Chapter 54. Snow.

After an eternity, Newt had been able to use telepathy with Gold. This was a relief to everyone. The researchers had been growing impatient with the time it was taking, and their response to impatience was to have one of the Gladers punch the other. The one being controlled into the act was the one deemed guilty of not trying hard enough. As bad as a fist to the face was, the powerlessness stung worse, as did the guilt.

"We cannot finish this session until you cooperate, Thomas," Sneer said once more. "Stop pretending you can't do this simple task!"

"Why don't you try it, then?" Thomas said. He directed the unspoken words at Green, but like everything else he'd said to his telepathy partner, it was lost to the void.

Green glared. The whole telepathy thing was honestly overrated. No words were required to communicate what he thought of Thomas. It was unclear whether Sneer believed the lack of results was intentional or simply thought added pressure would work, but Thomas was sure the two strange boys held no compassion for the Gladers. Green was particularly ready to blame Thomas for the way things were going, even more than the researchers did. The last time that rat had complained aloud, Thomas had once again felt his hand fold into an involuntary fist.

"Perhaps he doesn't care enough about his friend," one of the adults half-whispered to Sneer.

Thomas halted his attempts at telepathy. How dared they? Why wouldn't he care about Newt?

"We'll see," she returned, ominous as can be.

She noticed Thomas looking at her and approached. He didn't want to know the threat she would level this time. He told himself to speak, speak! If Sneer got close he would kill her, except he would fail, and everything would get worse if he did. He couldn't let her, nor could he move. Speak, speak, speak!

"Speak!"

Green flinched. Thomas halted as the other looked from him to Sneer.

"Speak…" Green mumbled.

So he had done it. His head was pounding like a drum, though. He heard something about a break and hoped it referred to their session and not his brain, dropping his head into his hands, eyes shut to keep out the glaring light. A hand was on his shoulder, but he knew whose.

Thomas fully expected to be made to repeat the small success at gunpoint after reacting so well under stress, but was even more disturbed by the lack of pressure. It was no less strenuous and no more successful than before, but the researchers seemed fine with that. When Green —similarly confused— tried goading Thomas into telepathy, he was told off. Sneer didn't sneer as much, and didn't bring Newt as she left with the others. Furthermore, after Thomas had been unchained so he could go to the bathroom, he hadn't been re-chained. In very relative terms, they were free.

Newt frowned as the door shut. "Are those shuckfaces playin' nice now? Like we're gonna forget all about the whole bloody week?"

Thomas shrugged. "Unless they think our brains are scrambled enough at this point… No, that's too stupid."

"And they can't expect us to make a run for it just because you're not cuffed to the bedpost anymore. Right?"

"Yeah." That would be too obvious a set-up. The Gladers knew full-well they were being watched.

"Good that. So let's forget about them for as long as we can. It won't be long."

Thomas nodded. But although he'd wanted to be alone with his friend, to speak freely and share his worries about the others, the people of WICKED were with them still, paying closer attention, if anything. It was worse knowing their minds were not their own either. It was useful knowledge, and knowledge he was glad to possess, but he mourned the time when he thought he could say what he liked in that one way.

Thomas walked around the room as best he could with his wounded leg, pretending to enjoy his false freedom. He didn't say anything. Nor did Newt, who was drawing something on a paper he'd found in a drawer next to the pencil. The room was uncomfortable —warmer than it had been before, surely. It couldn't be just his pacing. Or perhaps it was.

Thomas stopped next to Newt. "What are you drawing?"

Newt turned the paper over, revealing some shapeless scribbling. "Probably the best piece of modern art, since the world's gone to the dogs."

"Yes, I can see the artful angles, like an explosion. Oh, I know, is it my brain when it has to do telepathy?"

"I was thinking more like a dead griever, but if you say so, Tommy."

Then he sighed, tossing the paper aside. Thomas sat down on the table next to Newt, as he started fiddling with the pencil.

"What do you think?" Thomas asked. "Is it a secret key?"

"Not that I can see. Do you want it?" He passed it to Thomas.

Their fingers touched for a second, and when that second was over, Thomas let the pencil fall from his grip. It landed on the table, next to Newt's hand.

"Oh no. I dropped it," he said dramatically.

Newt smiled. "I will help you." He took the pen but didn't hand it back.

"No, I can get it." Thomas took Newt's hand instead.

The blinking of a camera caught his eyes, and it was ruined. He let go. He wanted not to care if the camera was looking at them, but he did. Because it mattered to him and he didn't want them to have his feelings. He snatched the abandoned pencil and threw it at the camera. It didn't matter. Why should he get in trouble for that? The screen didn't even crack.

Newt was looking at him without confusion, but Thomas couldn't bear the sorrow in his eyes, much less the tenderness.

"Are you tired?" He asked.

"A little. Are you?"

Thomas shook his head. As exhausting as telepathy had been, he'd been doing little but that and sleeping. The tiredness was perpetual, in any case. "You should sleep, then. I'll take guard duty."

Newt scoffed. "What can you possibly guard against?"

"Ouch."

"Ya know what I mean."

"I do." Guard duty was pointless, but it was something to do.

The room was so warm. It had been cold before. Maybe there was a fire raging right outside the door. Thomas hated it. He didn't want the enveloping heat. He wanted freedom, and his friends, and Newt's arms around him. He hated waiting for the day those things would be available. He had to dream.

The dreamed was snatched from him, too. They burst inside with covered faces and guns.

"Up! Get up!"

One of them yanked Thomas by the elbow and pushed him at the others.

The two Gladers were threatened and shoved past the door and onwards. These weren't saviours, they knew. They didn't pretend to be. They were covered head to foot in the same painful white as the glaring ceiling.

Thomas' leg hurt as he was urged along. He almost wanted to fall. Then the guards behind would step on him. He would bleed, and leave stains on their suits. A mark on the ground that somebody had been there. If he died, the next test subjects would know they weren't the first ones. Maybe there were others even now, who would know they weren't alone.

The air didn't change, even as they moved down. Down, and down, and… Now he recognised where they were. He'd been in this room. He, and Newt, and all the Gladers who had made it past the Grievers. Where the scientists had been shot down by a false rescuer. And now they were marching him to exit of the Maze. Him. Not Newt. He couldn't see his friend anymore. He saw… nothing. Felt nothing. There was only darkness around him. Had they dropped him into the void beneath the Griever hole?

It stopped. He felt cold stone, and saw it, but it was wrong. There was snow on the ground and dusting the dark vines. Looking around, he saw the gaping pit that hid the exit. He remembered the spot well, but hesitated to jump. Why would they have put him there if it were that easy. And what about Newt? They had taken him down to the two mazes right next to Thomas, but he'd gone somewhere else. Had they put Newt into the other maze? Group B's maze? No, Thomas was in group B's maze —his didn't have snow in it last he'd checked. So his friend was the one in their old maze. Presumably. But why? Maybe he should jump. Best to make sure he could, first. He'd used rocks to find the spot before, though he couldn't find any now. He kicked at the snow, hoping there would be something beneath it.

"Thomas!" The voice was distant, distorted, and in his head.

"Newt?" Thomas called. Then again, telepathically.

"In the Maze," he heard.

Thomas left the Griever hole behind, running out into the maze in search of his friend. He wasn't aware of any other ways to enter aside from the Box. Maybe it had been the Box, and Newt had gone into the Maze. They both knew the way from the Glade to the Griever hole, so if Thomas followed that path, he should meet Newt in the middle.

It hadn't been five minutes before the clicking-sounds started. The Grievers were going after him. Only, as the noise got closer, it became apparent that they were not Grievers. There was clicking, buzzing, but no movement against the ground. It's the snow. Just the snow, he told himself.

"Newt, I'm on my way to the Glade," he said. There was no response, but he pressed on.

Finally, someone else's steps thudded against the ground. The snow hid how close they really were, and the two ran right into each other at a corner.

"Ouch," Thomas said, getting up from the snow drift he'd fallen into. "Are you okay?"

Newt nodded. "Come on, let's head back."

Thomas turned back to where he'd come from, but Newt was going in the other direction. "Back to the Glade?"

"Yeah. It's getting dark." His voice was odd, strained, but Thomas remembered how Newt had acted in the Maze the last time. He feared it, hated it even more than Thomas.

He followed. It was getting dark, and the noises were approaching. They could get out in the morning.

It wasn't far to the Glade, and they would be in well before the doors closed. He had to assume they would close. The sun was shining like it used to. It had been its disappearance that triggered the doors to stay open in the night.

The clicking was getting louder again. Thomas checked for a weapon, but of course he didn't have one. He couldn't find any rocks either. Maybe if they climbed the vines and attacked from there? No, that was risky. They had to make it. They might make it. Thomas' leg, which had been shot recently, didn't so much as ache, which was strange, but he expected to feel worse for wear when the adrenaline wore off. Newt wasn't troubled either. His limp was hardly noticeable.

Hoping had been stupid. They ran into a new corridor, and it was there waiting for them. It wasn't a Griever, because Grievers didn't have evil-looking bat-wings. It was too similar for comfort, though, twitching menacingly from where it hovered before them.

"Go under it!" Newt shouted as he did so, launching himself onto the slippery ground and getting up on the other side of the monster.

Thomas sighed. It seemed risky. He didn't have a better idea, though.

Just as he moved to follow, the monster reached down. It grabbed him by the throat with spindly metal hands, which pressed into his skin as they lifted him. Thomas couldn't breathe.

Then it was over. The monster lurched to the side, loosening its grip. Thomas broke free and stumbled past it.

The two of them ran, but there was something wrong. It wasn't the pain, but the warmth. Like how the room had been warm earlier. Only now he realised his throat was bleeding. He clutched at it, unable to comprehend it, and blood seeped through his fingers. Newt had noticed, and handed him a scrap of fabric to press against the wound.

They kept running, almost there, and Thomas feared what would happen then, when he had to deal with this, and how much it bled.

"It's okay," Newt mumbled as the Maze finally came to an end. "You'll be fine."

Thomas wanted to agree, but when he tried to speak, a new agony made itself known.

They were in the Glade and the monster didn't follow them. They kept running, Newt leading Thomas to the Homestead. Thomas stopped. It wasn't their homestead, but group B's, looking incredibly different. They weren't in the Glade at all. Still, he couldn't go in there. He was certain of it. Even if they had been in an illusion of a place that hadn't even been this one, he somehow expected WICKED to have arranged it as they had seen it last, making it identical to that no matter how the exterior appeared. They would be locked in there again, stuck with the memories of when they had searched desperately for the cure that wasn't even real, when he had almost lost Newt again.

He shook his head at his friend now, motioning at a nearby barn. They had to get out of the cold before they started to feel it, and there might be supplies in there.

"Fine. We'll go there," Newt told him. "But I'll see if there are any medical supplies in that house first."

Was Thomas odd for having reservations about going to the Homestead? Logically, perhaps. He had more pressing matters at hand, though, namely using his hands to press the soaked cloth against his throat. It was not good.

He made it into the barn, where a dozen bleating goats greeted him. There was a small area outside their pen, cosily furnished with a fireplace. He sank into a chair, slightly dizzy. His throat hurt when he moved it, but when he sat still it was numb, and he was tired.

Then Newt was there, muttering at him that he couldn't die. He looked worried, but not panicked, so Thomas wasn't too concerned. He wondered if he was dreaming. There seemed to be something unreal to the room, to his friend, to what he felt.

He wasn't on the chair when he woke. Nor was he back in his old prison. He lay on some sort of bench, he realised, covered by what must be a goat pelt. Sitting up, he remembered what had happened to his throat. It ached like he had a cold. At least he wasn't dead.

Newt was at his side, standing up as Thomas woke. Thomas tried to say something to him, but it hurt too much.

"Yeah, you shouldn't do that," Newt agreed.

This was annoying, but at least they had another way of communicating.

"What time is it?" He asked. His throat didn't do anything to stop telepathy.

Newt didn't respond, so Thomas repeated himself.

"Afternoon, as far as I can see, but they don't have any clocks here."

"Well, that's vague. We might still have time to get out, though. If you check the sun's position, that'll give us a better idea."

Newt seemed to ponder something.

"I can do it myself," Thomas said. "I'll just need some time to—"

"There's no need. I looked at the sun a little while ago."

That was a bit odd. Being stuck in a never-changing maze for two years ought to have made him good at telling the time like that.

"And really, I don't think you should go anywhere right now. Last night, I thought I'd lost you for a good while."

Maybe that had been it. A lie to keep Thomas from going into the Maze. And he had to admit that he was not feeling good. He couldn't even speak, and his head hurt.

"What do we do, then? Just sit around?"

"I'll go milk some goats. You should stay here."

"That's boring."

"I'll talk to you, then."

Thomas didn't know if it was being awake or telepathy that was making his headache worse. A combination, perhaps. Telepathy was fairly easy with Newt, but it was still a type of strain, and his body was busy trying to repair yesterday's damage. And his, leg, he supposed, though it didn't even hurt anymore, which was odd, but a relief.

Initially, Newt had stayed close enough to speak his words, though he moved further away eventually.

"I prefer this place to the Blood House," Thomas said, stroking the goat pelt atop the bench.

"Yeah, these goats are much cuter!" Newt returned, unnecessarily loud for some reason.

"There's no need to shout," Thomas said.

"Sorry!"

"And where were the goats back in the Glade? I don't remember seeing them."

"For how long did you work with the animals?"

"Just the first day. I'm glad I didn't have to become a Slicer."

"There you go. Probably missed them."

"I guess."

They didn't say much after that. Thomas wasn't talkative anymore. The telepathy didn't feel like it used to. Not just in terms of thinking they could have a private conversation, but the physical feeling of it had altered. Newt either shouted or whispered, with little in-between, and it was a struggle to get the words through for both of them, it seemed. At some point, he returned to sleep.

In his dream, he was back in the Glade, walking around the perimeter with Newt.

"I want to tell you something," Thomas said.

"Tell me," Newt responded, but in a voice that wasn't his. "Tell me." It wasn't his voice. It was familiar, though.

Newt turned to face him, and morphed into Ava Paige. "Tell me, Thomas. I want to know what's in your mind."

"Um… No. It wasn't for you."

"Everything you have is mine," she said simply.

Thomas bolted, but his legs wouldn't move. Paige didn't follow him, though. Using the vines on the stone walls to pull himself along, he neared one of the doors. When he got there, though. THere was no ground in front of him. Just a dark, liquid nothing.

He woke to Newt's face, looking at him from the other end of the room. Surprisingly, Thomas wanted him to stay over there. He didn't want to be ridiculous, but the dream had disturbed him.

Newt didn't pick up on this. "How are ya?" He asked, walking across the room to stand next to Thomas.

He had forgotten his injury, only remembering when he tried to respond and couldn't.

He relented to use telepathy. "Fine."

Newt nodded. As Thomas looked closer at his face, there seemed to be something out of place. Not that the evil chancellor was about to take its place, but his smile wasn't like it used to be, somehow closed off and cold.

"I think it's time to leave here now," Thomas said. The place was doing weird things to him, clearly.

"Are you sure?" Newt asked. "You're still hurt, and the Griever might come back. You know what happened when we tried to get out of the Maze with the others."

"I'm sure we can use their wings against them."

"That didn't work before."

"What?"

Newt frowned, then got wide-eyed, which he tried to quickly conceal. "When you got hurt, I mean."

"Are you alright?" Thomas asked.

"Yeah."

"Because it looks like something's off."

"I'm just worried about you," he claimed.

Thomas decided to drop it. "We're too valuable for WICKED to kill us off like this. Whatever happens, we'll get past the monsters in one piece."

"Okay, we'll go, but not today."

"Tomorrow," Thomas decided.

While eating breakfast —or rather, drinking breakfast, as all they had was goat milk— the next day, Thomas was trying to figure out why they had been sent to this place. They were researching telepathy… well, this situation basically forced Thomas to use it instead of speaking. But surely that was temporary. If he'd been injured severely enough to lose his voice completely, wouldn't he have bled out? No, while WICKED could certainly arrange such an event, why would they? Thomas and Newt could use telepathy with each other just fine, and would have done so willingly if it meant not doing it with the new test subjects.

Perhaps it wasn't about telepathy, though. They hadn't located their friends or the Cure, because someone would have gloated about it. So perhaps they wanted to make a new one. Just throw the Gladers into a situation that's almost as confusing and new as their own maze had been. Maybe cause some trouble to mess with their feelings like before. Maybe they were the ones making Thomas suspicious and unsettled. That seemed most likely, and he would decidedly not comply. WICKED would try to keep them inside the Maze, but whatever tricks they used to make leaving seem impossible, he had to resist. It was as he'd said: they were to valuable to be hurt. There were only so many immunes, and only one who had produced the Cure. As for people who had been cured, there were only those who had been used to test it on before Newt, and what was to say that they would be at all useful, or even properly cured?

With a new stroke of motivation, Thomas got up. The impact of walking made his throat hurt a bit, and he didn't think cold winds would feel much better despite the thick bandages, but he wouldn't die, so it was fine. He threw open the door, and was faced with a white wall of snow.

He'd been right. They would try to keep them in place. He looked around for a tool, finding a large pitchfork on a rack and trying to break the snow with it. He started to make progress after poking enough holes in the snow, but the effort was making him dizzy.

"Newt, help."

Newt, who'd stood back in surprise thus far, was at Thomas' side.

"Take one of those shovels. We can move the snow into a pile on the floor."

"That wouldn't be helpful to you."

"What?"

"Tomorrow," Newt said. "We'll do it tomorrow."

It did not take one, but two days to get out of the barn. They finished clearing the snow out of the way enough to get out on the first day, but Thomas had to pause regularly, and Newt stopped too, so Thomas wouldn't feel bad about it. By the time they were done, it was too late to head out. It was good that the door opened inwards, or they would have been stuck for much longer. He wondered if this type of thing had happened to the Glenners whilst they lived here.

The snow had been much thicker by the door, but still made it difficult to walk. Their clothes were definitely not suited to stumbling through snow, and though they had found some unfinished pieces of clothing made from goat skin, these did not keep out the snow. Thomas' throat was better than it had been before, though his voice was just as useless. At least he was confident he could make it all the way.

Newt was still hesitant to go, but relented after a while.

The snow was not as deep out in the Maze, and they could run, though they did so with caution for fear of hidden ice.

They were making good time, and had no trouble remembering the path, which was the same as in their own maze. Of course, the monsters would not let them pass so easily.

They heard the clicking as they were half an hour away from the exit. Perhaps they could make it, but he doubted they could avoid a confrontation. They would have to trick the monsters somehow. Thomas looked around. Perhaps they could use vines to snare the wings and slow them down. If they relied on flying, they would hopefully be slower on the ground.

He saw something better. The stone walls would occasionally bear marks —indents, and in this section of wall there were even tunnels. They would be barely big enough for the Gladers. Not so much for the huge monsters.

Thomas waved at Newt to follow as he climbed through one of the tunnels closer to the ground. They both got through just fine, but they heard the flapping of wings nearby, coming from this side of the maze. Deciding it would waste time to head back, they kept going until Newt spotted an unfinished tunnel. It didn't just go straight to the other side, but went into the wall, leaving a cave-like space large enough for the two of them to shelter in. Thomas pulled a thick cluster of vines over their entrance, hoping this would be enough to conceal them.

They caught their breath, and the monsters did not come any closer, it seemed. But as the adrenaline faded, Thomas was far from relieved.

"You were running in front of me just now," he said.

Newt looked confused "So? Shouldn't I have?"

"I noticed how you were running. Why were you limping like that?"

Newt still looked confused. "You know why I limp. Didn't I tell you?"

"You told me why you had a limp with your other leg. I don't know what this was just now."

Now there was fear on his face. "I—"

"Right, it's from when we were fighting those wolves back in the forest." Thomas felt his shoulders tense.

"Yeah, that's right!"

"You're not Newt, are you?"