The Scorch Trials - James Dashner [110]
“You’re going in that room,” Aris spit in his ear. “Help me, Teresa!”
Thomas couldn’t find any strength to fight them off. The double blow to his head had somehow sapped him of everything, as if all his muscles had gone dormant because his brain didn’t have enough energy to tell them what to do. Soon Teresa had grabbed both of his arms; she started dragging him toward the open doorway, Aris pushing him. Thomas kicked feebly. Rocks dug into his skin.
“Don’t do this,” he whispered, giving in to desperation. Every word sent a surge of pain across his nerves. “Please …” All he saw now were flashes of white on black. A concussion, he realized. He had a terrible, terrible concussion.
He was barely aware of his body crossing the threshold, of Teresa resting his arms against the cool metal of the back wall, stepping over him, helping Aris flip his legs up and over so that he now lay in a heap, facing the side. Thomas couldn’t even find the strength to look at them.
“No,” he said, but it was merely a whisper. The image of the sick boy, Ben, being Banished back in the Glade swam into his brain. An odd time to think it, but now he knew how that kid had felt in those last seconds before the walls slammed shut, trapping him in the Maze forever.
“No,” he repeated; it was so quiet he couldn’t imagine they heard him. He ached from head to toe.
“You’re so stubborn,” he heard Teresa say. “You had to make it harder on yourself! Harder on all of us!”
“Teresa,” Thomas whispered. He dug through the pain and tried to call out to her telepathically, even though it hadn’t worked in a long time. Teresa.
I’m sorry, Tom, she answered back, in his mind once again. But thanks for being our sacrifice.
He hadn’t realized the door was swinging closed, but it slammed shut just as that last horrible word floated across his darkening thoughts.
CHAPTER 52
The back of the door they’d shut on him glowed green, turning the small room into a creepy, sickening prison. He might’ve cried, might’ve gushed tears and snot and wailed like a baby if his head didn’t hurt so much. The pain drilled through his skull, and his eyes felt as if they were boiling in lava.
But even then, through all that, the deeper ache of truly losing Teresa gnawed away at his heart. He just couldn’t let himself cry.
He lost all concept of time as he lay there. It was as if whoever was behind it all wanted to give him a chance to reflect on what had happened while he waited for the end. On how Teresa’s message to trust her no matter what had ended up being a cruel trick that only magnified her two-faced treachery.
An hour passed. Maybe two or three. Maybe only thirty minutes. He had no idea.
And then the hissing started.
The faint light of the glowing door revealed sprays of mist shooting from the holes that dotted the metal walls in front of him. He turned his head, sending a fresh wave of pain across his skull, and saw that all the openings were expelling similar jets of fog.
And it all hissed like a squirming nest of poisonous vipers.
So this is it? he thought. After everything he’d been through, after all the mysteries and fighting and fleeting moments of hope, they were just going to kill him with some kind of poison gas? Stupid, that was what this was. Stupid. He’d battled Grievers and Cranks, survived a gunshot and infection. WICKED. They were the ones who’d saved him! And now they were just going to gas him to death?
He sat up, actually crying out from the jolt of pain it caused. He looked around, looked for anything he might be able to …
Tired. So tired.
Something in his chest felt wrong. Sick.
The gas.
Tired. Hurt. Body exhausted.
Breathing in gas.
Couldn’t help himself.
So … tired …
Inside him. Wrong.
Teresa. Why did it