A/N: Hello again dear readers!
*throws confetti* Hooray! Another chapter! (And it's extra long to make up for my extended silence… ;])
On a side note: A few readers reminded me that according to canon, no Glader had ever met with or killed a Griever and survived to tell the tale. I just wanted to note that this is my AU take on how Newt got his limp, as stated in the summary. AU means the story deviates/changes from the original story line.
Bottom line: This story is assuming that Newt and Minho are the only Gladers before Thomas to witness and kill a Griever. Thomas was the first one to kill it and come out (relatively) unscathed.
Capiche?
Good. Don't like it, don't read it.
That being said, on to the story!
CHAPTER 4
Newt's dead weight felt like a sack of potatoes. A very heavy, very delicate bag of potatoes that was. Minho cursed under his breath as he stumbled once more.
"Come on, Newt," he muttered, hefting the limp boy higher on his back. "Just wake up and help me a bit, will ya?"
He didn't expect a reply. None came.
Before starting back to the Glade, Minho had wrapped Newt's bleeding head with a strip of his shirt. Although numerous, the other cuts and scrapes littering Newt's body didn't seem dangerously deep. His foot would have to wait; Minho didn't want to worsen it by setting it wrong. Hopefully, the med-jacks would know how to fix it properly.
Minho swallowed the last dregs of water in his canteen and prepared himself for the trek back to the Glade. He dragged Newt to slump against a wall, then gathering his strength, grasped the boy's wrists around his neck and heaved up. Beneath Newt's lithe frame, the runner was pure muscle. Minho felt his strength falter and staggered against the wall under the dead weight, pinning the unconscious Newt between his back and the ivy.
A low moan slipped from Newt's lips. Minho froze, hope rising. "Newt! You awake?"
No more noises came.
Minho sighed and grabbed both Newt's hands in one of his own, then attempted to shift the boy's dead weight to the center of his back. Newt's head lolled on his shoulder.
"Listen, ya shank," he ground out, "We need to get back home soon, or both of us are dead. Ya hear me?" Minho knew Newt wasn't hearing a single word he said, but speaking aloud helped keep his mind from panic. It was better than screaming, or worse, crying. A sudden resurgence of Griever noises echoing from deeper in the Maze sent the runner rushing down the passageway as fast as he could go with a limp load on his back. Fear and adrenaline pumped strength into his weary limbs.
The trek back to the Glade felt like the longest of Minho's life. He kept up a constant, hurried pace, only slowing down for a breather every two minutes or so. He didn't dare stop; time was ticking. Minho also knew that if he set Newt down, he wouldn't be able to get up again. He'd reached the inner Maze when he felt his strained arms weakening and panicked, sending a silent prayer heavenward. Suddenly, Minho's arms surged with supernatural strength. Glancing up, he thanked the sky and then hefted the blond runner higher up his back again.
"You'd better not die on me, Newt," he whispered between harsh breaths. Newt hadn't stirred yet. Warm, intermittent puffs of breath against his neck and the wet blood slowly soaking his shoulder were Minho's only reminders that he was still carrying a living body, not a corpse. Minho blinked his eyes furiously. "I shucking swear, if you die, I'm gonna bring your sorry ass back here and kill you again myself."
The Maze groaned as if in response. An ominous warning. Minho jogged faster, heart hammering madly in his chest and Newt bumping against his back. They were almost there, only a few more turns to go when a small gasp of pain from his burden startled him. Minho nearly stumbled again, catching himself against a wall before jogging on.
"Newt?" He breathed. "Newt, you awake?"
Minho felt Newt press his face into his shoulder, a whimper of pain escaping his now tense jaw.
Relief flooded through Minho's body. "Bite my shoulder straps if you have to, Newt. We're almost there."
He felt no response from the blond. Minho sighed, trying to blink the black spots from his eyes. Newt'd dropped unconscious once more.
A thunderous creak vibrated through the Maze—the doors were beginning to close. Minho turned the final corner and saw the Glade. All the Gladers stood waiting anxiously inside the doors. Wild yells and shouts of encouragement exploded the moment they saw Minho come into view, the giant stone doors groaning all the while as they moved sluggishly towards one another.
A final burst of adrenaline fueled Minho's weakening legs. He screamed—pain, fear, and power melting into an almost inhuman sound—and ran, Newt's dead weight seemingly forgotten. His feet pounded the stone.
Thirty feet.
The doors continued sliding towards each other.
Twenty feet.
Incoherent shouts coming from the Gladers.
Ten feet.
His vision was blackening; sound was strangely muted.
Between the doors, cold stone only inches away his shoulders.
The Gladers were screaming his name now, he could see their mouths forming words, their wild gesturing, but couldn't hear them.
He was through!
Beneath his shoes, unforgiving rock gave way to spongey grass. His momentum sent him sprawling, Newt slipping from his grasp. They were rolling wildly, no control over anything anymore. Finally, Minho felt his body stop. His mind still spun. Sound no longer existed. Faces above him blurred together. He attempted to move, to get up, to find Newt, but with a final sigh, blackness overtook his mind.
...
Everything ached.
Minho groaned, wishing for that blessed nothingness of unconsciousness to return. It didn't; however, something cool was laid across his forehead and Minho sighed contentedly in the relief it gave. He opened his eyes. Murky twilight filtered in through the slats in the window, giving the room a dusty appearance. He was lying on one of the straw mattresses in the homestead. All his equipment had been removed. What happened? Why was he here? His mind felt foggy as he attempted to piece his thoughts together. Running... running... cliff... Griever... Newt...oh God...
"Newt!" He tried to sit up but fell back when all his muscles screamed in protest. "Shiiiiiiit…."
"Minho! You're awake!" Connor, a young track-hoe with a bright smile and messy dark hair, stood over him, holding a cup.
"Yeah… wish I wasn't." Minho groaned again as he slowly pulled his aching body into a sitting position.
Connor handed him the cup. "Here you go. You're supposed to drink this. The med-jacks already checked you out and said that you're probably really dehydrated and that ya need to drink as much water as you can when you wake up. You've been out for about an hour."
Minho gulped the water down gratefully as the twelve year old continued his chatter. "You shanks gave us a scare ya know. I nearly klunked myself, it was so close. I mean, you guys barely made it through!" Connor poured the older boy another cup of water from the bucket by his stool. "Alby was seriously worried too. What happened? Was it Grievers? Those things are sure scary… I think I'd die if I ever saw one. How'd ya get away? Di—mpfff" Minho clapped his hand across the kid's mouth, closing his eyes against the headache that was beginning to form.
"Just slim it a sec, won't ya?" Connor nodded, eyes wide. Minho removed his hand.
He was on again. "You're really pale, Minho. I should get Clint or Jeff—"
"No," Minho interrupted, "don't do that. Where's Newt? Is he okay?"
"I don't really know, I've been watching for you to wake up. He's upstairs though. Whoa! Where are you going?"
Minho swung his legs over the side of the mattress, pausing to let a bout of dizziness pass.
"I need to help him."
Connor gave him another cup of water. "But Clint and Jeff are up there already. Alby's up there too I think, and Gally. He should be fine."
Minho handed back the drained cup and licked his lips. The lightheadedness had almost gone. His head still pounded, most likely from dehydration, and his muscles ached, but not as sharply as before. He pushed himself up off the mattress, gritting his teeth against the dull ache that pulsed through his entire body.
"I need to see him."
"Bu—"
"Now."
Connor sighed. "Upstairs. Don't pass out. You look like klunk."
Minho gave a sharp nod and stumbled out of the room. The sun had set, and the noises of final chores before the Gladers prepared for bed wafted through a window. Clinging to the walls, he made his way up the stairs. Candlelight trickled around the cracked open door of a room to the right. He could hear subdued voices
"—there's no sign he's been stung," Clint, the head med-jack, was speaking quietly. "He's out 'cause of a knock to his head and blood-loss. Head injuries always bleed more than others."
Alby spoke up. "What about his ankle? Why haven't you set it yet?"
A pause.
Jeff cleared his throat. "Well, ya see, we've never really had anything like this. We don't know exactly what to do—"
Gally's scratchy voice cut across him. "You shanks are the med-jacks though."
"Hey shuck-face," Jeff snapped, "we're just kids too—"
Minho pushed open the door, effectively ending the argument. A brief smile of relief flashed across Alby's grim face. "About time, Minho."
Minho gave a tight-lipped smile and glanced about the room. Jeff perched on a stool in a lighted corner, ripping cloth into strips. Gally was leaning against the wall, arms crossed angrily. He and Jeff were staring daggers at each other in a silent battle of wills. Alby stood at the foot of Newt's cot, and Clint sat dabbing dried blood from Newt's face with a wet rag.
The boys had removed Newt's shredded shirt and pants, leaving him clad in only his boxers. Despite the evening chill, a sheen of sweat glistened on his skin. The flickering shadows from the crude tallow candles lighting the room threw Newt's injuries in harsh relief. Colorful bruises crept across Newt's chest like a storm cloud; several ugly cuts crossed his torso from the Griever's sharp claws. Worst of all was his ankle. His left foot lay angled wrong and his entire lower calf was swollen and discolored, the darkest purples right above his ankle.
Minho winced. He was almost glad Newt hadn't woken up yet.
"Poor shank's bad off."
Minho looked up at the sound of Clint's voice.
"Yeah, I probably didn't help either."
Clint cocked an eyebrow as he continued cleaning Newt's cuts. "How so?"
"I should've bound it or something."
Frowning, Gally pushed off the wall and approached Minho. "Y'know, we still don't know how our best runner got like this. What happened out there? Why don't you look like klunk too?"
Minho shrugged. "I feel like klunk."
"That's not the question," grated Gally.
Minho sat on the edge of Newt's mattress and proceeded to explain about Newt's find, the Griever, the distraction, and his own rescue of the keeper of the Runners. The boys listened carefully. Other than Minho's voice, the only other sound in the room was Clint re-wetting his rag. After he finished, the boys remained silent. Alby sighed, staring at Newt's battered form.
"Always the hero, aren't ya."
Clint took a deep breath and stood up. "I'm gonna see if I can feel the shucking break before he wakes up."
"It just might do that, y'know," said Jeff, setting aside his pile of cloth strips and joining the head med-jack by the bed.
"It's still gotta be done."
Minho stood up again, muscles aching. "Is there something I can do?"
"Just stand near him, I guess," shrugged Clint. "Keep him calm if he comes to."
"S-sure." Minho took a seat on Clint's empty stool.
The med-jack's gentle fingers ghosted over Newt's swollen leg before carefully prodding the taught skin. When Newt didn't stir, Clint lightly grasped the injured foot and started to slowly move it upright.
Newt woke with a strangled gasp.
Clint quickly let go of the boy's leg. "Newt!" He exclaimed.
"Bloody... hell..." Newt cursed through clenched teeth, eyes squeezed shut from the pain.
"How are you feelin'?" Alby asked quietly.
The injured boy groaned in response. Minho slipped a comforting hand into his friend's trembling fingers as they fumbled for a hold on the rough cotton-covered mattress. Newt squeezed back gratefully.
"Well, it's definitely broken," the head med-jack stated. Gally shot him a 'No, duh' glare.
Newt cracked his eyes open. "I coulda told you that."
Alby chuckled from his spot against the wall, then came to crouch near the cot. "Besides the leg, how're you feeling?"
"Dizziness? Problems seeing or hearing?" Clint drilled, "What was the last thing you remember?"
Newt shook his head and groaned slightly as he shifted his weight on the mattress, hissing when he jerked his leg. "The bloody Griever... threw me against... the wall... and then I hit the ground..." He paused to catch his breath before going on. "...I thought I'd gotten all its shuckin' legs tied... but it must've ripped 'em... free again."
"Only one of its legs was free when I got there," Minho commented, "It must have yanked you back or something too, 'cause you were under the Griever, about to be stabbed."
"Thanks, Minho." Newt gripped Minho's hand tightly before releasing it. "I... owe ya one."
"What for?"
"Savin' my life... dumbass."
Minho smiled. "Sure thing, klunk face."
"Sorry to break up your bonding time shanks," interrupted Gally, "but it's not gonna fix his leg. We got to do something about it." Newt winced and nodded.
All the boys turned to look at Clint, who was wringing his cloth over the water bucket. "Look, I've only been here for six months now," he reminded the boys seriously, his eyes shifting from the bucket to the floor. "Never had nothin' like this before-"
"Well," interrupted Gally rudely, "he's not gonna be able to do anything with his leg shucked like that." Alby nodded in silent agreement.
"Do we cut it off?" Jeff proposed.
Newt grabbed Minho's arm again in a death grip. "Don't let 'em... bloody cut it off, Minho," he rasped. "If you've... ever been my friend..." Minho sent a pleading glance for help to Jeff.
"Slim it, Newt." The med-jack held up his hands. "I was only jokin'."
Newt glared at him weakly. "Wasn't... very bloody... funny."
Pushing his dark hair out of his eyes, Clint grimaced. "I need to set it." The boys all exchanged meaningful glances.
Newt jerked his head and set his jaw. "Jus'... make it quick."
Poor Newt. I really am a sadistic writer, torturing my favorite characters and enjoying doing so… O_O
Sorry again about how late this was… life happens and sometimes life seriously sucks. On the bright side, I think this story has two more chapters left to it, so hang in there dear readers, it will be completed!
Thank you again for all your kind and enthusiastic reviews! Each one is greatly appreciated.
So what did you think of this chapter? Long enough for ya? ;] Leave me a note to tell me what you think!