We were running behind Minho. Most of the Gladers were gasping, trying to gulp in air. Possibilities ran through my head. Good and bad. I had one plan in my mind, but pushed it away. I needed to concentrate on the task at hand, not on what could happen.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Newt's blonde hair. I turned and could see his limping run. I slowed a bit so he could catch up and we ran next to each other.
There were no signs of Grievers. For a whole hour, the sound of Newt shouting, "Hear that, Creators! We're coming!" was in my head, bringing the plan back to the front of my mind. I continued to push it back.
After this hour, we reached the intersection closest to the Cliff. We stopped when Minho held up a hand. Thomas had run up to him. He began to whisper something to Thomas, who had shook his head. Minho peeked around the corner. He jerked his head back.
Grievers, that was the only thing I could think of by the look on his face. I nudged Newt, who was standing beside me and must have heard a whisper from some other Glader, and nodded my head towards Thomas, Minho, and Teresa. He nodded back and we walked up to them.
When we got up there, the first thing Newt said was "Well, we knew we'd have to fight." But the tremor in his voice gave him away—he was just trying to say the right thing. He always tried to do that.
Thomas began to speak. "Maybe they've already taken a kid back at the Glade. Maybe we can get past them—why else would they just be sitting—" a loud noise from behind cut him off— we spun to see more Grievers moving down the corridor toward them, spikes flaring, metal arms groping, coming from the direction of the Glade.
I heard sounds from the other end of the long alley—I looked to see yet more Grievers.
The enemy was on all sides, blocking us off completely.
The Gladers surged toward Thomas, forming a tight group, forcing him to move out into the open intersection where the Cliff corridor met the long alley. We saw the pack of Grievers between us and the Cliff, spikes extended, their moist skin pulsing in and out. Waiting, watching. The other two groups of Grievers had closed in and stopped just a few dozen feet from us.
No one said a word. The only sounds were the eerie moans and whirrs of machinery coming from the Grievers, sitting there as if enjoying the little trap they'd set for the humans. Their disgusting bodies heaved in and out with mechanical wheezes of breath.
Thomas broke the silence by talking to Newt. "Got any ideas?"
"No," he replied, his voice just the tiniest bit shaky. "I don't understand what they're bloody waitin' for."
"We shouldn't have come," I said. My voice sounded odd, especially with the hollow echo the Maze walls created.
"Well, we'd be no better off in the Homestead. Hate to say it, but if one of us dies, that's better than all of us." Thomas retorted.
A long moment passed before I replied. "Maybe I should …" I trailed off and started walking forward—I couldn't stop myself. It felt like when I was choking myself. My feet were uncontrollable. I tried to scream, but I couldn't speak.
"Alby?" Newt said. "Get back here!"
I still couldn't speak. My feet took off running—I headed straight for the pack of Grievers near the Cliff. I felt tears spring up in my eyes when I realized what was about to happen. I would never be able to see Newt or anyone again. I was going to die.
"Alby!" Newt screamed.
I had already made it to the monsters and jumped on top of one. Five or six Grievers had already burst to life and attacked me in a blur of metal and skin.
"Let go!" Newt yelled. I couldn't see him or anyone else. Just the blubber and metal of the Grievers.
"Are you nuts!" Thomas shouted. "There's nothing you can do!"
Two more Grievers broke from the pack and swarmed over me, piling on top of each other, snapping and cutting at me, as if they wanted to rub it in, show their vicious cruelty.
One came in and attacked, causing the world to go black.
My last thought was of Newt, and how we'd never end up together now. Then I felt none of the pain from the injuries I'd gotten. I felt nothing.