Chapter 21

'We need your memories'.

The words replayed over and over in his head, a cacophony of sounds snarling at him from within his own mind.

He knew what he needed to do- he'd known for days, and yet he'd been too afraid to do it. Selfishly afraid. Everyday he did nothing somebody had died.

Was he really going to let it happen again?

His heart clenched with fear- not for what he was about to do, not really. It was for what he was about to learn. Selfish, selfish little boy.

He whined, keening sounds emitting from his throat, quavering laughs intermittent among the tearless sobs.

There was a cracking noise behind him, and he jumped, his heart leaping into his throat faster than his feet left the ground.

Alex stood perhaps a metre away, his expression a mixture of fear and worry. "What's going on, Thomas?" His voice held a note of trepidation, as if he were afraid of the answer he would get.

The twelve year old boy met his gaze. His eyes were like tunnels. "I'm thinking."

It seemed as though Alex got the answer he'd feared.

Newt stared at the young men before him. He'd called a meeting- compulsory, he'd said- and they'd listened to him, because he was the authority figure. He was their adult.

The gladers stood in a shivering huddle, each expression permeated with a different brand of haunted, each pair of eyes dark with horror.

"We've got to try to defend ourselves." Newt was trying to sound upbeat- motivational even, but his words grated and fell like wet sandpaper.

"You think Frypan didn't try to defend himself?" Snapped one of the boys. Winston, again. The kid had a shucking mouth on him.

Minho spoke from beside him. "We need to build better defences, we need barricades. We can't just give up."

Nobody said anything this time. There was no need. A crushing feeling of hopelessness weighed down on them all.

"We'll build more weapons." One boy said quietly. "We can, you know. We have wood, metal. We'll make spears. We'll get those shucking grievers."

There were murmurs of agreement from the gladers. The noise rose, and the tightness in Newt's chest began to ease. He could hear Minho's breathing even out.

For a moment it felt as if they'd just lost entirely.

"Okay," He spoke, his voice firm. "If anyone has any ideas you come to me or Minho, you understand? If they're any good, we'll use them, so get thinking."

Their faces were turned up at him, as he stood on a wooden block for height, and he felt suddenly ill. Their expressions were expectant- though their eyes were hollow- and sickeningly trusting. He didn't deserve their trust- he didn't want it.

"Get on with it." He muttered, and turned and strode away, shoving blond strands of his hair angrily out of his eyes.

"It's going to be okay, Newt." The hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks. He turned to face his best friend, expression weary.

"I sure hope so." He muttered. "You know, sometimes I feel like I'm lying to them- like I'm leading them on. Like this is all a lost cause."

Minho remained silent.

"I mean," He spoke again. "What if Chuck was right?"

"What are you saying?" Minho's voice was sharp, his tone stained with sudden bitterness. "You're not shucking giving up now Newt. Don't shucking leave me to hang like that."

Newt flinched, "That's not what I meant." He said softly. "I would never- I mean- I don't-" He stopped.

Minho's gaze was stony.

"I wouldn't." Newt tried again. "I just meant- If we're all going to die anyway, maybe it would spare some pain. Maybe it would be right."

"To do what." Minho said, his lips barely moving.

Newt took in the other man's fearful look, and he laughed abruptly, more from surprise than humour. "Shuck, kid." He said, suddenly feeling lighter. "I'm not gonna kill anyone."

Minho sagged slightly. "I didn't really think you meant that Newt- I just- you've kind of unravelled lately." He sounded very tired, and Newt felt guilty.

"We all have." Newt said by way of apology. It didn't quite fit, but Minho nodded anyway.

"What did you mean then?"

Newt closed his eyes. "They need to know it's okay." His voice was heavy.

"I don't understand." Minho whispered.

"We're going to die anyway. We should be allowed to decide how."

"Newt-"

"I'm serious, Minho." Newt's face was pale, his eyes dull. "They need to know it's okay to choose."

Dusk came too fast for Thomas, and his insides clenched as the skylight grew dimmer. The grievers would come soon. He'd hidden himself away that day, too frightened to be near anyone lest he tell them. They'd never let him do it- especially if Newt caught wind of it.

Everyone was huddling in a mass outside. They'd learnt their lesson the first time when the grievers tore apart buildings to find them. The building's weren't much shelter to begin with, and at least this way there was somewhere to run. This time more people had weapons- the crudest were sharpened sticks, but some of the gladers had knives, axes, hastily fashioned spears. They didn't suit their wielders- young men quaking with fright, their boyish features contorted in terror.

Thomas stood next to Teresa. She was still, her expression stoic, and he reached out and clutched her sleeve. He felt her arm loop around his shoulders, and he buried himself into her side.

Nobody spoke, and for a moment the only thing he could hear was heavy breathing.

They heard them before they saw them. The noise was unmistakable- a low whirring sound that sounded almost like a moan.

Teresa tensed next to him, and pulled him closer to her. She kissed the top of his head. "I love you." She whispered. "It'll be okay Tom, I'll protect you."

"I love you." Thomas echoed.

That was when hell broke loose.

The beasts descended on them in a blur of metal. Gladers ran wildly, brandishing their weaponry, and swinging it at anything near them. There was screaming and sobbing and each battle cry was infused with blatant terror.

Thomas pulled himself free from his sister and she cried out in surprise, letting him go instantly. She immediately tried to grab him again but he ducked out of the way.

"Tom!" She screamed as he broke into a sprint. "Tom stop it!"

He ran towards the monsters. They had someone. They threw the limp body to each other as if they were playing a game of catch. The sight sickened him. He felt white hot anger flood his body, and any fear he felt drained away.

"Hey!" He yelled. He dodged hands reaching out to grab him. "Let him go!"

He was vaguely aware of someone running after him, a shout of "Tommy!", but his head was pulsing with fury. This was wrong. This was inhuman. Yet somebody was doing this to them-

A griever swung towards him, and Thomas stopped dead in his tracks. It's body gleamed in the moonlight, and it's bulbous head swayed back and forth. It's teeth were sharp and angular, and it's claws were serrated. It moved towards him, black eyes cold and unfeeling, but he stayed frozen in place. It's stare was mesmerising.

It stopped in front of him, perfectly still.

"Well?" He spoke, his childish voice trembling with fear "What are you waiting for?"

The griever just looked at him for a moment, and then it's face began to twist. Thomas watched in mounting horror as it's mouth contorted into a tortured smile. Then it moved, curling a metal arm around his body, and lifting him up within reach of the bright stinger at the tip of it's tail.

It knew.

Thomas reached out and grasped the needle, pulling it towards himself. He swallowed, and let the tip of it lightly touch his arm. He couldn't do this.

He couldn't-

He closed his eyes and let his arm push upwards, and then there was a sharp sting, and then-

And then he was on fire.

He was briefly aware of the ground suddenly beneath him, and people screaming, and soft sobs of "Tommy."

Someone picked him up.

The flames coursed through his blood, curling through each limb, and Thomas wanted to scream but his mouth wouldn't move.

The pain grew, the fire spread, and he felt the world grow dimmer and dimmer, like the evening sky when its getting ready for bed.

Somebody sobbed his name.

And then there wasn't much of anything anymore.