The Maze Runner

Chapter 18

Thomas stared at the spot where Minho had vanished.
A sudden dislike for the guy swelled up inside him. Minho was a veteran in this place, a Runner. Thomas was a Newbie, just a few days in the Glade, a few minutes in the Maze. Yet of the two of them, Minho had broken down and panicked, only to run off at the first sign of trouble. How could he leave me here? Thomas thought. How could he do that!
The noises grew louder. The roar of engines interspersed with rolling, cranking sounds like chains hoisting machinery in an old, grimy factory. And then came the smell—something burning, oily. Thomas couldn’t begin to guess what was in store for him; he’d seen a Griever, but only a glimpse, and through a dirty window. What would they do to him? How long would he last?
Stop, he told himself. He had to quit wasting time waiting for them to come and end his life.
He turned and faced Alby, still propped against the stone wall, now only a mound of shadow in the darkness. Kneeling on the ground, Thomas found Alby’s neck, then searched for a pulse. Something there. He listened at his chest like Minho had done.
buh-bump, buh-bump, buh-bump
Still alive.
Thomas rocked back on his heels, then ran his arm across his forehead, wiping away the sweat. And at that moment, in the space of only a few seconds, he learned a lot about himself. About the Thomas that was before.
He couldn’t leave a friend to die. Even someone as cranky as Alby.
He reached down and grabbed both of Alby’s arms, then squatted into a sitting position and wrapped the arms around his neck from behind. He pulled the lifeless body onto his back and pushed with his legs, grunting with the effort.
But it was too much. Thomas collapsed forward onto his face; Alby sprawled to the side with a loud flump.
The frightening sounds of the Grievers grew closer by the second, echoing off the stone walls of the Maze. Thomas thought he could see bright flashes of light far away, bouncing off the night sky. He didn’t want to meet the source of those lights, those sounds.
Trying a new approach, he grabbed Alby’s arms again and started dragging him along the ground. He couldn’t believe how heavy the boy was, and it took only ten feet or so for Thomas to realize that it just wasn’t going to work. Where would he take him, anyway?
He pushed and pulled Alby back over to the crack that marked the entrance to the Glade, and propped him once more into a sitting position, leaning against the stone wall.
Thomas sat back against it himself, panting from exertion, thinking. As he looked into the dark recesses of the Maze, he searched his mind for a solution. He could hardly see anything, and he knew, despite what Minho had said, that it’d be stupid to run even if he could carry Alby. Not only was there the chance of getting lost, he could actually find himself running toward the Grievers instead of away from them.
He thought of the wall, the ivy. Minho hadn’t explained, but he had made it sound as if climbing the walls was impossible. Still …
A plan formed in his mind. It all depended on the unknown abilities of the Grievers, but it was the best thing he could come up with.
Thomas walked a few feet along the wall until he found a thick growth of ivy covering most of the stone. He reached down and grabbed one of the vines that went all the way to the ground and wrapped his hand around it. It felt thicker and more solid than he would’ve imagined, maybe a half-inch in diameter. He pulled on it, and with the sound of thick paper ripping apart, the vine came unattached from the wall—more and more as Thomas stepped away from it. When he’d moved back ten feet, he could no longer see the end of the vine way above; it disappeared in the darkness. But the trailing plant had yet to fall free, so Thomas knew it was still attached up there somewhere.
Hesitant to try, Thomas steeled himself and pulled on the vine of ivy with all his strength.
It held.
He yanked on it again. Then again, pulling and relaxing with both hands over and over. Then he lifted his feet and hung onto the vine; his body swung forward.
The vine held.
Quickly, Thomas grabbed other vines, ripping them away from the wall, creating a series of climbing ropes. He tested each one, and they all proved to be as strong as the first. Encouraged, he went back to Alby and dragged him over to the vines.
A sharp crack echoed from within the Maze, followed by the horrible sound of crumpling metal. Thomas, startled, swung around to look, his mind so concentrated on the vines that he’d momentarily shut out the Grievers; he searched all three directions of the Maze. He couldn’t see anything coming, but the sounds were louder—the whirring, the groaning, the clanging. And the air had brightened ever so slightly; he could make out more of the details of the Maze than he’d been able to just minutes before.
He remembered the odd lights he’d observed through the Glade window with Newt. The Grievers were close. They had to be.
Thomas pushed aside the swelling panic and set himself to work.
He grabbed one of the vines and wrapped it around Alby’s right arm. The plant would only reach so far, so he had to prop Alby up as much as he could to make it work. After several wraps, he tied the vine off. Then he took another vine and put it around Alby’s left arm, then both of his legs, tying each one tightly. He worried about the Glader’s circulation getting cut off, but decided it was worth the risk.
Trying to ignore the doubt that was seeping into his mind about the plan, Thomas continued on. Now it was his turn.
He snatched a vine with both hands and started to climb, directly over the spot where he’d just tied up Alby. The thick leaves of the ivy served well as handholds, and Thomas was elated to find that the many cracks in the stone wall were perfect supports for his feet as he climbed. He began to think how easy it would be without …
He refused to finish the thought. He couldn’t leave Alby behind.
Once he reached a point a couple of feet above his friend, Thomas wrapped one of the vines around his own chest, around and around several times, snug against his armpits for support. Slowly, he let himself sag, letting go with his hands but keeping his feet planted firmly in a large crack. Relief filled him when the vine held.
Now came the really hard part.
The four vines tied to Alby below hung tautly around him. Thomas took hold of the one attached to Alby’s left leg, and pulled. He was only able to get it up a few inches before letting go—the weight was too much. He couldn’t do it.
He climbed back down to the Maze floor, decided to try pushing from below instead of pulling from above. To test it, he tried raising Alby only a couple of feet, limb by limb. First, he pushed the left leg up, then tied a new vine around it. Then the right leg. When both were secure, Thomas did the same to Alby’s arms—right, then left.
He stepped back, panting, to take a look.
Alby hung there, seemingly lifeless, now three feet higher than he’d been five minutes earlier.
Clangs from the Maze. Whirrs. Buzzes. Moans. Thomas thought he saw a couple of red flashes to his left. The Grievers were getting closer, and it was now obvious that there were more than one.
He got back to work.
Using the same method of pushing each of Alby’s arms and legs up two or three feet at a time, Thomas slowly made his way up the stone wall. He climbed until he was right below the body, wrapped a vine around his own chest for support, then pushed Alby up as far as he could, limb by limb, and tied them off with ivy. Then he repeated the whole process.
Climb, wrap, push up, tie off.
Climb, wrap, push up, tie off. The Grievers at least seemed to be moving slowly through the Maze, giving him time.
Over and over, little by little, up they went. The effort was exhausting; Thomas heaved in every breath, felt sweat cover every inch of his skin. His hands began to slip and slide on the vines. His feet ached from pressing into the stone cracks. The sounds grew louder—the awful, awful sounds. Still Thomas worked.
When they’d reached a spot about thirty feet off the ground, Thomas stopped, swaying on the vine he’d tied around his chest. Using his drained, rubbery arms, he turned himself around to face the Maze. An exhaustion he’d not known possible filled every tiny particle of his body. He ached with weariness; his muscles screamed. He couldn’t push Alby up another inch. He was done.
This was where they’d hide. Or make their stand.
He’d known they couldn’t reach the top—he only hoped the Grievers couldn’t or wouldn’t look above them. Or, at the very least, Thomas hoped he could fight them off from high up, one by one, instead of being overwhelmed on the ground.
He had no idea what to expect; he didn’t know if he’d see tomorrow. But here, hanging in the ivy, Thomas and Alby would meet their fate.
A few minutes passed before Thomas saw the first glimmer of light shine off the Maze walls up ahead. The terrible sounds he’d heard escalate for the last hour took on a high-pitched, mechanical squeal, like a robotic death yell.
A red light to his left, on the wall, caught his attention. He turned and almost screamed out loud—a beetle blade was only a few inches from him, its spindly legs poking through the ivy and somehow sticking to the stone. The red light of its eye was like a little sun, too bright to look at directly. Thomas squinted and tried to focus on the beetle’s body.
The torso was a silver cylinder, maybe three inches in diameter and ten inches long. Twelve jointed legs ran along the length of its bottom, spread out, making the thing look like a sleeping lizard. The head was impossible to see because of the red beam of light shining right at him, though it seemed small, vision its only purpose, perhaps.
But then Thomas saw the most chilling part. He thought he’d seen it before, back in the Glade when the beetle blade had scooted past him and into the woods. Now it was confirmed: the red light from its eye cast a creepy glow on six capital letters smeared across the torso, as if they had been written with blood:
WICKED
Thomas couldn’t imagine why that one word would be stamped on the beetle blade, unless for the purpose of announcing to the Gladers that it was evil. Wicked.
He knew it had to be a spy for whoever had sent them here—Alby had told him as much, saying the beetles were how the Creators watched them. Thomas stilled himself, held his breath, hoping that maybe the beetle only detected movement. Long seconds passed, his lungs screaming for air.
With a click and then a clack, the beetle turned and scuttled off, disappearing into the ivy. Thomas sucked in a huge gulp of air, then another, feeling the pinch of the vines tied around his chest.
Another mechanical squeal screeched through the Maze, close now, followed by the surge of revved machinery. Thomas tried to imitate Alby’s lifeless body, hanging limp in the vines.
And then something rounded the corner up ahead, and came toward them.
Something he’d seen before, but through the safety of thick glass.
Something unspeakable.
A Griever.