Disclaimer: If I was James Dashner, you'd know by now.

"What the…" She mumbled under her breath, her eyes squinting towards the two shadows in mid sprint.

They all slowed to a stop, without being told to do so.

"Bloody hell," She heard Newt mutter.

She glanced at him, briefly, and then turned her attention back to the two runners, which were now advancing yards closer than before.

Were they running away from someone? Or Something? Or had they seen the group of gladers in the Scorch and decided to help them? Or kill them?

She shivered.

"Everyone pack in tighter," Minho hollered, "And get ready to fight these shanks at the first sign of trouble."

Newt tugged the blanket, signaling for her to move, and they shuffled underneath the sheet closer towards Minho, as if he was the epicenter of the circle. Tatum curled her hands over the thin sheet, pulling it closer to her face, as if that would magically protect her from the progressing strangers.

The rising heat caused the faces of the two strangers to contort, making their identity undetectable until they were barely a few yards away.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Thomas stiffen beside Aris, his muscles clenching as he grinded his teeth together.

After glancing around, she noticed all the gladers fashioned the same expression. Fear, disgust, anxiety.

She established that one was male, and one was female, both around the same age of thirty. They were both skinny, lanky, and lean, although the lady had more curves. It was hard to see their faces under the tattered clothing and grimy material. The only visible skin that was showing around their eyes was red scabby, and swathed in filth.

They strolled to a top, hunching over on their knees as they wheezed for fresh air.

"Who are you?" Minho asked.

Newt and Tatum shared an expression.

"Who are you?" he repeated, adding more emphasis when they didn't respond.

Surely the two could hear him. The wind wasn't that loud.

Once again though, they ignored Minho. They stood erect, glanced around at the gladers and Tatum for a few seconds, then encircled around them, one on each side, like they were herding sheep. The action made her heart thumb in her chest because of nervousness. They didn't appear to have weapons on them, but they still looked dodgy as ever. The whole 'no talking' thing added to the demeanor.

You could cut the tension with a knife it was so overwrought.

The male runner fixed her eyes with Tatum's for an awkwardly long while, and she felt belittled looking into the bleak, bloodshot eyes, as they fell into thin slits.

She looked away.

"Hey," Minho growled when they had made a full circle around them, "There are a whole lot more of us then there are of you. Start talking. Tell us who you are."

"We're cranks." For someone looking so ragged and worn-down, the girl had a chirpy voice. Making them all flinch, the woman lifted a finger. She pivoted around and pointed towards the town the gladers were advancing on; for no particular reason at all. Could that have been a warning that the town was filled with Cranks such as them?

"Cranks?" Minho said, "Just like the ones tried to break into our building a couple of days ago?"

Tatum shivered at the word, her brain thinking back to the conversation merely an hour ago. In her mind, she imagined Cranks to have flesh-rotting skin with no teeth and life-less eyes, but maybe these Cranks weren't that far gone. But on the other hand they did look— well— for lack of better words; like crap.

"We're cranks," The man confirmed, "Came to see if you're cranks. Came to see if you've got the Flare," His voice was quick, the words meshing together like they were one word.

Minho spun around, looking at Thomas, Newt, Tatum, as well as a few others. He raised a brow, his lips curling downward, before he spun back around to the cranks.

There was a long silence, preceding a few awkward glances.

Taking initiative, Tatum stepped forward, her shrill voice startling herself, more so than the others. "We got the Flare. What's it to you?"

The man shot her a disgustingly cynical smile; deteriorating teeth and all.

She cringed, "Can you tell us anything about it?" She paused, "At all?" She added.

"Don't matter," He shook his head, his brown locks escaping the sheet wrapped tightly around his scalp, "You got it. You'll know soon enough."

"Well what do you bloody want?" Newt asked, releasing the blanket to move beside Minho. "What's it matter to you if we're Cranks or not?" Thomas joined the two, and the three stood in front of the Cranks while the rest held back.

"How'd you get in the Scorch? Where'd you come from? How did you get here?" The woman bombarded the three.

Tatum watched as the three exchanged glances. Minho leaned to Newt, whispering something in his ear, which caused Newt to nod, and then he tipped towards Thomas.

She couldn't pick up what the three were conversing about, until Minho's eyes widened in fury, and he growled at Thomas more audibly. "What an idea Thomas! You're freaking brilliant, as usual." She noticed the plentiful bounty of sarcasm in his voice.

Thomas scowled, and they went back to hushed whispers again.

"We were sent here by WICKED," Minho announced, facing the strangers again "Came out of a hole just a little while that way form a tunnel." He hiked a thumb over his shoulder, "Picked that girly up along the way. We were told to go one hundred miles to the North, across the Scorch. Any of that mean a thing to you?"

Once again, they ignored him. Tatum detected the rage on Minho's face.

"Not all Cranks are gone." The man muttered in a grave tone, "Not all of them are past the Gone." Tatum was sure that these Cranks were still intelligent enough to speak properly, so she knew that when he said 'past the Gone' he referred to it as a place, or time.

"Different ones at different levels. Best you learn who to make friends with and who to avoid. Or kill. Better learn right quick if you're coming our way."

Tatum shivered.

"What's your way?" Minho asked for all of the curious gladers, "You came from that town, right? Is that where all the Cranks live? Is there food and water there?"

So many questions; but such unworthy answerers. The pair didn't seem reluctant to help them at all. Either that or they just didn't care; or didn't understand.

"If you don't have it, you'll have it soon." The women told them, turning not only to the prime three, "Same with the other group, the ones that are supposed to kill you!" She said it in such a pleased tone, it made her stomach somersault.

The man did something that startled them all. After an unnerving stillness, he sauntered towards the only girl in the group. Tatum gasped sharply when the man stopped in front of her, his hand rising to meet her face. His scale-y palm cupped her jaw line, his thumb moving back and forth to rub her dehydrated skin.

She shielded away from the man, and she heard someone, maybe Newt, caution "Hey," in warning.

"Such a fine-looking smiiiiiile," He whispered, his sentence ending in a hiss, similar to that of a snake's, "Just like your father."

She peeled his hands off her, her face expressing extreme disgust, and she staggered back a few steps away from him. Aris pushed her back up with the palms of his hands, and she gave him a gracious nod, dusting herself off as she looked back to the man. With one last contemptuous grin, the man revolved and darted back towards the town; the woman following closely behind him.

"Wait!" She hollered after them, yearning for more answers, but they were already gone. What did he mean? Just like her father? Her brain hurt, a migraine starting to form just at the thought of imagining what her father looked like.

How could they run in this heat—with all that clothing? Just the thought made her want to heave what little food she had in her body.

Newt ran a hand through his wavy hair, sighing as he faced the gladers.

"Other group?" Frypan mumbled, stepping into the center of the circle.

"Wonder if they're talking about my group," Aris speculated.

"Probably," Tatum chimed in. She looked to Thomas, who was now the only one still facing the retreating Cranks. His face was filled with worry and fret.

He snapped out of his brief stupor, stiffening, and then darted back around. "Group B? You think they've made it to the town?"

"Hello!" Minho impulsively shouted, "Who cares? You think the little part about them supposedly killing us would be the attention getter. Maybe the stuff about the Flare? Or that klunk about her father?"

Tatum raised her hands in the air innocently, causing the blanket to fall around her feet. It whipped in unknown directions, curling around her ankles.

"Have you seen that shank before?" Mund, the one that highly disliked her despite only knowing her for less than a few hours, asked her.

"Never," She replied, hands still surrendering in the wind.

"He seemed to recognize you," Newt mumbled, to her surprise.

"I've never seen that dude before," She derided.

Newt lifted a hand to his face, his fingers massaging the barely-visible stubble he had on his chin. Or was that sand?

"Maybe he was confusing you with someone else," Thomas speculated.

"I sure hope so…" She trailed off, her arms finally falling to her side.

"Again!" Minho vocalized, "Who cares?! I'm more worried about dying then those shuck faces confusing her with someone. Besides, did you see them? They're cranks. Their minds are all jumbled up," He gestured to his head.

"Aren't we cranks too?" She countered.

Minho sighed; his eyes rolling skyward once he met her green irises, "Didn't you hear the shank? There's different stages. That makes sense, doesn't it? Otherwise we'd all be eating each other's dumb shuck brains out."

"Maybe when she said 'you' she didn't mean all of us," Thomas sparked a thought, "Maybe she meant me specifically." He tapped a finger on the nape of his neck, "Couldn't tell where her eyes were looking."

"Why would she be talking about only you?" Tatum asked, "What's so special about you?"

Their bodies rotated towards her, and she stepped forward to join their circle. Thomas licked his lips, like he was preparing himself for something, and then he spun away from her, like he was ignoring her. At first, that action confused her, but then, she realized why he had done that when he pulled back the collar of his shirt to reveal his nape.

In thick, blocky letters, similar font to a type writer, were words printed on his neck.

Property of WICKED, Group A, Subject A2: To Be Killed by Group B.

"What the hell…" Was all she could say. Her jaw hung open, and her fingers remained on Thomas' neck, that is, until he shook her off.

Newt nodded from behind Minho, as if to say 'mhm'.

Her bottom lip jutted out as her eyes sank to the floor.

It took her a moment to process that. So they all had tattoos, were there's all as demoralizing as his? Hers was 'the constituent' which meant she was supposed to be here, she was a building block. She had a purpose. What was her purpose? Was that why the man had seemed to recognize her? She wanted answers; she would do anything for just a couple of answers.

"I don't think he was talking primarily to you," She told Thomas, "The way he spoke… I don't know. It was like he was warning us, without actually warning us."

"That makes no sense," Minho stated.

She rolled her eyes, "Well, how would she've know who Thomas is?"

"He knew who you were." He opposed.

She ran a hand through her stringy hair, "Could have been a big mistake, maybe not. I don't know, I'm still pretty confused. If you don't remember, you just told me that the world had basically ended and flesh-eating zombies are roaming the earth, not to mention that you guys gave me the virus that caused those people to be like. I'm just trying to make sense of this all."

Minho actually shot her a pitiful look, and that was probably the closest she would get to concern from Minho.

"Well, it doesn't matter," He spoke louder so everyone could hear, "If someone tries to kill you," He pointed to Thomas, "Or me, or anyone, they might as well try to get through all of us, right?" Minho peered over at her from the corner of her eye. Had he meant her too?

"You're so sweet!" Frypan chirped sarcastically, "Go ahead and die with Thomas, I think I'll sneak away and enjoy living with the guilt." His face fell to a comical smile, which explained he was only joking, but Tatum could sense a hint of truth to his words.

"Well what do we do now?" Tatum directed at Minho.

Newt nodded his head at Minho, "Whad'ya think?"

"We keep going, that's what. Look, we don't have a choice. If we don't go to that town we're gonna die from sunstroke or starvation. If we do go we'll have some shelter, maybe even food. Cranks or no Cranks. We're going."

"Good that," Newt agreed.

"And Group B?" Thomas asked, "Or whoever they were talking about. What if they really do wanna kill us? All we have to fight with is our hands." He lifted to clenched fists in the air to demonstrate.

Minho smirked, "If these people are really the girls Aris was hanging out with, then I'll show 'em these guns of mine and they'll go runnin'"

Tatum snorted.

Instantaneously, Minho's eyes fell into thin slits and he scowled at her. "Can't tell if I love her or hate her." He tapped a finger on his chin. This time, Newt snorted.

"What if the girls have guns?" Thomas asked, "Weapons? Or can fight?"

"What if it's not them at all?" Tatum could feel the anxiety flooding in her chest, "What if it's a bunch of seven foot tall flesh-eating ogre's?"

"Gross," Minho cringed. "Alright," He vocalized louder, "Everyone slim it! No more questions. If you've got an idea that doesn't involve dying then quit your pipin' and let's take the only shuckin' chance we got. Get it?"

They all nodded, Thomas even smiled.

"That's better," Minho gave a content not, "Now anyone else wanna pee their pants and cry for mommy?"

A few snickers broke out, while Tatum merely rolled her eyes.

"Good. Newt you and the lady lead up front, limp and all, I'll be right behind ya. Thomas, get your arse to the back. Jack, watch Winston, make sure his face doesn't get more shucked up then it already is. Let's go."

Tatum gnawed on her cracked lips and picked up the blanket curling around her feet. Newt moved towards her again, and he put an arm around her shoulder so they could wrap the sheet around themselves again.

With the warm blanket draped loosely across their shoulders, they moved forward once again.

"Want me to grab the food?" She asked Newt after a minute or so of walking.

He shook his head, "There's not much left anyways," He let out a cheerless laugh.

She nodded.

"How's your feet?" He asked, startling her. No one had asked how she was, yet. Not after the fainting, not after the big revilement about WICKED and the Flare, not about her feet. Newt was the first.

"Better," She retorted, wiggling her toes, "Not so painful anymore."

"Good."

The small talk was getting on her nerves, and if she was spending the next two weeks with these guys, then she needed to surpass the 'awkward' stage in the friendship. She needed to gain the trust of everyone, she needed to fit in.

They jogged for a few minutes and for a while the only sound you could hear was everyone's heaving chest, but eventually everyone got too fatigued, so they slowed to a toddle again.

Slowly, softly, the horizon began to eat up the last rays of the sun. A deep purple color encompassed them as they trekked in the dusk. It was more comfortable to hike in, and her face, for once, didn't feel like it was going to peel off.

Newt hissed beside her, and they slowed their walk a bit, allowing others to pass in front of them.

"You alright?" She asked the boy, who gripped his hip as they strode.

His eyes scrunched into slim slits, and his teeth ground together, "Just my buggin' leg," He managed to spit out, "Hurts sometimes."

If there ever was a perfect time to ask about his leg, that would've been it, but she let the opening pass regretfully and just nodded instead. "We can slow down, if you want."

"Nah," he shook his head, "its fine. We'll stop soon; get a bite to eat, than probably take a quick nap. I'll be fine."

She doubted that, and her motherly instinct told her to force him to rest, but again, she hardly knew the boy, so for the zillionth time, she just nodded.

They walked for another hour in nerving silence, and in that time period, she watched the deep purple of the sky fade to a smoky gray, and finally, a murky black. There were no lights on in the city ahead, but their eyes had adjusted enough to still be able to see it illuminated even in the darkness. The faint glimmer of life remained still, unmoving, and they continued to advance towards their destination.

"Alright Slinthead's!" Minho yelled over the recently picked up wind, "Shuck me if I'm wrong, but we're all as tired as a runner after returning to the maze. It's starting to cool down now; I say we take the opportunity to eat, sleep, klunk, cry for mommy, whatever. We'll give it a few hours, until all of us feel awake enough to walk again, and then we'll continue, got it?"

A series of yeses and yeahs broke out, while Newt, on the other hand, sighed deeply, his body plunging onto a giant sand dune in front of him. He rolled onto his back, exposing part of his torso, and sighed once again, as he closed his eyes.

Tatum let out a small laugh, and criss crossed her legs as she sat on the tiny dune beside him.

"Here," He said, speaking for the first time in over an hour. He had a granola bar in hand, and he held it out to her.

"Are you sure?" She asked, feeling bad for taking his food. She felt like an idler taking their food.

He nodded exasperatedly, "We're running out anyway," He explained once he saw the apologetic look on her face.

She bit her lip, taking it from his hand.

He grabbed one for him, and they both ate in silence, as they glanced around at the others preparing for sleep. All of them had blanket draped over their bodies, pairs cowering together; while those who weren't sleeping were chatting, and swatting away bits of sand. Tatum enjoyed the relief of wind, but with wind came sand; and sand meant tiny pebbles pelting themselves into your face.

"So I have to ask," She mumbled through a mouthful of granola, "Why'd you believe me over those shanks?" She nodded towards Mund and Jack, who were engrossed in conversation, glancing over at her way every now and again.

Newt shrugged in the horizontal position he was in, causing his shoulders to dig into the sand. "Because I saw your face, I guess."

She frowned, "What's that supposed to mean?" Was she ugly? Were they pitiful? Or was she beautiful? Were they just helping her out because they thought she was attractive?

He propped himself up on his shoulders. "Your face," he repeated, "You had this look. The same look the greenie's did when they came up the Box. The look of hopelessness. You were scared, and desperate. You were like a little frightened mouse—"

"Okay, I get it." She cut him off.

He gave her a crooked smile as he brushed his hair back. When his smile faded, he spoke again. "I guess I just trusted that you meant no harm. I don't think you could be that great of an actor."

"Hey…" She sulked.

He chuckled. "You seem pretty loyal to me."

"Thanks," She touched a hand to her heart and pretended to sniff.

He smacked her in the chest, chuckling again as he fell back into the sand. He yawned, stretching his body out like a small housecat, and rolled over.

Her eyes trailed back over to Thomas, who was still awake despite his sleeping partner Aris beside him. He gave her a smile wave, to which she returned, and then she glanced over at Frypan, whom she had not formally met yet; but that did not stop him from sending her wink once their eyes rallied. She let out a quiet laugh, and then concluded it was time to sleep, after a long yawn of course.

Almost everyone was deep in slumber; the only few awake were her, Thomas, Frypan, Jack, and Mund.

"Well come on then," Newt startled her. She zapped her head towards his body and saw that he was no longer lying on the floor. He kneeled in the sand, his torso erect, while his arms expanded beside him. The blanket decorated his shoulders, and he looked like a bat in the darkness.

He nodded towards the open space in the sheet. "Would you rather be pelted by pebbles?" He asked, raising both brows.

She gave him a sheepish smile.

"What?" He made a face, "S'not like I'm diseased or something," He paused, "Well actually, I guess I am."

Her lips pressed together tightly.

"What?" he asked when he saw her expression.

"Technically you're not diseased. You have a virus, they're different. Diseased is a very broad term that simply means an abnormality in a physiologic process that interferes with the norm. A virus is a microorganism that needs another living host to proliferate."

His eyes fell into thin slits. Maybe it wasn't the best to mess with a hungry, dehydrated, sleep-deprived teenage boy.

"Diseased works too, though." She added when she saw his face. "Whatever," She shrugged, "Basically the same thing"

"Get the shuck over here before I bloody collapse to the floor from sleep deprivation as well as heat exhaustion." He threatened non-menacingly.

She blew out a raspberry.

"Your choice," He shrugged, "I'm fine with hogging the blanket all to myself, just thought I'd be a gentleman n' all."

She sighed, scooting towards him on her knees, and ducked under his shoulder.

They both fell to the ground, their cheeks pressed into the sand. At first, she thought he was going to keep his arm wrapped around her shoulder, which was highly unnecessary. She was perfectly capable of holding a blanket down, but then, he rolled over, his eyes shut tightly.

She rolled onto her stomach, and tucked the blanket under tummy so that she wouldn't have to worry about it flying away, and then curled into a spread-eagle position, her head facing Newt, who was facing away from her.

For the first ten minutes, she remained wide awake. Maybe she had insomnia? Or maybe she had trouble sleeping with loud noises. And no, she was not talking about the wind; she was talking about Minho's snoring.

She covered her ears, curling tighter into a ball as her eyes darted around in the darkness.

The blanket flapped around in the wind, and she tried to hold it still to make less noise, but there was no use.

She glanced to Newt, whose body was lightly rising and falling to the steady rhythm of his breathing, and that's when she noticed his neck.

Property of WICKED, Group A, Subject A5, The Glue.

She pondered over that for a minute, maybe that was what started to make her so tired. Did he hold people together? Was he figuratively the sticky substance that held them all together? Seemed like it from only knowing him for a day.

Her thoughts continued like this for what seemed like forever, until her consciousness began to ebb away.

But just as her mind drew to a close, she heard something, causing her eyes to flash open. At first, she thought she was hearing false things; that maybe it was just the wind howling, but then she heard it again.

Emitting in the distance, deafening and distressing, a blood curdling scream emanated into the thick, dry, desert air.

A/N: Special thanks to ImAbird27 and berryblood for reviewing. Hey, if anyone wants to make a cover for this story, feel free too. (You'd get ten points for gryffindor if you did). I hope things aren't moving too quickly, I'm just trying to follow the pace of the book. Tell me if there is anything you'd like to see!