A/N: Content warnings for this chapter include graphic descriptions of violence and death. It's spread all throughout this chapter, so I can't just mark the portions where it's mentioned. I'll include a non-graphic summary at the end if anyone is too uncomfortable to actually read it! I'd also like to apologize for the length of my hiatus— I only meant for maybe a week, but between this chapter and the next, I was having a rough go of it.
Two weeks after Alfred gets stung, he still hasn't gotten any better. In fact, he's gone comatose. Nearly every vein in his body has turned black, and he constantly cries out in his sleep. When the Box arrives once more, with a new boy and no cure for Alfred, Alby has to make the toughest decision in his memory.
But he doesn't get the chance.
The morning after Box Day, Ash goes to check on Alfred like she does every morning. Plate of food in hand, despite knowing it probably won't get eaten. At first, the sight that greets her from the Pit is exactly what she's expecting to see— Alfred, unconscious on the floor, a small puddle of black drool next to his face. But after a moment, she realizes something isn't right.
The smell hits her first, and she gags. It reminds her of the dead raccoon one of the boys had found in the woods a while back. Stomach churning, she fumbles with the tie keeping the door closed until it's undone. From a closer perspective now, she can see what she hadn't before.
Alfred's eyes are open, but unseeing. Glassy, sunken into his face. Dried, blackened blood covers his nails, torn to shreds at his fingertips. His entire body seems bloated, discolored and oddly pale.
The scream that pierces the air is horrendous, leaving her gasping for breath as she scrambles to get away from the corpse of her friend. Within seconds, a dozen other Gladers are swarming, trying to figure out what's going on. Tears blur Ash's vision, and she doesn't know who it is that pulls her away. Their hands are gentle on her shoulders as they guide her.
Everyone and everything sounds like she's underwater, and the Glade is spinning around her. Collapsing to her knees, she vomits up her breakfast into the grass. Bile and stomach acid burns her throat and tongue, the smell only adding to the nausea.
The last thing she remembers is someone grabbing her by the waist to keep her from pitching forward.
She wakes up in one of the cots in the medjack hut, the same one she'd spent her first few nights in the Glade. Nellie is whining from the ground, and when Ash looks, she sees the dog's paws covering her nose, ears flat against her skull, tail tucked firmly into her side. All signs of distress.
The memory of seeing Alfred's body comes bubbling back, and Ash has to fight the urge to vomit again.
George is sitting on the ground next to the door, his back against the wall and his head in his hands. His shoulders are shaking a little, and she can hear him sniffling. It's not the first time Ash has seen one of the boys cry, and she knows it likely won't be the last.
She sits up slowly, pausing when her vision briefly clouds over. "What happens now?" she asks quietly, flinching when George does.
"Uh," he croaks, then clears his throat. "Alby and some of the others are burying him out in the woods. Minho's working on making a little… a grave marker."
Ash tenses, scratching her inner forearm. "And then what?"
George just sighs, not looking at her, and mumbles something she can't hear. At her quiet insistence, he speaks up. "I'm going to explore the Box hole tomorrow," he says reluctantly.
"You can't," Ash pleads. "What's the point?"
"The Maze is dangerous," George reminds her, not that she needs him to. "We can't keep asking Minho and Newt— or anyone else— to go out there and risk what happened to Alfred!"
"We don't know what's at the bottom," she says, heart racing. "It could be a trap. You could die!"
"We have to try," he says, running a hand through his hair. The look on his face clearly says he doesn't necessarily want to do this, but George has always been stubborn and selfless, for as long as Ash has known him.
She doesn't look at him, picking at her cuticles as she tries to figure out how to express her thought process. Nellie sits up, nudging her nose into Ash's knee. Absently petting the dog's head, she chews on the inside of her lip.
"If the answer was really as simple as that," she finally says. "Then why bother with the Maze at all? It had to have taken the Creators a long time to design and build it."
"I don't know," George says honestly, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Maybe… maybe it isn't the way the Creators intended for us to get out of here, but we could still try. I mean, there has to be a door down there— how else would we have gotten into the Box to get up here to begin with?"
Ash can't argue with that. Logically speaking, he's absolutely right. But that doesn't mean their entrance is also their escape, and she tells him that. Just as he opens his mouth to reply, the door opens and Alby steps through. He's covered in sweat and dirt, and the barest hint of the stench of Alfred's body clings to him. George scrambles to his feet, moving out of Alby's way.
"You okay?" Alby asks first, looking straight at Ash, who shrugs hesitantly.
"Is he… I mean, are you guys… done?" she asks. Alby nods, looking far more grim and stoic than she's ever seen him.
"The other guys are washin' up right now," he says. "After all that, I think we could use some time off. Starting tomorrow, we're gonna try to find some other ways to escape. I don't want to risk anyone else going through all that unless we absolutely have to."
"George mentioned it," Ash mutters. "I still don't think it's a good idea—"
"Neither do we," Alby says. "But we don't exactly have a choice right now."
"There's always a choice," she says stubbornly, crossing her arms. Alby huffs, clenching his jaw before leaving once more. George glances between her and the door, before quietly following after the other boy.
Laying back down on the cot, Ash tries to ignore the way her throat is beginning to close up. Tears begin to form, spilling over before she can stop them.
What am I supposed to do? she wonders. I can't stop them, but I don't want to lose them…
Arms crossed, expression blank and stone-like, she watches from the doorway of the medjack hut. She can't bear to get any closer, to hear what the boys are saying as they fashion the rope into a harness around George's legs and torso.
Three of the builders— Gally, Eddie, and Hunter— are the ones leveraging the other end of the rope, slowly lowering their friend into the Box hole.
The only sounds Ash can hear are the crickets and other bugs buzzing around. A bumblebee lands on the doorframe, briefly drawing her attention. She doesn't fear bees like she used to, though she still would prefer to not get stung by one if she can help it.
A short-lived scream brings her back into focus, and she looks back to the center of the Glade. Gally and the other two are hastily pulling the rope, trying to bring George back to the surface. Alby, Newt, and several others are gathered around the edge.
Finally, Ash grits her teeth and makes her way over to join them, just as the top of George's head clears the entrance. He's totally limp, chin to his collarbone.
She doesn't scream this time, when the damage is revealed. When the boys manage to pull George all the way up, they discover that his legs are gone. His body is sawn in half at the waist, and his upper body— the half they were able to retrieve— is already ashen and pale. Blood still drips from the clean cut.
"Oh, shit—" one of the boys yelps, others quick to agree.
"Everyone get back!" Alby barks, and most of the Gladers listen. The builders manning the rope, all three of them, seem frozen in place. Ash herself steps forward, helping lay what's left of her friend in the grass.
His skin is still warm, though there's no pulse when she presses her index and middle fingers to the spot under his jaw. Swallowing the bile threatening to rise in her throat, Ash stands back up and turns, storming away. No one follows her.
Not stopping until she reaches the part of the wall hidden behind the woods, the deepest part, she struggles to control her breathing.
Why am I here? she wonders as tears begin to blur her vision once more. What's the point of this?
Sinking to her knees, Ash lets herself cry. For herself, for her friends. For what's happened to George, for what it means for the rest of them.
Her whole body shakes and shudders, her face buried in her hands. She can hardly breathe, each attempt interrupted by her sobs. Mud is soaking through the knees of her pants, but she doesn't care at this point. Taking her hands from her face, she leans forward and tries to dig her fingers into the grass.
She inadvertently finds a rock instead, and a wave of inexplicable anger rushes over her.
Picking it up and throwing it as hard as she can, the rock— about the size of her fist— slams against the concrete wall with a loud clatter, and it breaks apart. There's a small chip in the wall where it made contact.
The admittedly violent action leaves Ash wanting more. There are more rocks all around her, and soon enough they each get a turn being hurled at the wall with all her strength. She cries out with each one, yelps and grunts of anguish.
In the end, there's a pile of rocks against the wall, and Ash is exhausted and her arm is sore, but she's still not done.
"Fuck you," she says aloud, voice hoarse, directed to the sky for the Creators. "Fuck all of you, sitting wherever you are— safe and sound, watching us struggle and fail to survive, let alone escape. I hope you're proud of yourselves, you cowards!"
Despite the rawness of her throat, the words feel good slipping off her tongue. She's never felt such anger before— at least, not in a very long time. When she eventually escapes, she's going to track down the people who put her and her friends in here, and she's going to make them pay.
A/N: Graphic depictions of Alfred's dead body, having succumbed to the Griever sting the morning after the following Box Day. Afterward, George goes down the Box hole and is killed as described in canon (cut in half by saw blades).