Ben had recovered only slightly since Thomas had seen in the homestead. He wore nothing but shorts, his whiter-than-white skin stretched across his bones like a sheet wrapped tightly around a bundle of sticks. Ropelike veins ran along his body, pulsing and green—but less pronounced they had been the day before. His bloodshot eyes fell upon Thomas as if he were seeing his next meal. At some point a knife had made appearance, gripped in his right hand.
Thomas was filled with a queasy fear and disbelief that this was happening, as he sat huffing at Alby's feet, his heart pounding.
"Ben. Stop. Right now. Or this arrow is going through your skull." He spoke calmly, as if he was not making a death threat, but merely commenting on the weather. Somehow his tone made the phrase more intimidating.
Thomas, who felt it would be unwise to look away, was still staring over his shoulder at Ben, who stared viciously at Alby, his tongue darting between his chapped lips to wet them. What was wrong with him? He had turned into a monster. Why?
"If you kill me," Ben said, just as calmly, though he still looked murderous, "you'll get the wrong guy. He's the shank you should kill."
"Don't be stupid, Ben." Alby was still calm as well, though the arrow remained trained on Ben. "Thomas just got here. Ain't nothing to worry about. You're still bugged from the Changing. You should have never left your bed."
"He is not one of us," Ben firmly said. "I saw him. He is bad. We have to kill him." He spoke as if were simply stating a common fact. Thomas found the lack of raised voices in a situation like this very ominous.
Alby hadn't moved his weapon and inch. He hands were perfectly steady, as if he were propped against a branch for support. "You leave that to me and the Keepers to figure out. Right now, back your scrawny ass down, and get to the Homestead."
"He'll wanna take us home," Ben said. "He'll want to get us out of the maze. Better we all jumped off the Cliff."
Thomas decided that it was time to defend himself. "What are talking—"
"Shut your face!" Ben made the first scream, causing Thomas to almost jump out of his skin. "You shut your treacherous face!"
"Ben." Alby remained calm. "I am going to count to count to three."
"He's bad, he's bad. He is bad, bad, bad," Ben was whispering now, almost chanting. He swayed back and forth, switching the blade from hand to hand, eyes glued to Thomas.
"One."
"Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad…"
Thomas wanted to get out of there, but felt it would be foolish to do so. He feared that any movement on his part would induce Ben's attack. Therefore, he remained frozen. His neck had developed a crick from being turned in such a position for an extensive period, but still he refused to budge.
"Two." Alby's voice was louder, filled with warning. Thomas's neck spasmed; he involuntarily reached for it, and snapped his head back forward, immediately feeling relief.
Ben screamed, a strangled gurgle of madness, and leapt into the air, slashing out with his blade and Thomas scrambled, trying to get away.
There was the sound of snapping wire, then a whoosh and thunk. And the sound of body crashing to the ground.
Thomas scrambled to his feet, turning to see Ben lying on his back, an arrow through his cheek, blood surprisingly less than Thomas had expected, but seeping out all the same. Dark, like oil. Thomas felt the urge to vomit. Ben was dead. Was this Thomas's fault? Why had Ben been convinced of Thomas's badness?
"Come on," Alby said. "Baggers'll take care of him tomorrow."
What just happened? The world tilted around Thomas as he stared at the lifeless body. What did I ever do to this kid?
He looked up, wanting answers, but Alby was already gone, a trembling branch the only sign he'd ever been there in the first place.
Thomas squeezed his eyes against the blinding light of the sun as he emerged from the woods, after following the sound of Alby's footsteps out. He was limping, his ankle screamed in pain from when he had tripped over the grave marker. He held one hand over the area where he'd been bitten. He didn't know anything about the Changing.
Is this bite rabid? he thought. Thomas mentally scolded himself. No. Thomas. You're thinking of zombies. Ben was not a zombie. He was just a very sick and confused boy. The image of him popped into Thomas's mind, cocked at an unnatural angle, blood running down the side of his head until collected in a dark puddle on the ground.
And that did it.
He fell to his knees by one of the scraggly trees on the outskirts of the forest and retched, the sandwich he'd had coming back up, mingled with acids and nasty bile. His whole body shook.
After a couple of seconds he looked up, eyes unfocused, to see a blurry figured running wide open in his direction. What now? He didn't even have the energy to feel afraid let alone run. Thomas eyes focused as Newt slowed to stand in front of him.
"Alby told me," he said panicked. "Are you okay?" Thomas was so happy to see him he reached out and embraced the taller boy, feeling Newt's strong arms around his back. After a moment of silence, Newt pushed him back but didn't let go. He pressed the foreheads together, staring a Thomas with those deep green eyes. "Are you okay?" he whispered. Thomas was flattered that Newt cared for him so, when they'd only known each other for roughly twenty-four hours. But if the roles were reversed, he was sure that he would giving Newt the same treatment that Newt now gave him.
Thomas nodded. He didn't mention his ankle. He didn't want to worry about.
"He just—he just came at me… Looking… deranged… What was wrong with him?"
"It's the Changing. The Grievers get at you and you come out of it different." Different? What did he mean different? The Grievers turned you into lunatics? Thomas wanted to be brave in front of Newt but he involuntarily shivered.
Newt gave his lower lip a soft peck, but didn't do more.
Yes. Thomas had been here roughly twenty-four hours. One full day. That was it. And look at all the things that had happened. Terrible things. But with Newt in his arms, he couldn't help thinking.
Surely it can only get better.
That night, Thomas lay staring at the sparkling sky, wandering if he'd ever sleep again. Every time he closed his eyes, the monstrous image of Ben leaping at him, the boy's face set in lunacy, filled his mind. Eyes opened or not, he could swear he kept hearing the moist thunk of the arrow slamming into Ben's cheek.
Thomas knew he'd never forget those few terrible minutes in the graveyard.
"Say something," Chuck said for the fifth time since they'd set out their sleeping bags.
"No," Thomas replied, just as he had before.
"Everyone knows what happened. It's happened once or twice before—some Griever-stung shank flipped out and somebody. Don't think you're special."
For the first time, Thomas thought Chuck's personality had gone from mildly irritating to intolerable, because that had hit a sore spot. Thomas already didn't like how everyone seemed to be suspicious of him. Ben, Gally, Alby… He had his inexplicable desire to become a runner, the strange connection he felt to the girl, and now, here Chuck was calling him special. He didn't want to special. He didn't want this attention.
Thomas glared.
"Hey. I'm just—"
"Shut up and go to sleep." Thomas rolled over.
Eventually his "buddy" dozed off, and based on the rumble of snores across the Glade, so did everyone else. Hours later, deep in the night, Thomas was still the only one awake. He wanted to cry, but didn't. He wanted to find Newt, cuddle up next to him and be held and comforted, but he didn't. He wanted to find Alby and punch him, for no reason whatsoever, but he didn't. He wanted to scream and kick and spit and open the Box and jump into the blackness below… But he didn't.
He closed his eyes and forced the thoughts and images away and at some point he fell asleep, with dreams of being trapped in the maze, attempting to escape Ben's dead body but every turn he made brought him back to the same place, back to Ben's dead body.
ooo
Chuck had to drag Thomas out of his sleeping bag in the morning, drag him to the showers, and drag him to the dressing rooms. The whole time, Thomas felt mopey and indifferent, his head aching. Breakfast was blur, and an hour after it was over, Thomas couldn't remember what he'd eaten. He was so tired, his brain felt like someone had gone in and stapled it to his skull in a dozen places. Heartburn ravaged his chest.
He stood with Newt in front of the barn of the Blood House, getting ready for his first training session with a Keeper. Despite the rough morning, he was actually excited to learn more, and for the chance to get him mind off Ben and the graveyard. Cows mooed, sheep bleated, pigs squealed all around him. Somewhere close by, a dog barked, making Thomas hope Frypan didn't bring a new meaning to the word hot dog.
Hot dog, he thought. When's the last time I had a hot dog? Who did I eat it with?
"Tommy, are listening?"
Thomas snapped out of the daze and focused on Newt, who'd been talking for who knew how long. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "I didn't get much sleep, had a nightmare."
Newt rubbed his shoulder. "Can't blame ya there. Went through the bloody ringer you did. You don't have to work today, after an episode like that. I can convince Alby to let you off."
Thomas shrugged. "Work's probably the best thing I could do. Anything to get my mind off it."
Newt kissed him.
"That works too," Thomas mumbled into his lips. "But we can't sit around and make out all day."
Newt nodded, and smiled. "I said it before, and I'll say it again. Clever, you are. That's one of the reasons we run this place nice and busy-like. You get lazy, you get sad. Start givin' up. Plain and simple."
Thomas nodded. "So what's the latest on the girl?" Thomas wanted to understand his odd connection to her. He wanted to know if he really did know her somehow.
"Still in a coma, sleepin'. Med-jacks are spoon-feeding her whatever soups Frypan can cook up, checking vitals and such. She seems okay, just dead to the world for now."
"That was just plain terrifying." If it hadn't been for the whole Ben-in-the-graveyard incident, Thomas was sure that he would have had a nightmare about that instead. Maybe he wouldn't have been able to sleep for an entirely different reason.
Thomas looked over Newt's shoulder at the big faded-red barn, pushing thoughts of the girl aside. "So what's first? Milking cows or slicing up innocent piggies?" Thomas felt the same pang for the animals he had earlier, but again thought about how delicious they were and immediately felt better.
Newt laughed, and Thomas found that he simply loved that sound coming from him. It captivated him. And at that moment, Thomas felt something in his chest, a clingy feeling. He felt like he could and would do anything for this person. He didn't care about his past life, if I was a life without Newt in it. What was this feeling? Thomas didn't have a name for it. But he felt it in every fiber of his being, felt it in the tips of his fingers. Fingers that craved to reach out and stroke the boy's face, across those thick eyebrows and thin lips… Love. The word came to Thomas like a stroke of inspiration would, abrupt, sudden.
Love.
Thomas loved Newt.
"What?" Newt said, his eyes widening. "Is something on my face?" He reached for it, feeling around.
Thomas smiled. "No. Your face is perfect." Newt turned slightly red at that comment.
"Come on. Let's go meet Winston—he's the Keeper." Newt said, taking Thomas hand. Thomas noticed that he was showing affection where they could be seen, and discovered that, he didn't care who noticed.
Winston was an acne-covered kid, short but muscular, and it seemed to Thomas that he liked his job way too much. Maybe he was sent here for being a serial killer, Thomas thought. He would have to keep an eye on this boy.
Winston showed Thomas around for the first hour, pointing out which pens held which animals, where the chicken and turkey coops were, what went where in the barn. The dog, a pesky Lab named Bark, took quickly to Thomas, hanging at his feet the entire tour. Wondering where the dog came from, Thomas ask and Winston's reply was that the dog had always been there. Luckily he seemed to have gotten his name as joke because he was pretty quiet.
As it turned out, the Slicers did any and everything that had to do with the animals. The second hours was spent interacting—feeding, cleaning, fixing a fence, scraping up klunk. Klunk. Thomas discovered himself using the Gladers' terms more and more.
The third hour was the hardest for Thomas. He had to watch as Winston slaughtered—murdered—a hog and began preparing its many parts for future eating. Thomas swore to himself as he walked away for lunch break, that his future would have nothing to do with the animals.
Winston had said for him to go alone, that he'd hang around the Blood House, which was fine with Thomas. As he walked toward the East Door, he couldn't stop picturing Winston in a dark corner of the barn gnawing on a raw pig's feet. They guy gave Thomas the willies.
Thomas was just passing the Box when he was surprised to see someone enter the Glade from the Maze, through the West door, to his left—an Asian kid with strong arms and short black hair. That Handsome Asian Guy—Minho. Thomas knew the guy's name now. He seemed a little older than Thomas. The runner stopped three steps in, then bent over and put his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. He looked like he'd just run twenty miles, face red, skin covered in sweat, clothes soaked, clinging to his muscular body. And Thomas found that as he looked, the feeling he had felt before for this stranger were no more. Minho was still just as handsome, but Thomas could only think of Newt as he looked at him.
And look at him, Thomas did—he'd yet to see a Runner up close or talk to one. Plus, based on the last couple of days, this Runner was home hours early. Thomas stepped forward, eager to meet him and ask questions. But before he could form a sentence Minho collapsed to ground.
