The Scorch Trials - James Dashner [87]
“Hey, Thomas!” Minho was yelling at him. “Dude, wake up! We’re leaving!”
Several Gladers had already walked through the door and into the sunlight. How long had he been out from the drug? A full day? Or just a few hours, since morning? He moved to follow, stopping by Brenda and giving her a little push. He worried for a second that she wouldn’t come with them, but she only hesitated a moment before heading for the door.
Minho, Newt and Jorge waited, keeping guard with their weapons, until everyone but Thomas and Brenda were out. Thomas watched at the doorway as the three Gladers backed away, slowly sweeping the tips of their knives and swords back and forth as they did so. But it didn’t look like anyone was going to put up a fuss. They were all probably ready to move on, just glad to be alive.
Everyone gathered in the alley away from the stairs. Thomas stayed close to the top step, but Brenda made her way to the other side of the group. He swore he’d get her alone as soon as they were away and safe, have a long talk. He liked her, wanted to be her friend if nothing else. More importantly, he now felt about her much the way he’d felt about Chuck. For some reason a feeling of responsibility for her had overcome him.
“—make a run for it.”
Thomas shook his head, realizing that Minho had been talking. Daggers of pain shot through his skull, but he focused.
“There’s only about a mile left,” Minho continued. “These Cranks aren’t so hard to fight after all. So let’s—”
“Hey!”
The shout came from behind Thomas, loud and screechy, filled with more than a hint of lunacy. Thomas spun around to see Blondie standing down on the bottom step, by the open door, his arm extended. His white-knuckled fingers held the gun, surprisingly steady and calm. It was pointed directly at Thomas.
Before anyone could move he fired, an explosion that rocked the narrow alley with a thunderous boom.
Pure pain ripped through Thomas’s left shoulder.
CHAPTER 40
The impact knocked Thomas back, spinning him around so that he fell flat on his face, smacking his nose on the ground. Somehow, through the pain and muffled buzz in his ears, he heard the gun fire again, then the sound of grunts and punches, followed by metal clacking across the cement.
He rolled onto his back, hand clasped tight to where he’d been shot; he searched for the courage to look at the wound. The ringing in his ears grew louder, and he barely noticed out of the corner of his eye that Blondie had been tackled to the ground. Someone was punching the living crap out of him.
Minho.
Thomas finally gazed down at the damage. What he saw there made his heart double its pace.
A small hole in his shirt revealed a gooey red blob right in the meaty part above his armpit, blood pouring from the wound. It hurt. It hurt bad. If he’d thought his headache downstairs had been tough, this was like three or four of those, all smashed into a coil of pain right there in his shoulder. And spreading through the rest of his body.
Newt was at his side, looking down with worried eyes.
“He shot me.” It just came out, a new number one on the list of the dumbest things he’d ever said. The pain, like living metal staples running through his insides, pricking and scratching with their little sharp points. He felt his mind going dark for the second time that day.
Someone handed a shirt to Newt, who pressed it tightly against Thomas’s wound. This sent another wave of agony through him; he cried out, not caring how wimpy he sounded. It hurt like nothing he’d ever felt before. The world around him faded another few degrees.
Pass out, he urged himself. Please pass out, make it go away.
Voices came from a distance again, just like his own had on the dance floor after being drugged.
“I can get that sucker out of him.” This was Jorge, of all people. “But I’ll need a fire.