The New Horizon ~ A Maze Runner Story

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Thomas puzzled in his makeshift hammock. There was no stopping the curiosity that raged inside of him. He'd been up all night--restless and confused. Wondering where and what the purpose of life was. Paradise was the only place he called home. But it didn't feel very homey--more like one big Glade. Thomas and his friends--everyone who made it to Paradise--had to start over from scratch. Remake everything. Like a huge restart to life. It was their only option. No matter how terribly tedious the daily repetition became, they had to cope with it. For three long, exhausting months. Ninety-three days, according to Thomas and Minho, who had kept track of it all.

They gratefully kept their titles as Paradise's Runners, doing what Runners did best. Setting off on their daily hikes first thing after Frypan's breakfast, exploring the immensity of the deciduous forest beyond them. Minho, just as he had been in the Glade, was bent on re-exploring the already-explored portions of the forest. Checking over everything. Finding new types of plants and berries, setting traps for wild boars and squirrels. Sketching rough maps of the place. Studiously counting each one of the weeks that elapsed. And when Thomas and Minho weren't exploring, they were building.

Huts, animal pens, makeshift tables and chairs, even kitchen appliances--which Frypan had requested--were constructed daily. Messy, misshapen huts littered Paradise like crooked, wooden teeth jutting up from the virgin soil. Along the shoreline, in the forest, and tucked away in the very beginnings of the mountainous peaks, teenagers and adults shared the land, contributing to the construction of the newfound life in Paradise. Farming, building, cooking, exploring--everyone shared the various jobs. And Thomas found beauty in the unanimous helping of one another. Pitching in for the greater good of the world they knew.

But the daily routine never ended; its monotony started to become painstaking to Thomas. Building, chopping wood, securing animal pens, searching the forest. By the third month, it was physically exhausting--and not just to him; everyone shared that unsaid lethargy, as if the thought of staying in Paradise for the rest of their lives had finally hit them like an iron wave. And it bothered Thomas, made him feel like this was just another Homestead in another unescapable Glade. Though he was beyond grateful there were no Grievers. Or worse, Cranks.

Every morning when the sun shone, beauty awakened, sweeping away the fear brought by nightmares. Those beginning months in Paradise had flooded Thomas with memories, whether he wanted them or not, they came, creeping up into his mind as he slept in his hammock. The bad ones being absorbed into his brain like water on a cloth, never being unabsorbed; unable to be forgotten.For the first month, his dreams all revolved around his childhood; sweet recollections of the past, despite WICKED and the Flare. But his memory-dreams weren't always laced with joy. Some were tainted with devastation, plummeting to the ground, dragging Thomas along with it.

For Thomas, nights became cold and dark, filled with dreary images of the dead--Newt, Chuck, Alby, Teresa. An unending, terribly broken record of torment every night. From the Grievers, to the hair-raising Cranks, to his friends' last words. He couldn't handle it anymore. Many nights he'd wondered if this land called Paradise was even a real, natural land. That maybe it was all a virtual reality created by WICKED. The fear of falling asleep, only to witness another round of petrifying nightmares, was what kept Thomas up most nights. And the sleep deprivation became painful, but what was most painful were the mental scars. They never properly healed. And Thomas knew that if he didn't act soon, they never would.

Maybe WICKED has lured us into another trap... Maybe they still exist, Thomas thought that morning. The morning he made up his mind. The notion called to him, it spoke to him, clinging to his skin, rushing inside his veins. He was sick of Paradise. And he was leaving.