This is a one-shot for a Maze Runner story of mine that I mainly write for my own personal enjoyment. I figured that since it entertains me then it might do the same for others. In the time-line of my story it is just the prologue but since i've only written bits and pieces instead of going from start to finish as I usually do I don't have another chapter ready yet. Nevertheless I figured there wasn't any harm in just posting it as a one-shot and seeing if anyone might be interested.

I do not own the Maze Runner, all familiar content is from the great James Dashner.

The Last Night

I'm an idiot, i'm the biggest idiot in the world. How could I be so stupid? My legs start to burn as I round another corner, the growls and whoops of a hunt echoing off the stone walls. I look up to see the sun starting it's decline and I think of every curse I know in my head. The Doors are going to close any minute and i'm screwed. The wind sings behind me and I duck throwing my arms over my head as an arrow flies past before snapping as it hits the wall. My heart is racing as I leap over fallen stone, my stomach wrenching as the three day old stitches pull.

I just need to get to the Doors. Get to the Glade and it'll just be another crazy night. I come to a crossroad and dash to the left, kicking up dust and gravel, almost careening into the wall with the sharpness of my turn. The blood rushes through my veins and my entire body is humming with adrenaline, sweat is pasting my clothes to my skin. My heart is pounding in my chest so hard that it feels like it's about to break free. I've never had this many of them on my tail before. They had been waiting for me, it was a trap and like a moron I walked right into it.

The sky gets darker, the screams and howls get louder. They know the doors will close and they'll do anything to keep me outside of them when they do. More arrows whiz past my body, narrowly missing their marks. They are usually crappier shots than this, some of them must still have some of their minds left. I shudder at the thought forcing myself to go faster.

Almost there. Almost there. I chant in my mind, wishing, as though the entrance to the Glade will just appear in front of me. I can just picture it. Collapsing onto the grassed covered stone, the Doors grinding closed behind me. I would still be able to hear them, banging against the rock with their spears, screaming in rage that their kill was taken from them. Eventually they would leave, back to their own home -a place I had only seen once and never wished to see again- and then there would just be silence. I would get up, walk past the empty makeshift village whose huts are filled with shadows, and whose stitched up curtains float softly in a wind that can't be felt.

I would continue through the field towards the forest, balance on the aged and cracked wooden plank to cross the stream. I would reach the grey stone building, surrounded by the dense trees, sticking out like a sore thumb. Twist the large rusted iron wheel, go inside and pull it shut, locking myself in. There, and only there I would finally take a breath, relax my tired body and close my eyes. Only then would I feel safe.

So I run. I keep running as fast as I can, my breaths like barbed wire sliding down my throat. I can't remember the last time I had water, the whole day blurring in my mind as I shoot down another corridor dodging arrows and a haphazardly thrown knife that clatters to the ground. Taunts and screeches follow me, bouncing off the walls as uselessly as their weapons, i've heard them all at this point and with their minds so far gone they don't usually attempt to make up new ones.

It's here. The last turn and I see it. The entrance to my home, the Doors, wide open and welcoming. The hall stretches obscenely long with the dying sunlight and exhaustion that weighs down my every step. I can almost feel a tear threaten to come to my eye and I blink hard pushing myself to keep going. Almost there. A sharp digging pain lights up my entire right leg and I fall, hitting the ground hard enough and fast enough to leave me skidding across the gritty cement. I let out a breath as it feels like my ribs bury themselves into my lungs forcing all the air out of my body. My head smacks into the floor scraping my forehead and jaw. My hands had tried to stop my progress but instead had grated against the stone, digging hard enough to leave trails of blood. My knees bang roughly into the rock, shredding the already abused fabric of my pants and making jolts of fiery pain lance through my entire body.

When I finally stop moving I can't breathe, every part of me aching. I want to just lay here and never get up. I want to close my eyes and rest my body onto the stone, let myself melt and sink into the cracks in the floor. It would be peaceful, relaxing, fitting. I would have spent my entire life in this Maze, the life I could remember anyway. Five years. Five years of hell, and all of it would be over. I could just be nothing but another dead one. It wasn't fair that I had stayed while the others had gone. But then, what was the point of surviving this long if I was going to give up and let myself die only 20 yards from my goal. I have watched them all, every single one faced with this choice. They had all chosen the same thing. That's what makes me different, I keep going. I pick myself up, and keep moving. I sure as hell am not gonna stay laying here and wait for death.

I take a deep breath in, drag my hands back to my body ignoring the stinging pain and pushing myself up. I blow against the ground, stirring dust, making myself forget about the blood pooling on the stone. I raise myself onto my hands and knees, turning when my right calf pulses with fire. An arrow is lodged into my leg, just under the back of my knee. Blood is seeping out, soaking my pant leg a dark crimson black. I grit my teeth, the tensing of my jaw stretching out fresh scratches. I wince reaching a hand back and grabbing the shaft of the arrow trying to move it as little as possible. My arm starts to shake but I steady it, gripping the wood tightly and taking another deep breath. I pull up sharply gasping from the pain before throwing the arrow to the side and clutching the back of my leg that starts to bleed more profusely, turning from a trickle to a stream. I know if I can just get back to the Glade I can stitch it up, for now I rip at the hem of my already tattered shirt and tie it as tightly around my wound as possibly.

I've been on the ground for almost a minute or two but it feels like hours. The hunt is still on and i'm still the prey. I push myself up onto shaky legs, disregarding the agony in every limb. They're closer, the arrow was some form of cruel luck for them, they've never hit me before. I remember laughing once when two horrendously inexperienced archers had shot at me when I had been backed into a dead end and never got a shot even close to hitting it's mark. I wasn't laughing now. I compel myself to take a step forward, my leg almost buckling beneath me and I press a hand to the wall to steady myself.

Move. I clench my jaw and take another step. And then another. The pain is unbearable, the thought of letting those monsters tear me to pieces is worse. I stay standing, getting faster with each limping step. Almost there. An earthquake-like tremor vibrates the ground and I hear the hunters behind me screaming even louder, be it from terror or glee it is impossible to tell. I feel a freezing chill creeping down my spine as I look up from the floor where I had been making sure I wouldn't trip to where the sight of the grassy fields and familiar trees is getting smaller. The Doors are closing and I am still too far away.

A panic starts to set in, shocking my body into action. I push myself even harder, clawing at the wall to keep myself from falling, beating myself into a staggering jog that brings tears to my eyes. I'm so close I can taste it. The safety, the forest air, the bunker that i've made into the only semblance of a home i've ever had. The desk where I keep all my maps, the hammock where I read and re-read the small pile of books that came with some of the supplies. The drawings and sketches that are taped to the walls that are some of the only things that make me smile. All of it, right there in front of me, in my Glade, the one place that the monsters have never entered. And it's slipping through my fingers.

I'm all but dragging myself towards the shrinking entrance, praying to whatever deity that I can think of to just give me a few more seconds. Cursing myself again and again for my stupidity. I'm ten feet away. Eight feet. Five. Three. My fingers can touch the cool rock of the door. Zero. I'm there… they're closed. I flatten my hands and arms against the cold surface, the only stone in the Maze that hasn't spent all day baking in the sun. I rest my feverish head on the surface, my wound protests but I don't listen. My breath ghosts over the stone and I close my eyes.

I lick my chapped lips, biting the bottom one hard before letting out a shuddering sigh. I can feel tears stinging the backs of my eyes but I don't let them fall. I'm not going to cry. Crying means that you've lost, and i'm not dead yet.

I breathe hard running my bloody hand through my hair leaning entirely against the wall. It's then that I notice it. The quiet. It's unnatural. Where are the shrieks? The growls? The animalistic howls and bloodthirsty cheers? I open my eyes, dread making my body go numb. I shuffle my feet on the ground, barely feeling the pain as the adrenaline starts to course through me once again. I ease myself off of the forsaking doors, letting my hands fall loosely to my sides. My head is swimming, willing myself not to turn around, not to give in. All I can hear is my breathing, unsteady and light, as if the faintest sound could make it all come back. I should move, I need to move.

I turn, slowly, methodically, my eyes roaming to the corners of their sockets as if they could disappear into my head and see out the back of my skull. My breath catches in my throat as I catch a glimpse of them. They stand there, staring at me. Shoulders hunched, heads lolled to either side as if disconnected from their bodies. Haggard breaths making their chests rise and fall in stuttering jerks as if they don't know how to breathe right. Like they've forgotten. Some of their hands twitch at their sides but they act as if they don't realize it. Clothing, if you could call it that, hangs limply around their bony bodies, not an inch of clean fabric to be found.

Hair, if they have any is matted and covered in dried sweat and blood. Each of them has skin that is covered in green and black veins of poison, stretched over their bones as if they were being pinched and held back by safety pins. Some sport large gashes, oozing some form of blood, clotted, more black than red, the wounds gaping and festering with infection. Other scars, some old and scabbed over, but others fresh and seeping are smaller, self-inflicted, nails and teeth marks dotting their arms and legs. Their mouths are slackened, open and drooling, rotting teeth and blackened tongues showing, or not showing in some cases. Body parts are missing on a couple. Ears and lips and fingers and tongues having either been cut out or ripped off. One was missing an eye.

It's the eyes that I can't stand looking at. Their vacant, unfeeling orbs. It's where you can really see that whoever they were before, -mother, father, lover, fighter- is just gone. Replaced by something that even if they were looking in a mirror they wouldn't recognize. Something gruesome and cold and nightmarish, that if they could see themselves now, if they could wake up and see what they had become, they would scream. To think that I could have known some of them is impossible. If any one that I had once known was standing here I would never guess it.

I let out my breath, my hand shifting over my thigh, itching to grab the handle of my machete. It's a long shot, more than a long shot. There are eleven of them and only one of me. Not to mention I can barely walk. All of us here have nothing to lose. That makes us all dangerous, even me. But still, i've never taken on so many. And night has fallen, which means even if by some miracle I survived I would still have to watch out for the others, the really crazy ones. The ones that are deemed so dangerous that even those standing in front of me wouldn't go near them. I clench my fist at my side, my heartbeat pounding in my ears, so loud it's a wonder if they don't hear it too.

I am not going to die tonight. The thought shocks me a little, but it also fills me with warmth. I am not going to die tonight. I repeat it and slip my hand over the hilt of my machete. I am not going to die tonight. I pull it slowly out of it's sheath. The one closest to me, apparently the leader from how the others keep looking to him, follows my actions with his dead eyes, as if something in his mind is trying to find the reason, trying to put together the idea that i'm going to fight back. I can feel warm blood running down my leg and into my boot. I can feel the stinging in my hands, my legs, my face. I know that i'm beat to hell, I know that I have no chance. But I made my choice.

"Alright, listen up freaks! I've been in this hell for six years. Been at war with you for six years. There used to be others, but it's just me now. You hear that? Just me! I'm the last one standing. So come on. Let's finish this! I'm sick of this place anyway." A mad, painful smile overtakes the leader's face. I tense, ready. He lets out a strangled war cry and charges.

Let me know if this has piqued any interest! Later, Gladers.