The Scorch Trials - James Dashner [55]
Minho took it on himself to answer, doing a great job of hiding his pain. “You admit you’re a Crank? That you’re freaking crazy?”
“He just said he likes the taste of eyeballs.” This from Frypan. “I think that qualifies as crazy.”
Jorge laughed, and there was a definite tone of menace in it. “Come, come, my new friends. I’d only eat your eyes if you were already dead. Course, I might help you get that way if I needed to. Understand what I’m saying?” All mirth vanished from his expression, replaced with a look of stern warning. Almost as if he was daring them to confront him.
No one spoke for a long moment. Then Newt asked, “How many of you are here?”
Jorge’s gaze snapped to Newt. “How many? How many Cranks? We’re all Cranks around here, hermano.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Newt replied flatly.
Jorge started pacing the room, stepping over and around Gladers, taking everyone in as he spoke. “Lot of things you people need to understand about how things work in this city. About the Cranks and WICKED, about the government, about why they left us here to rot in our disease, kill each other, go completely and utterly insane. About how there’s different levels of the Flare. About how it’s too late for you—the ill is gonna catch ya if you don’t already have it.”
Thomas had followed the stranger with his eyes as he walked around the room making these horrible statements. The Flare. He thought he’d gotten used to the fear of having the disease, but with this Crank standing right in front of him, he was more scared than ever. And helpless to do anything about it.
Jorge stopped near him and his friends, his feet almost touching Minho. He continued to talk.
“But that’s not the way it’s gonna work, comprende? Those who are at a disadvantage are those who speak first. I want to know everything about you. Where you came from, why you’re here, what in God’s name your purpose could be. Now.”
Minho let out a low, dangerous-sounding chuckle. “We’re the ones at a disadvantage?” Minho swiveled his head around mockingly. “Unless that lightning storm fried my retinas, I’d say there are eleven of us and one of you. Maybe you should start talking.”
Thomas really wished Minho hadn’t said that. It was stupid and arrogant, and it could very well get them killed. The guy obviously wasn’t alone. There could be a hundred Cranks hiding out in the torn-up remains of the upper floors, spying on them, waiting with who-knew-what kind of horrific weapons. Or worse, the savagery of their own hands and teeth and madness.
Jorge looked at Minho for a long time, his face blank. “You didn’t just say that to me, did you? Please tell me you didn’t just speak to me like a dog. You have ten seconds to apologize.”
Minho looked over at Thomas with a smirk.
“One,” Jorge said. “Two. Three. Four.”
Thomas tried to shoot a look of warning to Minho, nodded at him. Do it.
“Five. Six.”
“Do it,” Thomas finally said aloud.
“Seven. Eight.”
Jorge’s voice was rising with each number. Thomas thought he caught a glimpse of movement somewhere far above, just a blur of streaking shadow. Maybe Minho noticed it, too; any arrogance drained from his face.
“Nine.”
“I’m sorry,” Minho blurted out, with little feeling.
“I don’t think you meant that,” Jorge said. Then he kicked Minho in the leg.
Thomas’s hands clenched into fists when his friend cried out in pain; the Crank must’ve gotten him right in a burnt spot.
“Say it with meaning, hermano.”
Thomas looked up at the Crank, hated him. Irrational thoughts started swimming through his mind—he wanted to jump up and attack, beat him like he’d beaten Gally after escaping the Maze.
Jorge pulled his leg back and kicked Minho again, twice as hard in the same spot. “Say it with meaning!” He screamed the last word with a harshness that sounded crazed.
Minho wailed, grabbing the wound with both hands. “I’m … sorry,” he said between heavy breaths, his voice strained and full of pain. But as soon as Jorge