The Death Cure - James Dashner [64]
Jorge did the talking, just as he had at the airport when they’d arrived in Denver. “You wouldn’t have known we were coming, muchacho. We’re from WICKED, and one of our guys got captured and taken here by mistake. We’ll be picking him up.”
Thomas was surprised. What Jorge had said was technically the truth, when he thought about it.
The guard didn’t seem too impressed. “You think I give a crap about you and your fancy WICKED jobs? You’re not the first uppity-up to drop in here and act like you own the place. You wanna come hang out with Cranks? Be my guest. Especially after what’s been going on lately.” He stepped to the side and made an exaggerated sweeping gesture of welcome. “Enjoy your stay at the Crank Palace. No refunds or exchanges if you lose an arm or eyeball.”
Thomas could almost smell the tension in the air, and he worried that Minho would add some smart remark and send these guys over the edge, so he spoke up quickly.
“What do you mean ‘what’s been going on lately’? What’s happening?”
The guy shrugged. “It’s just not a very happy place, and that’s all you need to know.” He didn’t offer anything more.
Thomas already disliked the way things were going. “Well … do you know if any new”—saying Cranks didn’t feel right to Thomas—“people were brought here in the last day or two? Do you have a register?”
The other guard—short and stocky, his head shaved—cleared his throat, then spit. “Who you lookin’ for? A he or a she?”
“A he,” Thomas answered. “His name is Newt. A little taller than me, blond hair, kinda long. Has a limp.”
The guy spit again. “I might know somethin’. But knowin’ and tellin’ are two different things. You kids look like you got plenty of money. Wanna share?”
Thomas, daring to let himself hope, looked back at Jorge, whose face had tightened in anger.
Minho spoke before Jorge could. “We’ve got money, shuck-face. Now tell us where our friend is.”
The guard jabbed the Launcher toward them a little more fiercely. “Show me your cash cards or this conversation is over. I want at least a thousand.”
“He’s got it all,” Minho said, jabbing a thumb at Jorge as his eyes lasered in on the guard. “Greedy slinthead.”
Jorge pulled his card out and waved it in the air. “You’ll have to shoot me dead to take this, and you know it won’t do any good without my prints. You’ll get your money, hermano. Now show us the way.”
“All right, then,” the man said. “Follow me. And remember, if any of your body parts become detached due to an unfortunate encounter with a Crank, I highly advise you to leave said body part behind and run like hell. Unless it’s a leg, of course.”
He turned on his heels and walked through the opened gate.
CHAPTER 36
The Crank Palace was a horrible, filthy place. The short guard proved to be very talkative, and as they made their way through the chaos of the frightening domain, he provided more information than Thomas ever would’ve asked for.
He described the village for the infected as a huge set of rings within rings, with all the communal areas—cafeteria, infirmary, recreation facilities—located in the middle and then row upon row of poorly built housing encircling them. The Palaces had been conceived as humane options—refuges for the infected until they reached a point where the madness took over. After that they were shipped to remote locations that had been abandoned during the worst of the sun flares. Those who had built the palaces had wanted to give the infected one last shot at a decent life before the end. Projects had sprung up near most remaining cities in the world.
But the well-intended idea had gone very bad. Filling a place with people who had no hope and knew they were about to descend into a rotten, horrific spiral of insanity ended up creating some of the most wretched anarchic zones ever known to man. With the residents well aware that there could be no real punishment or consequences worse