The bowling alley was hot.
And it stank. It stank to high heaven—something his mom used to say. Usually in regards to his bedroom. No matter how much he pushed his dirty clothes and socks into the deepest reaches of the closet, the stench always wafted out when his mom walked into that room. He’d then say she attracted such things like moth to a flame, like fingers to a booger, just to make his sister laugh.
He laughed right then, in the present day, no sister in sight, a nice belt of a chortle that made everyone within 20 feet give him a wary look. That made him laugh even harder. Jonesy, his new bodyguard, greasy hair still greasy, gave him a courtesy chuckle of his own, though he couldn’t possibly know what had set Newt off.
A few days had passed since Newt’s headache. Since Keisha had agreed to his plan. Since a few memories of his family had come back to haunt him, as much of it written in his journal as possible. He kept the thing with him at all times, tucked into various pockets, some homemade.
But Newt was starting to… slip.
To slip into an abyss.
The abyss.
He couldn’t deny it anymore. His mind… jittered, now. It quaked. The bloody thing had the bloody palsy. Keeping his thoughts still amongst all that squishy commotion had become tougher with every passing hour of every passing day. His hold on reality was loosening, in both the here and now and in that beautiful, painful, remembered past, loosening with each hour that ticked on by with no remorse.
But for the moment, he only had one thing to hold onto. And that was enough.
He sat on the far left lane of the old alley, where the crowd was sparse, staring at the fires that roared in the pin caves, a long row of them, like teeth of flames. He had the Launcher cradled in his lap—he’d had to take it back from a guard three times already, each one successively with a little more violence. He thought they’d pretty much leave him alone after what had happened that morning. As Newt had joked when one of the women in the alley saw him all scratched up—”You should’ve seen the other guys.”
He sat. And pondered. Wrote in his journal. Rested. Tried to contain his excitement for the big plan tomorrow.
“Hey, Newt!” He didn’t answer. He never answered. People bugged him all the time—“all the time” being a relative term considering he’d only been there a few days—and he’d found that if it was something important they’d actually come up to him. So he kept quiet, mostly. He was the closest thing to famous they had in the Crank Palace.
“Newt, man!” Someone nudged him on the shoulder.
He turned around.
Jonesy stood there with two of the Munie guards—the short fat one and the tall dude with the mustache. All of the guards were on highest alert because of the small riot that morning, and they knew that part of keeping the peace now included playing it cool with Newt and his cronies. Newt liked to think of them as cronies. He’d always wanted cronies.
“What’s going on?” Newt asked. Maybe they’d decided to arrest him.
The short guy answered. He was always the first one to open his trap.
“Some people are here to see you,” he said. Every word he ever uttered showed just how much he hated his job—like each syllable was a stone to be lifted.
Newt sighed. “Tell them what I tell everyone else. No stories about the Maze, no stories about WICKED, no stories about anything. I’m an un-storyteller.”
“I’m not gonna sit here and argue with you, Mr. God-Almighty. They paid me to deliver a message and that’s why I did. I don’t give a rat’s patooty whether you see them or not.”
“Paid you?” Jonesy asked. “People are paying to see him, now?” There was a hint of regret in his voice, as if their planned escape with Keisha might prevent him a golden business opportunity.
“They came here in a Berg,” Tall Mustache said. “They’re not your typical lowlife Cranks.”
Newt didn’t hear the last few words. All he heard was “Berg.” After that a roaring sound buzzed in his ears. The bowling alley tilted before his eyes. Nausea swam up his gut, up his throat. He had to swallow back some bile.
He composed himself. “What do you mean they came here in a Berg? What…”
He wanted it to be true. He wanted it not to be true.
“Exactly what part of that sentence did you not understand?” Short and Fat said. “Now do you want to see them or not? Yes or no?”
“Did they give you any names?” Newt asked, stalling more than anything. He knew the answer before they were spoken, almost as if he were manipulating the guard’s mouth as he answered.
“Thomas… Minho… Brenda, I think. Some other guy who was the pilot.”
Newt had spent several days building himself back up, even as he felt his mind slipping. He’d solidified his little security group with Jonesy and his cronies—sounded like a damn rock band in the old world—he’d gotten used to a post-Thomas, post-WICKED life, planned an escape, settled on short-term goals to wrap up his life. That very morning he’d willingly and almost gleefully taken part in a riot, the recipient of only one or two less punches than he’d given. It had felt great, exhilarating, intoxicating. Tomorrow they were going on the last and great adventure of their lifetimes.
And this stupid, petulant, arrogant guard who barely came to Newt’s chest had just taken it all away with a few words. Why? Why would Tommy come here? What would it take for him to leave Newt alone, to let him deal with having the Flare in the way he needed? Newt had finally come to terms, finally felt whole. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone?
“Hey!” the guard yelled, snapping Newt out of his frustrated line of thoughts. “Yes or no? What’s wrong with you? You’ve got three seconds to answer.”
Newt couldn’t. He simply couldn’t. It would break him, shatter him once and for all.
“No,” he replied in as firm a voice as he could muster. “Tell them I said to get lost.”
“You’re su—” Tall Mustache started to say.
“ NO !” Newt screamed. “Don’t let them come near me! Ever!”
Lights swam before his eyes. He expected a retaliation, the butt of a Launcher slammed into his face, or worse. But he had taken them by surprise, preempted any normal response they may have chosen.
Without saying a word, the short guard and his tall, hairy-lipped friend left the bowling alley.
Newt closed his eyes and tried not to see Tommy in the darkness of his mind. Tried not to see Minho. Tried not to see Jorge or Brenda, Teresa or Alby, Gally or Chuck.
He saw them all.
