The Maze Runner (The Maze Runner, Book 1)

Thomas and Minho didn’t stop until they were halfway to the last dead end of Section Eight. They made good time—Thomas was glad for his wristwatch, with the skies being gray—because it quickly became obvious that the walls hadn’t moved from the day before. Everything was exactly the same. There was no need for Mapmaking or taking notes; their only task was to get to the end and start making their way back, searching for things previously unnoticed—anything. Minho allowed a twenty-minute break and then they were back at it.

They were silent as they ran. Minho had taught Thomas that speaking only wasted energy, so he concentrated on his pace and his breaths. Regular. Even. In, out. In, out. Deeper and deeper into the Maze they went, with only their thoughts and the sounds of their feet thumping against the hard stone floor.

In the third hour, Teresa surprised him, speaking in his mind from back in the Glade.

We’re making progress—found a couple more words already. But none of it makes sense yet.

Thomas’s first instinct was to ignore her, to deny once again that someone had the ability to enter his mind, invade his privacy. But he wanted to talk to her.

Can you hear me? he asked, picturing the words in his mind, mentally throwing them out to her in some way he could never have explained. Concentrating, he said it again. Can you hear me?

Yes! she replied. Really clearly the second time you said it.

Thomas was shocked. So shocked he almost quit running. It had worked!

Wonder why we can do this, he called out with his mind. The mental effort of speaking to her was already straining—he felt a headache forming like a bulge in his brain.

Maybe we were lovers, Teresa said.

Thomas tripped and crashed to the ground. Smiling sheepishly at Minho, who’d turned to look without slowing, Thomas got back up and caught up to him. What? he finally asked.

He sensed a laugh from her, a watery image full of color. This is so bizarre, she said. It’s like you’re a stranger, but I know you’re not.

Thomas felt a pleasant chill even though he was sweating. Sorry to break it to you, but we are strangers. I just met you, remember?

Don’t be stupid, Tom. I think someone altered our brains, put something in there so we could do this telepathy thing. Before we came here. Which makes me think we already knew each other.

It was something he’d wondered about, and he thought she was probably right. Hoped it, anyway—he was really starting to like her. Brains altered? he asked. How?

I don’t know—some memory I can’t quite grasp. I think we did something big.

Thomas thought about how he’d always felt a connection to her, ever since she arrived in the Glade. He wanted to dig a little more and see what she said. What are you talking about?

Wish I knew. I’m just trying to bounce ideas off you to see if it sparks anything in your mind.

Thomas thought about what Gally, Ben and Alby had said about him—their suspicions that he was against them somehow, was someone not to trust. He thought about what Teresa had said to him, too, the very first time—that he and she had somehow done all of this to them.

This code has to mean something, she added. And the thing I wrote on my arm—WICKED is good.

Maybe it won’t matter, he answered. Maybe we’ll find an exit. You never know.

Thomas squeezed his eyes shut for a few seconds as he ran, trying to concentrate. A pocket of air seemed to float in his chest every time they spoke, a swelling that half annoyed and half thrilled him. His eyes popped back open when he realized she could maybe read his thoughts even when he wasn’t trying to communicate. He waited for a response, but none came.

You still there? he asked.

Yeah, but this always gives me a headache.

Thomas was relieved to hear he wasn’t the only one. My head hurts, too.

Okay, she said. See you later.

No, wait! He didn’t want her to leave; she was helping the time pass. Making the running easier somehow.

Bye, Tom. I’ll let you know if we figure anything out.

Teresa—what about the thing you wrote on your arm?

Several seconds passed. No reply.

Teresa?

She was gone. Thomas felt as if that bubble of air in his chest had burst, releasing toxins into his body. His stomach hurt, and the thought of running the rest of the day suddenly depressed him.

In some ways, he wanted to tell Minho about how he and Teresa could talk, to share what was happening before it made his brain explode. But he didn’t dare. Throwing telepathy into the whole situation didn’t seem like the grandest of ideas. Everything was weird enough already.

Thomas put his head down and drew in a long, deep breath. He would just keep his mouth shut and run.

Two breaks later, Minho finally slowed to a walk as they headed down a long corridor that ended in a wall. He stopped and took a seat against the dead end. The ivy was especially thick there; it made the world seem green and lush, hiding the hard, impenetrable stone.

Thomas joined him on the ground and they attacked their modest lunch of sandwiches and sliced fruit.

“This is it,” Minho said after his second bite. “We’ve already run through the whole section. Surprise, surprise—no exits.”

Thomas already knew this, but hearing it made his heart sink even lower. Without another word—from himself or Minho—he finished his food and readied himself to explore. To look for who-knew-what.

For the next few hours, he and Minho scoured the ground, felt along the walls, climbed up the ivy in random spots. They found nothing, and Thomas grew more and more discouraged. The only thing interesting was another one of those odd signs that read World In Catastrophe—Killzone Experiment Department. Minho didn’t even give it a second glance.

They had another meal, searched some more. They found nothing, and Thomas was beginning to get ready to accept the inevitable—that there was nothing to find. When wall-closing time rolled around, he started looking for signs of Grievers, was struck by an icy hesitation at every corner. He and Minho always had knives clasped firmly in both hands. But nothing showed up until almost midnight.

Minho spotted a Griever disappearing around a corner ahead of them; and it didn’t come back. Thirty minutes later, Thomas saw one do the exact same thing. An hour after that, a Griever came charging through the Maze right past them, not even pausing. Thomas almost collapsed from the sudden rush of terror.

He and Minho continued on.

“I think they’re playing with us,” Minho said a while later.

Thomas realized he’d given up on searching the walls and was just heading back toward the Glade in a depressed walk. From the looks of it, Minho felt the same way.

“What do you mean?” Thomas asked.

The Keeper sighed. “I think the Creators want us to know there’s no way out. The walls aren’t even moving anymore—it’s like this has all just been some stupid game and it’s time to end. And they want us to go back and tell the other Gladers. How much you wanna bet when we get back we find out a Griever took one of them just like last night? I think Gally was right—they’re gonna just keep killing us.”

Thomas didn’t respond—felt the truth of what Minho said. Any hope he’d felt earlier when they’d set out had crashed a long time ago.

“Let’s just go home,” Minho said, his voice weary.

Thomas hated to admit defeat, but he nodded in agreement. The code seemed like their only hope now, and he resolved to focus on that.

He and Minho made their way silently back to the Glade. They didn’t see another Griever the whole way.