little immune {the scorch trials} (request)

˜"*°• 16 •°*"˜

tw: d3ath, gore, guns, su1c1de, vomiting

They built Winston a stretcher to carry him across the barren land. Apparently, he'd been hurt a lot worse than they'd thought back when he was attacked by those Cranks earlier. Thomas worried that his problem was more than a bad injury, but he was afraid to find out whether he was right. Either way, they'd all find out eventually.

Soon enough, a sandstorm began, whipping harsh winds and small particles into the Gladers' eyes. They ducked into a small cave-like area of rubble for shelter.

Winston lay on his back in the centre, moaning and groaning in agony. Everyone else sat around, some tending to or trying to reassure their injured friend, others simply just sitting and watching.

Even after the storm cleared, the Gladers stayed where they were. Winston was getting worse; he was barely conscious now. Thomas doubted they'd be able to pick him up or put him on a stretcher without causing immense pain.

Thomas couldn't help feeling guilty for everything that had happened in the past few days. He was the one who got the Gladers out of the Maze, the only home they'd ever had. Still, barely anyone had actually made it. There were only five of the original Gladers left, nearly four since Winston wasn't looking too good. Thomas had also been the one to lead them out of the WICKED complex, leaving them now stranded in the desert with no real plan for what was to come next. Everyone was hot and miserable and scared, plus poor Y/n was only six years old and still having to fight through it.

They were just kids.

Suddenly, the ear-splitting bang of a gunshot coming from right where they were ripped through the air.

Y/n clamped her hands to her ears and ducked down onto the sand while Thomas and the others rushed to figure out what had happened.

As it turned out, the gunfire had been Winston's doing, making an attempt to put an end to all his suffering. He was unsuccessful, though, thanks to Frypan, who just managed to save his life by snatching the gun away. The former cook was so shaken up, nearly in tears as he told everyone what happened:

"H-he just woke up and grabbed the gun and—and then he tried to—"

"Give it back, please," Winston groaned, his voice barely audible. He was on his hands and knees, reaching out for the gun. Then he retched, spitting out black bile onto the sand. The others stared in concern as their friend collapsed onto the ground again, lying on his back and breathing heavily. "It's growing ... inside me."

With shaking hands, he lifted his shirt to reveal his stomach all blue, black, and purple, damaged and cut up. It was so bad, Thomas and the others had to step back and recoil. The worst part was that, as Thomas had suspected, this wasn't just a bad injury. It was the Flare. Winston had the Flare.

Winston took another unsteady breath. "I'm not gonna make it." He extended his hand, reaching once again for the gun. "Please. Please. Don't let me turn into one of those things."

He was right. Becoming a Crank would supposedly be a fate worse than death, henceforth, death would be the better option in this case. The Gladers were left with no choice. They had to leave him behind, let him do the deed himself. It would be hard, but it was necessary. Newt stepped forward and gently took the gun from Frypan's grasp, bending down to hand it to Winston.

"Thank you," Winston muttered, as Newt quickly squeezed his hand. "Now, get out of here."

With great difficulty, the rest of them said their goodbyes. At last, they started across the desert again, walking in a single file line for the most part. Newt was in front, no doubt trying to conceal all his anger and sadness. Thomas was at the back with Y/n clutched against his side, trying hard to blink away his tears.

By the time the gunshot rang out, the Gladers were too far to even see the pile of rubble where Winston's body lay. After all, he'd asked them to leave him. He'd wanted them to go. He knew it would be best for himself and for his friends. But nonetheless, the pain of his death still hurt each and every Glader like a stab to the gut.