Finality | The Maze Runner / Newt ³ ✓

{2.5}

Disclaimer:

Thomas: I think I did okay!

[EXPLOSION IN DISTANCE]

-✼-

A group of two hundred people was crowded in the corridor, unsure of what to do now that their leaders had vanished. I couldn't figure out where anyone was over the chaos and crowding of the survivors. My lack of height didn't help; all I could see were people's elbows, necks, and heads even as I stood on my toes to catch any glimpse of my friends. The environment was overall claustrophobic and chaotic; it made my chest feel tight with anxiety.

"Kid!" a familiar, deep voice called over the murmurs of others. My shoulders slumped in relief as Brent pushed his way through the crowd, pulling me to his side. His calculating brown eyes scanned the masses as if he was looking for something. Even though he wasn't very tall, himself, his intimidating disposition kept people from getting in his way.

"What's going on?" I asked, finding my voice hoarse. I'd done too much running and hadn't drunk any water to make up for the amount I'd lost through sweating and breathing. My short hair was plastered to my neck and forehead uncomfortably.

"They don't know where to go," Brent informed me, snatching Aris out of nowhere and keeping him close as well. "We need to stick together— who knows what these people will do?"

I gave Aris a once-over. His hair was in complete disarray, eyes half-wild from adrenaline, but otherwise, he seemed fairly stable. A few scratches cut into his face from our time in the Maze. Somehow, I found my heart aching for him— he couldn't be older than fourteen or fifteen, and the choices he'd been forced to make were enough to scar him for the rest of his life.

Kids. We were just kids.

Children, forced out of our homes or given up by our deteriorating families. Forced to forget our true selves. We'd been tested, poked, prodded, and primed for an event bigger than we could handle. Some of us had been raised only to be selectively killed off.

It was unfair— so unfair. Which was why, even after all of this, I was beginning to feel glad that the Right Arm was blowing the place to smithereens. I just wished that it wasn't happening while we were still in the building.

The crowd began to move. Brent grabbed Aris and I by the collars of our shirts and pulled us so we were flat against the wall, the rest of the people swarming past us. Several shoulders knocked into my own. Someone tripped over my foot. But we caught the attention of the other Gladers and members of Group B, and soon there was a small crowd of us letting the Immunes go first.

I quickly scanned our group. The only three missing were Thomas, Brenda, and Teresa. If the crowd was moving, that meant one of them had to be leading it, but the fact that I couldn't see them didn't help the nerves that continued to pummel my chest.

Jorge waved us along. "That's the end. Let's go!"

We seemed to move forever. The herd wound through corridors, around turn after turn, until we finally reached what had to be the maintenance room. Tidy rows of metal shelves lined the right wall. The room was stuffy, probably from the boiler shoved in a corner, and I felt my skin turn hot once again.

We only stood there for moments before Thomas pushed his way through the crowd. The relief of seeing him relatively unharmed — except for a few scrapes and bruises — was almost enough for my legs to give out. He'd survived. By some miracle, he had escaped that Griever.