The Death Cure - James Dashner [54]
Red Shirt had finally pinned the man to the ground. “It’s over! They’re already on their way,” he shouted, again in that creepy mechanized voice.
The infected man stopped struggling, burst into lurching sobs. It was then that Thomas realized the crowd had fully evacuated and the coffee shop was empty except for the two men and Thomas. An eerie silence settled on the place.
Red Shirt glanced at him. “Why’re you still here, kid—got a death wish?” The man didn’t let Thomas answer, though. “If you’re gonna stick around, make yourself useful. Find me the gun.” He turned his attention back to the man he’d restrained.
Thomas felt like he was in a dream. He’d seen a lot of violence, but this was different somehow. He went to fetch the gun from under the counter where it had disappeared. “I’m … I’m immune,” he stammered. He got down on his knees and reached, straining until his fingers found the cool metal. He pulled the gun out and walked over to Red Shirt.
The man didn’t offer any thanks. He took his gun and jumped back to his feet, pointing the weapon at the infected man’s face. “This is bad, really bad. Been happening more and more—you can tell when someone’s drugged out on the Bliss.”
“So it was the Bliss,” Thomas murmured.
“You knew?” Red Shirt asked.
“Well, he’s looked weird ever since I got here.”
“And you didn’t say anything?” The skin around the guard’s mask almost matched the color of his shirt. “What’s wrong with you?”
Thomas was taken aback by Red Shirt’s sudden anger. “I … I’m sorry. I didn’t really know what was going on.”
The infected man had curled up into a ball on the ground and was sobbing. Red Shirt finally stepped away from him and looked sternly at Thomas. “You didn’t know? What kind of … Where are you from?”
Now Thomas really wished he had run. “I’m … my name’s Thomas. I’m nobody. I just …” He searched for something to say—to explain himself. “I’m not from around here. Sorry.”
Red Shirt turned the gun on him. “Sit down. Sit down right there.” He flicked the gun toward a nearby chair.
“Wait! I swear I’m immune!” Thomas’s heart thudded in his chest. “That’s why I—”
“Sit your butt down! Now!”
Thomas’s knees gave out and he plopped into the chair. He glanced toward the door and his chest loosened a bit when he saw Minho standing there, with Brenda and Jorge right behind him. But Thomas didn’t want his friends involved—didn’t want to chance getting them hurt. He quickly shook his head to tell them to stay out of it.
Red Shirt ignored the people in the doorway, concentrating purely on Thomas. “If you’re so sure about being a Munie, then you won’t mind testing to prove it, now, will you?”
“No.” The idea actually relieved him—maybe the man would let him go once he realized he was telling the truth. “Do it, go ahead.”
Red Shirt holstered his gun and stepped up to Thomas. He retrieved his device and leaned forward to put it on Thomas’s face.
“Look into it, eyes open,” the man said. “It’ll only take a few seconds.”
Thomas did as he was told, wanting to get it over with as quickly as possible. He saw the same flash of colorful lights he’d seen at the city gates, felt the same puff of air and prick in his neck.
Red Shirt took the device back, looked at the readings on a small screen. “Well, what do ya know? You’re a damn Munie after all. You care to explain to me how you came to be in Denver and how you don’t know squat about the Bliss or how to spot a user when you see one?”
“I work for WICKED.” It came out before he’d really thought it through. He just wanted to get out of there.
“I believe that crap about as much as I believe this guy’s drug problem has nothing to do with the Flare. You keep your butt glued right there or I’ll start shooting.”
Thomas swallowed. He wasn’t so much scared as he was mad at himself for having gotten into such a ridiculous situation. “Okay,” he said.
But Red Shirt had already turned around. His help had arrived—four people