Tw: Mentions of self harm (described slightly), mentions of suicide attempts.
Most of the Gladers, much like Thomas, slept outside usually, so making all those bodies into Homestead made for a tight fit. The Keepers had organised and distributed the Gladers throughout the rooms, along with blankets and pillows. Despite the number of people and the chaos of such a change, a disturbing silence hung over the activities, as if the Gladers were in a video game and the player had pressed mute of the volume. No one wanted to draw attention to themselves.
The only thing Thomas really noticed was River, who was doing pretty much nothing, just sat next to Chuck, allowing the boy to lean on him while he stared despondently at the watch he'd finally taken off, fiddling with it. And Thomas noted the silver metal that glinted in the light, the metal that was there even underneath the watch. He also saw the marks like Newt's under River's eyes, the same wrapped up, covered wrists and exhausted look.
Thomas avoided them, not wanting to make either of them upset. He continued to work to avoid dragging his eyes back to gawp at what he had glimpsed on River's finally partially exposed wrist before he re-buckled the watch.
There had been lines all over it. Red, angry, sore, uneven and jagged lines.
Thomas knew enough to not ask about it whatsoever.
When the hubbub of chaos finally settled, Thomas found himself upstairs with Newt, Alby and Minho, and they were finally allowed to finish their discussion from earlier in the courtyard. Alby and Newt sat on the only bed in the room while Thomas and Minho occupied crooked and old chairs beside them.
The only other furniture was a crooked wooden dresser and a small table, on top of which rested what dingy and musty light that filled the room: a lamp. The grey darkness seemed to press on the window separating them from the outside world, with promise of the awful things yet to come.
"Closest I've come so far," Newt was muttering, still looking as shattered as he had when Thomas had last seen him- maybe even more so, since Newt's hair looked like he'd been messing with it for hours it was so unkempt, "to just hanging it all up, going out there and just letting the Grievers take me."
Thomas wanted to scream at Newt to sleep, Newt clearly wasn't thinking properly, and it showed.
"Bloody grey skies," Newt continued in a distracted murmur, looking like he wanted to pace around the room, "walls not closin'. But we can't give up, and we all know it. The buggers who sent us here either want us dead or they're givin' us a spur. This or that, we gotta keep working, maybe then we won't all drop dead."
Thomas nodded, but didn't say anything. He agreed completely on what Newt was saying, yet the only thoughts running throughout his head was that he a), had no concrete ideas on what to do, b) wanting to make it tomorrow so he and Teresa could figure something out properly, and c), somehow, even in this tired, ragged state, Newt still looked appealing to Thomas, and Thomas's hand still tingled from when Newt's own hand had held it earlier that evening.
Thomas glanced over at Alby to distract himself from the urge to press closer to Newt, and saw that the older boy was staring numbly at the floor, lost in his own, probably downright miserable thoughts.
His face still wore the long weary look of depression that the Changing had imprinted onto him, making it seem an aptly named thing, considering what it did to one person.
"Alby?" Newt asked, and goddamit, that just had to make Thomas turn to look at him, "You gonna pitch in?"
Thomas glanced hurriedly back at Alby, who just looked faintly surprise, having seemingly forgotten others were in the room. "Huh? Oh. Yeah. Good that. But you guys have seen what happens out there at night. Just because the royal King of the Runners and the freaking super boy Greenie here have survived doesn't mean the rest of us 'mere mortals' can." Alby's voice was dripping with sarcasm and anger by the end of the sentence.
Thomas ever so slightly rolled his eyes at Minho - so goddamn tired of Alby's attitude.
If Minho felt the same way, he did a hell of a good job of hiding it. "I'm with Thomas and Newt. We've gotta quit boo-hooing and feeling so sorry for ourselves." He rubbed his hands together and sat forward in his chair, resting his chin on his fingertips.
"Tomorrow morning, first thing, and you guys can assign teams to study the Maps full-time while the Runners go out. We'll pack our stuff shuck-full so we can stay out there for a few days."
"What?" Alby's head snapped up, his voice finally showing some emotion; incredulous. "What do do you mean, days?"
"I mean days. With open Doors and no sunset, there's no point in coming back here, anyway. Time to stay out there and see if anything opens up when the walls move. If they still move."
But Alby was shaking his head before Minho had even finished his second sentence. "No. Nuh uh. No shucking way. We still have Homestead to hide in, and if that ain't workin', the Map Room and the Slammer. We can't freaking ask people to go out there and die, Minho! Who'd volunteer for that?"
"Me," said Minho, "and Thomas."
Thomas nodded hurriedly to confirm this, no way he wouldn't do this, not help them escape. Although it scared him to death, exploring the Maze - really exploring it - was something he'd wanted to do since the first time he'd learnt about it.
"I will if I have to," Newt cut in, surprising Thomas. Though he'd never talk about or say it was ailing him at all, the older boy's limp was a consistent reminder that Newt been through something horrible in the Maze. "And I'm sure all the Runners would do it, maybe with bribing."
"What, you, with your shucked up leg?" Alby asked, a harsh yet empty laugh escaping his lips.
Newt tilted his chin up defiantly, his eyes showing hurt, yet resignment, revealing that that shot had hit home. "Well, I don't think it's very good or chivalrous askin' Gladers to do things if I'm not bloody willing to do them myself."
Alby scooted back on the bed, and propped his feet up, looking snarky. "Whatever. Do what you want."
"Do what I want'?" Newt repeated, looking angry and shocked, "What the hell is wrong with you man? Are you telling me we have a choice? Should we just sit on our asses and wait for the Grievers to arrive and murder us?"
Thomas wanted to applaud that, hoping Alby would finally snap out of his wallowing gloom.
But their leader didn't look the least reprimanded or remorseful. "Well, it sounds better than running to them."
Newt sat back down. "Alby. You gotta start talking reason."
As much as Thomas hated to admit it, they needed Alby if they were going to accomplish any of their stupid sounding plans. The Gladers looked up to him.
Alby finally took a deep breath, then looked at each of them in turn. "You guys know I'm screwed up from the shuckin' Changing. Seriously, I'm... sorry. I shouldn't be the stupid leader any more."
Thomas held his breath. He couldn't believe Alby had just said that.
"Oh bloody-" Newt started.
"No!" Alby shouted, his face showing humility, surrender. "That's not what I meant. Listen to me. I ain't saying we should switch or any of that klunk. I'm just saying... I think I need you guys to make the decisions and let you do them. I don't trust myself. So... yeah I'll do whatever."
Thomas could see that both Newt and Minho were as surprised as he was.
"Uh... okay." Newt said slowly, as if he was unsure. "We'll make it work, I promise. You'll see."
"Yeah," Alby muttered. After a long pause, he spoke up again, an odd hint of excitement in his voice. "Hey, tell you what. Put me to work on the Maps. I'll freaking work every Glader to the bone studying those things."
"Works for me," Minho said. Thomas wanted to agree, but didn't know if it was his place.
Alby put his feet back on the floor, sat up straighter. "Ya know, it was really stupid for us to sleep in here tonight. We should've been out in the Map Room, working."
Thomas thought that sounded like the smartest thing he'd heard Alby say in a long time.
Minho shrugged. "Probably right."
"Well... I'll go," Alby said with a confident nod. "Right now."
Newt shook his head. "Forget that, Alby. Already heard the bloody Grievers moaning out there We can wait until the wake-up."
Alby leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Hey you shucks are the ones giving me all this pep talk. Don't start whining when I actually listen. If I'm gonna do this, I gotta do it, be the old me. I need something to dive into."
Relief flooded through Thomas. He'd grown sick of all this contention.
Alby stood up. "Seriously, I need this." He moved towards the door of the room as if he really meant to leave right that instant.
"You can't be serious," Newt said. "You can't go out there now!"
"I'm going and that's that." Alby took his ring of keys from his pocket and rattled them mockingly - Thomas couldn't believe the sudden bravery. "See you shucks in the morning." And then he walked out.
¬¬¬
It was strange to know that the night was growing later, that darkness should have swallowed the world around them, but to see only the pale grey light outside. It made Thomas feel off-kilter, as if the urge of wanting to sleep grew with every passing minute. Many Gladers wrapped themselves in blankets and pillows, attempting to sleep, but with no luck. The only Gladers that didn't seem badly affected were Newt and River (River was also hugging an almost sleeping Chuck against his chest as he stared around the room).
Thomas felt as though the next day would never arrive, and the suspense of what was going to happen grew to an almost agonizing level of fear that swarmed the atmosphere around him and the others, making sickness rise in Thomas's stomach.
He prayed that Teresa would be okay as he attempted to force himself to sleep. He lay on the floor of one of the upper floors on top of a thick blanket, several Gladers crammed into the room with him, and the solitary bed had gone to Newt, who was so close Thomas could almost touch him, which made his nerves spike with electricity.
He had been placed into a different room to Chuck, and hoped against hope that the kid was okay, although dark images of the boy flooded his mind; of him crying in a corner of a dark room, and Thomas ached to banish them, but it took a long time for him to blot the ideas out.
When they finally did, Thomas sat up and rolled his head back against the bed, shutting his eyes.
When he opened his eyes again, unable to find sleep, he saw Newt quickly glance away from him.
Well that was weird.
Thomas looked to his side, where the unlit torch stood, that all the Gladers had been ordered to carry beside them in case of emergency, yet they remained extinguished despite the pale, deathly glow in their newly dull grey sky. No sense attracting anymore attention than necessary.
Anything that could be done on such a short notice to prepare for a Griever attack had been done: windows boarded up, furniture moved to the front of doors, knives handed out as weapons.
But none of that made Thomas feel safe.
The anticipation of what might happen was overpowering, scaring Thomas to his core, making a suffocating cloud of misery and fear hang over him. He almost wished the shucking Grievers would just arrive and get it over with. The waiting was more unbearable than what he could imagine happening.
The distant wails of the Grievers grew closer as the night stretched on, every minute seeming to last longer than the one before it.
Another hour passed. Then another. Thomas lay down and sleep finally came, but in miserable dozing patches, the only thing grounding Thomas into sleep was the fact that it was so late.
It was around two, Thomas guessed, when he turned onto his stomach for probably the millionth time. He placed his chin onto his hands and stared at the foot of the bed, which was almost a shadow in the dim and plain light coming through the window.
Then everything changed with a few sounds.
Mechanical whirring of machinery sounded from outside, followed by the familiar rolling clicks of a Griever on the stony ground and Thomas shot up out of his sleeping bag, freezing slightly, eyes wide, nerves hyper sensitive, remembering the identical sounds from his night in the Maze.
He got up onto his feet, as did most of the others, but Newt was up before anyone, waving his arms, then shushing the room by putting a finger to his lips. Favouring his bad leg, he tiptoed towards the lone window in the room, which was covered by three hastily nailed wooden boards.
Large cracks allowed plenty of space to peer outside, so Newt carefully leaned in to take a look, and Thomas crept quietly over to join him, only for Newt to give him a look which Thomas could easily read, and it was as if the boy was talking into his ear, as he could almost hear the message Newt was trying to tell him.
Tommy, I'm scared.
Thomas gave him what he hoped was a comforting look, brushing his arm against Newt's, and pressed his eye against a crack - it was terrifying being so close to a wall, where he knew a Griever could crash into and easily destroy. But all he saw was an open Glade; he didn't have enough space to look up or down or to the side, just forward.
After a minute or so, he gave up and turned away. Newt walked away from the window as well and sat on the bed.
Thomas could almost feel the boy's fear, as if it was coursing through his veins as well. He simply sat at the bed beside Newt's legs and just leaned against them, hoping against hope that this would help Newt like it did with him.
Apparently it did, as Newt just ever so slightly relaxed.
A few minutes passed, various Griever sounds penetrating the walls every ten to twenty seconds. The squeal of small engines followed by a grinding spin of metal. The clicking of spikes against the hard stone. Things snapped and opened, and each sound made Thomas wince or twitch in terror.
It sounded like three or four of them were outside.
And that was at the very least.
Thomas heard the twisted animal-robots come closer, closer, so close, waiting on the stone blocks below. All hums and metallic clatter, making his mouth dry at the mere memory of seeing these things face to face, and had to remind himself to breathe.
He dug his fingernails into his thumb, harder and harder with each passing moment. When that didn't stop the build of blinding panic in his mind, he bit his lower lip just as hard, so the pain started to overtake the slow slipping away of his calmness.
Don't freak out Thomas. Whatever you do, don't. Freak. Out.
He began to count in his head to try to block out the images of what he thought could be happening outside of Homestead. The massive creature rolling it's body over the building, spikes digging into the walls of Homestead, shredding the walls in their path...
The whole building shuddered.
Thomas inhaled deeply, shuddering, and felt his teeth draw blood out of the flesh of his lower lip, and made a quiet, indistinct sound through his nose.
The crunching and groaning and snapping of wood became the only sounds to Thomas, as they grew louder, closer - the other boys had shuffled across the room, as far away as possible from the window. Thomas finally followed suit, praying his panic wouldn't build over the walls of pain and flood his mind into sheer insanity, and felt Newt right beside him; everyone else huddled against the far wall, staring at the window.
Just as it became unbearable - just as Thomas realised the Griever was outside the window, and nearly broke his fragile shell of calm - everything fell silent.
Thomas could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
Light flickered out there, casting odd beams through the cracks between the wooden boards. Then a thin shadow interrupted the light, moving back and forth. Thomas knew that the Grievers probes and weapons had come out, searching for a feast. He imagined beetle blades out there, helping the horrific creatures find their way. A few seconds later, the shadow stopped; the light settled to a standstill, casting three unmoving planes of brightness into the room.
The tension in the air around the room was thick; Thomas couldn't hear any one breathing. He thought much the same must be going on in the other rooms of Homestead. Then he remembered Teresa, locked in the Slammer. He wished she'd say something, anything, to distract him from this.
Then, all of a sudden, the door to the hallway flew open, causing gasps and even yells of shock explode throughout the room, shattering the uneasy silence. The Gladers had all been expecting something from outside the window, not from behind them, in the building they were in.
Thomas turned to see who'd opened the door, expecting a frightened Chuck or even a reconsidering Alby. But when he saw who stood there, he froze, his brain unable to process the figure properly.
It was Gally.
The boy's eyes were ragged with lunacy, his clothes torn and filthy. His knees gave way and he dropped to the floor and stayed there, his chest rising and falling rapidly with deep, sucking breaths. He looked about the room like a rabid dog, searching for someone to attack.
No one spoke a word after the initial shock of seeing Gally there. They all seemed to believe, as Thomas did, that Gally was simply a figment of their imagination.
"They'll kill you!" Gally screamed, looking like the definition of insanity, "the Grievers will kill you all - one every night till it's over!"
Thomas watched, speechless, as Gally staggered to his feet and walked forward, dragging his right leg with a heavy limp. No one in the room moved a muscle, obviously too stunned to take action. Even Newt just stood with his mouth agape. Thomas was almost more afraid of their surprise visitor than he was of the Grievers outside the window.
Gally stopped, standing just a metre or two in front of Thomas and Newt; he pointed at Thomas with a bloodstained finger.
"You." He spat, with a sneer so pronounced it went past comical to disturbing. "It's all your fault!" Without warning, he swung his left hand, forming it into a fist as it came round and almost crashed into Thomas's left ear, but Newt, having snapped to attention, yanked Thomas out of the way by the shirt.
Newt then released Thomas and shoved Gally away and the boy crashed into the desk by the window. The lamp fell off of the side and smashed into pieces onto the ground. Thomas assumed Gally would retaliate, but he straightened up instead, taking everyone in with his unhinged gaze.
"It can't be solved," he began in a rushed yet distant blabber, "the shuck Maze will kill all you shanks... The Grievers'll kill you... one every night until it's over... I... it's better this way..." His eyes fell to the floor with a petrified look, his eyes unfocusing, seeing something that wasn't there. "They'll only kill you one a night... their stupid Variables..."
Thomas listened in uneasy awe, Gally's entrance having suppressed the waves of panic that had been rapidly rising within him, attempting to memorise everything the crazed boy said.
Newt stepped forward cautiously, "Gally, shut your bloody hole - there's a Griever just outside the window. Just sit on your butt and stay quiet - maybe it'll go away."
Gally looked up, his eyes narrowing. "You don't get it, Newt. You're too stupid - you've always been too stupid. There's no way out - there's no way to win! They're gonna kill you, all of you - one by one!"
Screaming the last word at the top of his voice, Gally threw his body towards the window and started tearing at the wooden boards like a wild animal trying to escape a cage. Before Thomas or anyone else could react, he'd already ripped one board free; he threw it to the ground.
"No!" Newt yelled, running forward. Thomas ran to help, in utter disbelief of what was happening.
Gally ripped off the second board just as Newt reached him. He swang it backwards with both hands, using it like a club to hit Newt's head with it. Newt fell backward, his head connecting with the side of the bed as he fell, and blood stained the bed and the sheets, coming from Newt's forehead.
Thomas turned back to Gally, squaring up, getting ready for a fight.
"Gally!" Thomas yelled. "What are you doing?"
Gally spat on the ground, panting. "You shut your shuck face, Thomas. You shut the hell up! I know who you are, but I don't care anymore. I can only do what's right."
Thomas was baffled by what Gally was saying, and just helplessly watched as the boy tore the final board off of the window. The instant the discarded slab hit the floor of the room, the glass window exploded inwards like a swarm of crystals and Thomas instinctively moved his hands to his face to protect himself, and fell to the floor, feeling shards of glass slice his cheek, arms, hands and dig into his legs as he scrambled backward as far away as possible, grating into his palms.
He finally looked up, smearing his face with blood, preparing for the worlds end.
A Griever's pulsating, bulbous body had squirmed it's way through the destroyed window, metallic arms adorned with pincers snapping and clawing in all directions.
Thomas was so terrified, he'd only just realised that the others had fled into the hallway - apart from Newt, who still lay unconscious on the floor.
The Griever reached for the lifeless body, and the panic Thomas had sharpened. He got to his feet, searching for a weapon. He scrabbled for a knife, even though it would be useless. The sharp panic turned to a frenzy of worry for himself, but mainly for Newt.
I can't loose him. I can't-
But then Gally started speaking again, and the Griever actually pulled it's arm back, as if it needed to be able to observe and listen, but it's body kept churning to try and squeeze it's way inside.
"No one ever understood!" The boy screamed over the horrible sounds of Homestead being ripped to pieces. "No one ever understood what I saw, what the Changing did to me! Don't go back to the real world, Thomas. You don't... want... to remember!"
Gally gave Thomas a long, haunted look, the one which resided in Minho's, River's, Newt's and Alby's every day, then he turned and dived onto the writhing body of the Griever. Thomas yelled as he watched every extended arm of the monster immediately retract and clasp onto Gally's arms and legs, making an escape or rescue attempt impossible.
The boys body sank several centimetres into the creatures squishy flesh, making a horrific squelching sound. Then, with surprising speed, the Griever pushed itself back outside the shattered frame of the window and began descending towards the ground below.
Thomas ran to the jagged, gaping hole and looked down to see the Griever land and start scooting across the Glade, Gally's figure appearing and disappearing as the thing rolled, and the lights on the beast shone brightly, illuminating the West Door, where the Griever exited into the Maze, followed by several other monsters, whirring and clicking as if to celebrate their victory.
Thomas quietly backed away from the window, to Newt.
"No no no no no no no," he muttered desperately, "no no no no, please, please be okay."
He dropped down beside the boy, who was still passed out, his blonde hair stained with rusty blood from the wound on his hairline. Thomas placed his ear near to Newt's lips, and after hearing an exhalation of breath, warm, glorious relief shot through him.
He's alive, thank god.
"Newt," Thomas called out, shaking his shoulders desperately, yet knowing this wouldn't work, wouldn't wake him up.
Thomas had a vague memory of having to put pressure on the wound, and did so, pulling off the bandages off of his wrist from when Ben attacked him, and pressed the bandages hard against the bleeding wound, his own injuries from the glass being the least of his issues.
After about a minute, Newt blinked blearily awake. "T-Tommy...?" He murmured, brow furrowing in confusion, the word slightly slurred.
"Hey, hey, there he is, there you are." Thomas let his head fall forward in sheer exhaustion, a grin on his face, and when he looked up at Newt again, he realised how good it was to see him alive. "You okay there buddy? You took a hard hit."
If Thomas had really been paying attention to himself, he would've realised his voice changed, depending on who he was talking to. He used a slightly gentler manner when speaking to Chuck, a constant tone of happiness when talking to Teresa, but nearly everyone around him noted that he always sounded softer when talking to Newt.
Newt groaned slightly, reaching his hand up to the wound, his hand clasping over Thomas's. "I'm okay, just that that hurts like shuck, but I'll... live." His face of suppressed pain turned to concern when he took in the state of Thomas, "Jesus Tommy, never mind about me, what about you?"
"I'm fine. I was more worried about you to be honest." Thomas admitted, and Newt just stared at him fondly for a few seconds, and Thomas smiled awkwardly back, in one of those perfect moments of realisation.
That you cared about someone.
The moment was shattered when a yell rose from outside, and Thomas and Newt quickly exchanged a glance before Thomas got up and ran to the window.
Despite the poor light, Thomas could see a figure hurtling into the Maze after the Grievers.
Minho.
Authors Note: Hey guys! This chapter came out earlier than expected and it has a ton of words so I'm proud of myself! I hope you enjoy it and we are currently on chapter 40/62 in the Maze Runner book plot so far, so I can already tell this fic will be long as hell.
If you guys have any questions, I'm right here and I hope you all had a good day/ night <3
- Hugo :)
Word Count: 4569