Chapter Nineteen
Thomas had to force himself not to look up.
Looking at Newt would make him doubt and doubt might get him killed. It had been an easy choice. A decision he'd made long before they'd even entered the Arena. If they got cornered Newt he'd leave Newt somewhere safe and meet whatever it was head on,distract them, whatever he needed to do to protect the blonde.
Minho's head turned at the same time he looked over at a small movement. He had his bow ready, and arrow between his fingertips. The sharp pricking of the feathered shaft grounded him a little. The voices were loud enough to hear.
"… believe we haven't found them. Shucking Gladers should dead by now." The rough, angry voice.
"We'll find them. We have two hours to." The commanding female.
"Two hours till they label us failures. Gladers never make it, they better not this time." A third voice, husky, with an undertone that made Thomas nervous. His brain was trying to find faces that matched but nothing came to mind.
And then they were there and he didn't have to try.
The broad-shouldered both with the sharp eyebrows was in front. Satan, they'd labelled him. Such a thing seemed so childish now, so meaningless. Behind him were two other boys, the one with the dark skin and the scowl they'd called Forehead and a tall, brown-haired boy with olive skin. The girl was Red, the lean tribute from the Training Days who had ignored the the kid. She had a wickedly sharp knife in her hand.
Forehead had a bow, strung and docked with an arrow already and Thomas cursed inwardly. He'd have to take him out before the boy saw Newt, or he'd be a sitting duck. In a tree. He adjusted his grip on his own bow. The intruders couldn't see himself and Minho yet, crouching as they were in the deep shadow of the biggest tree they could find, but they would soon.
Thomas could feel Minho shifting ever so slightly, his peripheral vision alerting him to the fact that Minho had a knife in each hand. Satan had a spear in one hand and a long-bladed knife in the other, and he looked like he could really use them. He was huge, draped in the shadows of trunks and canopy alike, his face a venomous scowl to rival that of his companion. Thomas couldn't decide which was the deadliest of the our and it made him nervous even as he tried to think logically.
These are people.
These are kids, just like us.
They want to go home too.
They also wanted Newt and himself dead.
Thomas steeled himself, swallowing the sick feeling rising in his throat. He took a shallow breath, held it and released it and then did it again. Minho caught his eye, indicating the boy to the left, the tall one with the brown hair. The boy had a knife on his felt loop and a spear in his hand. Thomas nodded, and then he jerked his chin towards the boy with the bow. Minho nodded to show he understood.
They each took a breath as they rose to their feet.
Surprise quietly morphed into something far more sinister as the group reacted with angry cries. With a horrifyingly subtle flick of his wrist Minho sent a blade pinwheeling through the air, striking the tall boy square in the base of his throat.
Thomas's mind was racing and he was too focused to see the way blood gushed even as the boy fell, and Minho was already over the bush they'd been behind, spinning another knife through the air and gouging Satan's upper arm as it passed.
Thomas's arrow hit the dark-skinned boy in the chest, sending him screaming backwards, his own arrow streaking harmlessly through the trees as he twisted and fell. Heart jackhammering, Thomas tried not to think about what he'd done as he docked another arrow and loosed it into the red pool that was rapidly spreading on the boy's shirt.
He stopped screaming.
With the briefest glance he could manage to make sure the boy wasn't getting up he tugged another arrow from his quiver, turning his bow toward the two standing tributes. A blade whistled past his ear, thunking hard into a trunk behind him.
The boy called Satan growled furiously as he ran at Thomas, knocking the wind from him as his head bounced off a badly-placed tree root. Blood was dripping down the thick, muscled arm, droplets splashing on Thomas's cheek as he struggled. His bow was out of reach and he scrabbled for his knife, reaching it just as the tribute punched him square in the chest, sending the knife flying and making him retch. The blow burned like fire ants on his skin, his chest stunned and his lungs disoriented.
Thomas couldn't get a breath in. His mouth was moving but his body seemed to be forgetting how to draw air in. He struggled, panic clawing his throat as he pitched to one side just as the boy was thrown off of him. Thomas flew to his feet, staggering into a tree trunk as his lungs finally remembered their function.
He dragged in a heavy breath, opening his eyes against the spinning world to see what was happening. Minho and the boy were struggling for a knife, shoving each other as they twisted viciously. His eyes wouldn't cooperate and he felt woozy but he tried to shake it off, focus.
Think logically.
The bow.
Where's the bow?
There.
Red was already turning, and in a matter of second she'd skipped between the trees and out of sight, her crashing easy and inviting. Thomas didn't stop to think. He scooped the bow up, dragged his arrows from the boy's chest. He didn't look at him, swallowing his racing heart as he wiped the arrowhead clumsily on his trousers.
He knew he should feel disgusted, remorseful, and he was certain he would later when he had a chance to breathe. For now that part of his brain was fenced off.
Red knew where they were.
If her little group had other members waiting at a camp or somewhere nearby it put Newt in danger. It put them all in danger.
He didn't think.
He ran.
