The New Horizon ~ A Maze Runner Story

- 32 -

Thomas spent the entire day alone in what felt like the most barren, devoid room he had ever known. The loss of company and silence that lingered was almost eerie; not hearing Minho's constant commentary on sitcoms as he'd sit there, glued to the television like some sofa parasite. Thomas couldn't have possibly thought he'd miss that, but interestingly he did. When Aris wasn't staring off into the deep space of the unknown, Thomas missed his jokes, as dreary as they were. And Brenda, he even missed the way she'd complain about his continual daydreaming. But, as Thomas concluded, he did enjoy the idea of having the bed to himself; even more than his own bathroom.

When nightfall arrived, Thomas sat out at the balcony, straining his eyes in the distance as he perceived all the wonders beyond AFA. The cities, and where his friends were, no doubt taking in every second of it all; the sights, the smells, the sounds. Everything. He imagined the beauty of the skyscrapers, lit up in the night like beacons of vibrance. The cars. The foot traffic. The people, all Immune--enjoying their new life. And Thomas swore to himself he'd be there soon with Minho and Brenda, and all the others, basking in the freedom that emanated in those distant cities.

Thomas sighed, rubbed his eyes, and checked the time. His overloaded dinner accumulated into drowsy satisfaction, and all he desired after his deep rumination was to sleep. Go under the covers and knock out. So, he did. He sighed in wonderful pleasure of that soft, silken bed. Brenda had it so great, but that bed was finally his now. And he took it over happily.

***

The mechanical click of a gun being cocked resonated inside Thomas's skull. He tugged on his restraints, felt as they dug even deeper rashes into his already-burning, blistered wrists and ankles. Captain Orders shook his head, a nasty, devious smile curled onto his chiseled face. "You're not going anywhere."
"He's right, Thomas. You're not." Doctor Owens said, holding a syringe upright, tantalizing Thomas with it as beads of liquid squirted out from the top, dripping down the long, tapering needle.

Inside, Thomas's mind was swarming with dizzying thoughts, all mangled together in a muddling order. He couldn't grasp onto anything, couldn't concentrate, could hardly even breathe. He'd been deceived. He'd been deceived so badly that it physically pained him. And now it would kill him. Either the gun, hot and pointed for a perfect trajectory into the center of his brain. Or the deadly vaccine Owens held so proudly. Either way, it was a horrifying turn of events . . . And to think he trusted them--

"Smith, get ready to pull that trigger. Thomas may resist."
"With pleasure," Captain Orders replied. That utterly sick expression of his twisting into something even more malicious. Owens smirked. An expression that seemed so out of the ordinary on her once-kindred face.
Thomas kept a steady eye on the guard in front of him. He so desperately wanted to thrash, scream, yell--whatever he could do before he would lose the ability to do so forever. And he pondered which was worse: a fatal shot to the head or a fatal vaccine to his bloodstream. Which was more instant? Which was more painful?

"What a fool you are, Thomas," Doctor Owens said, kneeling beside Thomas as he sat, shaking with tremendous anger. "I hate to admit how enjoyable it was to coax you into letting us take your blood, because now we have it, and now we'll kill you. You don't need the world's glory, we do. And we'll have it--all of it. They'll never know you. And AFA will go down as a savior, not an eighteen year old scamp, like yourself. And we'll be the new WICKED. So, make this easy on us please; it's a task we'll want to savor, and I'd hate to see your head blown off. Truly, I mean that."

Thomas watched, eyes burning with tears that felt like searing acid, heart pounding stronger and stronger with each passing second of anguish, as Owens positioned the syringe at an angle, readying to inject its needle into his forearm any millisecond now.
"Goodnight, Thomas."

***

"Thomas?"

Thomas jolted forward in bed as if electrocuted back to reality. He was trembling, legs shaking even though he was laying down. Soreness pierced his body, as if he had tensed every single muscle for several hours since falling asleep. A bead of sweat broke loose from his forehead and slid down his temples, stinging as it dripped into his eye.
"Thomas, dear?" That voice, it came from outside the door, slightly muffled. It was endearing and light. Doctor Owens. Owens . . . 
"Y-yeah?" Thomas croaked, yelling back in response.

"I have a change of clothes for you. Sorry if I woke you--I wanted to inform you of the subject matter."
Subject matter? Thomas squinted. He forced himself against his own will to roll out of bed and stand on his feet. His brain was so perplexed that he could barely recognize he had already made it to the door. He slowed his breathing--or at least tried to--but his chest was still heaving feverishly. He opened the door. Doctor Owens smiled and it was so surprisingly cheerful Thomas felt his mind fog over. She was a monster only seconds ago. "Sub . . . What?"

Owens handed Thomas the usual black sack of clothing he always received in the morning. He took it, absently, unsure of how to truly bring himself back into normalcy after that petrifying nightmare.
"The vaccine," Owens replied in a low tone of secrecy. "There's an urgent update I need to brief you on."
"Oh--yeah," Thomas blinked, then coughed, trying desperately to reel himself back in. "What happened? How's everything going with May?"

"May is wonderful," Owens' smile was alight with palpable joy. She pulled a paper from out of her pantsuit pocket and handed it to Thomas. "She is one-hundred percent cured."