Crank Palace: A Maze Runner Novella

The next hour was a lifetime of headaches, nausea, and strange movements.

Newt stayed awake for all of it; the hyper-enthusiasm he’d experienced for all of two minutes had completely vanished. Spent. He had no energy whatsoever, in fact, didn’t lift a finger to defend himself as reinforcement soldiers did whatever they wanted with him. At least they didn’t separate him from Keisha and Dante. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing the small connection he had with those two after so short a time.

A truck rumbled up, much smaller than the behemoths they’d seen earlier by the massive walls of Denver. Two people picked him off the ground, with not the least amount of gentility, and threw him into the back of the open bed of the vehicle. He expected to land on a pile of writhing bodies, a dozen Cranks fighting and clawing and trying to get out. Instead he landed on the hard steel of the truck bed and lost his breath for a moment. Keisha came next, still no sign of voluntary movement in her limbs.

But her eyes.

Her eyes were lit with awareness and understanding, the purest panic Newt could imagine. But that eased a bit when Dante was plopped right next to her, offered a little more care than they’d been given. The kid still cried, but it had almost become a constant, a background noise, like the strong flow of a rapid, rocky river nearby. He laid his head down on his mum’s shoulder and wrapped his tiny arms around her neck. Tears leaked from Keisha’s eyes.

“She’s okay,” Newt murmured, though he doubted the kid heard or understood. “She’s just… she’ll be okay soon.” Every word he uttered rang in his head like a broken bell.

A soldier jumped into the back of the truck with them, squatted with his back to the window of the cabin. He held something that looked more like a machine gun than an energy weapon, and Newt figured they had less than one chance left for misbehaving. The next time would be rewarded with a few bullets in the brain to end things.

The truck roared its engine, then set off from the quiet neighborhood—probably quiet because the sweep-up of Cranks had already been through that area. Newt had the distant thought that spying eyes might’ve reported them from within the windows of one of those seemingly innocent homes, frightened eyes that spied from the darkness, from behind torn curtains and broken glass. Surprised at himself, Newt found that he didn’t care. Maybe the virus had eaten that part of his brain first—the part that worried and agonized over what lay in his immediate future. It just didn’t matter. Madness awaited him at the end of the track, and there was no slowing that train. He couldn’t bring himself to care how bumpy the ride might be.

Newt relaxed onto his back and looked up at the sky as they drove. Blue and white, more clouds than not, the kind with no shape or substance, just scratched across the azure heavens by a painter with no discipline. Some people said the sky never had quite the same color once the catastrophic sun flares struck a couple of decades earlier. Newt would never know, could never know. What he saw seemed natural enough, and despite his sudden indifference to the world, it gave him a small squeeze of comfort that saddened him a little. Saddened that he’d never have a chance to live a full and meaningful life under the skies above.

The truck jostled to a stop sometime later, how long Newt didn’t really know. Maybe a half hour. They had parked between two platforms of cement, both seeming to hover just a few feet above the lip of the truck bed, bordered by steel railings. Several people stood up there to each side, dressed in bulky, overbearing protective gear that looked like something you’d see at WICKED on a bad day. Newt quickly glanced at Keisha, who had her back to him, her arms wrapped around her son. She might’ve been asleep—he saw her back rise and fall with even breaths. He sighed in relief.

Glancing skyward at the strangers staring down, he shifted his elbows to prop himself up. He opened his mouth to say something—ask something—but a fire hose appeared at one of the railings, its nozzle pointing in his direction. It was enough to silence him.

Water—he hoped it was water—abruptly flushed out of the hose in a torrid stream, wetly smacking into him so hard that he slammed against the truck bed, yelping at the slicing, biting cold of the onslaught. The force of it was painful enough, but the frigidity made it feel acidic, stinging like a million slaps against his skin. He tried to scream against it, but water filled his mouth and set him off to choking and coughing instead. The person above directed the stream at Keisha and Dante, then, just as he thought he might drown. Keisha seemed completely back to normal because she squirmed and kicked and shielded Dante as best she could. The hose set upon Newt again, then back to Keisha, then back to Newt. This torture lasted another minute or two before some angel turned it off. Newt and Keisha were left to sputter and spit and catch their breath, all amidst the backdrop of Dante’s high-pitched screams.

“What the hell was that for?” Keisha yelled, sounding like someone who’d just swam 50 feet underwater and finally came up for air.

A mechanized voice responded, filtered by the hazard suit. “That’s the best we can do out here to disinfect. Sorry. We don’t have a helluva lot of choices anymore. Hope the kid’s okay.” With that compassion-dripping statement, he gave a wave of the hand. The truck jolted and the engine squawked, and they were off again.

They picked up speed. With their wet clothes, it felt as if the temperature had dropped 30 degrees. Keisha fully grasped her maternal role and pulled Newt close to her, cradling both him and her son. Dante had gone silent, perhaps shivering too violently to cry. Newt had no complaints, snuggling into Keisha’s grasp for as much warmth as possible. He had flashes of a woman in his mind, shadows made of light, no features, more a presence than anything. His mind was loosening, he knew that now, the irony of it so thick it seemed possible to chop at it with an axe. He would remember his mom soon, remember her fully, just in time to forget her in the madness of the Flare.

A few minutes later they drove through the opened doors of a gate, providing entrance past a huge wall of wooden planks, a sign on one of the doors that flashed by too quickly for Newt to read the words printed there. Several people stood around, scratches and bruises on their faces, all of them holding Launchers. Not a one looked too thrilled to have visitors. Then there were trees, half of them dead, half of them green and bright and hale. The world was coming back to life, slowly but surely, especially in these higher elevations.

The truck came to a stop again. Barely enough time had passed for Newt’s skin to dry, much less his hair or clothes. Both doors of the vehicle opened and closed, and something told Newt their journey was over, that they might never be in another car or truck for the rest of whatever remained of their lives.

“Are you going to kill us?” Keisha asked the empty air above them in a shaky voice, the first time Newt had seen her show genuine fear. “Please don’t hurt my children.”

Children . Was it her fleeing mind, imagining that Newt was her daughter, come back from the dead? Or did awareness still cling to her strongly enough to hope for more leniency granted a mother and her kids? Before anyone bothered to answer, the three of them sat up, letting go of their temporary cuddle of warmth. Two soldiers stood at the tailgate of the truck, the gate still closed. They were helmeted, their faces nothing but shiny black glass, as soulless as robots. That now-familiar, muffled, slightly mechanized voice came from one of them, a low growl that sounded almost like static.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” it said. “Especially after killing my friend. So if you complain I’ll beat the living hell out of you. I swear it on all your dead relatives.”

“Wow,” Keisha said. “Harsh. Wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?” Newt was amazed that she had the guts to make even the slightest of jokes.

The soldier who’d spoken gripped the upper edge of the tailgate with gloved fists, the leather creaking as he squeezed. “Say another word. Just one more word. You think this would be the first time we’ve accidentally broken an order? Sure would be a shame for that kid if his mama died because she wasn’t… cooperative.”

To Newt’s immeasurable relief, Keisha didn’t respond. She looked at Dante, finding all the strength she needed in his eyes, in his life.

“Just get out of the truck,” the other soldier piped in. “Now. You’re gonna spend the rest of your life in this hellhole so you might as well make yourselves at home.” She pulled on a latch and the tailgate flopped down with a heavy metallic crack.

Newt had a sudden and almost overwhelming rush of panic, the uncertainty of his life now, all at once, taking on meaning again. He moved to deflect it, scooted himself forward until he could jump down from the truck bed onto the ground, a mishmash of dirt and weeds. A quick look around showed a lot of trees and dozens of tiny cabins and tents, as haphazard as the early days of the Glade. Newt felt a longing for his friends and old days past, as hard as those old days were.

Keisha handed Dante to Newt, then jumped down and landed right next to him. It was the first time Newt had held the child, maybe the first time he’d ever held someone so young. To his surprise, the kid didn’t cry, probably too enticed by his new surroundings, probably still feeling a false sense of elation from the absence of a raging fire hose. Even Newt felt that. It was fresh on his mind, and oddly made everything in the world seem a little brighter because he didn’t have a rushing explosion of ice-cold water battering his face.

One of the soldiers closed the tailgate, secured the latch. Then they headed for the doors of the truck without saying anything, opened them, readied to step up and onto the seats.

“Wait,” Newt said, handing Dante back to his mum. “What’re we supposed to do?”

The soldier on the passenger side ignored them, got in, slammed the door. The driver paused with a foot on the instep, but didn’t turn around to face them when she answered.

“Like we said, just be glad you’re alive. Hardly anyone’s being sent here anymore. Almost full. Most Cranks are just… you know. Taken care of.”

The Crank Palace. A sicker version of Newt would’ve laughed. He’d ended up here after all, even after Keisha’s less-than-subtle declaration that it had been the dumbest idea ever.

“But why?” Keisha asked, gently swaying with Dante in her arms. “If you’re offing most of the infected, then why not us? After what we did?” There was no apology in her voice. None at all.

“Are you complaining?” the soldier countered. “I’d be happy to take you to the Flare pits if that’s what your heart desires. It’s what you deserve.”

Newt quickly spoke up. “No, no. Thank you. We’re fine.” He gently grabbed Keisha’s arm, tried to pull her away from the truck. He wanted nothing to do with these people ever again. But she resisted, seemed intent on getting them killed or burned in the pits.

“Why?” she asked. “What’re you not telling us?”

Even though they couldn’t see the soldier’s face, every inch of her armored body screamed out what her facial expressions couldn’t. Frustration. Annoyance. Anger. But then she relaxed, all of her muscles slackening at once, her foot dropping back to the ground. She turned toward them and spoke with that mechanized voice, void of feeling.

“It’s him.” She pointed at Newt. “They know who he is and… she wants to keep track of him. You and your kid are just lucky you made a new friend. Otherwise you would’ve been dead long before you made it to the pits. Now goodbye and have a wonderful life. Short and sweet, as they say.”

With that, she jumped in the truck and drove off, the back tires spitting up rocks and dirt.

“Who was she talking about?” Keisha asked. “Who is… she ?”

Newt only shook his head, staring at the truck as it grew smaller with distance. Finally it turned a corner around some trees and was gone. He looked at the ground.

“Later,” was the only word that came out.

She .

He couldn’t bring himself to say her name.