In which the Maze is left behind

AN: A bit later than planned again - it's been a seriously stressful day. My dog was spayed and I now have a very quiet and sorry-for-herself Dalmatian sleeping off her anaesthetic with 10 days of recovery to go. Fun times. But I hope you enjoy this chapter. Very nearly over now!

In other news, I hope to have the first one shot companion story to this posted before this is over, so keep an eye out for that :)

This chapter picks up directly where the last left off.

Notes and Guest replies at the end :)

No sooner has this piece of information sunk into my head, there's another alarm. A loud hissing sound accompanies it to announce the opening of a massive industrial door at the far end of the room.

Heads all turn towards it, and I quickly exit Newt's file on the monitor and hurry to join the others.

At the end of the concrete tunnel is a sliver of a bright, white light.

"Is it over?" Chuck asks, looking between the light and Thomas, who looks beyond shell-shocked.

"She said we were important," Newt says, sounding perplexed.

I'll have to get someone to tell me what that video was all about.

"What are we supposed to do now?"

But Thomas looks like he's all out of answers for the day. "I don't know," he says, and his voice is so cracked it barely comes out. But his eyes fix on the tunnel, finding something there to ground him. "Let's get out of here."

But apparently, that's still too easy.

"No."

The voice makes everyone start. I feel Stan grab my shredded sleeve and tug me further into the midst of the group.

Gally stands in the middle of the room.

How in the world did he even get here? There was the Maze, and the Grievers, not to mention the code…but somehow, he's standing in front of us.

He looks ready to break down; eyes glassy, covered in scratches and grazes and lines of dirt. And in his hand, trembling so much I can hear it rattle, is the gun that Minho kicked away from the dead man in the hallway.

"Gally?" Thomas asks, stunned.

Teresa places a hand on his chest, halting his forward movement.

"Don't," she says. "He's been stung."

What?

But when I look back at him, I realise she's right. They aren't lines of dirt on his neck – they're veins rising under the skin, running black with poison.

Shit.

He drops a familiar looking canister to the ground, and it rolls under a chair.

He grappled with a Griever to get that, so he could follow us here.

Thomas tries to talk him down, despite his clear fear of the ready weapon. But Gally cannot be reasoned with. He could barely be reasoned with while sane; the chances of it now; the Changing coursing through his veins, are even slimmer.

Newt's eyes flick from Gally's face to the quaking gun in his hand as he lifts it to point at Thomas. His expression is wary and almost a little piteous. He knows Gally is beyond help right now, and having worked with him for three years, it must be a hard thing to face like this.

Just in front of me, I see Minho very quietly grip the spear that Lee's still holding.

And without looking away from Gally, or reacting at all, Lee just as quietly lets it go. I find myself a touch impressed by Lee's quick reading of the situation.

Not even a minute goes by before the world changes.

The gun goes off. Glass shatters. Chuck leaps in front of Thomas at the last moment. Minho launches the spear. There's a scream. Everyone ducks.

My ears ring.

We slowly stand up.

Gally can't breathe around the pole through the top of his chest.

He buckles to his knees. The gun clatters to the floor. Gally keels over after it, something unfamiliar in his eyes as they slowly dim.

My breathing is uneven and my eyes catch Newt's as he looks briefly over at me.

And then it's Chuck on the floor, his shirt fast soaking through with blood.

I can't even hear Thomas calling to him, trying to assure him as he shakes; lowering them both to the ground. All Chuck wanted was a big brother; a best friend. And it was easy to see Thomas genuinely adored the kid, and now they've both lost something irreplaceable.

My eyes burn, but I don't blink as tears flood them and race down my face. The paths they leave are searing hot on my skin. I feel like someone's tied my heart into a knot.

Chuck becomes a dead weight in Thomas' arms. His eyes stare outward. His last words were a heartfelt, choked, 'Thank you'.

Thomas breaks apart.

The grief is all consuming.

Chuck is gone. Just…gone.

He was twelve years old.

He'll only ever be twelve years old.

…

I'm a little fuzzy on the moments when the door at the end of the tunnel opens. One moment Chuck is dead and the next, we're being herded like sheep towards the huge door which has opened from a sliver of light into a gaping square gap in the cement walls.

There's a breeze outside – a real, natural draft of fresh air that sends sand swirling up off the ground and catches in my clothes.

I look back over my shoulder.

The rescuers – is that what they are? – are dressed in dark gear, combat boots and headscarves that hide their features from us, and from the elements. Four of them push us on, up the tunnel to the light. Three of them are needed to move Thomas from Chuck's body.

A hand catches mine and I look around. Newt has run around Minho and he just gives me the briefest of glances before running on again. I grip his hand tightly and push myself to keep up. One of the men in dark clothing, a rifle jostling at his back, presses his hand to Newt's shoulder, encouraging him on. Another of the men does the same to Stan and Frankie.

The world outside is foreign.

We burst into the light, and my vision swims white – just like it did the first time the doors opened onto the Box when I arrived in the Glade.

Only Newt's grip on my hand keeps me from collapsing at the sudden blindness.

There's a loud buffeting noise that swallows up everything around; I can't hear anything else over it.

Newt stops, and I find my balance against him, rubbing at my eyes with my free hand until shapes and colours start to form.

I haven't been this close to Newt since this morning. It seems like such a long time ago now. I woke up in his hammock, watching him sharpen his machete, and since then I've been too busy surviving to think of anything else.

But now, I can find it in me to be relieved that he's still alive.

He looks exhausted and cut up, as we all do, and he's squinting in the light. His grip on my hand is tight, and I'm oddly grateful for the way it grounds me.

We're in some kind of wasteland; sand dunes taller than the trees in the Glade, dry air and the hazy shapes of shacks and other buildings in the distance. The tunnel we came out of is built into an enormous curved wall, weathered smooth by the blowing grit. It spreads as far as I can see, and reaches into the sky.

One of the men starts to herd us on, and we're still trying to adjust to this…desert…we've stepped into. Minho shrugs off the person who tries to move him on with an unyielding look that says he shouldn't try it again.

He stares into the black tunnel until shadows move, and I can spot Thomas being dragged out after us.

The men start pushing us on again, and this time, we move. Even Minho.

A short distance away, the rotor blades whirring already, a black helicopter sits; the source of the deafening sound of pummelled air. We all run for it.

I let go of Newt to grab the handle on the side and I haul myself up.

Stan, Frypan, Eric, Frankie and Dan are all huddled on the far side in a row, hanging onto loose straps or the nearest hand rails, trying to leave as much space as possible.

Lee, Tim, Clint, Jack and Winston all file in right after Newt pulls himself inside, and they fall into spaces along the back.

More of us leap in; Jackson, Dimitri, Rob and three boys I never really got to know. Minho and Teresa bring up the rear, and I'm not sure how we're all going to fit.

Twenty one survivors in total.

I'm as angry about that word as I am thankful for it. Survivors.

Thomas is almost thrown in last, and the door hauled up the side of the helicopter, slamming shut before he can try to escape.

But he looks too broken to escape.

His hands curl tight around something, and they shake as I hear the engine fire up properly. Newt lays a steadying hand on his shoulder, but Thomas can barely nod in acknowledgement of it. Tear tracks run through the grime on his face.

"You guys alright?"

One of the men sits in the only space we don't occupy in the hull of the helicopter. He's pulled down his headscarf and sounds just a little winded as he reaches for a water canteen.

"Don't worry; you're safe now."

He gives the pilot a thumbs up.

Teresa doesn't look convinced as she grabs a strap to hold on.

Its only exhaustion that stops me from scoffing out loud.

Safe?

I'm starting to think nowhere is.

…

We lift into the air, sand swirling around us until the desert drops away and we're climbing higher than the weathered walls.

Newt leans over to the side window and I follow. Minho leans across Thomas, who looks up, too. Everyone crowds in behind us.

Stamped and half worn away on one of the Stone structural pieces that help to segment sections of the outer Maze is:

W.C.K.D

SITE A

And as we rise higher, thousands of reflective panels come into view, shining in the blinding sunlight between rows of pipes, aerials and vents.

Solar panels.

To power the ever changing Maze.

But an even more powerful sight is when it takes shape below us.

The circle with all its tiny pathways and interlocking walls; the wide Sectors, the long, winding Middle Ring and the intricate, cramped Narrows that make up the Maze itself and then…

Then the square Glade, right in the centre; green and vibrant surrounded by the cold stone. From this height, it's not even possible to see the huts of Homestead or the box platform. It's just possible to see the woodland that takes up a diagonal half, and the field that spreads over the other.

It doesn't look like a big enough enclosure for a pet rabbit.

But some of these boys lived there for three years.

Newt sinks down, away from the window. His expression is full of a kind of numb disbelief and there's something haunting in his eyes.

I know there's nothing I can say to help, so I just take his hand again, gripping tightly and rest my head against his shoulder. I don't know if it's him shaking, or me.

It hurts, in the strangest way, to quite literally see that your whole world is so small.

It hurts, to know that every part of it was controlled, monitored and designed to bring out your fears.

It hurts, to realise that while it was more prison than home, it was all we had. And having no home, no memories of anything before makes me more scared than staring a Griever in the face.

Who am I now?

I don't know.

Where do I go now?

I don't know.

I don't know how to exist in this world.

My breathing rushes, goes shallow and I start to feel light headed. The sound of the helicopter blades pounds through my skull.

It's definitely me shaking now.

I can't breathe properly. The air is stifling.

The helicopter really does seem too small for so many survivors.

Did they expect less?

Maybe.

Were more of us supposed to die?

Probably.

My voice doesn't work. There's a weight sitting on my chest; pressing and clamping like a vice around my lungs.

Was I meant to die?

My vision dances, toying with consciousness.

You've got to breathe.

I'm talking to myself. In my head. Not normal.

My heart races. I hear the pounding in my ears and feel it behind my eyes.

You're going to black out.

No. I'm not. Breathe.

.

.

I can't.

The panic rushes in like a wave. I feel the world tilt behind my eyes.

Newt's fingers squeeze around mine.

His voice is a bare whisper as he murmurs, "Shhhh," against my hair.

The wave crashes, breaking apart.

I drag in a long breath and feel tears sting at my eyes with relief. I bite them back – I'm fed up of crying today – and focus on my own, slowing breaths. My heart gradually starts to beat in time with the steady rub Newt makes with his thumb across my wrist.

Slowly, the helicopter carries us up, away from the Maze and into the sunlit world.

…

It's in some kind of empty car lot outside an old building that we finally touch down again.

It could be a travel inn or hotel, but without any real idea of what those things are anymore, I couldn't easily say. Night is drawing in; the sky darkening into a velvet cloak of navy blue.

The man – who drifted to sleep for much of the flight – wakes as we land, and turns to us while the pilot kills the engine.

The blades still spin above us with a noise that I no longer fully register after hours of it.

"Everyone inside the minute I open this door," the man says, nodding through the window to the low lying building. "No questions; time for them later."

He hauls open the side of the helicopter, and the panel slides back with a metallic grinding sound.

Thomas leaps out first, Minho right behind him. Newt follows, guiding me down as he's still holding my hand. Stan is right at my back as we run across the empty lot.

We pile up in the hallway where a handful more people are waiting for us.

It certainly feels a bit like an underground rescue operation.

The man who flew with us comes in last, shutting us all in the hallway. Outside the sound of the helicopter blades rising and then growing distant tells me that our transport has left.

We're all herded through to a room that looks like a dormitory in a boarding school or an orphanage – or at least, how I'd imagine one to look.

Bunk beds line the walls, and stand down the middle of the room, too. The bedding is fresh and on each pillow is a folded towel and some form of night clothes.

"Find a bed boys. And girls," one of the men says. He gives a little smile to Teresa and I. "Showers are at the end of the hall. We'll get you some food in here while you clean up."

There's a flurry of activity as he leaves. That is, if a flurry of activity can be weary at the same time.

Dan throws himself onto the nearest bunk, face first and lets out a possibly contented sound. Lee climbs onto the bed above him and stretches to reach the towel. Frankie and Winston both sit on the same bed and have a silent staring moment, before Frankie stands and throws his knife and pack onto the bunk overhead.

Slowly, boys head down the hall, carrying their towels and night clothes.

I sink onto an unclaimed bed; a bottom bunk with stiff sheets that's cast into shadow against a wall. And slowly – now beginning to realise how much all my muscles ache – I shrug out of the collection of straps over my head.

I drop my satchel first, and then unbuckle the leather scabbard. There are just six arrows now. The one that got broken in half will probably always lie on that stone walkway in the Maze.

I pull the elastic string of my bow to remove that, too, and it makes a splintering sound.

No.

It's stupid to be attached to it. I know that. I always knew it was not a long-lasting weapon.

And yet, it still hurts a little.

There's a long vertical split down the wood on one of the arms, from nearly the end right down to the wrapped leather where I grip it. Looking at it now, I can vaguely remember a cracking noise when I stabbed the Griever.

I pull gingerly on the string, and both arms flex backwards.

I watch the split travel another inch towards the tapered end and let it go.

I may be able to wrap it up with bandages, but a good couple of fires and it'll still break.

I cast it aside, laying it at the end of the bunk, and forcing myself to let go of the small knot of sadness in my chest.

I pull the tiny knife from my boot again, and scoot myself backwards to lean against the wall. I absorb myself in using my sleeve to try cleaning the black stain from the steel as the other boys settle their own things and start organising themselves.

The sound of running water doesn't stop for over forty minutes as everyone disappears in shifts. They return looking so clean it's hard to recognise them.

Finally, I scoop up the towel and set of clothes on the pillow of my bunk and head off when Jack comes back in a dark blue pyjama set.

After months of it, I've gotten so used to sharing a shower block with the boys, that it doesn't bother me in the slightest any more. The spray is actually warm, not the tepid stream I'm used to. I feel long-wound up muscles start to relax as the water swirling down the drain goes from red and brown and black and starts to run clear.

I take a bit of time, scrubbing the soap into my skin and hair, gently checking my scrapes and allowing myself to get rid of the tears that have been held back all day.

The cries choke me up and tear me apart from the inside out.

For the dead, for the ones left behind, for the ones who did make it, for the answers we still don't have, and for the long way to go. It all hurts; a searing kind of pain.

The shower masks my sobs. The tears mix with the water and get washed down the drain, leaving me feeling a little broken, but a little fixed, too.

I towel dry, standing in the stall. It takes a while, since most of my body feels like a walking bruise. I've pulled muscles in my legs, my arms, my shoulders and between my ribs in just the last twenty four hours.

Finally, I leave the towel with the other used ones in a hamper, leave my damp hair loose to dry and pull on the fresh clothes. There's baggy flannel pyjama bottoms that I have to knot so they don't slide off my hips and a t-shirt with sleeves that fall to my elbows. It feels foreign to be wearing something so soft that smells like laundry detergent.

I think a piece of me misses the smell of the woods that would linger in clothes washed in the Glade.

Back in the room, food has arrived.

I can barely eat a few mouthfuls of the fast food assortment before I'm moving away and crawling towards the bed against the far wall where my bow rests across the blankets.

The sheets are stiff and cold; the mattress flat. As far as I remember, I've only ever slept in a hammock. I'm exhausted but I curl under the blankets feeling strange, unable to relax.

The last time I fell asleep, Newt was with me.

He's sitting up with Thomas, Minho and Frypan, leaning against Fry's bunk as some of the boys pick at what's left of the food. Some of them, like me, have already gone to their beds.

With my eyes resting on Newt, sleep comes easily. But so do the nightmares.

INFO

1. That little moment where one of the boys just very quietly lets Minho take his spear is actually in the film, and when I saw that, I just loved it. I think it says such a lot about everything these kids have seen and endured. Each of those boys is perceptive enough to see a volatile situation in an instant, they're also quick to work out who's best equipped to deal with it, and then they're able to band together and wordlessly communicate and collaborate for a single purpose. I just got so much out of that tiny moment where that spear trades hands, and I had to draw a bit of attention to it.

2. This moment when they fly above the Maze and just see it spread out beneath them...I found something hauntingly powerful in that. That Glade was all they knew, and while it was a prison, it had also been their sanctuary - it had sustained them for years. But to fly up over it like that, its heartbreaking, in a way, to really appreciate for the first time that your whole world is so very small. And to see the Maze wrapped around it, too...this Maze destroyed and took so many lives, it was a living nightmare for all Gladers; an impossible, insurmountable task. And to simply look down on it and realise it wasn't even that big...those are the kind of truths that hurt.

3. Whether Eva truly starts to have a panic attack here, I'll leave for you. I've had them before, but a long time ago and I don't remember them too well afterwards, so trying to describe one isn't too easy for me. But this kind of realisation is a very different thing than everything else Eva has come to terms with. She accepted that the possibility of her dying was a reasonable one. But this kind of fear comes from surviving, and then having no idea how to live in the world you now exist in.

4. Her bow. Sadly, I always planned for this to be it's fate. It was never going to last long, but more importantly, I felt that having a literal break was nice symbolism for a lot of what's happened in the last few chapters, if not the whole story.

Guest Replies

Loving it: Thank you! Great to know you're still enjoying it, and I'm glad you liked reading the files on the computer and the way that was put across. Its good to know you feel like it fitted, since there was quite a lot of information I needed to share :) As for the sequel, it's not a definite yet. Not until I know if my plans for it will actually fit with the movie. But fingers crossed!

Guest: Thanks! Glad you're liking it!

Ashlyn: Well...I hope Chuck's death wasn't too awful for you. Great to know you're still enjoying the chapters. And even if the sequel doesn't pan out, there are the companion chapters to come, as well as (hopefully) an Eden Switch AU or two for fun :). And of course I replied; I really appreciate every single review I'm given and this is the best way to show it :)