Trapped ➝ The Maze Runner ✓

Hunted

Hunted

(Newt's P.O.V)

~~~

I was waiting by the side of the Maze as I always did, tapping my slender fingers impatiently against the scuffed blocks of stone. I could hear the ragged thumping of feet against concrete, and the laboured breathing of someone who'd spent the whole day running. As the runners did.

The runners. I remembered when I used to bear that title, but then the... the accident happened. I cringed at the memories, growling in frustration as I tried to push them to the back of my mind, where they wouldn't bother me.

I snapped out of the unwanted flashbacks as a figure ran past me, and doubled-over, panting heavily.

But only one. Thomas.

He pivoted on his foot, grinning madly, a sardonic comment ready to drip off his tongue for beating Minho... but it never came.

Neither did Minho.

Thomas' expression turned to that in panic, his face contorted in horror.

"Minho!" He cried, his voice riddled with desperation. I stared in confusion, a question hanging off my tongue, when he abruptly darted forward, into the Maze. I made a feeble attempt to catch him, my fingers brushing past his clothes, and found myself following him through the tiny gap in the wall, just as the doors squeezed shut behind me.

Absurd thoughts and panic raced through my mind as I erupted with angry protests.

"What do you think you're doing? Where the bloody hell is Minho? Why... why did you do that? You some kinda bloody shank!?"

Thomas made no response to any of my mutterings. I wasn't even sure he was paying attention; his blank gaze was fixed on the dust-riddled path, bearing many footprints from the previous runners. Runners who'd escaped into the safety of the Glade.

As I slumped down opposite him, a wave of exhaustion rippling through me, he eventually stirred.

"Minho," he muttered weakly, the weight of what he had done dawning on him. "He passed out down there. We'd better get him before the grievers do."

The grievers...

"Passed out!?" I exclaimed. "He bloody passed out?! What was the shank doing?"

Thomas ignored me and I glared at the back of his neck as he began walking away, his movements sluggish. I finally forced myself after him, dragging my leg behind me; the old memories brought forth a new wave of pain, and I winced with every step. You'd have thought I'd grown used to it by now. But the memory still plagued me; always lingering at the back of my mind.

Minho's limp body clung to the walls of the Maze as long entrails of ivy coiled itself round his body. Dark blood seeped from a cut on his head, pooling on the ground beside him. I winced due to the state he was in, and the situation in which we were trapped.

We'd be hunted.

Hunted like deer in a forest, only we're in a Maze. And there was little chance of escape. We had no weapons; none apart from a mere hunting dagger stashed away under my gear. What use would that be against an aberrant mechanical monster?!

"Minho!" Thomas called desperately, his voice rising in pitch to become strangled and distorted. "Minho, come on ya shank! Wake up!" He took Minho's shoulder in a tight grip and yanked him away from the wall.

No response, except a slight twitch of the head.

He began shaking his shoulder violently, making his whole body wrack and tremble with vigour. A moan of protest slipped from his mouth as he stirred; a brief jerk of his head. He was dazed, confused.

"Hey, shank. Just wake up, would ya!? We gotta move before the bloody grievers come," I growled into his ear. He abruptly jolted up, clutching his head where the blood seeped from a long gash.

"What the hell happened?" He muttered, his voice dry and cracked as the dust from the Maze clogged his lungs.

"You tell us! You're the one who bloody passed out!" I huffed and he squinted up at me. My anger and panic subsided for a moment, and I lowered my voice. "Your head okay?"

Minho grunted, still massaging his temples. "It's fine."

Thomas hadn't said a word since Minho had regained consciousness. I turned to face him, and saw he was staring blankly ahead, into the darkness clinging to the Maze walls.

"Hey, tommy. What ya doin'?"

He didn't respond; his eyes were glued to the darkness. I frowned and walked over to him. "Hey, shank. What the bloody hell is wrong with you?"

"Grievers," he mumbled, his voice barely a whisper. Alarm rippled through me; I could hear them now. The steady whirring and clanking, jolting of mechanical limbs and clinking of wicked pincers.

Grievers.

They were coming to hunt us down.

~

man, it's waaaay too early. why am I writing? whatever. did ya like it!?

newt's such an adorable shank! please vote... for him!

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