The Scorch Trials - James Dashner [91]
But they hadn’t until now. How many people had died in the last few days while WICKED stood by and watched? And why did that change for Thomas, just because he’d been shot by a rusty bullet?
It was too much to think about.
Once freed, he got to his feet and stretched out his muscles, refusing to acknowledge the second volley of questions flung his way. The day was hot, brutally hot, and as he stretched, he realized that he felt no pain other than the slightest of aches in his shoulder. He looked down to see that he was wearing fresh clothes, and that there was the bulge of a bandage under the left sleeve of his shirt. But his thoughts immediately went to something else.
“What are you guys doing out in the open? Your skin is gonna bake!”
Minho didn’t answer, just pointed at something behind him, and Thomas looked to see a very shabby hut. It was made out of dry wood that seemed like it might crumble to pure dust at any second, but it was big enough to provide shelter for everyone there.
“We better get back under that thing,” Minho said. Thomas realized that they must’ve run out just to see him delivered from the huge flying … Berg? Jorge had called it a Berg.
The group trekked over to the shelter; Thomas told them a dozen times that he’d explain everything from beginning to end once they were settled. Brenda found him, walked right next to him. But she didn’t offer her hand, and Thomas felt an uneasy relief. She also didn’t say anything, and neither did he.
The miserable city of the Cranks lay a few miles distant, huddling in all its decay and madness to the south. No sign of the infected people anywhere. To the north, the mountains loomed now, only a day or so away. Craggy and lifeless, they sloped up higher and higher until they ended in jagged brown peaks. Harsh cuts in the rock made the whole range appear as though a giant had hacked at it with a massive axe for days and days, letting out all its giant frustration.
They reached the shelter, the wood dry as rotted bone. It looked as if it had stood there for a hundred years—maybe built by a farmer in the days before the world was ravaged. How it had withstood everything was a complete mystery. But one flick of a match and the thing would probably burn down in three seconds.
“All right,” Minho said, pointing to a spot in the far end of the shade. “You sit there, get yourself all nice and comfy and start talking.”
Thomas couldn’t believe how good he felt—just a dull ache in his shoulder. And he didn’t think he had any trace of drugs in him anymore. Whatever doctors WICKED had unleashed on him had been brilliant at what they did. He took a seat and waited for everyone to get situated in front of him, sitting cross-legged on the hot and dusty ground. He was like a schoolteacher readying to give a lesson—a blurry flash from his past.
Minho was the last to take a seat, right next to Brenda. “Okay, tell us about your adventures with the aliens in their big bad spaceship.”
“You sure about this?” Thomas asked. “How many days left to get over those mountains, to the safe haven?”
“Five days, dude. But you know we can’t go tramping around in this sun with nothing to protect us. You’re gonna talk, then we’re gonna sleep, then we’re all gonna bust our humps walking all night. Get on it.”
“Good that,” Thomas said, wondering what they’d been doing while he was away, but realizing it didn’t matter all that much. “Save all your questions till the end, children.” When not a single person laughed, or even smiled, he coughed and hurried on. “It was WICKED that came and got me. I kept passing out, but they took me to some doctors who totally fixed me up. I heard them saying something about how it wasn’t supposed to happen, how the gun had been a factor they hadn’t expected. The bullet set off