Here's the next chapter. Sorry if its not that good, or as good as the others. I never can tell. Anyway, things are really kicking off... for the moment I'm gonna stick quite closely to the plot that James Dashner wrote, but as time goes on Im gonna move further away, i think.

Anyway thanks to anybody who reviewed, I'm really grateful, and I hope you enjoy reading this.

Chapter 7

Thomas stood in the med jack's hut, shivering. He wasn't cold, but he couldn't stop. He'd remembered the bruises- he'd never really forgotten them. Jeff wanted to see his back, because that was where he landed when Ben had landed on him.

The man hadn't been sane, he'd seen it in his eyes, he was half crazed, madness driven by the griever venom pumping through his veins.

Thomas had been attacked.

Shaking his head, he fixed his eyes on a spot on the wall. It was no good dwelling on it. He'd have to push it out of his mind… he'd have to-

He could still feel them though. Hands grasping his neck. Tightening.

He could've died.

Newt's face swam into his vision, and Thomas let out a choked sob. "Newt." His voice cracked with terror. "He grabbed me. I- I- he-" He shook suddenly.

Jeff's voice came, as if he was talking through a filter. "He's still in shock, probably." He was calm, clinical, and yet there was a slight tremor in his voice.

He was just a kid, really, like the rest of them. No-one had any proper training- not that they could remember, anyway.

"Arms up." Thomas heard, and a far away part of his mind obeyed. His shirt was tugged off, and he was immediately spun around, and-

"Oh my God."

"Alex move. What the hell is that?"

Thomas swallowed, as he pushed his mind to think rationally. "What is it?"

Then he was sat down, and turned so he could see their frozen faces.

Alex was the one who spoke. "Kiddo, your back- I mean the bruises, they're old you know, and-"

He peered at Thomas suddenly. "Shuck! -they're all over you." He lifted an arm to inspect it. "How long have you known?"

Newt stared at Thomas. "Did you know?" His tone was stern, but his eyes gentle, and the twelve year old lifted his own to meet them.

"Just this morning." He mumbled. Glancing quickly over, he could see Alex's slightly raised eyebrows. "I didn't- I mean, maybe before, but I was banged around in the box, and I thought it was just that, and, and I, I mean… it doesn't matter much really, so I just thought-"

"Thomas."

Thomas looked up at Alby, who was standing in the corner of the room, his face passive, but his eyes betraying their fear. "Kid, your back… have you seen that?"

The boy shook his head. "No." he whispered. "But the others, I mean… they're just bruises, right?"

The older glader just shook his head, coming over, and kneeling down right in front of him. "Thomas." His voice was soft, yet serious- so very solemn. "Thomas your back- it, well, it looks kinda like someone's whipped you."

Thomas closed his eyes. "Oh." He whispered. "But they- they put me here- and- it's- they-" His mind couldn't seem to form coherent sentences.

"We ain't gonna let them." Newt cut in, suddenly. "If we get out, Tommy, I swear to God, whoever did this is going to pay." His voice was venomous, anger rolling out of him in waves. "Jesus- and to a little kid as well."

Even Jeff, who seemed so collected normally, was restraining his anger. It made Thomas weak at the knees, and he shivered again.

Silently, Alex passed him back his shirt, and Jeff stated. "Your skin's not broken, so you should be okay."

Except that he wouldn't be.

He didn't remember getting the bruises- he'd probably be jumpier if he did. But the memories didn't matter. It was the knowledge….

"Tommy?"

The child glanced at Newt.

"You're going to okay, Tommy, you know that- yeah?" The twenty year old stared hopefully at him.

Thomas nodded. "Yeah." he muttered. He figured Newt needed more reassuring than he did. He nodded. "Yes."

They'd waited till the runners got back, Newt said, because they needed all the keepers to make a decision- and that included Minho.

The decision was made pretty quickly though, and when it was announced, hadn't understood. He knew it was bad, though. It was as if everyone in the glade had taken a simultaneous gasp of horror, terror, grief.

And that was it- grief.

Griever's killed people, Newt said, if they didn't get the serum in time. They killed people at night, when they were trapped in there, all alone.

Thomas' face was stony. It was his fault that this guy, this kid, was getting banished. His fault. If he'd never come here, it would never have happened. But how could they do this?

What could possess anyone to do this?

It was sickening.

The keepers were standing around Ben, by the doors. He was struggling, fighting with all his might, only to fail. A leather collar clung to his neck, held by each of those surrounding him. They were grasping lengths of tough leather, tied scruffily but securely to the choking mechanism. It was torture, it was inhumane….

It wasn't right.

"Stop!" He cried, and everyone turned to look at him. "Please, you're killing him you're-" He sucked in a sharp breath. "Please…."

Alby's eyes caught onto his, a mixture of pain, understanding. "Someone, just get him out of here." The older glader said. " Get him away."

Thomas was caught by his upper arms, and he struggled furiously. Angrily "No!" He yelled. "Can't you see it's wrong, you're giving him the death penalty!" They had to know, had to get it. They couldn't do this, could they? This was a human life.

Alby started talking then, over him, as he was being practically dragged from the crowd. "Ben, of the runners, we hereby sentence you to be banished, for attempted murder on-"

Thomas fled.

He sobbed, running and running and running, away from everything. It was his fault.

His fault, his fault, his fault.

Curled up, in the gardens, he started wailing.

No-one could hear him. They were all watching somebody being murdered.

It was his fault.

"Thomas?"

Thomas glanced up, to see nothing but blackness. His face was illuminated by a torchlight.

Minho had a habit of being able to find people.

The boy curled up further, and the older glader knelt before him. "Thomas, I know it's horrible- I- I hate it too. Please- you gotta understand."

Thomas just shrugged. Was Minho just saying that?

The twenty-one year old laughed hollowly. "He was a runner. One of my best."
"Is that all you care about?" Thomas spat angrily. He ignored Minho's shocked face. "That he was good at running? You don't even know if he's dead."

There was the shred of hope.

The elder's expression cleared. "No. But no-one survives, Thomas." His voice was gentle- perhaps patronising, but Thomas knew it wasn't meant in that way.

"Then why put him in?" He just to know… if they had a reason- a good one, then maybe...

MInho shook his head. "Order." He ground out. "It's about order, Tommy." His tone was still calm, but anger was seeping through it. "Everything's about order."

Thomas nodded, as if to show Minho he understood.

"If everyone knew you could kill someone and just get locked up for a bit- most people here are teenagers, kid, late teens mind you, but still, just eighteen." Minho shook his head. "I'm one of the oldest, kid- I'm just twenty. They'd do it, y'know? It's like a family here, really. We're all each other has, but…. there are still grudges." He slammed his fist into the soft dirt.

"It doesn't make it right." The twelve year old mumbled. "It isn't right."

"No." Minho breathed. "It isn't, is it?" The young man looked at the child then, properly. He laid a hand atop the mass of dark curls. "It'll be okay." He managed a smile. "We'll protest next time, yeah?"

Thomas nodded shakily. "Yeah." And then- "Was it me?"

"I'm sorry?" Minho looked taken aback.

"I-I mean, if I wasn't here, he'd never have done that. I just-"

"No." Minho's eyes were wide. "No, no, no. It's not your fault, kiddo. It's never been your fault."

"But-"

"No." The twenty year old shook his head. "Look," He stood, brushing the dirt off his knees. "Come on. They've gotta know I've found you."

Thomas shook his head. "They did it, though." He whispered. "Ben's gonna die."

"I did too." Minho looked at him carefully. "You're mad at me?"

Thomas shook his head, standing. "You didn't want to." His eyes betrayed his fear. "Minho, I don't like this place." He started to cry again. "I don't like it."

The older glader just wrapped an arm around him. "No one wanted to, Tommy. Nobody. But it had to be done, not matter how wrong it was. Let's go back, huh?" He tugged the child forward a bit. He wasn't normally the comforting sort- sarcastic was normally a word to describe him. But there was a kid, an innocent in this stupid place, and that was wrong. It'd never been right, but this was a whole new level of horrible.

"Yeah." The little boy shuddered. "Okay."

But it wasn't okay- whoever the creators were, they must be able to see, they were cracking, crumbling.

All of them.