The Fever Code (The Maze Runner 0.6)

Ms. Denton had the patience of a snail. Thomas had been analyzing the forty odd-shaped blocks on the table in front of him for over thirty minutes. He’d yet to actually touch one. Instead, he gazed at each separate piece in turn, trying to build a blueprint in his mind. Trying to approach the puzzle the way his teacher had taught him.

“Would you like to take a break?” she finally asked. “You need to go to your next class anyway.”

Even her patience could run thin, he supposed. “I can be late. Mr. Glanville won’t mind.”

Ms. Denton shook her head. “Not a good idea. Once you run out of time, you’ll start rushing things. You’re not ready to rush things. For now, it’s okay to take as much time as you need. Even over several days. Give your brain a solid workout, visualize what you’ve been analyzing while you lie in bed at night.”

Thomas forced himself to look away from the blocks and leaned back in his chair. “Why do we do so many puzzles anyway? Aren’t they just games?”

“Is that what you think?”

“Not really, I guess. Seems like it works my brain more than any of my other classes.”

Ms. Denton smiled as if he’d just told her she was the smartest teacher in the school. “That’s exactly right, Thomas. Now, off to Mr. Glanville. You shouldn’t make him wait.”

Thomas stood up. “Okay. See you later.” He started for the door, then turned back to face her. “By the way, there are seven extra pieces—they don’t belong.”

Impossibly, her smile grew even wider.

—

Sample after sample.

Class after class.

Puzzle after puzzle.

Day after day.

Month after month.





224.9.2 | 7:30 a.m.

The knock on the door came precisely at the correct time, maybe a few seconds off. Thomas opened it to find a stranger staring at him. A bald man who didn’t seem very happy to be there. Maybe not very happy to be alive. He had puffy red eyes and a frown that seemed to be reflected in every wrinkle on his wilting face.

“Where’s Dr. Paige?” Thomas asked, a little crestfallen. As much as he sometimes hated the routine, disrupting it made him uncomfortable. “Is she okay?”

“May I please come in?” the man replied, nodding down at the tray of food he’d brought. His voice had none of the warmth of Dr. Paige’s.

“Um, yeah.” Thomas stepped aside, opening the door wider. The stranger rolled the food cart past him and up to the small desk.

“Make sure you eat it all,” the man said. “You’re going to need a lot of strength today.”

Thomas really didn’t like his tone. “Why? And you didn’t answer my question—what’s wrong with Dr. Paige?”

The man straightened, as if trying to make himself taller, and folded his arms. “Why would anything be wrong with Dr. Paige? She’s perfectly fine. Make sure to speak with kindness and respect to your elders at all times.”

Thomas had his response on the tip of his tongue—the sharp words that always felt as though they came easy—but he stayed quiet and willed the man to just go away.

“You’ve got a half hour,” the stranger said. His eyes never left Thomas, a dark, unnatural gaze. “I’ll be back for you at eight o’clock sharp. You can call me Dr. Leavitt. I’m one of the Psychs.” He finally broke eye contact and left, gently closing the door behind him.

I’m one of the Psychs.

Thomas had no idea what that meant, though he’d heard the term Psych before. He had zero appetite. He sat down and ate anyway.

—

It seemed as though Dr. Leavitt banged on the door far harder than he needed to, right on schedule. Thomas had finished his breakfast in plenty of time, only wishing he could have another hour. Another half a day. He might as well wish for a month. But he didn’t want to go anywhere with this new guy. If Dr. Paige was gone for some reason, he’d be devastated.

When he opened the door, Leavitt was just as bald and just as droopy as he’d been a half hour earlier.

“Let’s go,” he said curtly.

They walked down the hallway in silence; Thomas gave Teresa’s door a wistful glance as he passed it. 31K. How many times had he seen that plaque on the door, wishing he could open it and meet the girl on the other side? What possible reason did these people have for keeping everyone separate? Surely it wasn’t mere cruelty? How could Dr. Paige be a part of such a thing?

“Look,” Dr. Leavitt said, snapping Thomas’s attention back to the white walls of the hallway, the fluorescent lights above. “I know I’ve been a little unfriendly this morning. I’m sorry. Today’s project has been quite an undertaking, and we have a lot riding on it.” He let out a strangled laugh that sounded like a frog being electrocuted. “You could say I’m under a pretty fair amount of stress.”

“It’s okay,” Thomas replied, not knowing what else to say. “We all have our bad days,” he added nervously. What could possibly have this guy so stressed out? He wasn’t the one taking all the tests.

“Yeah,” Dr. Leavitt grunted more than said.

They got in the elevator and the doctor pressed the button for a floor Thomas had never visited before. Nine. For some reason, that had an ominous feel to it. The ninth floor. Would it have felt so haunting if Dr. Paige were standing next to him? He had no idea.

The doors opened with a cheerful chime, and Dr. Leavitt exited to the left. Thomas followed, quickly taking in a desk in front of glass partitions. Beyond that he could see the blinking lights of monitors and instruments. This floor was some kind of hospital unit, by the looks of it.

Maybe something had happened to Dr. Paige—maybe they were going to visit her.

Thomas tried to sound as nice and as at ease as possible. “So, can you tell me what’s going on today?”

“No,” Leavitt replied. Then added a “Sorry, son” as an afterthought.

Thomas followed Leavitt past the front desk and beyond the glass. They continued down the hallway, passing door after door, but aside from the medical monitors outside each room, none gave up any clues. The doors were all numbered, but they were closed, and the walls of frosted glass were obscured with floor-to-ceiling curtains, firmly drawn. Thomas could swear he heard voices coming from inside one room, and jumped at a sharp cry that left no doubt. He kept walking until an echoing scream came bouncing down the hall behind them. Thomas stopped and spun around to take a look.

“Keep walking,” Dr. Leavitt directed. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“What’s going on?” Thomas asked again. “What’s wrong with that—”

Leavitt grabbed Thomas’s arm—not hard enough to hurt, but not exactly gently, either. “Everything’s going to be okay. You have to trust me. Just keep walking—we’re almost there.”

Thomas obeyed.

—

They stopped in front of a door identical to all the others, an electronic chart next to it with a bunch of information too small for Thomas to see from where he stood. Dr. Leavitt studied it for a moment, then reached to open the door. He’d just turned the knob when a commotion down the hall erupted in the silence.

Thomas turned to see a door open, and a boy dressed in a hospital gown, his head bandaged, stumbled out, two nurses supporting him. He was staggering as if heavily drugged, and he fell to the ground. He then struggled back to his feet, fighting off the two people who had been helping him moments before. Thomas was frozen, staring at the boy as he fell again, then drunkenly clambered to his feet and attempted to run away, swerving from side to side as he headed straight for Thomas.

“Don’t go in there,” the boy slurred. He had dark hair, Asian features, was maybe a year older than Thomas. The boy’s face was flushed and sweaty; a tiny red spot blossomed on the bandage wrapped around his head, just above his ears.

Thomas watched in stunned disbelief. Then suddenly Dr. Leavitt was standing between Thomas and the oncoming boy. One of the two pursuing nurses shouted, “Minho! Stop! You’re in no condition…” But the words faded to nothing.

Minho. The boy’s name was Minho. Now Thomas knew at least two other names.