The Glader

Running Out of Time

I rolled my eyes at her. She was that bad. 

"If you say so," Tommy replied.

"Good that. Everything's fine and dandy. Come on," Minho said, starting to walk away.

Thomas stayed put, staring at Teresa.

"Don't worry, Tommy. Your girlfriend will be fine," I said.

Thomas's face flushed bright red, and he turned and practically sprinted up the stairs behind Minho.

"So, the codes," the girl said, looking far more unflustered than Tommy had.

"Yeah, the bloody codes," I said. "FLOAT and CATCH. What do you think they mean?"

She shrugged. "We'll find out after we finish tracing," she said. Then she grimaced. "Let's get as much done as possible before the Grievers come back."

*** 

I laid the 20th piece of paper down on it's stack, feeling a chill run through my veins. It was an H. That made the newest word DEATH. Again. Not something that I wanted to hear about our current predicament. And the last word was almost as bad. BLEED. That made FLOAT, CATCH, BLEED, DEATH, STIFF, PUSH. Then started repeated or something. FLOAT, CATCH, BLEED, DEATH.

But we had figured out the code.

We had done it!

I smiled. Now if only we knew what it meant.

"That's happy," Teresa said, looking at my paper, "What time is it?"

I glanced down at my watch. "9:47," I looked up, "Shuck." We'd been working for nearly six hours. "Griever time. No, scratch that," I winced, "past Griever time."

"Should we make a run for the Homestead?" Teresa asked, her blue eyes wide.

"It's better than staying here." The weapons room was a sort of storm cellar, and it's bloody doors were outside the homestead, and made of thin boards of wood. While it kept out curious Gladers, if a Griever so much as rolled over it, it would splinter and break. And, if the bleedin' pattern held true, one of us would be killed.

And, despite the fact that I barely knew Teresa, I knew Tommy would never forgive me if she was taken. Heck, I would never forgive myself if she was taken instead of me. But what would happen to Alby if I wasn't here? I couldn't do that.

"I can't hear the buggers yet," I whispered to the girl, "So on count of three, we run to the Homestead, bang on the door a few times, and get 'em to let us in. If they decide they don't want more surprise visitors after Gally bloody insane on 'em, we run to the Slammer. I got the key."

"I know you do," Teresa said, rolling her eyes.

I ignored that and ran up the steps, listening at the door. There was no rolling clicks, no eerie moans.

I put the key in the lock. "Okay. When I say run, run like a bloody Griever's behind ya. 'Cause there might just be."

I turned the key, and with a click, the doors swung wide. "RUN!" I yelled, and I jumped up onto solid ground.

When my leg hit the ground, a flash of pain worse than anything I had ever felt traveled up from my ankle.

"Bloody he-" I was cut off as I fell onto the ground.

"Newt!" Teresa yelled, already halfway to the homestead. Of course that's when I heard the sound. It was faint, but there.

Click-click-whirr.

I raised my head an inch off the dirt to see a huge, undulating, spiky shape coming from the West Door. 

Of course it was. 

"Shuck." I said quite simply, feeling the wet Glade grass chill its through my shirt. It would be so much easier to just lie here... 

Then the hands came down, rolling me over, hauling me to my feet. "What was that?" she asked.

"My bloody leg," I said, "Don't freaking ask." I limped in the direction of the homestead as fast as I could- which, I'll admit, wasn't fast at all. Even after Teresa lent me her shoulder for support, the going was painful. 

Click-click-whirr. Click-click-whirr.

The Grievers were getting closer.

"Go," I hissed, steadying myself on my own two feet, "Run. Get to the Homestead. I'll only slow you down." My breath was coming in gasps. I would never make it, even with Teresa's help. 

"I'm not going to do that," she sounded vaguely annoyed, "Hang on. I'm going to go get them to open the door," she called, running towards the Homestead. "Let us in!" she yelled, "It's Teresa!"

The door stayed closed.

Click-click-whirr. Click-click-whirr.

"Please!" Her voice had taken on an edge of desperation. 

Click-click-whirr.

Staggering, I finally got to the door and slammed my hand against it. "Open the bloody door! The Grievers are coming!"

CLICK-CLICK-WHIRRRR.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to steady myself, to control the flames of pain licking upwards through my ankle.

Was this where they got me?