(don't forget to play the song! It's perfect for the end of this chapter)
Chuck wakes me up the next morning, and Thomas and I get ready to work as Slicers for the day.
"You'll be working at the Blood House," Chuck tells us over breakfast. "Good luck."
I remember Newt calling the animal area the Blood House, and I start to understand what our job might be.
The Keeper of the Slicers is Winston, an acne-covered boy with a gleam in his eyes when he talks about his job. I admire his passion, if nothing else.
Bark, Nick's old dog, runs around my legs as we follow Winston into the main barn.
"Get out of here," I say, trying futilely to get the animal away. It reminds me of Thomas – friendly and fun and impossible to get rid of.
Winston throws us shovels. "The pig yard gets cleaned out every morning to keep everything nice and pleasant in here."
I like the work of cleaning up after the pigs. The shovel feels good in my hands, and I love the use of my muscles. "Honest work" is the phrase that comes to my mind.
After the pigs, though, Winston has us help with a pig that was just slaughtered. Thomas is significantly more bothered by the blood and guts than I am, but I don't like it much either. The warm blood on my hands feels right somehow, and it scares me.
I don't know who I am, but I hate how calm I am. I wish it did upset me to see death.
Once the pig is cleaned out and the other Slicers are cutting the meat up, Winston teaches Thomas and me how to pluck chickens. As we work, he rambles about how many animals are killed and bred to feed us all.
It's interesting information, but I find myself zoning out and thinking about the Maze. What is it like out there? How soon will I know?
"Hey, Ash," Winston says, and I glance up. He nods at the vat of hot water we were dipping chickens in to pluck them easier. "The fire went out, and I'm out of matches. Can you go get some from Frypan?"
"Sure," I say, and jog towards the kitchen.
Frypan is already in the throes of cooking dinner, so he just nods at the drawer that the matches are kept in when I ask for a box of them. Pulling the drawer open, I see a few large boxes of matches and some small packets. I grab one of the boxes for Winston, but I can't tear myself away.
Finally I make an impulse decision and grab one of the small folded packets as well. I slip it in my pocket as I run back to the Blood House. I don't know why, but I need them. The day goes easier, somehow, with the knowledge that I have fire within my reach.
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Good Grief (TMR fic)
FanfictionThey had never had someone like Ash. They had never had a pyromaniac. They had never had someone with a mind that understood the Maze. They had never had someone who could get them out. As We Watch the World Burn book one, The Maze Runner [book]...
