monachopsis - maze runner

chapter 30

Chapter 30
The Fine Line Between Brave and Stupid 

The words on the book in her lap were beginning to blur together. The sea air curled around her hammock, rocking her gently from side to side like a ship on a steady sea. It was late, and she was tired, but not enough to keep her fears at bay. Florence was trying to distract herself with a novel Brenda had lent her - Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell - but its contents clung too closely to her heart.

Florence marked the page with her finger and let her head fall back against her pillow. Her hair, damp from the shower, provided a welcome cool against the Scorch’s constant heat. Beneath the rustling of dead bushes, she could hear the soft snores and whispers of the camp at night. She’d miss it, oddly enough, when they left in a few days.

Behind her, Florence heard a quick crumpling of paper and the sound of someone zipping up a bag. Peering over the edge of her hammock, she saw Thomas swing a rucksack across his shoulders and slip off into the night. The dying lanterns cast his shadow on the ground, his shoulders hunched and his head tucked low to his chest. He was going somewhere.

Scrambling to untangle herself from the thin blanket across her legs - all the good blankets were reserved for new arrivals - Florence tumbled from the hammock and cast her book aside. She ran in the opposite direction from where Thomas had gone, following the indistinct voices to the firepit further down the beach. Newt and Frypan were seated on the outskirts, deep in conversation until they heard her rapid footsteps on the sand.

“Thomas,” she panted, hunching over and bracing herself against Newt. “He’s- oh shit, why’d I run.” Florence collapsed to her knees, deeply inhaling smoke and salt into her lungs. “He’s leaving.”

“Wha-” Newt fumbled, head whipping around like he expected to see Thomas tip-toeing out of the camp. “What do you mean, he’s leaving?” 

“I saw him packing a bag, I think he plans to find Minho on his own.” Newt released a groan from deep in his chest and dropped his face into his hands. Frypan’s fingers beat a frantic rhythm on his knees as he stared into the fire, grinding his teeth. The three of them sat in silence for a strained moment, basking in the depth of their friend’s stupidity, until Florence launched into an ill-prepared monologue. “Look, I know you guys think it’s dangerous trying to break into the Last City but-”

“I’m in.” Florence’s lips stilled mid-sentence as she squinted at Newt. His jaw was set and his posture had straightened. He’d heard all he needed to hear.

“I- really?” Florence asked, glancing between them. Frypan nodded. “I had a whole speech.”

“Shelve it for later,” Newt rose to his feet and took her with him. “We need to pack.”

***

“I feel like we’re parents waiting for our son to get home past curfew.”

“Shh!”

“Sorry,” Florence whispered to Newt, hand over her mouth to smother her laughter. Frypan was wheezing against the wheel of the jeep they’d hijacked, biting down on his finger as his shoulders shook against hers.

The floor of the backseat was lined with bags and Florence’s backpack was propped against her legs. There was enough food and water to last them a week and a sack of just-in-case first aid supplies, along with a substantial amount of ammo.

The keys clinked softly in the car’s ignition, waiting to be turned on. The hum of the vehicle would have alerted the camp of their departure so they were forced to wait for Thomas to arrive, which should be any minute now. Newt leaned against a table just outside the car, tapping his fingers on the switch of a desk lamp. A hunched figure jogged up the steps to the garage, the straps of his rucksack gripped in a tight fist.