230.03.15 | 5:01 p.m.
“Come on,” Alby said, leaning down to grab George’s legs. “No use trying to hide this anymore. Let’s get him out to the middle of the Glade and gather everybody. See if anyone knows what to do.”
At that exact moment, Newt looked up, straight into the camera. Thomas leaned back, for a second thinking his friend had somehow spotted him.
Newt cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. “Hey! Whoever sent us here! Send us some medicine. How ’bout a bloody doctor? Better yet, why don’t you take us out of this hellhole!”
Thomas went cold. It was crazy that Newt and the others really didn’t know who’d sent them there. Or even that something called WICKED existed. All they knew was this strange life they now lived at the center of a maze—and that there were cameras on the tips of robot insects running around the place. Only now, it looked like they were going to know all too well about the Grievers also.
It stung me. No one had mentioned anything to Thomas about being stung. It had to have something to do with one of those metal appendages that extended from the creatures’ bodies.
The boys had picked George up—it took four of them because he was thrashing so hard. And the sounds he was making. Moans so haunting Thomas wanted to cover his ears.
The group rounded the small structure they’d started calling the Homestead and headed for the center area of the Glade near the opening to the Box. Other boys—some working in the gardens, some in the farm animal area, others just milling about—noticed the situation immediately, and soon the other Gladers were gathered around George, who was half placed, half dropped on the ground by his very frustrated bearers.
Because they’d been noticed anyway, WICKED had dropped any pretense of not observing and swarmed in with the beetle blades. Various angles of the scene flashed up on the monitors in the room, and Thomas chose the best one—wishing he still had an overhead view—and put the display front and center.
“Listen up!” Nick yelled. Thomas was a little surprised that Alby hadn’t taken charge. “Georgie and I were out in the maze, running the corridors, and he got up ahead of me. Something attacked him. He keeps saying he got stung. Anybody know anything about this?”
“Minho’s seen some kind of creature out there,” Alby said. “Where’s Minho?”
“Still running,” someone answered. “Probably taking a nap in one of the Deadends.”
“It was one of those creatures he talked about, though,” Alby said. “Had to be.”
“It doesn’t really matter what it was.” Nick pointed down at George, who was curled into a tight ball, rocking back and forth on his side. “What are we going to do with him? All we have is a bunch of aspirin and bandages.”
“There was something weird in the cooking supplies they sent up last week.”
Thomas hadn’t seen who’d spoken, but then a tall, dark-skinned boy stepped out of the crowd until he stood right next to Nick.
“What are you talking about, Siggy?” the leader asked him.
“His name’s Frypan!” someone called out. “You’re the only one who doesn’t call him that.”
A few snickers broke out, which couldn’t have been more incongruous to the situation, given the boy writhing in agony at their feet.
Nick ignored everyone, though Thomas noticed Alby throw around a few harsh looks.
“It was in the bottom of a cardboard box,” Siggy, Frypan, whatever-his-name-was, said. “Some kind of syringe, had the word serum printed on it. I figured it was a mistake—somebody had accidentally dropped it in there, whatever. Threw it out with the sausage leftovers this morning.”
Alby stepped up to the boy and grabbed him by the shirt, pulled him close. “You threw it out? Didn’t bother telling anybody? No wonder you wanna cook—ain’t got brains for nothin’ else.”
Siggy smiled. “If that makes you feel smarter. Anyway, I’m telling you now, aren’t I? Slim it.”
“Where’d you throw it away?” Nick asked. “Maybe it’s not broken. Let’s at least take a look at it.”
“Be right back.” Siggy jogged off toward the Homestead.
It only took three or four minutes, but by the time the tall boy returned with a slender metallic cylinder gripped in his hand, George had plummeted from bad to worse. More like from worse to worst.
He’d gone still except for his chest, which moved rapidly as he gasped for air. His jaw had gone slack, his limbs loose, his muscles relaxed from their clenched-state form earlier. The boy wasn’t long for this world.
“WICKED won’t let him die, right?” Chuck asked. “This is just some kind of test. They want to see how everyone reacts.”
Teresa reached around Thomas and patted Chuck on the back. “That’s what the syringe is for. I’m sure of it. They just better hurry.”
She looked at Thomas, spoke to his mind. This is not going to end well.
He gave a slight shake of the head, then returned his attention to the screen. Siggy had given the syringe to Nick, who now knelt by George’s side. The sick boy—the stung boy—hardly moved at all now, barely breathing. His eyes looked empty of life.
“Anyone know how to do this?” Nick called out. “Where to stick it?”
“Anywhere!” Alby yelled. “Just hurry and do it! Look at him!”
No one else even bothered replying, so Nick took the syringe, braced his thumb against it, then stabbed it into George’s arm. The boy didn’t even flinch. Nick pressed the plunger down until all the fluid was gone; then he dropped it on the ground, stood up, and took a couple of steps back. Everyone gave George some space but stayed close to watch what might happen, cutting off Thomas’s view of the body.
“Come on, Georgie,” Nick said, barely loud enough to hear. That and the rustling of a soft breeze were the only sounds in the Glade.
A long moment passed. Teresa squeezed Thomas’s knee, her hand warm through his jeans. She was as nervous as he was.
Then the boys parted, scrambling backward, and an inhuman roar filled the air. George was on his feet, his mouth open, his face stretched in a painful grimace. He shouted in a strained voice, “Griever! It was a damn Griever! They’ll kill us all!” The words came out of him like the percussion of distant explosions.
He suddenly ran at the boy closest to him, jumped on the kid, started pounding on him. Thomas watched in total shock, barely able to believe what he was seeing. Alby and Nick tried to pull George off the boy, but he swatted them away, lunging at Nick with his teeth bared.
“What the…,” Teresa whispered.
George clawed at the boy, drawing blood on his cheeks, on his mouth. Now he went for the eyes, screaming the whole while. The kid under him fought back, screaming as he tried to twist his body out from under his attacker. But George seemed to have the strength of ten men. He pressed his victim down with one hand and punched him in the face. Then he went for the boy’s eyes again, howling like an animal.
It was insanity. As if George had gone from the flu to a full-fledged Crank in a matter of minutes. Other kids stepped in, tried to pull him off, but no one could get ahold of any part of his wildly thrashing body. Thomas saw movement come in from the right, saw that it was Alby, running at full speed. At some point he’d left the scene, and now he returned at a charge.
In his hands, held up next to his shoulders, as if he were a seasoned warrior of ancient days, he held a long, thin shaft of wood. It appeared to be a broken broom or shovel handle, its end a splintery, sharp point.
“Get out of the way!” Alby yelled, his feet thundering across the dusty ground.
Thomas looked back at George, saw that his hands were digging into his victim’s eye sockets, the kid screaming in pain.
Alby reached him and thrust the makeshift spear into the back of George’s neck with enough force that it burst through to the other side. George’s cries turned into choking gargles as his body fell to the side. The kid scrambled out from under him, his hands covering his injured face.
George twitched, moaned, then went still.
Blood darkened the dirt and stone below him.
