The Scorch Trials - James Dashner [24]
“Huh?”
“That’s what the white-suit shank called the thing we need to go through. A Flat Trans.”
“Oh yeah. Must be some kind of doorway.”
Thomas looked up at him. “That’s what I’m thinking. Something like the Cliff. It’s flat, and it transports you somewhere. Flat Trans.”
“You’re a shuck genius.”
Newt came in then. “What’re you two hiding for?”
Minho reached over and slapped Thomas on the shoulder. “We’re not hiding. Thomas is just whining about his life and wishin’ he could go back to his mommy.”
“Tommy,” Newt said, not seeming amused, “you went through the Changing, got some of your memories back. How much of this stuff do you remember?”
Thomas had been thinking a lot about that. Much of what had come back after being stung by the Griever had turned cloudy. “I don’t know. I can’t really picture the actual world outside or what it was like being involved with the people I helped design the Maze. Most of it’s either faded again or just gone. I’ve had a couple of weird dreams, but nothing that helps.”
They then went off on a discussion about some of the things they’d heard from their odd visitor. About the sun flares and the disease and how different things might be now that they knew they were being tested or experimented on. About a lot of things, with no answers—all of it laced with an unspoken fear of the virus they’d supposedly been given. They finally lulled into silence.
“Well, we’ve got stuff to figure out,” Newt said. “And I need help to make sure the bloody food’s not gone before we leave tomorrow. Something tells me we’re gonna need it.”
Thomas hadn’t even thought of that. “You’re right. Are people still chowing down out there?”
Newt shook his head. “No, Frypan took charge. That shank’s religious about food—I think he was glad to have something to be the boss about again. But I’m scared people might get panicky and try to eat it anyway.”
“Oh, come on,” Minho said. “Those of us who made it this far got here for a reason. All the idiots are dead by now.” He looked sideways at Thomas, as if worried Thomas might think he’d included Chuck in that assessment. Maybe even Teresa.
“Maybe,” Newt responded. “Hope so. Anyway, I was thinking we need to get organized, get things back together. Act like we did in the bloody Glade. Last few days have been miserable, everybody moaning and groaning, no structure, no plan. It’s driving me psycho.”
“What’d you expect us to do?” Minho asked. “Form up in lines and do push-ups? We’re stuck in a stupid three-room prison.”
Newt swatted at the air as if Minho’s words were gnats. “Whatever. I’m just saying, things are obviously going to change tomorrow and we gotta be ready to face it.”
Despite all the talk, Thomas felt like Newt was failing to make his point.
“What are you getting at?”
Newt paused while he looked at Thomas, then Minho. “We need to make sure we have a solid leader when tomorrow comes. There can’t be any doubt who’s in charge.”
“That’s the lamest shuck-faced thing you’ve ever barked,” Minho said. “You’re the leader, and you know it. We all know it.”
Newt shook his head adamantly. “Bein’ hungry make you forget the bloody tattoos? You think they’re just decorations?”
“Oh, come on,” Minho retorted. “You really think it means anything? They’re just playin’ with our heads!”
Instead of answering, Newt stepped closer to Minho and pulled back his shirt to reveal the tattoo there. Thomas didn’t have to look—he remembered. It had branded Minho as the Leader.
Minho shrugged off Newt’s hand and started his usual rant of sarcastic remarks, but Thomas had already tuned out, his heart’s pace having kicked in to a rapid series of almost painful thumps. All he could think about was what had been tattooed on his own neck.
That he was to be killed.
CHAPTER 13
Thomas felt it getting late and knew they had to get sleep that night and be ready for the morning. So he and the Gladers spent the rest of the evening making crude packs out of bedsheets for carrying the food and the extra clothes that had appeared in the dressers. Some of