Chapter Twenty-Three
Thomas didn't manage to run all the way. His legs were cramming in painful spasms and every breath leeched moisture from his throat. His run faded to a jog and then to a walk as he tried to quench his thirst by drinking as little as he could. The water bottle was half-empty already, and he hadn't left any with Newt. He felt guilty with every mouthful.
He'd have to go looking for water. Once he found Newt, of course. The uncomfortable feeling in his stomach was growing with every minute he was separated from his friend and it was agony to be walking when he still had so far to go. The quiet footsteps behind him told him the kid had followed him, but he hadn't looked back once. He had to work out what he was going to do. He had no idea why he'd chased after the boy, why he'd killed his detract-mate or dragged him off.
Well he did. The Kid was just a kid, and he had no pack, no visible weapons, no allies that Thomas knew of. He'd seemed genuinely betrayed when Red- Ava - had turned on him. He didn't belong in the Arena any more than Newt did and yet here he was, just a kid amongst a load of other kids fighting to survive in a giant pen made by Capitol freaks for entertainment. Watching children die was apparently their idea of fun but they balked at the thought of a cracked nail or lack of dinner options.
It made him mad, a low fury that had burned in Thomas's lower stomach for the last year, maybe longer before he truly recognised it. It burned now, as he traipsed through trees worried about his best friend's safety and trailing a wide-eyed kid behind him. There was a scream from far across the other side of the Arena and Thomas didn't even pause. He couldn't afford to. If Newt was alone with Minho and the asian boy decided he'd had enough of playing nice then there was a very large chance that his friend was in danger.
He couldn't shake the uncomfortable doubt and so he forced himself into a jog again, ignoring the cramping muscles and forcing them to move through sheer will. He had to get back to Newt.
He knew something was wrong when the slope came into view. He didn't know how he knew, he just did. Something was wrong in the air and he slowed, stopping to listen carefully. Someone was moving around, cracking twigs and crunching moss. It was quiet, but it was there. He slipped the bow from his shoulder, reaching back carefully for an arrow. He didn't look to see if the kid was there, but if he was he'd gotten the message, because Thomas couldn't even hear him breathing.
He peered around the tree in front of him, his eyes sweeping the disappearing shadows before he crept slowly to the next tree and repeated the process. It took an uncomfortably long time, during which his anxiety over Newt simply grew and needled at him. His skin was prickling in frustration because he wanted to scream, shout out for the blonde. Retraining himself was becoming more and more difficult and to make matters worse his gut was awake and he could feel the tell-tale signals of oncoming rumbles.
He found the tree he'd left Newt in, fear dousing him in icy waves when he peered up into the branches and failed to see him. He swung his head in both directions, unsure which way to go. Did he go left toward the sound of the tribute or right towards what must be close to the outer edge of the Arena.
His stomach grumbled then, and he felt a flush of irritation as he froze. If anyone was listening they were sure to have heard it. A similar sound appeared behind him and he snapped his head round, finding the kid right behind him and looking sheepish. He was trembling and he mouthed a silent apology with pleading eyes. Thomas couldn't even find it in himself to be annoyed. The kid looked like he wanted to cry.
He turned back round and decided. Towards the noise it was.
They went the by tree, pausing to listen every other step or so. It felt like days had passed before they reached a denser corpse of trees, and winding between them made being quiet so much harder. Thomas was checking every tree, straining to see through the canopies without any success. The kid followed behind, so close that at one point Thomas could feel his breaths on the back of his neck.
His thighs were begging him to straighten up. If he wasn't careful he'd spend the next day unable to do much else than lie and mope about the pain of strained muscles, and in the Arena that was a luxury he didn't have. Eventually, just as Thomas was squeezing between two thick tree trunks and trying to avoid a sharp-thorned bush, it seemed that the kid had overcome his fear of Thomas because he spoke in an uncertain whisper.
"What are we looking for?"
Thomas turned to shush him, to tell him that noise was a bad idea, to tell him that they were looking for Newt and he needed to shut up so that Thomas could hear.
He didn't get the chance once the blade was pressed against his neck.
