Subject A250: The Flame (COMPLETED)

Twelve: Snail's Pace

A/N: Today my friend was talking about naming her son Newton as a middle name because it's her mother's maiden name, and she said, 'Newton isn't really a first name'. There was a long pause as we both realised we were thinking the same thing and I just started laughing because my life revolves around The Maze Runner. The End.

The sun filtered in through what was supposed to be a wall but was really more like a set of venetian blinds with the number of missing slats. This place really needed a makeover. Almost as much as Gally needed one. Almost, but not quite.

Trace sat up and stretched, a little surprised that she'd actually slept through the night in one go. Never mind, she wasn't surprised at all; Trace loved sleep. Not to mention she'd been exhausted for days now. Mentally and physically. She supposed that sort of thing happened when you survived the maze and went straight into running the Scorch.

How did the others do it without crying the whole way?

Fearing for their lives probably helped motivate them, she presumed. It sure was motivating her.

Speaking of fearing for her life, she should probably keep moving. Maybe if she got to the mountains before the others, she could surprise them.

A thought occurred to her; if she was already on the north side of the mountains, she wouldn't have to climb over them. That would certainly make things easier. She could just meet the Gladers on this side.

If these were even the mountains they were heading to. Maybe WICKED had just dropped her in the middle of nowhere, actually leaving her to die.

No way. They wouldn't do that. WICKED doesn't leave people for dead. WICKED is good.

Trace laughed. Her own sarcasm was getting to be too much. Even for her.

She stood up, tripped a little on an upturned plank and stumbled before making her way outside.

Ah, yes. Very Scorch. Much trials.

The heat was coming down already, and it couldn't be any later than 7am. Why couldn't this be the moderate climate trials? That would be so much better. Just a peaceful walk through a park in spring. No Cranks. No Flare. No blistering heat. Just some trees, squirrels and some old woman doing some weird form of exercise that nobody will ever understand. Perfect.

Trace sighed, picked up her supplies and stepped outside. She wished she could take the hut with her. Like a human snail, carrying it around on her back and slobbering everywhere. She could eat lettuce from people's gardens, leave trails across their porches and be crushed to death on the footpath early in the morning. What a life.

With a reluctant grunt, Trace resumed her journey. Ironically, she felt pretty cool in the hot climate. Not temperature-wise, but definitely style-wise. Not that she was wearing the best outfit imaginable, but she felt like the star of some dramatic music video, wandering through the desert after losing the love of their life.

Ouch, that was a little too real.

She moved a lot slower today, really starting to suffer from dehydration and starvation. She had to stop herself several times from eating dirt or rocks. She'd even convinced herself at one point that rockmelon was, in fact, made of rocks, and therefore rocks were safe to eat.

One bite told her otherwise.

It was mid-afternoon that she spotted the township. Still far in the distance, she could make out numerous houses. There couldn't be more than seven or eight altogether, but it gave Trace a little hope; maybe she could find something to eat or drink there. Maybe she'd get lucky.