The Scorch Trials - James Dashner [33]
As it flew through the air, the silver quickly formed back into a sphere, its surface rippling for a moment, then solidifying. It stopped just a few steps down from them, hovered for a second, like it was taking a long and lasting look at its victim, perhaps thinking over what had gone wrong. Then it shot away, flying down the stairway until it disappeared in the darkness far below.
It was gone. For some reason, it hadn’t attacked again.
Thomas sucked in huge gasps of air; every inch of his body felt drenched with sweat. He leaned his shoulder against the wall, scared to look back at Winston, who was whimpering behind him. At least the screams had stopped.
Thomas finally turned around and faced him.
The kid was a mess. Curled up into a ball, shaking. The hair on his head had vanished, replaced with raw skin and spots of seeping blood. His ears were cut and ragged, but whole. He sobbed, surely from the pain, probably also from the trauma of what he’d just been through. The acne on his face looked clean and fresh compared to the raw wounds on the rest of his head.
“You okay, man?” Thomas asked, knowing it had to be the dumbest question he’d ever spoken aloud.
Winston shook his head with a quick jerk; his body continued to tremble.
Thomas looked up to see Minho and Newt and Aris and all the other Gladers just a couple of steps above them, all staring down in complete shock. The brilliant glare from above shadowed their faces, but Thomas could still see their eyes—wide like those of cats stunned by a spotlight.
“What was that shuck thing?” Minho murmured.
Thomas couldn’t bring himself to speak, just shook his head wearily.
Newt was the one to answer. “Magic goop that eats people’s heads, that’s what it bloody was.”
“Has to be some kind of new technology.” This came from Aris, the first time Thomas had seen him participate in a discussion. The boy looked around, obviously noticing the surprised faces, then shrugged as if embarrassed and continued. “I’ve had a few splotchy memories come back. I know the world has some pretty advanced techno stuff—but I don’t remember anything like flying molten metal that tries to cut off body parts.”
Thomas thought about his own sketchy memories. Certainly nothing like that came to mind for him, either.
Minho pointed absently down the stairwell past Thomas. “That crap must keep gelling around your face, then eat into the flesh of your neck until it cuts clean through it. Nice. That’s real nice.”
“Did you see? Thing came right out of the ceiling!” Frypan said. “We better get out of here. Now.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” Newt added.
Minho glanced down at Winston with a look of disgust, and Thomas followed his gaze. The kid had quit shaking, and his sobs had calmed to a stifled whimper. But he looked awful, and was surely scarred for life. Thomas couldn’t imagine hair ever growing back on the red, raw mess of his head.
“Frypan, Jack!” Minho called out. “Get Winston on his feet, help him along. Aris, you gather the klunk he dropped, have a couple of guys help you carry it. We’re leaving. I don’t care how bright or brutal that light is up there—I don’t feel like having my head turned into a bowling ball today.”
He turned around without waiting to see if people followed his orders. It was a move that, for some reason, made Thomas think the guy would end up making a good leader after all. “Come on, Thomas and Newt,” he called over his shoulder. “The three of us are going through first.”
Thomas exchanged glances with Newt, who returned a look that had a little fear in it but was mostly full of curiosity. An eagerness to move on. Thomas felt it himself,