World Gone Mad (TMR fic 3)

Chapter 4

I don't sleep again. I just wait and rest and watch. I can hear the Berg's engines change pitch as it begins to sink down. We're landing.

Newt shifts awake as our elevation changes, and I go punch Minho in the leg to wake him up. He blearily opens his eyes and blinks at me.

"We're landing, come on."

As soon as the Berg settles fully, the gangplank in the hold lowers with a hiss. Everyone in our room is awake, and girls and Gladers start filtering in from the other rooms, too. Thomas isn't there, and my heart sinks a bit.

Brenda said they'll send him to the medical facility. Was the cure too late for him? What's wrong? I don't understand enough of this world.

Figures tramp up the gangplank and metal stairs, emerging through the door into our room. They're dressed in aggressively tactical clothing, launchers slung over their backs and gas masks obscuring their faces.

"Come on," one of them says. A woman, by her voice. "You're safe now."

"Heard that one before," Clint mutters as he walks past me, and I feel a smile twitch at my lips. Just as long as they don't separate us...

We walk out in a group, the guards passively herding us.

The Berg is in a large hangar, two other Bergs visible. The aircraft are especially huge from this close, and I'm impressed despite myself. We enter the building attached to the hangar, and I stumble to a stop.

A girl from Group B bumps into me and gives me a confused look. I keep staring at the hallway until Newt gently takes my elbow and pulls me along with them.

"Are you okay?" he whispers.

"I remember." It's not this exact hallway that's familiar, but I know these sterile white walls and grey tile floors. We're in the belly of WICKED. If only I had a knife to stab its heart with.

"Is that good or bad?" Newt says, looking worried.

I smile a bit. "I don't really have any good memories, Newt. It's... not a good place. But I think we knew that already."

Unfortunately, the medical examination happens only a short walk from the hangar, so I can't mentally map WICKED as much as I want. I know it's a huge building from the memories I do have, but I don't know how it's laid out.

There are about a dozen doctors and nurses in white lab coats, masks slipped over their faces and gloves on their hands. We're sorted into small groups and are examined one by one.

I go first in my group. I hate them touching me, but I'm scared of the disease that I can't fight so I keep my mouth shut, hoping I'm safe from it.

Someone draws a prick of my blood from my arm while they check my blood pressure and start putting a thick white paste on my burns. The fact that they're caring for injuries I got while defying them makes me uneasy.

"She's clear," one of them says, some machine reading my blood sample. "Meets expectations for Subject A13."

"Stand over there," another one orders me, putting me to the side. "We'll clean your arms up once it's had a chance to work on those burns."

Newt goes next, and they start caring for his shoulder as they draw his blood. It's my fault he got shot by that arrow. We're lucky it wasn't a powerful bow.

I watch the nurse checking his blood and notice her frown. Tension slips into my body, stealthy and strong. Is something wrong?

"He's not fully clear," she says. "Possibly more advanced than expectations for Subject A5."

I frown. "Why are the expectations different?"

"On the Berg they estimated who was worse," one of the doctors answers. "Take him to confinement."

Newt and I snap to attention, staring at each other in thinly veiled panic. They're going to separate us. Are they telling the truth? This could end so, so badly.

Newt glances at them before stepping closer to me. "It's going to be okay."

"Liar," I answer, and I hug him, careful to keep the paste on my arms from smudging on him.

He chuckles. "Love ya, too."

They lead him away, and my heart feels like it's tumbling down a long, dark tunnel.