The Extirpated

Chapter 99-Too Late

Of course the silence of grief can only last so long before the world decides to invade.

The crunch of boots over loose gravel doesn't register at first.

I'm still kneeling beside Newt's body, my palm resting over his heart. Inches away from the knife in his chest. His skin is already cooling beneath my touch, the warmth fading like the last rays of sun before nightfall.

My lips are still pressed to his forehead-my silent goodbye, my whispered I love you that never made it past the ache in my throat.

The feet skid to a stop. No longer pounding against the ground.

I force myself to look away from Newt. Brenda's face is the first to break through the fog. She's standing just a few feet from us, clutching the single glass vial like it holds salvation-and maybe, for a moment, she believes it does.

But I already know.

She's too late.

They all are.

Her eyes land on the lifeless figure laying between me and Thomas. The vial drops from her fingers, the Serum rattling inside-useless now. Brenda's breath hitches, and her voice cracks into nothing as she covers her mouth with trembling hands.

"What took you so long?", those are the only words I manage to force past my lips-something dangerously close to guilt and shame crosses Brenda's features. Her dark eyes becoming glassy and red as my devoid stare locks onto hers.

She says something to Thomas, something along the lines of "Thomas, listen to me", but true to his stubborn nature-Thomas peels himself away from Newt. Grabbing a gun that is conveniently laying on the ground beside where Newt lays.

Then the others arrive beside her. Gally, Minho, and Frypan-all breathless and wide-eyed from the sprint. They halt when they see Thomas staggering away from the scene, a gun gripped tightly in his hand, his expression a mask of grief twisted into something colder. Harder.

A dangerous, quiet kind of rage.

"Thomas!" Minho calls after him, voice laced with desperation.

But Thomas doesn't stop.

His shoulders are squared, back straight, as though the pain in his chest doesn't exist anymore. The blood staining his hands, he walks like he doesn't feel anything.

And maybe he doesn't.

Grief makes ghosts of all of us.

Minho hesitates like he might follow-but then he freezes.

He sees Newt.

Sees me.

I don't look at them. I can't. My eyes are still on Newt, memorizing every inch of his face-the faint crease between his brows, the curve of his lips, the honey color of his Flare-consumed eyes. I try to etch it all into my memory like stone so I'll never forget him.

Then Minho falls to his knees.

Gally follows, slower, almost like his legs have lost strength. He sits beside Newt's body with a kind of reverence, his hands resting limply in his lap. His jaw clenches hard enough to tremble.

Frypan collapses last, his body folding forward as he lets out a broken sob. The sound guts me. These boys-they survived the Maze. The Scorch. WICKED. Everything.

But not this.

Not him.

Our Newt. The heart of us. The one who held us together when the world fell apart.

The Glue.

Our Second-In-Command.

Now he's just... Gone.

No final words. No time. No second chance.

Minho lowers his head to Newt's chest, one hand fisting in the torn fabric of his shirt. His lips press tight, shoulders shaking. "He was right there" he whispers. "We were so close".

Frypan sniffles, wiping at his nose. "He deserved better. So much better".

Gally doesn't speak. Just stares at Newt's face like he's daring him to open his eyes and call them idiots for getting so emotional. But there's no punchline coming. No sarcasm. No limpy little snipe. Only silence.

And I'm still kneeling.

Still not crying.

Just staring emotionlessly at his lifeless expression.

I think the grief is too big for tears now. It's hollowed me out completely. I feel nothing and everything all at once.

Minho turns to me, his voice cracking "Rose?".

But I don't answer.

I finally move.

I lean forward and press one last kiss to Newt's forehead, soft and lingering. A farewell he'll never feel, a whisper of love that came too late.

"Goodbye" I breathe. My fingers shake as I pull away.

I don't look at the boys.

I don't explain.

I merely grip the handle of the knife embedded in Newt's chest and yank it out without remorse. My body moving on autopilot as I rise on trembling legs, pain flaring through my thigh, but I force myself to stand. Because I know where Thomas is going.

And if I don't stop him...

He'll die.

I limp after him, blood drying on my pants, on my hands. The world behind me falls into a hush, the boys lost in their own grief, unable to call me back. But I won't stop even if they did.

I have to reach him.

Because Thomas isn't just grieving-he's unraveling.

After losing so many people, you would too.

And the list finally became one death too long.

Chuck.

Alby.

Winston.

Jeff.

Half of the Glade.

And now him.

And in his eyes, I saw it. The resolve. The unrelenting fury that could burn the face of the earth if he let it loose. The need to make someone pay.

He's going to Ava Paige.

The woman behind it all. Behind WICKED. Behind the pain. Behind his death.

And if I don't reach him before he pulls that trigger...

We'll lose him, too.

And I refuse to let that happen. Not after Newt.

Not ever again.

I force myself to move. Limping faster, into the thickening air, into the deepening dark.

All that remains behind me is the sound of three boys sobbing softly over the body of their best friend-and the quiet, unrelenting ache of a world that couldn't be saved.