Admit Defeat (TMR fic 2)

Chapter 59

(today's song really fits Newt's personality~) 

Thomas is dead. He must be. I don't believe that Teresa would spare him, and I don't have any strength left to hope. None of us do, it seems.

We walk as night falls in a tightly bunched group, eerily silent. It ends at dawn. This might be the last night of our lives. Or WICKED might save us. We don't know, can't count on it.

I'm starting to relate more and more to Alby, who threw himself to the Grievers rather than go back to this world.

Just on cue, Newt pulls out his hopeful persona. It's worn and ragged, but the Gladers don't seem to notice how frayed his smiles are. He starts talking and laughing and lifting everyone's spirits.

Maybe they can see how fake it is, but they're ignoring it. Strange.

I can't believe him, but it does distract me. He's so strong. Despite his own raging hopelessness he's managing to pull everyone else out of their misery. How can he manage it? How does he distract us from Thomas's absence despite his own pain?

Then a memory hits me, so fast it's almost blinding. I had a room in WICKED's compound, a room with a window. My cat, my furry grey cat named Sherlock... they took him from me when we arrived at WICKED and they threw him into the forest.

But every day I would stare out my window, and every day my cat would make his way to the walls surrounding WICKED. I would watch him as he sat and waited, waited for me to rescue him.

He didn't come one day, and by the next they had moved me to a different room, one without a window.

Have they taken Thomas, too?

A few of us stumble on the rocks, but there aren't any injuries during the mountain crossing. It takes us most of the night, but when we finally reach the bottom, we're ready to run.

There's a group of figures already starting out across the next section of Scorch. It must be Group B. We ignore them, and start running, heading north towards our hundredth mile.

I'm tired from our journey but running feels good. It's the one thing I always have done. We slow to a jog every so often, but the competition of Group B keeps us pushing forward. They might not be trying to kill us, but we aren't going to let them beat us there.

At one point when we slow, Newt looks over his shoulder and stops dead. I stumble to a stop as well, my feet slipping from the sudden movement.

"What is it?" I ask, turning to look with him.

"Am I wrong," Newt says, his voice baited with hope, "or is the one running like an injured grasshopper Thomas?"

Three figures are running towards us from the mountains. It's hard to tell in the darkness, but I think Newt is right. I spent too many hours in the Maze with Thomas to not recognize his gait.

"Minho!" I call as Newt and I quickly catch up with the others. "Thomas is coming."

Minho looks over his shoulder and nods. "Good. Come on, we're almost out of time. He can catch up well enough on his own."

He seems preoccupied, and I notice how he's scanning the area around us.

That's when I realize. I lower my voice. "No sign of the Safe Haven?"

Minho shakes his head. I can hear Gladers whispering about it, trying to understand what WICKED could be doing.

"Maybe it's just hidden," I suggest. "Like the walls of the Maze at the Griever-hole. We have to keep going."

"There's something over there," Newt says, motioning towards Group B's path. "I see movement."

"Well, come on," Minho answers, his voice tense. "Let's go check it out."

After a few moments I see the movement as well, just to the north of us. It's closer to Group B, but not directly in their path. We angle towards it, sprinting at first but slowing as we get closer.

Group B is still armed, and they've also changed courses towards it.

We reach it at the same time as they do. It's a stick with a long ribbon tied to the top of it. The stick is labeled with clumsy writing: The Safe Haven.

That's when I notice the lack of stars above us, smothered by clouds, and the breeze that won't stop whipping against my bandages, trying to unravel them.

A storm is coming, and the Safe Haven is a stick.