The Labyrinth: Chapter Six


Newt particularly had to drag both of us to the bathroom that morning. He was just as tired as I was. We both were in similar moods – mopey and irritated (from being tired – had I mentioned). My head ached. My body demanded more sleep. Breakfast was a blur, and an hour after it had ended, I couldn't remember what I had eaten. Our mood filled the breakfast rush to the point that Chuck swallowed his food whole and darted away as quick as he arrived. I was so tired, my brain felt like someone had gone in and stapled my skull in a dozen of places. The pain in my chest hadn't left me.

I stood with Newt and the Greenie in front of the Barn House, getting ready for my third training session with a Keeper (Greenie's first). Despite the rough morning, I was excited to do something to get my mind off Ben and the Deadheads.

Cows mooed, sheep bleated, pigs squealed all around us. Somewhere close by, a dog barked.

"Clarke, Tommy, are you even listening to me?"

I snapped out of my daze and focused on Newt, who'd been talking for who knew how long. I had tuned out the moment we stopped walking.

"Yeah, sorry. Haven't slept much."

Newt attempted a smile. "Join the club on that one. Look, you probably think I'm a slinthead shank for makin' ya work today after what happened."

The Greenie shrugged. "Work's probably the best thing I could do. Anything to get my mind off it."

"See," Newt said to me. "At least one person 'ere has the right mind. Like I told ya. You get lazy, you get sad. Start givin' up. Plain and simple."

I huffed and crossed my arms. There may have been a small argument this morning again about being dragged out of bed. This time there was less resistance then the first one.

Heat swelled.

My eyes widened and I snapped away from Newt and stared at the ground. I shuffled away and kicked a loose rock across the dusty, cracked stone floor of the Glade.

"So what's first?" the Greenie interrupted the awkwardness. "Milk cows or slaughter some poor little piggies?"

Newt laughed. "We always make the Newbies start with the Slicers. Don't worry, cuttin' up Frypan's victuals ain't but a part. Slicers do anything and everythin' dealin' with the beasties."

"Too bad I can't remember my whole life. Maybe I love killing animals." The joke fell flat. If that was even a joke.

Newt ignored him and continued on. "Let's go meet Winston – he's the Keeper."

Winston showed us around for the first hour (Newt informing us that he couldn't stay for very long, something had come up that he needed to sort out). He pointed out which pens held which animals, where the chicken and turkey coops were, what went where in the barn. The second hour was actually spent working with the farm animals – feeding, cleaning, fixing a fence, scraping up klunk. Klunk. These words that they had for things were beyond … crazy. Where had they come up with these things?

The third hour was the hardest. Winston informed us that we'd both be watching him slaughter a hog. There was no such thing as waste in the Glade, so everything had to be prepared for either future eating or future usage. I knew the instant that Winston ended that life of the hog that this wasn't the job for me. I'd rather spend my days ploughing the fields than dealing with animals. They were fine from afar. Not, in my case, to be handled unless there was an absolute dire need to.

Winston had allowed for us leave early for lunch. Possibly to let the Greenie to have some air before he ate. The further we walked away from the Blood House, the more the colour in his skin returned. Conversation was something that I hadn't quite got the hang off. I knew in my heart this wasn't me. I knew who I was. That much wasn't taken away. I wasn't shy nor quiet. That what made it harder. Around Newt and Chuck I can almost be myself. There was something about it, like a sheet being pulled from me around their presence. But around everyone else it's like it takes over. I can get the words in my head, but something won't let me say them. The harder I tried the more of a failure I felt like when I can't.

Maybe, one day, I will have the courage to speak to a few more of the Gladers here.

We passed the Box, our steps almost mirrored, when I spotted someone enter the Glade from the Maze through the West Door. The boy, with short black hair and a face glistened with sweat, stopped three steps in, then bent over and put his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. He looked like he had just run twenty miles. His face bright red, his clothes sticking to him in odd places.

I stared at him. I knew what their jobs were, I knew what they did. This was the closet I had been to someone in that role. They never hung around for long. Always flitting about to the next thing.

Which was crucial to the next question.

Why was he back so early?

The Greenie stepped toward the boy. But before he could do anything, the boy collapsed to the ground. Neither I nor the Greenie were sure what to do. The boy lay in a crumbled heap, barely moving. Gasping for breath. The Greenie was the first to snap out of it. "Alby! Newt! Somebody get them!" he shouted to the Glade.

The Greenie sprinted to the grounded boy and knelt beside him. "Hey – you okay?" The boy's head was now rested on outstretched arms as he panted, his chest heaving. He was conscious but I had never seen someone so exhausted.

"I'm … fine," he said between breaths, then looked up. "Who are you klunk are you?"

"I'm new here." He paused. Then pointed at me. "So she." He stuck out his hand. "I'm Thomas – been here a couple of days. Dunno 'bout her. She doesn't talk much and no one tells me anything about her."

The boy pushed himself up into a sitting position, his black hair matted to his skull with sweat. "Oh, yeah, Thomas, Newbie," he huffed. "I already know about her." The boy eyed me. Clearly, this was the first time he had seen me up close. I narrowed my eyes at him and he looked away to behind me.

Alby jogged up then, clearly upset. "What're you doin' back, Minho? What happened?"

"Calm your wad, Alby," the boy replied, seeming to gain strength by the second. "Make yourself useful and get me some water – I dropped my pack out there somewhere."

But Alby didn't move. He kicked Minho in the leg – too hard to be playful. "What happened?"

"I can barely talk, shuck-face," Minho yelled, his voice raw. "Get me some water!"

Alby looked over at us, who seemed to hold the slightest hint of a smile before it vanished in a scowl. "Minho's the only shank who can talk to me like that without getting his butt kicked off the Cliff."

With that, Alby turned on his heel and sprinted off, presumable to get Minho some water.

"He let you boss him around?" the Greenie asked Minho.

Minho shrugged, then wiped fresh beads of sweat off his forehead. "You scared of that pip-squeak? Dude, you got a lot to learn. Freakin' Newbies."

The Greenie shook his head, his eyes widening at the rebuke. "Isn't he the leader?"

"Leader?" Minho barked a grunt that was probably supposed to be a laugh. "Yeah, call him leader all you want. Maybe we should call him El Presidente. Nah, nah – Admiral Alby. There you go." He rubbed his eyes, snickering as he did.

"So, who is the leader then?" the Greenie quizzed him

"Greenie, just shut it before you confuse yourself more." Minho sighed as if bored, then muttered, almost to himself, "Why do you shanks always come in here asking stupid questions? It's really annoying."

"What do you expect us to do?" The Greenie's fists balled together.

"Do what you're told, keep your mouth shut. That's what I expect." Minho had looked him square in the face for the first time with that last sentence, and the Greenie scooted back a few inches before he could stop himself.

He pushed himself back up onto his knees so he was looking down at Minho. "Yeah, I'm sure that's exactly what you did as a Newbie."

Minho glared at the Greenie, his body tensing at the comment. "I was one of the first Gladers, slinthead. Do like your friend here and shut your hole till you know what you're talkin' about."

The Greenie moved to get up from the floor. Minho's hand slapped out and grabbed his arm. "Dude, sit down. I'm just playin' with your head. It's too much fun – you'll see when the next Newbie…" He trailed off, a perplexed look wrinkling his eyebrows. "Guess there won't be another Newbie, huh?"

The Greenie returned to his sitting position. The note from last night crossed my mind. From the look on the Greenie's face, he didn't seem to know the news himself. "Huh?"

"Guess you didn't know." Minho studied me. "You knew though. Huh, we really are keeping things from ya."

The Greenie sat up straight, annoyance glistening in his eyes. "What now? Why am I being kept in the dark?"

Minho leaned back until he lay flat, eyes closed. "There's a reason for that. Wait until you are told."

"This place is stupid," the Greenie grumbled, he crossed his arms and turned to face one of the openings.

Minho sighed. He sat up and leant on his arm, an irritated look screwing his face. "I already told ya, stop asking damn questions. It's annoying. Go pout somewhere else if ya gonna do that." Minho returned to the floor.

A minute passed of awkward silence. Half of me wanted to go, the other half wanted me to stay and find out why exactly this boy had returned from the Maze hours earlier than expected. The decision was made when I half-crouched to the floor that eventually turned into a full sit. The Greenie also hadn't left, his curiosity stronger than his ability to pout elsewhere – as Minho had put it.

"So…," the Greenie asked cautiously, knowing full well that he may have his head bitten off again. "Did you find anything today?"

Minho's eyes opened wide; he focused on the Greenie. "You know what, Greenie? That's usually the dumbest shuck-faced thing you could ask a Runner." He closed his eyes again. "But not today."

"What do you mean?" the Greenie dared to answer back.

"Just wait till the fancy admiral gets back. I don't like saying stuff twice. Plus, he might not want you to hear it anyway."

The Greenie sighed. "Well, at least tell me why you look so tired. Don't you run out there every day?"

Minho groaned as he pulled himself up and crossed his legs under him. "Yeah, Greenie, I run out there every day. Let's just say I got a little excited and ran extra fast to get my bee-hind back here."

"Why?" The Greenie was persistent on his questions. Alby's complaints about him were starting to make sense now. I thought Chuck was bad. My lord.

Minho threw his hands up. "Dude. I told you. Patience. Wait for General Alby."

"Okay, I'll shut up. Just make sure Alby lets me hear the news, too."

Minho studied him for a second. "Okay, Greenie. You da boss."

Alby walked up a moment later with a big plastic cup full of water and handed it to Minho, who gulped down the whole thing without stopping once for breath.

"Okay," Alby said, "out with it. What happened?"

Minho raised his eyebrows and nodded toward us.

"They're fine," Alby replied. "I don't care what these shanks hear. Just talk!"

The Greenie's back straightened in anticipation. I couldn't care less, I rested my head on my hand and waited as Minho struggled to stand up, wincing with every move, his whole demeanour just screaming exhaustion. The boy balanced himself against the wall, gave us a cold look. "I found a dead one."

"Huh?" Alby asked. "A dead what?"

Minho smiled. "A dead Griever."

Alby looked like someone had just told him he could grow wings and fly. "Ain't a good time for jokes," he said.

"Look," Minho answered, "I wouldn't believe me if I were you, either. But trust me, I did. Big fat nasty one."

"You found a dead Griever," Alby repeated.

"Yes, Alby," Minho said, his words laced with annoyance. "A couple of miles from here, out near the Cliff."

Alby looked out at the Maze, then back at Minho. "Well ... why didn't you bring it back with you?"

Minho laughed again, a half-grunt, half-giggle. "You been drinkin' Frypan's saucy-sauce? Those things must weigh half a ton, dude. Plus, I wouldn't touch one if you gave me a free trip out of this place."

Alby persisted with the questions. "What did it look like? Were the metal spikes in or out of its body? Did it move at all—was its skin still moist?"

"Slim it, man," Minho said. "You gotta see it for yourself. It's ... weird."

"Weird?" Alby looked confused.

"Dude, I'm exhausted, starving, and sun-sick. But if you wanna haul it right now, we could probably make it there and back before the walls shut."

Alby looked at his watch. "Better wait till the wake-up tomorrow."

"Smartest thing you've said in a week." Minho righted himself from leaning on the wall, hit Alby on the arm, then started walking toward the Homestead with a slight limp. He spoke over his shoulder as he shuffled away—it looked like his whole body was in pain. "I should go back out there, but screw it. I'm gonna go eat some of Frypan's nasty casserole."

Then Alby turned face us both. "If either of you know somethin' and ain't telling me…"

"Why do you hate me so much?" he snapped. He stood from the ground and stared the leader straight in the face.

The look that came over Alby's face was indescribable—part confusion, part anger, part shock. "Hate you? Boy, you ain't learned nothin' since showing up in that Box. This ain't got nothin' to do with no hate or like or love or friends or anything. All we care about is surviving. Drop your sissy side and start using that shuck brain if you got one."

"But … why do you keep accusing–"

"Cause it ain't a coincidence that she turns up one week before you, coma-kid, a crazy note, Ben tryin' to bite ya, dead Grievers. Something's goin' on and I ain't restin' till I figure it out."

"I don't know anything, Alby," the Greenie spat through gritted teeth. "I don't even know where I was three days ago, much less why this Minho guy would find a dead thing called a Griever. So back off!"

Alby leaned back slightly, stared absently at the Greenie for several seconds. Then he said, "Slim it, Greenie. Grow up and start thinkin'. Ain't got nothin' to do with accusing nobody of nothin'. But if you remember anything, if something even seems familiar, you better start talking. Promise me."

"Yeah, I guess, but—"

"Just promise!"

The Greenie paused. "Whatever," he finally said. "I promise."

Alby faced me. I shrugged my shoulders. He wasn't getting anything more out of me. I had no intention of talking to either of them, and in this moment, I was glad that I stayed quiet. Clearly, the deflection of the all the problems currently rested with the Greenie. Not with me. Meaning that the more that he kicked up a fuss. The more that I slipped under the radar and was left alone.

"Fine," Alby stated. "This will be discussed at the Gathering later."

At that Alby turned and walked away, not saying another word as he left. The Greenie did the same as well, heading back toward the direction of the Deadheads again. Leaving me alone in the middle of the Glade wondering what I should do next.

My stomach grumbled. Lunch it was then.

The idea of going there by myself didn't thrill me. A small line had formed at the front of Frypan's kitchen. Worse they belonged to faces I didn't recognise.

Do it. What's the worst that could happen?

I sucked in a deep breath and headed straight for the line.

The closer I got, the more the knots tightened in my stomach. I knew there would be a day where I would have to do this alone. I just hoped it wasn't as soon as it came. I still wanted someone there to be with me. So they didn't stare as much and I could eat in peace.

The emergence of Jeff from the Homestead and joining the end of the queue pushed me quicker to lunch. I, at least, had one person I could be comfortable with. Chuck, annoyingly, cut me up before I could even reach there.

"Clarke," he half-whispered to me as he bounded up. "Clarke, I've got somethin' to tell ya."

"Can it wait?" I asked him as I tried to manoeuvre myself around. He kept placing himself in front every time I tried to dart past him.

"No," Chuck said with delight. "You'll want to hear this."

Two more boys joined the queue, separating me from Jeff. I sighed and resigned myself to listen to what Chuck had to tell me.

"Gotta be quick," Chuck hurried. "But you know how Ben was supposed to be dead?" He paused, his eyes widening.

I raised an eyebrow. Still he waited. I crossed my arms. Whatever this news had to be, I really didn't want to be reminded of that early morning. The memory of it searing itself deep in my mind. "Chuckie?"

"Well, he's not dead. Bagggers went to get him and the arrow missed his brain. The Med-Jacks patched him up and everythin'."

"You're kiddin' me?" I asked in disbelief. Alby had shot straight and true. There was no way that that could have not killed Ben. It was the perfect shot. Well almost.

"I'm not," Chuck said. "He's locked up in the Slammer, a huge bandage covering half his head."

I cocked my head to the side. "What's the Slammer?"

"It's our jail on the north side of the Homestead. That thing over there." Chuck pointed in the general direction of where it was. "They threw him in it so fast, the Med-Jacks had to patch him up there."

I went to ask him another question when he threw his hand up in front of me. "Don't ask anymore, gotta go tell Thomas." And with that he flew past me and sprinted as fast as his little legs could take him to find the Greenie. The young boy never asked for directions.

There it was then. The sick boy who was dead was actually not. The next thing I wanted to know was what happened to those that attacked another. The Glade had its rules that that Gladers stuck to furiously. There must have been one for this.

Distracted by the news that Chuck had imparted on me, I had joined the back of the lunch queue and received food from Frypan myself. The look in his eyes caught me off guard and half way through to walking to where Jeff was seated, I realised why I was given the look. I had done all of that myself, with no one to rely on to be by my side. This place was starting to rub off on me.

I joined Jeff and his friend in mid-conversation. I paused, feeling awkward for interrupting. The boy, with grey-hair already conquering his jet black, glanced down at his food and continued eating.

"Sit Clarke … I mean Greenie." Jeff motioned to the other side of him. He kept pointing at the vacant seat until I reluctantly gave in to sitting. Even though that was what I wanted to do. Jeff continued talking to the person next to him. Their conversation more causal than with how he talked to others.

I munched at my food, trying not to scoff it all at once. Working hard for the past two days really zapped the energy out of me and brought back the hunger. As I now no longer felt sick whilst eating, I was able to get more down me meaning that it took longer for me to get hungrier.

"Ah, you haven't met Clint yet," Jeff suddenly interluded half-way through their conversation. "Well you have met, just not formally."

Clint nodded my way. "Glad to see that you haven't needed anymore of our assistance."

I raised an eyebrow his way.

"Still doesn't talk," Jeff mumbled to him.

Clint eyed me then nodded. "Forgot that." Clint returned to his food.

Great. I was going to end up as a background accessory.

We sat quietly whilst we ate our lunches. The two boys continued to eat their lunches without a second word passed.

Just ask. Do it. Just ask. Speak.

My stomach flipped. Knots formed in the pit of my stomach.

Do it. Ask about Ben.

"What's happening with Ben?" my voice was incredibly quiet. So quiet that both boys hadn't recognised I had spoken. I swallowed, sat up straight and said a bit louder. "What's happening with Ben?"

Jeff chocked on his food. He coughed so hard that Clint had to pat him hard on the back to dislodge the food stuck in his throat. A few boys turned to our table, but they were not concerned. Surely, they should be, Jeff was their Med-Jack.

Soon enough (after going slightly red), Jeff managed to compose himself. He coughed a few times, his throat raw from the blockage, and wiped his mouth. "You spoke," he managed to say in a hoarse voice.

I shook my head and ducked behind the fly aways of my hair. My shoulders hunched over and my hands fiddled with one another. I avoided their stares. That was a mistake.

Shouldn't have done it.

"Don't worry about him," Clint reasoned. "He gets funny if Bark barks from across the Glade."

Jeff glared at him, the redness of his cheeks flushing again. "No I don't," he retorted. Jeff lightly slapped Clint's shoulder in retaliation.

Clint battered his hand in Jeff's direction and turned to face me fully. "What did you say?"

Hesitating for a second, a plucked the courage to speak again. "Ben … what is happening with him?"

Jeff couldn't help himself. The biggest grin snaked across his face, his eyes lightening up and crows eye's creasing the corners of his face. Clint slapped in the chest, giving him a warning glare. "Well, seein' as Chuck has already spread the news around. We had a Gathering this morning and decided that he's gonna be Banished for trying to kill the Greenie – Thomas."

"Banished?" I repeated.

Clint hummed and fiddled with his utensils. "That is the exciting part of tonight," he replied in a monotone voice.

That night, Newt and Alby gathered every last Glader at the East Door roughly half an hour before it was expected to close. Twilight streaked across the outer edges of the sky, threatening to darken the Glade. The Runners returned on time and had immediately entered the map room, swinging the metallic door shut behind them.

We waited.

Chuck, shockingly, with a massive grin on his face. The Greenie, almost as if he was constipated.

I had no idea what was happening. But by the way that the others Gladers spoke in hushed tones, the mood was infallible. An intense feeling of dreadful anticipation hung over us like a patch of thick fog.

Newt had joined me briefly by my side. Not a word came from him, but the way he held himself informed me that the next half an hour would not be the most pleasant thing in the world. That including the stares I still got. Gradually integrating myself at the food stops had helped. This, however, was a whole new ball game. Being round the full group hadn't occurred to me that it would ever happen.

The company of Newt, familiar Jeff and Chuck made sure that at least I would stay (not like I had the choice in that matter). Newt gave hard stares to anyone daring to even glance my way helped further. Somehow everywhere, bar where I stood, seemed far more interesting.

The Runners finally emerged from their building, the metal door creaking as it opened to announce their arrival. All of them looked exhausted, their faces pinched from deep thinking. Minho exited first, either as the first one out of the door or he was the absent Keeper at the Gathering.

"Bring him out!" Alby shouted, startling me out of my thoughts.

From around the far side of the Homestead, three of the bigger boys appeared, literally dragging Ben along the ground. His clothes were tattered, barely hanging on. A bloody, thick bandage covered half his head and face. Refusing to put his feet down or help the progress in any way, he seemed as dead as the last time I had seen him. Except for one thing.

His eyes were open, and they were wide with terror.

"Newt," Alby said in much quieter voice. I wouldn't have heard him if he hadn't been standing just a few feet away. "Bring out the Pole."

Newt nodded. He moved toward a small tool shed used for the Gardens, he'd clearly been waiting for the order.

I focused back on the boy. How it could days for events for unfold. The pale, miserable boy still made no effort to resist, letting them drag him across the dusty stone of the courtyard. When they reached the crowd, they pulled Ben to his feet in front of Alby, their leader, where Ben hung his head, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.

"You brought this on yourself, Ben," Alby said. Then he shook his head and looked toward the shack to which Newt had gone.

Out of the slanted door, Newt emerged holding several metal poles, connecting the ends to make a shaft roughly twenty feet long. When he was finished, he bragged something odd-shaped on one of the ends and dragged the whole thing along toward the group. A shiver ran up the spine of my back as Newt scraped the metallic pole on the stone along the ground.

The knots tightened.

Stars twinkled in the corners of my eyes.

Watch it. All.

Finally, Newt stepped up to Alby and handed over the end of the pole he was holding. The other end became much clearer. A loop of rough leather, fastened to the metal with a massive staple. A large button snap revealed that the loop could be opened and closed, and its purpose.

It was a collar.

I watched as Alby unbuttoned it, then wrapped it firmly round Ben's neck. He finally looked up when the loop of the leather snapped closed with a loud pop. Tears glistened in his eyes. Dribbles of snot trailed from his nose down his chin. The Gladers did nothing to intervene. They only stared, with not a single word uttered between them.

"Please, Alby," Ben pleaded, his voice shaking. "I swear I was just sick in the head from the Changing. I never would've killed him – just lost my mind for a second. Please, Alby, please."

Every word made my body twisted at his words. They were desperate, trying to save himself from whatever was about to happen. I shuffled near Chuck, who had stopped smiling and now held a very serious glare on his face.

Alby didn't respond to Ben. He only pulled the collar to make sure it was both firmly snapped and solidly attached to the long pole. He walked past Ben and along the pole, picking it up off the ground as he slid its length through his palm and fingers. When he reached the end, he gripped it tightly and turned to face the crowd. Eyes bloodshot, face wrinkled in anger, breathing heavily.

It was an odd sight on the other side: Ben, trembling, crying, a roughly cut collar of old leather wrapped around his pale, scrawny neck, attached to a long pole that stretched from him to Alby, twenty feet away. The shaft of aluminium bowed in the middle, but only a little.

Alby spoke in a loud, almost ceremonious voice, looking at no one and everyone at the same time. "Ben of the Builders, you've been sentenced to Banishment for the attempted murder of Thomas the Newbie. The Keepers have spoken, and their word ain't changing. And you ain't coming back. Ever." A long pause. "Keepers, take your place on the Banishment Pole."

One by one, boys were stepping out of the crowd and walking over to the long pole; they grabbed it with both hands, gripped it as if readying for a tug-of-war match. Newt was one of them, as was Minho, confirming my guess that he was the Keeper of the Runners. Winston the Butcher also took up a position.

Once they were all in place—ten Keepers spaced evenly apart between Alby and Ben—the air grew still and silent. The only sounds were the muffled sobs of Ben, who kept wiping at his nose and eyes. He was looking left and right, though the collar around his neck prevented him from seeing the pole and Keepers behind him.

"Please," Ben said, his voice rising in desperation. "Pllllleeeeeeeeease! Somebody, help me! You can't do this to me!"

"Shut up!" Alby roared from behind.

But Ben ignored him, pleading for help as he started to pull on the leather looped around his neck. "Someone stop them! Help me! Please!" He glanced from boy to boy, begging with his eyes.

Without fail, everyone looked away.

Chuck shuddered beside me and the Greenie had shuffled away. I placed a hand on Chuck's shoulder. Not too sure for whose benefit.

"If we let shanks like you get away with that stuff," Alby said, "we never would've survived this long. Keepers, get ready."

"No, no, no, no, no," Ben was saying, half under his breath. "I swear I'll do anything! I swear I'll never do it again! Pllllleeeeeee—"

His shrill cry was cut off by the rumbling crack of the East Door beginning to close. Sparks flew from the stone as the massive right wall slid to the left, groaning thunderously as it made its journey to close off the Glade from the Maze for the night. The ground shook beneath us.

"Keepers, now!" Alby shouted.

Ben's head snapped back as he was jerked forward, the Keepers pushing the pole toward the Maze outside the Glade. A strangling cry erupted from Ben's throat, louder than the sounds of the closing Door. He fell to his knees, only to be jerked back to his feet by the Keeper in front, a thick guy with black hair and a snarl on his face.

"Noooooooooo!" Ben screamed, spit flying from his mouth as he thrashed about, tearing at the collar with his hands. But the combined strength of the Keepers was way too much, forcing the condemned boy closer and closer to the edge of the Glade, just as the right wall was almost there.

"Noooo!" he screamed again, and then again.

He tried to plant his feet at the threshold, but it only lasted for a split second; the pole sent him into the Maze with a lurch. Soon he was fully four feet outside the Glade, jerking his body from side to side as he tried to escape his collar. The walls of the Door were only seconds from sealing shut.

With one last violent effort, Ben was finally able to twist his neck in the circle of leather so that his whole body turned to face the Gladers. The madness in his eyes lit with wildness. Phlegm flew from his mouth, his pale skin stretched taut across his veins and bones. Any sign of humanity was wiped clear with every step that he was forced to take into the Maze. Desperation screamed across his face.

"Hold!" Alby shouted over the noise.

Ben screamed.

I winced, resisting the urge to cower back from such a scene. My grip on Chuck held even tighter now to keep me in place.

Ben continued. The sound of a bestial, lunatic cry ripping through the Glade and the boy's vocal cords. Tearing each little tendril to shreds.

At the last second, the front Keeper somehow loosened the larger pole from the piece attached to Ben and yanked it back into the Glade, leaving the boy to his Banishment. Ben's final screams were cut off when the walls closed with a terrible boom.