Admit Defeat (TMR fic 2)

Chapter 51

"Open up, slinthead," Minho yells when we find the building. It's a rickety hut, and the door is tightly closed.

There's a scuffle from the other side, and the door is pulled open. Clint is staring at us, looking extremely relieved. I follow Newt and Minho into the single room, the area seeming dark compared to the dawning sky.

"How's Tommy?" Newt asks, all business. It's as if we weren't gone, as if I hadn't nearly died. I wonder if he's suppressing what had happened so he can focus on other things.

"Gone," Jorge says, and the three of us whip our heads up toward him, horrified. "WICKED came by in a Berg – a fancy plane – and flew him out. They might be patching up his shoulder, it was a pretty nasty wound."

"Gone," Newt says, sinking to the ground and letting his pack slide off of his shoulders.

"They'll bring him back," Minho says with a confidence undercut by his wide eyes and furrowed brow.

"Of course they will," I add, sitting beside Newt. I'm still weak from the effects of the smoke. "It's Thomas. WICKED loves that boy. Who knows why..."

None of the Gladers ask what had happened, why Minho and Newt had gone back for me, why my arms are covered with burns. If I didn't know better I would think they're scared of me.

Clint tends my wounds with what we have, but the best he can do is bandage the burns with fabric from one of our remaining sheets. Jorge helps, and soon I look like a dollar store edition of a mummy, loose strips of cloth running up my limbs.

I curl up against Newt as he leans against one of the walls. I sleep fitfully, my dreams chasing me with Cranks and fire and Chuck. I shoot the boy again and again, trying to rid myself of the guilt. I destroy. I'm afraid.

WICKED can't manipulate me, but I'm still a slave. A slave to the things that scare me.

Nightmares blend together with moments of half-wakefulness. Newt is holding me to him, his arms sometimes comforting and sometimes restricting.

WICKED. A prison. Fire. Fear.

I cry, whether in my mind or reality I can't tell. I'm not sure if I'm awake. Everything hurts.

I don't fully wake until some of the Gladers get too loud. I sit up, groggy and miserable. I have a horrible headache, and I'm sweating badly from where Newt's arm was looped around me.

"How are you?" Brenda asks, coming over and kneeling by me.

My voice is so rough it takes a couple tries to answer. "It hurts."

I'm not sure what I'm talking about, but it doesn't really matter. The light that's sneaking through gaps in the roof, the conversations happening nearby, my burns, the memories of nearly dying... all of it would work. It hurts.

"Have some water," she says, handing me a bottle. Swallowing hurts like mad, but I'm dehydrated and drain half of it in a few moments.

"That's enough for now," she says, taking it back. "Now let me change your bandages."

I complain as Jorge and Brenda peel back the strips of sheet and replace them with new ones, but I appreciate their help. If I get badly infected, it's going to kill me. We have a long way to go, and only a few days left.

Newt is still asleep, and I watch him as they finish loosely wrapping my arms. I didn't realize someone could frown so fiercely while asleep. When Brenda finishes with my right arm I reach out and run my thumb along his jaw. His expression softens just a bit, and a few moments later his eyes blink open.

"Hey, Ash."

Jorge ties off my other arm and I lay back down, pulling Newt close to me. Tears prick at my eyes.

"It hurts," I say again, and he holds me despite the warmth of the day.

"Go to sleep," he whispers, kissing my temple gently. "It will hurt less tomorrow."