The New Horizon ~ A Maze Runner Story

- 43 -

Thomas tried pushing everything out of his mind that night as he willed himself to fall asleep. The bunk mattress was beginning to ache his back and his pillow didn't help. It was deflated and lumpy. The room echoed with voices; the other inhabitants near his bunk gossiped in slurred voices, obviously drunk. A fight on the upper floor must have broken out because Thomas could hear the yells and stomps resonating from above him. He swore he even heard bottles break. He thought of May who slept on the third floor, startled and flustered at having been woken up to a fight.

After getting hardly enough sleep to sustain himself for the day, Thomas rolled out of his bottom bunk, preparing himself to see Minho any second, dazed and hung over, blabbering on about his crazy night--but Minho wasn't there. Thomas checked the bathroom, but his friend wasn't there either. Thomas just shook his head; what should he have expected? Minho was his best friend, but there were some things that he would never be able to understand about him, no matter how hard he tried. Besides, Thomas reminded himself, he had a meeting at AFA to get ready for. That was what mattered.

Once Thomas was dressed, in one of his recycled AFA outfits, he set out in search of something to eat, hoping while he walked down the rickety stairs of the City Sanctuary that he would see May, get to talk to her, ask her about that fight last night, see if she was okay. But she never ran into him, and he never ran into her. But he did run into someone else.
As he was exiting the hostel, Minho was exiting a taxi. Thomas almost sprinted to his friend, full of a hundred questions to ask him: Where were you? What happened after I left? Why didn't you come back to sleep? What trouble did you get yourself into?
Minho spoke up before he could, "Where did you go last night, shank?"

Thomas studied his appearance; his polo shirt was unbuttoned, collar popped, creased and wrinkled, as if he'd thrown it into a wind storm. His hair was untamed and loose. His face also looked slightly inflamed; intuitively Thomas guessed that was from the alcohol, which he wasn't legal to drink.
"Shank, I asked you a question," Minho repeated.
Thomas snapped out of his staring, "I left. There wasn't much for me to do."
Minho mumbled Thomas's excuse aloud. His voice was off, slightly slurred, though Thomas could tell his friend was struggling to compose himself. He was definitely hungover.

"Well," Thomas sighed, "how was your night? I thought you'd be back here."
Minho clapped a heavy hand on Thomas's shoulder, peering into his eyes, pupils dilated despite the bright sunlight. "That girl, Madeleine, wow--and I mean wow."
Great, Thomas thought, restraining from shaking his head. He knew what that meant.
"Stayed over at her place, it was this huge apartment. . . huge bed, huge--"
"Alright," he had to interject before unwanted details spewed out of Minho's drunken mouth. "I was worried about you. I kept thinking you'd passed out or run into the street or something."
"Slintshuck--shuckhead--whatever," Minho squeezed his eyes close, gathering himself together. "I might be reaping some last repercussions. . . but, I'm still a logical shank. I'm a guard after all."

Thomas just nodded, grimacing at the smell of Minho's intoxicated breath. His friend patted him on the back then walked, struggling to keep from swaying, into the hostel. Thomas watched him, not so much angry as he was disappointed.

***

The meeting at AFA was promised by Doctor Owens to be only an hour and a half, but it was approaching two hours, as Thomas looked at the clock. Hunger rumbled inside his stomach--he had just enough time to get a coffee before he caught the taxi, and he was starving. Assistants had delivered dishes of pastries and breakfast wraps, and Thomas was praying for the meeting to be over. The wafts of buttery pastry and ham were beginning to taunt his appetite.
"Regardless of what the government says, we need to get this cure sent out--not just to the City and British Columbia, but to the world," a doctor argued.

"It's not going to be an easy task, Lauren. They will war against us--it has to be federally approved first and foremost." That was a scientist, and he looked less than patient. Those two had been arguing for fifteen solid minutes.
"William, we can't wait that long," Owens said, carefully choosing her words. "Stan, how are we looking on our vaccine count?"
Stanley, one of the youngest scientists there, spoke without one ounce of uncertainty. "So far our factory has manufactured roughly five thousand. Next week we should have an estimated thirty thousand added."
"But we're still continuing our testing of the vaccine," William continued, worked up, "how can we create so many when we're not sure the vaccine is one hundred percent safe?"

The room went quiet. Thomas could understand his apprehension; everything was uncertain in the world, but if May had been healed, he believed others would be too.
"We have to prepare," Owens said, sealing the tension. "We have to be ready."
"With all due respect, Doctor, AFA is bankrupt as it is. Spending millions more on this vaccine is crippling us."
"But it will all be worth it in the end when we become the official organization to create the cure. This is all about the bigger picture," Doctor Wells said, and whatever complaints William had were discontinued. If only temporary. Owens straightened up her stack of papers and bowed her head at the small congregation. "We will continue this discussion another time. For now, let's remain optimistic. Thank you."

The council members began to excuse themselves, one after the other, and Thomas followed them to the pastries in the back of the room. They left a couple muffins and oatmeal bars. Thomas went with a muffin. Right as he bit into the delectable streusel topping, his name was called.
He turned to see Doctor Owens approaching him and quickly wiped his mouth.
She greeted him, then began to speak, "I know you have been staying at City Sanctuary, but well, since you are part of the council now--a member of this association--I would like to invite you to live at our apartment complex, reserved for AFA officials, of course."
Thomas was stoked. He swallowed some muffin, completely baffled. "Really?"

Owens nodded, reaching at the table to retrieve a muffin for herself. "Yes, I mean it. Though it should be ready in around three days--that particular wing is being refurbished. I apologize."
Thomas couldn't have cared how long it took. The thought of his own apartment was an excitement in itself. Instantly, his mind went to his friends, to those awful bunks they would still be sleeping on. "Could I bring my friends?"
"It's only a studio room, unfortunately. But you're welcome to try and fit one other person."
Immediately, and without a doubt, his mind conjured someone, and he couldn't even restrain himself from disagreeing with his newfound plan.