The labyrinth rises up before us, just as real as we remember. Looming. Terrifying. Some of the men behind me shrink back in alarm, overwhelmed at once by the power and enormity of the thing. They put kids in there. Kids our age, maybe younger.
The general consensus seems to be the same. They trade bits of description behind me - some more colorful than others - and one overly enthusiastic cry emerges from the cluster of murmurs and guarded hums.
"Fuck's sake, it's massive."
I whip my head around and search out the idiot that raised his voice. "Shut your fucking trap, boot, or I'll shovel it full of sand."
A couple of the older guys snicker amongst themselves. The kid goes quiet and adjusts his shoulders as if to evenly distribute the weight of his own shame.
Satisfied with the ranks shuffled back into order, I turn to face the Maze once again. My feet burrow into scorched pliant earth. It's still warm, full of sun beam, and I try to remember the last time I felt the sun on my face. It burns the second it touches you. Makes your skin bubble and the blood froth in your veins. The most we see of daylight are the first ragged gray edges of dawn just before it breaks on the horizon.
Somewhere, in the back of my head, I realize I've drifted off. I pull myself back into my own body and shake what's left of the hazy images out of my head. It's dangerous to lose focus. One always taught me to look sharp, stay in the moment, and never, ever let your guard down. Most important, that one. All you have shielding you from the rest of the world is vigilance and a loaded weapon.
I haven't seen One in weeks. He's been moving in and out of the ranks, gathering information and setting plans in motion.
Our job has been to bolster morale. And wait.
It feels like we've been waiting for years. Collecting manpower, weapons, drawing up maps and strategies we'd composed from air raids, scoping out the perimeter, direct infiltration into WICKD itself. They never knew we were coming. We melted into the background of their scheme, wearing their starch-white conformity like a disguise. Now that we had a fair idea of just how big this place was, what to expect, we were ready to make our move.
The Trials end now.
Under cover of darkness, our meager forces assemble quickly and without sound. First has set the number somehwere between a hundred and one thirty five. Sand shifts beneath their slim, leather booted feet and echoes through the gauzy hush. Many have switched off their safeties and tied black cloth masks over their faces in order to avoid being identified on camera. Once we're inside, we face unseen enemies as well as those monstrosities the Gladers call Grievers– cameras, booby traps, the list goes on for ages. But we have one clear objective to guide us through the muddle of chaos and deadly peril –reach the epicenter, a grassy opening of land where the subjects live which they call the Glade.
One has split us into four different squadrons, each equipped with canteens, rations, semi-automatic weapons and one skilled, experienced commandment. Orders are simple – take out cameras. Find the Glade. Avoid Grievers. And most importantly - save as many boys as we can.
I've been put in charge of Four, no surprise there. Twelve to each squad. We've been awaiting orders for the last hour, the most arduous sixty minutes we've suffered through since our run-in with particularly aggresivve Cranks at the Palace. Wordlessly, I sign to the men to switch to full magazines, toggle their safeties off, and be ready to haul ass as soon as our guys from WICKD arrive with the map.
"Torches off," I add as an afterthought. "We're on light discipline until we get inside."
If we're fortunate, we'll have three hours to find the epicenter and gather the subjects. WICKD will not remain blind for long. They are always watching.
We wait restlessly. When you're used to always moving, always being on the tip of your toes, it feels strange, almost unnatural to stand in one place for too long. Waiting is the hard part. We've been conditioned to push as hard as we can through the worst imaginable scenario. Blistering heat. Biting cold. Insurmountable obstacles, in which the chances of survival are slim to none. We're used to the scorching heat of battle that leaves blisters on our feet and in between our fingers. It's what we do.
Standing around, aimless, letting the exhaustion and hunger and nerves catch up to you and set an ache deep in your bones…it's the last thing we remember how to do.
One waves me, Two, and Three over without ceremony. I shoulder the weapon hanging like a dead weight in my hands and signal to my second in command. He returns the gesture – confirmation that he's received my command - and I take off across the length of sand lying gray beneath the patchy sky. The moon is missing tonight, hidden behind a wall of clouds crowding together on the western horizon. These are ideal conditions, the kind we'd hoped for during the first phases of organization. It's a comforting thought, but not enough to quell the ballooning panic in my stomach.
A group of men are hovering in a small, tight circle, two of them pointing and gesturing enthusiastically at a map. By the time I reach them, I can discern their whispers that seem to blare through the empty desert –
"Sections one, three, and five are chalk full of 'em. These areas seem to be where the things are let loose so have your men avoid them as best they can."
One eyes the map closely. On first glance, it looks like he's somewhere else, his expression absent and sagging with exhaustion at its edges. Only his infamously sharp gaze remains intact. "What are they?"
"We don't know. They're man-made. Evil bastards. Semi-automatic might not be enough to take them down. Launchers might."
"We don't have launchers. All we got is semi's. They'll make do."
One turns his head to look at me, the lines carved around his mouth deepening in the gloom. "Four, your squad is leading the assault. As soon as we infiltrate the outer perimeter, we're sending you in - the more men we can spare, the better, so don't make me send in First or Second after you.
The fastest way through looks to be sections five and seven. Avoid one, three, and five at all costs. We're closest to seven – goes straight through to the entrance to the Glade if you don't stray from the path. Radio in your position every half hour, on the dot, and report any sightings of these – things. Main objective is to get those kids out of there. WICKD will have found us out before long. We've gotta move fast."
"Yes, sir," I reply. "These things, sir - "
"Like I told you, Four. Don't engage. Take it down with one shot if you can. Aim for the head, it's the only component of the bastard that's organic. Remember the objective. We go live in ten. Stay sharp."
"Yes, sir."
He salutes me with stern precision, seemingly untouched by the excitement of the mission that has seemed to infect the others. I'm not altogether surprised. One has been doing this for as long as I can remember.
Nervously, I return it, taking in a shaky breath to steel my nerves.
"Good luck, Four." He offers me an affectionate wink. "You'll need it."
I take long strides on the way back to my squadron. They all wait expectantly – necks craned, chins crooked upward, standing on the tips of their toes as if they're ready to bolt. I nod curtly at my number two. He receives it with a gesture of understanding as before and turns around, whispering orders to the others.
Shouts issue from the man-made opening at the partition. We've made it in.
I flick the safety off and join my men – they eagerly follow behind in calm, orderly fashion…
Even as we knowingly walk into the hands of death itself.