Thomas felt the world swimming around him, felt delirious, nauseated. Someone, he couldn’t tell who, obeyed Newt’s order; he was being carried across the courtyard, through the front door of the Homestead, down the shattered hall, into a room, placed on a couch. The world continued to twist and pitch.
“What were you doing!” Newt yelled in his face. “How could you be so bloody stupid!”
Thomas had to speak before he faded into blackness. “No … Newt … you don’t understand….”
“Shut up!” Newt shouted. “Don’t waste your energy!”
Thomas felt someone examining his arms and legs, ripping his clothes away from his body, checking for damage. He heard Chuck’s voice, couldn’t help feeling relief that his friend was okay. A Med-jack said something about him being stung dozens of times.
Teresa was by his feet, squeezing his right ankle with her hand. Why, Tom? Why would you do that?
Because… He didn’t have the strength to concentrate.
Newt yelled for the Grief Serum; a minute later Thomas felt a pinprick on his arm. Warmth spread from that point throughout his body, calming him, lessening the pain. But the world still seemed to be collapsing in on itself, and he knew it would all be gone from him in just a few seconds.
The room spun, colors morphing into each other, churning faster and faster. It took all of his effort, but he said one last thing before the darkness took him for good.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered, hoping they could hear him. “I did it on purpose….”
CHAPTER 47
Thomas had no concept of time as he went through the Changing.
It started much like his first memory of the Box—dark and cold. But this time he had no sensation of anything touching his feet or body. He floated in emptiness, stared into a void of black. He saw nothing, heard nothing, smelled nothing. It was as if someone had stolen his five senses, leaving him in a vacuum.
Time stretched on. And on. Fear turned into curiosity, which turned into boredom.
Finally, after an interminable wait, things began to change.
A distant wind picked up, unfelt but heard. Then a swirling mist of whiteness appeared far in the distance—a spinning tornado of smoke that formed into a long funnel, stretching out until he could see neither the top nor the bottom of the white whirlwind. He felt the gales then, sucking into the cyclone so that it blew past him from behind, ripping at his clothes and hair like they were shredded flags caught in a storm.
The tower of thick mist began to move toward him—or he was moving toward it, he couldn’t tell—increasing its speed at an alarming rate. Where seconds before he’d been able to see the distinct form of the funnel, he now could see only a flat expanse of white.
And then it consumed him; he felt his mind taken by the mist, felt memories flood into his thoughts.
Everything else turned into pain.
CHAPTER 48
“Thomas.”
The voice was distant, warbled, like an echo in a long tunnel.
“Thomas, can you hear me?”
He didn’t want to answer. His mind had shut down when it could no longer take the pain; he feared it would all return if he allowed himself back into consciousness. He sensed light on the other side of his eyelids, but knew it would be unbearable to open them. He did nothing.
“Thomas, it’s Chuck. Are you okay? Please don’t die, dude.”
Everything came crashing back into his mind. The Glade, the Grievers, the stinging needle, the Changing. Memories. The Maze couldn’t be solved. Their only way out was something they’d never expected. Something terrifying. He was crushed with despair.
Groaning, he forced his eyes open, squinting at first. Chuck’s pudgy face was there, staring with frightened eyes. But then they lit up and a smile spread across his face. Despite it all, despite the terrible crappiness of it all, Chuck smiled.
“He’s awake!” the boy yelled to no one in particular. “Thomas is awake!”
The booming sound of his voice made Thomas wince; he shut his eyes again. “Chuck, do you have to scream? I don’t feel so good.”
“Sorry—I’m just glad you’re alive. You’re lucky I don’t give you a big kiss.”
“Please don’t do that, Chuck.” Thomas opened his eyes again and forced himself to sit up in the bed in which he lay, pushing his back against the wall and stretching out his legs. Soreness ate at his joints and muscles. “How long did it take?” he asked.
“Three days,” Chuck answered. “We put you in the Slammer at night to keep you safe—brought you back here during the days. Thought you were dead for sure about thirty times since you started. But check you out—you look brand-new!”
Thomas could only imagine how non-great he looked. “Did the Grievers come?”
Chuck’s jubilation visibly crashed to the ground as his eyes sank down toward the floor. “Yeah—they got Zart and a couple others. One a night. Minho and the Runners have scoured the Maze, trying to find an exit or some use for that stupid code you guys came up with. But nothing. Why do you think the Grievers are only taking one shank at a time?”
Thomas’s stomach turned sour—he knew the exact answer to that question, and some others now. Enough to know that sometimes knowing sucked.
“Get Newt and Alby,” he finally said in answer. “Tell them we need to have a Gathering. Soon as possible.”
“Serious?”
Thomas let out a sigh. “Chuck, I just went through the Changing. Do you think I’m serious?”