The New Distance [The Scorch Trials Book]

s e v e n

bad blood // bastille

I woke up unpleasantly. Well, unpleasant would not even begin to cover it lightly. The storm was over but it didn't take the destruction away with it. My eyes met the ruin of a building and the sun's light streaming through a distant window. My back ached, my head hurt and my muscles were sore. From the corner of my eye I saw Thomas getting up and Newt lying with his back against the wall. Neither of them noticed me awake and everybody else was still sleeping.

"You okay, there?" Thomas asked Newt stiffly.

Newt slowly turned to him; his eyes were distant until he seemed to snap out of his thoughts and focus on Thomas. "Okay? Yeah, I guess I'm okay. We're alive-guess that's all that bloody matters anymore." The bitterness in his voice couldn't have been stronger.

"Sometimes I wonder," Thomas murmured.

"Wonder what?"

"If being alive matters. If being dead might be a lot easier."

"Please. I don't believe for one second you really think that.

Thomas's gaze had lowered while he'd delivered the depressing sentiment and he looked up sharply at

Newt's retort. Then he smiled, and it felt good. "You're right. Just trying to sound as miserable as you."

Then they talked about Minho's injuries and I decided that this was a good time to let them know I was conscious. Put both of my hands under me and pushed myself up to a sitting position. My muscles strained but with every movement they seemed to get better.

"Shit," I muttered as I saw a lot of blood on my left sleeve and hand. My head was bleeding again. A bit of hair and blood stuck to the side of my face and I grimaced. I looked at both of them and then stated. "I look like hell."

"Ohhhh." This came from Minho, a long, drawn-out groan. His eyes fluttered open, then squinted as he caught my gaze. "I feel like hell."

Well I can't argue with him. He's the one who got hit by lightning.

"How bad is it?" Newt asked him.

Instead of answering, Minho very slowly pushed himself up to a sitting position, grunting and wincing with every small move. But he finally did it, legs crossed beneath him. His clothes were blackened and ragged. In some places where skin was exposed, raw red blisters peeked out like menacing alien eyeballs. Most of Minho's face had been spared, and he still had all his hair-filthy as it was.

"Can't be too bad if you can do that," Thomas said with a sly smile.

"Shuck it," Minho responded. "I'm tougher than nails. I could still kick ass with twice this pain."

Thomas shrugged. "I do love ponies. Wish I could eat one right now." His stomach grumbled and gurgled.

"Was that a joke?" Minho said. "Did Thomas the boring slinthead actually make a joke?"

"I think he did," was Newt's response.

"I'm a funny guy," Thomas said with a shrug.

"Yeah, you are." But Minho obviously had already lost interest in the small talk. He twisted his head around to take in the rest of the Gladers, most of them asleep or lying still with blank looks on their faces. "How many?" Minho asked Thomas.

Thomas counted them up as I did myself. There were twelve. After all they'd been through, only eleven were left. And that included the new kid, Aris. Forty or fifty had lived in the Glade when I first arrived, just a few weeks before. Now there were twelve. I guess Thomas didn't want to answer at the realization of our losses. I wouldn't be eager to say it out loud either.