1. FIGHTER - the maze runner, newt

Chapter 48

The silence didn't last long.

I really should've taken those laps seriously in training. Her voice echoed across my cranium, the jesting comment warming my tense exterior.

I snorted to myself. You'd be the only one.

I don't think so. Some of these youngsters are really speeding past me without breaking a sweat. It's not fair. Teresa ranted, playfully.

I rolled my eyes, a smirk lifting my cheeks. I'm gonna go on a whim 'nd assume Chuck isn't one of them?

Good guess. Poor buddy is dripping in sweat. He keeps muttering things like how he should've skipped dinner. Teresa informed.

I grimaced. Is he looking green?

Yeah, a bit. If we don't get there soon, I think the poor guy might hurl. Teresa said.

We made a sharp left turn, entering down a long familiar corridor. Dirt and stones crunched beneath our shoes, echoing down the narrow path. Unlike the other winding corridors, this one branched out like a T. If it weren't for Minho turning his sprints into a jog, I probably would've run right pass the Cliff.

I think he's in luck, 'cause I think we're here. I responded, only hoping she didn't hear the tremors of my coherent terror.

I felt my heart leap into my throat, the temperature falling at least five degrees cooler. My fingers started to tremble again, clutching tightly onto the back of Newt's blouse for any sort of comfort. No matter where my thoughts drifted to at this point, the constant nag of trepidation pinched me back into the ever-terrifying reality.

If I wasn't sweating from the hour long run, then I was definitely sweating because of this infuriating anxiety.

I just wanna be calm — why do I always have to be in a state of panic?

Any chatter that existed died down immediately as our jog turned to a brisk walk. Thomas took the lead, gliding to the right wall with all of us following, breaking the formation.

Releasing Newt's shirt, I moved to stand in front of him but behind Thomas and Minho.

The brown-haired boy paused at the corner, breathing heavily as he lifted an unsteady hand for the rest of us to stop moving. Gingerly, he peered around the wall, gazing down the corridor for —hopefully— a clear path to the Cliff.

Though, I hoped too soon. Thomas flinched his head back around the corner, his face visibly pale in colour and his breathing uncharacteristically erratic.

"Is it a Griever?" Minho whispered.

Without the shuffling of our feet, I was able to hear it — we all were. A low hum danced eerily across the tense air, an engine gently purring like an idling car. Then there was another. Then another. Then another that interrupted another.

There wasn't just one.

"Yeah...at least a dozen of them." Thomas gulped, his eyes as wide as saucers.

"A dozen?!" I hissed, only wishing he was joking as my hands flew up to my face. Whispers flickered across the group of teens, their fright growing in a cloud above our heads. The uproar was quickly shushed.

My gaze flew to Teresa and Chuck, her arm wrapped around his broad shoulders in a protective manner. They both shared the same panicked glare.

In the meantime, Minho inched his head around the corner to take a peek himself at the supposed cattle of Grievers. Like Thomas, he twisted himself away from the corner, his wide frightened eyes piercing haunting holes into my riddled mind.