monachopsis - maze runner

epilogue

Epilogue
Ten Years Later

“Gally, your daughter got into the toolbox again.”

“My daughter?”

“When she does something stupid, she’s your daughter. We’ve been over this,” Florence nudged Gally’s back with her toe. He shook his head and stood, tossing aside the sandpaper he’d been using to buff one of the new canoes.

“Right, and which one of us decided to break out of the Glade?” Gally took her by the hips and pulled her flush against him.

“Both of us,” Florence pointed out, turning her head to the side so he caught her cheek instead of her lips. “Now would you please handle it?”

“Yes, Captain.” Florence rolled her eyes, holding still this time when he cupped her chin and kissed her. She smiled to herself as she watched her husband jog down the beach and call after Mary, who was giggling gleefully while she smashed shells with her stolen hammer. Their daughter was already a handful at three years old, which Florence blamed almost entirely on the amount of time she spent with her Uncle Minho. Thomas was just as much of a bad influence, although he at least had Newt there to regulate the damage.

Once Florence was sure that Mary was no longer a danger to the scallops and oysters that lined the shore, she returned to the medical tents to check on the newest batch of vaccines. An old member of the Right Arm who used to work as an engineer had helped her rig a device called a centrifuge. The device, made with a bike wheel, spun and separated blood samples into plasma and platelets, which made extracting white blood cells infinitely easier.

It had taken a while to properly vaccinate the entire camp against the Flare - Florence was insistent on it even though there hadn’t been a single case for ten years - because Thomas could only give so much blood at once. Thankfully, the cure enzyme in his white blood cells had been found in the younger generation of the past decade and the doctors were able to broaden their efforts.

Someone rapped softly on the doorframe and without turning, Florence answered “Come on in, Newt.” His approach was always obvious now that his footsteps were accompanied by the thunk of a wooden cane. Getting him to use one had been a labor of love and endless frustration, the brunt of which was carried by Thomas. The cane itself was a beautiful piece, whittled by Gally and etched with twisting vines.

“Frypan still needs an answer, he sent me to bug you about it,” Newt groaned as he settled on an empty cot. He stretched his bad leg out across it, rubbing the joint and ignoring the irritated look Florence gave him when he got sand on the blankets.

“He realizes our anniversary isn’t for another month, right?” For several weeks now, Frypan had been pestering her and Gally about what they wanted for their anniversary dinner. They had been married for almost four years, and for the past three milestones, Frypan had made a similar fuss over what to cook. He took his job very seriously. “Just tell him I’ll talk to Gally about it and get back to him.”

Newt shrugged. “Your funeral.”

“Don’t give me that shit, you and Thomas are gonna have the same problem in a few months.”

“Which does you absolutely no good right now.”

“Get out of my tent.”

***

After ten years, the Safe Haven had become something that none of its residents could ever have imagined. In the beginning, Vince and Jorge had taken turns running supply expeditions every few weeks. Now, Minho organized them every few months and their storage rooms were so full that they’d had to build new ones. The haven’s infrastructures had gone from small tents and huts to many-floored buildings. Almost all of them had rows of flowers by the doorway that the gardeners had carefully scavenged and replanted from the beach’s native flora.

Vince and Jorge had begun to relinquish control to the younger generation. Decisions were made by a council whose structure and members were almost identical to the one back in the Glade. Everyone had a say, from those who had suffered under WCKD’s regime to those who were too young to remember it.

WCKD’s influence still hung over them, but such a consequence was inevitable. The weight of the past was different every day, and over time the days when it was crushing began to lessen. Florence stopped worrying about whether a Berg would arrive to open fire on their home, but there were still nights that she flinched at every distant sound. Gally slept more soundly now, but every once in a while, he’d wake up in a pool of sweat with the image of Chuck’s lifeless body plastered on his eyelids. Minho was always moving, his legs and mind forever unable to still after three years of mapping WCKD’s accursed labyrinth. Newt’s scar was faded, but there were nights he lay awake tracing the stitches and fighting through a phantom pain like the knife was still in his side.

But when Florence sat shaking by the fire, Mary curled up in her lap and her daughter’s presence calmed the beating of her heart. Florence held Gally when he woke up in a panic and rubbed his back until his breathing returned to normal. Frypan and Brenda took turns running laps around the beach with Minho, and Mary took her first steps holding Minho’s hand. Thomas sat up with Newt whenever he couldn’t sleep, talking him through the pain and making awful jokes to distract him.

Because they refused to let themselves build a community on tragedies. Each of them had suffered enough for five lifetimes, and they deserved to be at peace.