the room as if he really meant to leave.
“You can’t be serious,” Newt said. “You can’t go out there now!”
“I’m going, and that’s that.” Alby took his ring of keys from his pocket and rattled them mockingly—Thomas couldn’t believe the sudden bravery. “See you shucks in the morning.”
And then he walked out.
It was strange to know that the night grew later, that darkness should’ve swallowed the world around them, but to see only the pale gray light outside. It made Thomas feel off-kilter, as if the urge to sleep that grew steadily with every passing minute were somehow unnatural. Time slowed to an agonizing crawl; he felt as if the next day might never come.
The other Gladers settled themselves, turning in with their pillows and blankets for the impossible task of sleeping. No one said much, the mood somber and grim. All you could hear were quiet shuffles and whispers.
Thomas tried hard to force himself to sleep, knowing it would make the time pass faster, but after two hours he’d still had no luck. He lay on the floor in one of the upper rooms, on top of a thick blanket, several other Gladers crammed in there with him, almost body to body. The bed had gone to Newt.
Chuck had ended up in another room, and for some reason Thomas pictured him huddled in a dark corner, crying, squeezing his blankets to his chest like a teddy bear. The image saddened Thomas so deeply he tried to replace it, but to no avail.
Almost every person had a flashlight by their side in case of emergency. Otherwise, Newt had ordered all lights extinguished despite the pale, deathly glow of their new sky—no sense attracting any more attention than necessary. Anything that could be done on such short notice to prepare for a Griever attack had been done: windows boarded up, furniture moved in front of doors, knives handed out as weapons …
But none of that made Thomas feel safe.
The anticipation of what might happen was overpowering, a suffocating blanket of misery and fear that began to take on a life of its own. He almost wished the suckers would just come and get it over with. The waiting was unbearable.
The distant wails of the Grievers grew closer as the night stretched on, every minute seeming to last longer than the one before it.
Another hour passed. Then another. Sleep finally came, but in miserable fits. Thomas guessed it was about two in the morning when he turned from his back to his stomach for the millionth time that night. He put his hands under his chin and stared at the foot of the bed, almost a shadow in the dim light.
Then everything changed.
A mechanized surge of machinery sounded from outside, followed by the familiar rolling clicks of a Griever on the stony ground, as if someone had scattered a handful of nails. Thomas shot to his feet, as did most of the others.
But Newt was up before anyone, waving his arms, then shushing the room by putting a finger to his lips. Favoring his bad leg, he tiptoed toward the lone window in the room, which was covered by three hastily nailed boards. Large cracks allowed for plenty of space to peek outside. Carefully, Newt leaned in to take a look, and Thomas crept over to join him.
He crouched below Newt against the lowest of the wooden boards, pressing his eye against a crack—it was terrifying being so close to the wall. But all he saw was the open Glade; he didn’t have enough space to look up or down or to the side, just straight ahead. After a minute or so, he gave up and turned to sit with his back against the wall. Newt walked over and sat back down on the bed.
A few minutes passed, various Griever sounds penetrating the walls every ten to twenty seconds. The squeal of small engines followed by a grinding spin of metal. The clicking of spikes against the hard stone. Things snapping and opening and snapping. Thomas winced in fear every time he heard something.
Sounded like three or four of them were just outside. At least.
He heard the twisted animal-machines come closer, so close, waiting on the stone blocks below. All hums and metallic clatter.
Thomas’s mouth dried up—he’d seen them face to face, remembered it all too well; he had to remind himself to breathe. The others in the room were still; no one made a sound. Fear seemed to hover in the air like a blizzard of black snow.
One of the Grievers sounded like it was moving toward the house. Then the clicking of its spikes against the stone suddenly turned into a deeper, hollower sound. Thomas could picture it all: the creature’s metal spikes digging into the wooden sides of the Homestead, the massive creature rolling its body, climbing up toward their room, defying gravity with its strength. Thomas heard the Grievers’ spikes shred the wood siding in their path as they tore out and rotated around to take hold once again. The whole building shuddered.