The only sounds were the scrapes of shoes on the hard concrete floor and occasional snatches of whispers between Gladers. Thomas felt every thump of his heart as they marched down the endless tunnel of darkness. He couldn't help but remember the Box, that lightless cube of stale air that had delivered him to the Glade; it had felt much like this. At least now he had a portion of solid memory, had friends and knew who they were. At least now he understood the stakes―that they needed a cure and would probably go through awful things to get it.
A sudden burst of intense whispering filled the tunnel, seemed to come from above. Thomas stopped dead in his tracks. It hadn't been from any of the Gladers, he was sure of it.
From up ahead, Minho shouted for the others to halt. Then, "Did you guys hear that?"
As several Gladers murmured yeses and started asking questions, Thomas tilted his ear toward the ceiling, straining to hear something beyond those voices. The flash of whispering had been quick, just a few short words that had sounded as if they came from a very old and very sick man. But the message had been completely indecipherable.
Minho shushed everyone again, telling them to listen.
Even though it was perfectly dark and therefore pointless, Thomas closed his eyes, concentrating on his sense of hearing. If the voice came again, he wanted to catch what it said.
Less than a minute passed before the same ancient voice whispered harshly once more, echoing through the air as if huge speakers were installed on the ceiling. Thomas heard several people gasp, like they'd gotten it this time and were shocked by what they'd heard. But he still hadn't been able to isolate even one or two of the words. He opened his eyes again, though nothing changed in front of him. Utter darkness. Black.
"Did anybody get what it said?" Newt called out.
"Couple of words," Winston replied. "Sounded like "˜go back' right in the middle."
"Yeah, it did," someone agreed.
Thomas thought about what he'd heard, and in retrospect, it did seem like those two words had been in there somewhere. Go back.
"Everybody slim it and listen real hard this time," Minho announced. The dark hallway lapsed into silence.
The next time the voice came, Thomas understood every single syllable.
"One-chance deal. Go back now, you won't be sliced."
Judging by the reactions in front of him, everyone else got it this time, too.
"Won't be sliced?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"He said we can go back!"
"We can't trust some random shank whispering in the dark."
Thomas tried not to think about how ominous the last four words had been. You won't be sliced. That didn't sound good at all. And not being able to see anything made it worse. Driving him crazy.
"Just keep going!" he shouted up to Minho. "I can't take this much longer. Just go!"
"Wait a minute." Frypan's voice. "The voice said this was a one-chance deal. We have to at least think about it."
"Yeah," someone added. "Maybe we should go back."
Thomas shook his head even though he knew no one could see it. "No way. Remember what that guy at the desk told us. That we'd all die horrible deaths if we go back."
Frypan pushed. "Well, what makes him any more in charge than this whispering dude? How're we supposed to know who to listen to and who to ignore?"
Thomas knew it was a good question, but going back just didn't feel right. "The voice is just a test, I bet. We need to keep going."
"He's right." This was Minho from up in front. "Come on, let's go."
He'd barely said the last word when the whispering voice whooshed through the air again, this time laced with an almost childish hatred. "You're all dead. You're all going to be sliced. Dead and sliced."
Every hair on Thomas's neck stood up straight and a chill tickled his back. He expected to hear even more calls to go back, but once again the Gladers surprised him. No one said a thing, and soon they were all walking forward again. Minho had been right when he'd said all the sissies had been weeded out.
They made their way deeper into the darkness. The air warmed a bit, seemed to thicken with dust. Thomas coughed several times and was dying to take a drink, but he didn't want to risk untying his water bag without being able to see it. That was all he needed, to spill it all over the floor.
Forward.
Warmer.
Thirsty.
Darkness.
Walking. Time passed ever so slowly.
Thomas had no idea how this hallway could even be possible. They had to have journeyed at least two or three miles since last hearing the creepy whisper of warning. Where were they? Underground? Inside some massive building? The Rat Man had said they needed to find open air. How―
A boy screamed a few dozen feet in front of him.
It started out as an abrupt shriek, like simple surprise, but then escalated into pure terror. He didn't know who it was, but the kid was now screaming his throat raw, screeching and squealing like an animal at the old Blood House in the Glade. Thomas heard the sounds of a body thrashing on the ground.
He ran forward on instinct, pushing past several Gladers who seemed frozen by fear, moving toward the inhuman sounds. He didn't know why he thought he'd be able to help more than anyone else, but he didn't hesitate, not even taking care with his steps as he sprinted through the darkness. After the long insanity of walking blindly for so long, it was as if his body craved the action.
He made it, could hear that the boy now lay right in front of him, his arms and legs thrashing on the concrete floor as he struggled against who knew what. Thomas carefully set his water bag and shoulder pack far to the side, then timidly reached forward with his hands to find a grip on an arm or leg. He sensed the other Gladers crowding behind him, a loud and chaotic presence of shouts and questions that he forced himself to ignore.
"Hey!" Thomas yelled at the squirming boy. "What's wrong with you?" His fingers brushed the kid's jeans, then his shirt, but the boy's body convulsed all over the place, impossible to catch, and his shrieks continued to pierce the air.
Finally, Thomas went for broke. He dove forward, launching himself fully onto the body of the thrashing kid. With a jolt that knocked the breath out of him, he landed, felt the squirming torso; an elbow dug into his ribs, then a hand slapped his face. A knee came up and almost got him square in the groin.
"Stop it!" Thomas shouted. "What's wrong!"
The screams gurgled to a stop, almost like the kid had just been pulled underwater. But the convulsing didn't ease in the slightest.
Thomas put an elbow and forearm on the chest of the Glader for leverage, then reached out to grab his hair or his face. But when his hands slid over what was there, confusion consumed him.
There was no head. No hair or face. Not even a neck. None of those things that should've been there.
Instead, Thomas felt a large and perfectly smooth ball of cold metal.
CHAPTER 15
The next few seconds were beyond strange. As soon as Thomas's hand made contact with the odd metal ball, the boy stopped moving. His arms and legs stilled and the stiffness in his twitching torso went away in an instant. Thomas felt a thick wetness on the hard sphere, oozing up from where the kid's neck should've been. He knew it was blood, could smell the coppery scent of it.
Then the ball slipped from under Thomas's fingers and rolled away, making a hollow grating sound until it thumped into the closest wall and came to a stop. The boy lying below him didn't move or make a sound. The other Gladers continued to shout questions into the dark, but Thomas ignored them.
Horror filled his chest as he pictured the boy, what he must look like. Nothing about it made sense, but the kid was obviously dead, his head cut off somehow. Or ... turned into metal? What in the world had happened? Thomas's mind spun, and it took a moment before he realized that warm fluid was flowing over the hand he'd pressed to the floor when the ball slipped away. He freaked.
Scooting backward away from the body, wiping his hand on his pants, he shouted but wasn't able to form words. A couple of Gladers grabbed him from behind and helped him to his feet. He pushed them away, stumbled against a wall. Someone gripped his shirt at the shoulder, pulled him closer.
"Thomas!" Minho's voice. "Thomas! What happened?"
Thomas tried to calm himself, take hold of things. His stomach lurched; his chest tightened. "I ... I don't know. Who was that? Who was down there screaming?"
Winston answered, his voice shaky. "Frankie, I think. He was right next to me, just making a joke, and then it was like something yanked him away. Yeah, it was him. Definitely him."
"What happened!" Minho repeated.
Thomas realized he was still wiping his hands on his pants. "Look," he said before taking a long breath. Doing all this in the dark was maddening. "I heard him screaming, and ran up here to help. I jumped on him, tried to pin his arms down, find out what was wrong. Then I reached for his head to grab him by the cheeks―I don't even know why―and all I felt was ..."
He couldn't say it. Nothing could possibly sound more absurd than the truth.
"What?" Minho shouted.
Thomas groaned, then said it. "His head wasn't a head. It was like a ... a big ... metal ball. I don't know, man, but that's what I felt. Like his shuck head had been swallowed by ... by a big metal ball!"
"What're you talking about?" Minho asked.
Thomas didn't know how he could convince him or anyone else. "Didn't you hear it rolling away right after he stopped screaming? I know it―"
"It's right here!" someone shouted. Newt. Thomas heard a heavy scrape again, then Newt grunting with effort. "I heard it roll over here. And it's all wet and sticky―feels like blood."
"What the klunk," Minho half whispered. "How big is it?" The other Gladers joined in with a chorus of questions.
"Everybody slim it!" Newt yelled. When they quieted, he said flatly, "I don't know." Thomas heard him carefully handling the ball to get a feel for it. "Bigger than a buggin' head for sure. It's perfectly round―a perfect sphere."
Thomas was baffled, disgusted, but all he could think about was getting out of that place. Out of the darkness. "We need to run," he said. "We need to go. Now."
"Maybe we should go back." Thomas didn't recognize the voice. "Whatever that ball thing is, it sliced off Frankie's head, just like the old shank warned us."
"No way," Minho responded angrily. "No way. Thomas is right. No more dinkin' around. Spread out a couple of feet from each other, then run. Hunch down, and if something comes near your head, hit the living crap out of it."
No one argued. Thomas quickly found his food and water; then some unspoken communication permeated the group and they set off running, far enough apart not to trip over each other. Thomas wasn't in the very back anymore, not wanting to waste time to get back in order. He ran, ran as hard as he remembered ever running in the Maze.
He smelled sweat. He breathed dust and warm air. His hands grew clammy and gooey from the blood. The darkness, complete.
He ran and didn't stop.
A death ball got one more person. It happened closer to Thomas this time―got a kid he'd never spoken one word to. Thomas heard a distinct sound of metal sliding against metal, a couple of hard clicks. Then the screams drowned out the rest.
No one stopped. A terrible thing, maybe. Probably. But no one stopped.
When the screams finally cut off with a gurgling halt, Thomas heard a loud clonk as the ball of metal crashed onto the hard ground. He heard it rolling, heard it clank against a wall and roll some more.
He kept running. He never slowed.
His heart pounded; his chest hurt from deep, ragged breaths as he desperately gulped the dusty air. He lost track of time, had no sense of how far they'd gone. But when Minho called for everyone to stop, the relief was almost overwhelming. His exhaustion had finally won out over the terror of the thing that had killed two people.
Sounds of people panting filled the small space, and it reeked of bad breath. Frypan was the first one to recover enough to speak. "Why'd we stop?"
"'Cause I almost broke my shins on something up here!" Minho shouted back. "I think it's a stairway."
Thomas felt his spirits lift, but immediately squashed them back down. Getting his hopes up was something he'd sworn never to do again. Not until all this was over.
"Well, let's go up 'em!" Frypan said far too cheerfully.
"Ya think?" Minho responded. "What would we do without you, Frypan? Seriously."
Thomas heard the heavy stomps of Minho's footsteps as he ran up the stairs―it made a high-pitched ringing like they were made of thin metal. Only a few seconds passed before other footsteps joined in, and soon everyone was following Minho.
When Thomas reached the first step, he tripped and fell, banging his knee against the second one. He put his hands down to regain his balance―almost bursting his bag of water―then popped back up, skipping a step every once in a while. Who knew when another metal thing might attack, and hope or no hope, he was more than ready to move on to a place that wasn't pitch-black.
A bang sounded from above, a deeper thump than the footsteps, but it still sounded like metal.
"Ow!" Minho yelled. Then there were a few grunts and groans as Gladers bumped into each other before they could stop themselves.
"You okay?" Newt asked.
"What'd ... you hit?" Thomas called up through heavy breaths.
Minho sounded irritated. "The shuck top, that's what. We hit the roof, and there's nowhere else ..." He trailed off, and Thomas could hear him sliding his hands along the walls and ceiling, searching. "Wait! I think I found―"
