The Maze Runner (Page 21)

Then another snap. Then another. Coming closer. And the darkness was thick.

“Who’s out there?” he called, his voice shaky and hollow—it sounded as if he were speaking inside an insulated tunnel. “Seriously, this is stupid.” He hated to admit to himself just how terrified he was.

Instead of answering, the person gave up all pretense of stealth and started running, crashing through the forest line around the clearing of the graveyard, circling toward the spot where Thomas stood. He froze, panic overtaking him. Now only a few feet away, the visitor grew louder and louder until Thomas caught a shadowed glimpse of a skinny boy limping along in a strange, lilting run.

“Who the he—”

The boy burst through the trees before Thomas could finish. He saw only a flash of pale skin and enormous eyes—the haunted image of an apparition—and cried out, tried to run, but it was too late. The figure leaped into the air and was on top of him, slamming into his shoulders, gripping him with strong hands. Thomas crashed to the ground; he felt a grave marker dig into his back before it snapped in two, burning a deep scratch along his flesh.

He pushed and swatted at his attacker, a relentless jumble of skin and bones cavorting on top of him as he tried to gain purchase. It seemed like a monster, a horror from a nightmare, but Thomas knew it had to be a Glader, someone who’d completely lost his mind. He heard teeth snapping open and closed, a horrific clack, clack, clack. Then he felt the jarring dagger of pain as the boy’s mouth found a home, bit deeply into Thomas’s shoulder.

Thomas screamed, the pain like a burst of adrenaline through his blood. He planted the palms of his hands against his attacker’s chest and pushed, straightening his arms until his muscles strained against the struggling figure above him. Finally the kid fell back; a sharp crack filled the air as another grave marker met its demise.

Thomas squirmed away on his hands and feet, sucking in breaths of air, and got his first good look at the crazed attacker.

It was the sick boy.

It was Ben.

CHAPTER 11

It looked as if Ben had recovered only slightly since Thomas had seen him in the Homestead. He wore nothing but shorts, his whiter-than-white skin stretched across his bones like a sheet wrapped tightly around a bundle of sticks. Ropelike veins ran along his body, pulsing and green—but less pronounced than the day before. His bloodshot eyes fell upon Thomas as if he were seeing his next meal.

Ben crouched, ready to spring for another attack. At some point a knife had made an appearance, gripped in his right hand. Thomas was filled with a queasy fear, disbelief that this was happening at all.

“Ben!”

Thomas looked toward the voice, surprised to see Alby standing at the edge of the graveyard, a mere phantom in the fading light. Relief flooded Thomas’s body—Alby held a large bow, an arrow cocked for the kill, pointed straight at Ben.

“Ben,” Alby repeated. “Stop right now, or you ain’t gonna see tomorrow.”

Thomas looked back at Ben, who stared viciously at Alby, his tongue darting between his lips to wet them. What could possibly be wrong with that kid? Thomas thought. The boy had turned into a monster. Why?

“If you kill me,” Ben shrieked, spittle flying from his mouth, far enough to hit Thomas in the face, “you’ll get the wrong guy.” He snapped his gaze back to Thomas. “He’s the shank you wanna kill.” His voice was full of madness.

“Don’t be stupid, Ben,” Alby said, his voice calm as he continued to aim the arrow. “Thomas just got here—ain’t nothing to worry about. You’re still buggin’ from the Changing. You should’ve never left your bed.”

“He’s not one of us!” Ben shouted. “I saw him—he’s … he’s bad. We have to kill him! Let me gut him!”

Thomas took an involuntary step backward, horrified by what Ben had said. What did he mean, he’d seen him? Why did he think Thomas was bad?

Alby hadn’t moved his weapon an inch, still aiming for Ben. “You leave that to me and the Keepers to figure out, shuck-face.” His hands were perfectly steady as he held the bow, almost as if he had propped it against a branch for support. “Right now, back your scrawny butt down and get to the Homestead.”

“He’ll wanna take us home,” Ben said. “He’ll wanna get us out of the Maze. Better we all jumped off the Cliff! Better we tore each other’s guts out!”

“What are you talking—” Thomas began.

“Shut your face!” Ben screamed. “Shut your ugly, traitorous face!”

“Ben,” Alby said calmly. “I’m gonna count to three.”

“He’s bad, he’s bad, he’s bad …,” Ben was whispering now, almost chanting. He swayed back and forth, switching the knife from hand to hand, eyes glued on Thomas.

“One.”

“Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad …” Ben smiled; his teeth seemed to glow, greenish in the pale light.

Thomas wanted to look away, get out of there. But he couldn’t move; he was too mesmerized, too scared.

“Two.” Alby’s voice was louder, filled with warning.

“Ben,” Thomas said, trying to make sense of it all. “I’m not … I don’t even know what—”

Ben screamed, a strangled gurgle of madness, and leaped into the air, slashing out with his blade.

“Three!” Alby shouted.

There was the sound of snapping wire. The whoosh of an object slicing through the air. The sickening, wet thunk of it finding a home.