An..."Experience" in the Scorch
The Gladers were standing in a single file line, similar to when they had walked through the ominous, underground hallway which had marked the beginning of their unimaginably ruthless, horrendous trip that had put their lives on the line—from the start. Each Glader was facing the mountains that loomed before them from afar.
Minho broke the seemingly sullen silence, doing his usual job of giving out orders.
"Alright, fellow shanks," Minho announced, rubbing his hands together as he curtly spat on an deceased Crank, his readiness for whatever unimanageable and unpredictable obstacled WICKED would send their way palpable, "it doesn't look like there's much left of this shuck city that we could find to be potentially useful, so we might as well bust this joint and book it sooner or later. Oh, and while we're at it, I think it's safe to say that most of us probably think it'd be a good idea if we—"
"Well, aren't we looking ready and raring to go? Mhmmm?"
Everyone instinctively spun around; Blondie stood there, his irises locked menacingly on the group of Gladers. He was about standing about two yards away from the Glader who was at the back of the line. But that wasn't even the worst part. Not his presence, not his hostile, sudden appearance.
He had a sniper.
It was long, slick and shiny, seeming to reflect off of any source of light it came across. Stamped across it's muzzle was "lmao 420 blaze it." It's business end looked just about as deadly as anything they'd come across in the city—in fact, it was almost as if the trigger was begging to be pulled, begging to acquire a target.
It was aimed directly at the row of lined-up Gladers.
Before anyone could physically or mentally respond, Blondie hopped into the air; his seeemingly feral grip on the sniper didn't falter in the slightest.
And then somehow, miraculously, even, he spinned while airborne, the sniper moving, too. Before anyone knew it, Blondie had done a full 360—with a sniper in his arms. His feet were on the verge of making contact with the ground again; gravity had kicked in, beginning to do its job.
But right before he did land, he guffawed a series of bizarre words—almost too bizarre to be properly computed altogether. But by the looks of it, every Glader had heard what he'd said, only making the experience all the more horrifying, given the fact that the sniper was pointed back at its initial targets—the Gladers.
"LEM-A-O FOUR TWENTY BLAZE IIIIIIIIIIIIT!"
Then—then—he pulled the trigger.
Pure pain ripped across everyone's chest.
Except...
Except for Thomas.
He'd just rounded a corner when he spotted Blondie, his friends and their deceased bodies strewn across the ground, each puddle of blood conversing with one another, seemingly attempting to creat an even bigger puddle.
And then Blondie, with the sniper, stood there for what seemed like five-hundred eternities; it was only half a second.
And then, things got bad. Real, real, real, bad.
Thomas was barely half complete with processing the horrific scene before him when a group of girls rounded the corner, all wielding vicious weapons.
In unison, they charged towards Thomas at terrifying speeds.