The Maze Runner

Finally, in a crooked cranny near a back corner of the Homestead, Minho pulled out a key and opened up a shabby door leading to a small storage closet. Thomas felt a shiver of anticipation, wondering what was inside. He caught glimpses of ropes and chains and other odds and ends as Minho’s flashlight crisscrossed the closet. Eventually, it fell on an open box full of running shoes. Thomas almost laughed, it seemed so ordinary.

“That right there’s the number one supply we get,” Minho announced. “At least for us. They send new ones in the Box every so often. If we had bad shoes, we’d have feet that look like freaking Mars.” He bent over and rummaged through the pile. “What size you wear?”

“Size?” Thomas thought for a second. “I … don’t know.” It was so odd sometimes what he could and couldn’t remember. He reached down and pulled off a shoe he’d worn since coming to the Glade and took a look inside. “Eleven.”

“Geez, shank, you got big feet.” Minho stood up holding a pair of sleek silver ones. “But looks like I’ve got some—man, we could go canoeing in these things.”

“Those are fancy.” Thomas took them and walked out of the closet to sit on the ground, eager to try them on. Minho grabbed a few more things before coming out to join him.

“Only Runners and Keepers get these,” Minho said. Before Thomas could look up from tying his shoes, a plastic wristwatch dropped into his lap. It was black and very simple, its face showing only a digital display of the time. “Put it on and never take it off. Your life might depend on it.”

Thomas was glad to have it. Though the sun and the shadows had seemed plenty to let him know roughly what time it was up to that point, being a Runner probably required more precision. He buckled the watch onto his wrist and then returned to fitting on his shoes.

Minho continued talking. “Here’s a backpack, water bottles, lunch pack, some shorts and T-shirts, other stuff.” He nudged Thomas, who looked up. Minho was holding out a couple of pairs of tightly cut underwear, made from a shiny white material. “These bad boys’re what we call Runnie-undies. Keeps you, um, nice and comfy.”

“Nice and comfy?”

“Yeah, ya know. Your—”

“Yeah, got it.” Thomas took the underwear and other stuff. “You guys really have this all thought out, don’t you?”

“Couple of years runnin’ your butt off every day, you figure out what you need and ask for it.” He started stuffing things into his own backpack.

Thomas was surprised. “You mean, you can make requests? Supplies you want?” Why would the people who’d sent them there help so much?

“Of course we can. Just drop a note in the Box, and there she goes. Doesn’t mean we always get what we want from the Creators. Sometimes we do, sometimes we don’t.”

“Ever asked for a map?”

Minho laughed. “Yeah, tried that one. Asked for a TV, too, but no luck. I guess those shuck-faces don’t want us seeing how wonderful life is when you don’t live in a freaking maze.”

Thomas felt a trickle of doubt that life was so great back home—what kind of world allowed people to make kids live like this? The thought surprised him, as if its source had been founded in actual memory, a wisp of light in the darkness of his mind. But it was already gone. Shaking his head, he finished lacing up his shoes, then stood up and jogged around in circles, jumping up and down to test them out. “They feel pretty good. I guess I’m ready.”

Minho was still crouched over his backpack on the ground; he glanced up at Thomas with a look of disgust. “You look like an idiot, prancin’ around like a shuck ballerina. Good luck out there with no breakfast, no packed lunch, no weapons.”

Thomas had already stopped moving, felt an icy chill. “Weapons?”

“Weapons.” Minho stood and walked back to the closet. “Come here, I’ll show ya.”

Thomas followed Minho into the small room and watched as he pulled a few boxes away from the back wall. Underneath lay a small trapdoor. Minho lifted it to reveal a set of wooden stairs leading into blackness. “Keep ’em down in the basement so shanks like Gally can’t get to them. Come on.”

Minho went first. The stairs creaked with every shift of weight as they descended the dozen or so steps. The cool air was refreshing, despite the dust and the strong scent of mildew. They hit a dirt floor, and Thomas couldn’t see a thing until Minho turned on a single lightbulb by pulling a string.

The room was larger than Thomas had expected, at least thirty square feet. Shelves lined the walls, and there were several blocky wooden tables; everything in sight was covered with all manner of junk that gave him the creeps. Wooden poles, metal spikes, large pieces of mesh—like what covers a chicken coop—rolls of barbed wire, saws, knives, swords. One entire wall was dedicated to archery: wooden bows, arrows, spare strings. The sight of it immediately brought back the memory of Ben getting shot by Alby in the Deadheads.

“Wow,” Thomas murmured, his voice a dull thump in the enclosed place. At first he was terrified that they needed so many weapons, but he was relieved to see that the vast majority of it was covered with a thick layer of dust.

“Don’t use most of it,” Minho said. “But ya never know. All we usually take with us is a couple of sharp knives.”

He nodded toward a large wooden trunk in the corner, its top open and leaning against the wall. Knives of all shapes and sizes were stacked haphazardly all the way to the top.