It was sweltering. Dust was everywhere, in his hair, in his eyes, on his clothes, coating his throat. They hadn't had any water in days…or maybe it had only been hours… he couldn't keep track anymore. Between the merciless sun beating down on them and the threat of WICKED and those things all around them, Thomas almost wished he was back in The Glade. Almost.
I can't let the others see, Thomas thought as they trudged through the broken remnants of the city. They're all following me, they're all here because of me. I have to be a leader. Fuck, but I'm thirsty. They were all thirsty. They hadn't had anything to drink since they had left that abandoned underground compound where they had almost been torn to shreds by the things. What was it they called them? Craps? Cracks? Thomas wracked his brain for the nickname that had been given to those god awful things, while some small part of his brain reminded him that he was just trying to distract himself from his thirst… Cranks! That's it! What a friggin' weird name. Who came up with that? They should be called something like "Motherfucking Scary-Ass Eat-Your-Face-Off Pieces-of-…
"CRANKS!" Minho screamed, breaking into Thomas' reverie. Fuck me, was all Thomas could think as his head whipped around to locate the oncoming assault. He barely had the strength to put one foot in front of the other, let alone fight anyone or anything. This became all the more evident when he was suddenly hit by a solid weight that slammed him into the ground. It was on top of him, one of the cranks, pinning him down, trying to eat his face off…my name for them is definitely more accurate WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU IT'S TRYING TO EAT YOU DO SOMETHING…Thomas scratched and scrabbled at the thing on top of him, he knew he had no chance of getting to his gun because it was safe and snug on his back where he had slung it earlier. Note to self: keep gun in hands at all times, you fucking idiot, he thought as he finally got his legs underneath the crank on top of him and shoved it away from him. It didn't stay down for long, they never do, and as it lurched towards him again Thomas whipped the shotgun over his shoulder and blew its head off.
He turned to survey the scene behind him and found that his companions were not faring much better than he had. Newt and Minho were back-to-back fending off five cranks, though it was acutely evident that they were as worn and tired as Thomas. Winston looked like he was passed out, Aris was standing over his prone form, defending him from another three cranks. Teresa was on top of a pile of rubble, kicking at a crank that was trying to climb up after her. So this is it, eh? Thomas thought wearily as he brought his shotgun back up to aim at the crank attacking Teresa. Maybe she can get away at least, but the rest of us…I guess this is how it ends… He took out the crank with a single shot, met Teresa's eyes and mouthed "run." She looked back with a pained expression, but nodded her head and turned to clamber down the other side of the rubble pile.
At least I got one out alive. His tired hands fumbled with the ammunition as he tried to reload his shotgun. Aris had managed to take out one of the cranks and was somehow holding the other two at bay. Newt and Minho had taken out three of the five cranks attacking them, when suddenly Newt stumbled over a downed crank body and fell into Minho, taking him down too. The remaining two cranks attacked them with merciless savagery, while Aris was finally overwhelmed by his remaining two adversaries. The ammunition slipped from Thomas' fingers, scattering across the ground. I failed, he realized numbly. This is my fault. My friends are dying because of me.
Before he knew what he was doing, Thomas had a knife in either hand, was racing towards his friends, screaming incoherently with reckless abandon…and then gunshots sounded from overhead. Suddenly, the cranks attacking Minho and Newt slumped and ceased moving. What the fuck… but he wasn't complaining, it made his decision much easier. He fell on the closest crank, one of the ones attacking Aris, stabbing and slicing with every shred of strength left in him. The other crank turned to attack him, but another gunshot sounded and that crank went down too. The crank Thomas was shredding to pieces with his knives hit the ground a split second later.
Turning to check their surroundings, Thomas saw another two cranks running towards him and his downed comrades. He slid into a fighting stance with the knives in either hand covered in crank blood. Bring it on, bitches. But before the cranks got within ten feet of him they were downed by a quick succession of gunshots and lay unmoving. Thomas didn't even spare the miracle a thought, he raced to his friends lying in the dirt, threw down his knives and started checking their vitals. Minho, Newt, Frypan, and Aris were all groaning, all exhausted, Minho and Aris had minor scratches, please let them be munies, but they were all alive. Winston was still out cold, but he looked no worse than he was before. Thomas started hauling the conscious ones to their feet and they were all catching their breath when the sound of boots hitting the ground made them turn.
Standing in a puff of dust was a figure who had evidently just leapt down from a ten foot high concrete shelf of rubble. The figure was tall, almost Thomas' height, with the lean build and balanced stance of a fighter. There was a scarf wrapped around the head and face of the figure, various layers of clothes in various shades of brown and tan covered the body, effective camouflage, and sturdy brown leather boots covered the feet. The figure held a dented and battered, yet clearly still functional, sniper rifle in sure, steady hands. That sniper rifle was now pointed directly at Thomas' chest.
"Well," said the figure, "wasn't that a jolly good time." The tone of voice suggested that the figure had found it anything but a jolly good time. "If I might trouble you with one small question, I would just love to know…what the actual fuck is wrong with you all?"