IT STARTED WITH A MAZE - Newt x Reader (F)

- BACKUP -

"Alright, (Y/n), we've gotta move!" Thomas yells. I grit my teeth and force myself to shift. I wedge both hands against the console, press hard with my good leg, and jerk the other free. The sharp sting flashes up my ankle, but it's more of a throb than a true threat. I twist it quickly to make sure I can still feel everything. It burns - but it moves. Good enough. "Now, (Y/n)!" Thomas urges again, louder this time, more desperate. The screams are closer now - multiple voices - scraping and shrieking.

I duck toward the open window, slithering through it on my side, when my hip strikes something hard in the wreck. My backpack. No-Thomas' rifle. I fumble for it and hold it out toward the darkness. "Here!" I shout and practically throw it. Newt catches it just in time, raising it fluidly, and-

A single, sharp shot rings out.

The echo snaps around the tunnel like a whip.

"Nice shot," Fry mutters from nearby, but there's no time for celebration.

I reach for Thomas's hand. His fingers wrap around mine tight and warm, steadying me as I stumble clear of the truck wreckage and into the chaos. My leg twinges as I land, and I test it with a few steps, limping slightly. "You alright?" He asks, still holding onto me, eyes flicking down to my ankle.

"I'll be fine," I assure him, exhaling through the pinch of pain. It's manageable. Nothing's broken.

"We've got to go," Newt says urgently. His eyes are pinned to the dark mouth of the tunnel ahead of us. "Can you run?" I follow his gaze. There they are- figures. At first just shapes, shuffling, twitching silhouettes. But the closer they get, the more I see. Arms flailing, heads jerking unnaturally, mouths open in rage or hunger. Dozens of them.

Cranks.

"From that? Yeah," I say, and there's no doubt. I turn and lunge toward the wreck, reach in through the busted window, and yank my pack from the backseat. We'd packed light - just what we needed - but I clutch it like it's made of gold. It might as well be. Inside, the random ammo, bandages, water, food and flashlights is all we've got left. No journal. I left that at the base camp.

"Go! Go! Go!!" Thomas shouts, and suddenly everything snaps into motion.

Our boots slam against cracked pavement as we sprint down the tunnel, the echo of our footfalls colliding with the rising shrieks behind us. Flashlights bounce wildly in our hands, beams swinging across abandoned cars and warning signs like ghosts in the dark.

Newt turns mid-run and fires twice - flashes lighting up his face. It's a good face. Then I grab him by the edge of his shirt and yank. "Let's go!" I yell, and the four of us disappear into the dark, fleeing together into the tunnel that's chaos.

Our boots slam against the concrete, uneven with cracks and oil-slick puddles. Flashlight beams dart wildly ahead, cutting through drifting smoke, dancing across rusted cars and broken glass. Cranks scream behind us. Their voices are a chorus of shrill wails and guttural roars, inhuman and raw. The sound bounces off the tunnel walls, doubling back on us like they're everywhere at once.

My lungs burn. My ankle stings with every step. But I run.

Fry's ahead of me, his silhouette weaving between the dead cars, and Newt is just a few feet to my left, breathing ragged, flashlight clenched in one hand, rifle limp in the other. Thomas is bringing up the rear, glancing back every few seconds, eyes wide, jaw set.

Then it happens. Shapes appear in the fog ahead - figures stumbling through the darkness. "Shit," I breathe, my pace faltering.

Cranks. More of them. In front of us now. "Stop!" Thomas shouts. We all skid hard - our boots grinding against the pavement.