The Scorch Trials - James Dashner [27]
“Hey!” he called out, ignoring the sudden burst of panic in his own voice. “You guys—”
Before he could finish, he stumbled on something and fell over, crashing on top of a squirming body.
“Ow!” the person yelled, pushing Thomas off. It was all he could do to hold tight to the water bag.
“Everyone be still and shut up!” This was Minho, and the relief that washed through Thomas almost made him shout for joy. “Thomas, was that you? Are you in here?”
“Yes!” Thomas regained his feet, blindly feeling around him to make sure he didn’t bump into someone else. He felt nothing but air, saw nothing but black. “I was the last one to come through. Did everyone make it?”
“We were lining up and counting off nice and easy till you came stumbling through like a doped-up bull,” Minho responded. “Let’s do it again. One!”
When no one said anything, Thomas yelled, “Two!”
From there, the Gladers counted off until Aris went last and called out, “Twenty.”
“Good that,” Minho said. “We’re all here, wherever here is. Can’t see a shuck thing.”
Thomas stood still, sensing the other boys, hearing their breaths, but scared to move. “Too bad we don’t have a flashlight.”
“Thanks for stating the obvious, Mr. Thomas,” Minho replied. “All right, listen up. We’re in some kind of hallway—I can feel the walls on both sides, and as far as I can tell, most of you are to my right. Thomas, where you’re standing is where we came in. We better not take any chances of accidentally going back through the Flat Trans thingamajiggy, so everyone follow my voice and come toward me. Not much choice but to head down this way and see what we find.”
He’d started moving away from Thomas as he said those last few words. The whispers of shuffling feet and rustling packs against clothes told him that the others were following. When he sensed that he was the last one remaining, and that he wouldn’t step on anybody again, he moved slowly to his left, reaching his hand out until he felt a hard, cool wall. Then he walked after the rest of the group, letting his hand slide along the wall to keep his bearings.
No one spoke as they moved forward. Thomas hated that his eyes never adjusted to the darkness—there wasn’t even the slightest hint of light. The air was cool, but smelled like old leather and dust. A couple of times he bumped into the person directly in front of him; he didn’t even know who it was because the boy didn’t say anything when they collided.
On and on they went, the tunnel stretching ahead without ever turning to the left or right. Thomas’s hand against the wall and the ground below his feet were the only things that kept him tied to reality or gave him a sense of movement. Otherwise, he would’ve felt as if he were floating through empty space, making no progress whatsoever.
The only sounds were the scrapes of shoes on the hard concrete floor and occasional snatches of whispers between Gladers. Thomas felt every thump of his heart as they marched down the endless tunnel of darkness. He couldn’t help but remember the Box, that lightless cube of stale air that had delivered him to the Glade; it had felt much like this. At least now he had a portion of solid memory, had friends and knew who they were. At least now he understood the stakes—that they needed a cure and would probably go through awful things to get it.
A sudden burst of intense whispering filled the tunnel, seemed to come from above. Thomas stopped dead in his tracks. It hadn’t been from any of the Gladers, he was sure of it.
From up ahead, Minho shouted for the others to halt. Then, “Did you guys hear that?”
As several Gladers murmured yeses and started asking questions, Thomas tilted his ear toward the ceiling, straining to hear something beyond those voices. The flash of whispering had been quick, just a few short words that had sounded as if they came from a very old and very sick man. But the message had been completely indecipherable.
Minho shushed everyone again, telling them to