The Scorch Trials - James Dashner [23]
Rat Man nodded once toward Minho as if thanking him. Perhaps acknowledging his wisdom. “One hundred miles. North. Hope you make it. Remember—you all have the Flare now. We gave it to you to provide any incentive you may be lacking. And reaching the safe haven means receiving a cure.” He turned away and moved toward the wall behind him, as if he planned to walk right through it. But then he stopped and faced them again.
“Ah, one last thing,” he said. “Don’t think you’ll avoid the Scorch Trials if you decide not to enter the Flat Trans between six and six-oh-five tomorrow morning. Those who stay behind will be executed immediately in a most … unpleasant manner. Better off taking your chances in the outside world. Good luck to all of you.”
With that he turned away and once again started inexplicably walking toward the wall.
But before Thomas could see what happened, the invisible wall separating them started to fog up, whitening to an opaque blur in a matter of seconds. And then the whole thing disappeared, once again revealing the other side of the common area.
Except there was no sign of the desk and its chair. And no sign of Rat Man.
“Well, shuck me,” Minho whispered next to Thomas.
CHAPTER 12
Once again, the Gladers’ questions and arguments filled the air, but Thomas left. He needed some space and knew the bathroom was his only escape. So instead of heading to the boys’ dorm, he went to the one Teresa, then Aris, had used. He leaned back against the sink, arms folded, staring at the floor. Luckily, no one had followed him.
He didn’t know how to begin processing all the information. Bodies hanging from the ceiling, reeking of death and rot, then gone completely in a matter of minutes. A stranger—and his desk!—appear out of nowhere, with an impossible shield protecting them. Then they disappear.
And these were by far the least of their worries. It was clear now that the rescue from the Maze had been a sham. But who were the pawns WICKED had used to pull the Gladers from the Creators’ chamber, put them on that bus and bring them here? Had those people known they were going to be killed? Had they even really been killed? Rat Man had said not to trust their eyes or their minds. How could they believe anything ever again?
And worst of all, this stuff about them having the Flare disease, about the Trials earning them a cure …
Thomas squeezed his eyes closed and rubbed his forehead. Teresa had been taken from him. None of them had families. The next morning they were supposed to start some ridiculous thing called Phase Two, which by the sound of it was going to be worse than the Maze. All those crazy people out there—the Cranks. How would they deal with them? He suddenly thought of Chuck and what he might say if he were there.
Something simple, probably. Something like, This sucks.
You’d be right, Chuck, Thomas thought. The whole world sucks.
It had only been a few days since he’d seen his friend get stabbed in the heart; poor Chuck had died as Thomas held him. And now Thomas couldn’t help but think that as horrible as it was, maybe that had been the best thing for Chuck. Maybe death was better than what lay ahead. His mind veered toward the tattoo on his neck—
“Dude, how long’s it take to drop a load?” It was Minho.
Thomas looked up to see him standing in the doorway to the bathroom. “I can’t stand it out there. Everyone talking over everybody else like a bunch of babies. Say what they want, we all know what we’re gonna do.”
Minho walked over to him and leaned his shoulder against the wall. “Ain’t you Mr. Happy? Look, man, those shanks out there are just as brave as you are. Every last one of us will go through that … whatever he called it … tomorrow morning. Who cares if they wanna crack their throats yappin’ about it?”
Thomas rolled his eyes. “I never said jack about me being braver than anybody. I’m just sick of hearing people’s voices. Yours included.”
Minho snickered. “Slinthead, when you try to be mean, it’s just freaking hilarious.”
“Thanks.