That night dinner proved to be a somber affair, and it had nothing to do with the food. Frypan and his cooks served up a grand meal of steak, mashed potatoes, green beans and hot rolls. Thomas was quickly learning that jokes about Frypan's cooking were just that—jokes. Everyone gobbled up his food and usually begged for more. But tonight, the Gladers ate like dead men resurrected for one last meal before being sent to live with the devil.
The Runners had returned at their normal time, and Thomas had grown more and more upset as he watched Newt run from Door to Door as they entered the Glade, not bothering to hide his panic. But Alby and Minho never showed up. Newt forced the Gladers to go on and get some of Frypan's hard-earned dinner, but he insisted on standing watch for the missing duo. No one said it, but Thomas knew it wouldn't be long before the Doors closed.
Thomas reluctantly followed orders like the rest of the boys and was sharing a picnic table on the south side of the Homestead with Chuck and Winston. He'd only been able to eat a few bites when he couldn't take it anymore.
"I can't stand sitting here while they're out there missing," he said as he dropped his fork on the plate. "I'm going over to watch the Doors with Newt." He stood up and headed out to look.
Not surprisingly, Chuck was right behind him.
They found Newt at the West Door, pacing, running his hands through his hair. He looked up as Thomas and Chuck approached.
"Where are they?" Newt said, his voice thin and strained.
Thomas was touched that Newt cared so much about Alby and Minho—as if they were his own kin. "Why don't we send out a search party?" he suggested again. It seemed so stupid to sit here and worry themselves to death when they could go out there and find them.
"Bloody he—" Newt started before stopping himself; he closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath. "We can't. Okay? Don't say it again. One hundred percent against the rules. Especially with the Buggin' Doors about to close."
"But why?" Thomas persisted, in disbelief at Newt's stubbornness. "Won't the Grievers get them if they stay out there? Shouldn't we do something?"
Newt turned on him, his face flushed red, his eyes flamed with fury.
"Shut your hole, Greenie!" he yelled. "Not a bloody week you've been here! You think I wouldn't risk my life in a second to save those lugs?"
"No . . . I . . . Sorry. I didn't mean . . ." Thomas didn't know what to say—he was just trying to help.
Newt's face softened. "You don't get it yet, Tommy. Going out there at night is beggin' for death. We'd just be throwin' more lives away. If those shanks don't make it back . . ." He paused, seeming hesitant to say what everyone was thinking. "Both of'em swore an oath, just like I did. Like we all did. You, too, when you go to your first Gathering and get chosen by a Keeper. Never go out at night. No matter what. Never."
Thomas looked over at Chuck, who seemed as pale-faced as Newt.
"Newt won't say it," the boy said, "so I will. If they're not back, it means they're dead. Minho's too smart to get lost. Impossible. They're dead."
Newt said nothing, and Chuck turned and walked back toward the Homestead, his head hanging low. Dead? Thomas thought. The situation had become so grave he didn't know how to react, felt a pit of emptiness in his heart.
"The shank's right," Newt said solemnly. "That's why we can't go out. We can't afford to make things bloody worse than they already are."
He put his hand on Thomas's shoulder, then let it slump to his side. Tears moistened Newt's eyes, and Thomas was sure that even within the dark chamber of memories that were locked away, out of his reach, he'd never seen someone look so sad. The growing darkness of twilight was a perfect fit for how grim things felt to Thomas.
"The Doors close in two minutes," Newt said, a statement so succinct and final it seemed to hang in the air like a burial shroud caught in a puff of wind. Then he walked away, hunched over, quiet.
Thomas shook his head and looked back into the Maze. He barely knew Alby and Minho. But his chest ached at the thought of them out there, killed by the horrendous creature he'd seen through the window his first morning in the Glade.
A loud boom sounded from all directions, startling Thomas out of his thoughts. Then came the crunching, grinding sound of stone against stone. The Doors were closing for the night.
The right wall rumbled across the ground, spitting dirt and rocks as it moved. The vertical row of connecting rods, so many they seemed to reach the sky far above, slid toward their corresponding holes on the left wall, ready to seal shut until the morning. Once again, Thomas looked in awe at the massive moving wall—it defied any sense of physics. It seemed impossible.
Then a flicker of movement to the left caught his eyes.
Something stirred inside the Maze, down the long corridor in front of him.
At first, a shot of panic raced through him; he stepped back, worried it might be a Griever. But then two forms took shape, stumbling along the alley toward the Door. His eyes finally focused through the initial blindness of fear, and he realized it was Minho, with one of Alby's arms draped across his shoulders, practically dragging the boy along behind him. Minho looked up, saw Thomas, who knew his eyes must be bulging out of his head.
"They got him!" Minho shouted, his voice strangled and weak with exhaustion. Every step he took seemed like it could be his last.
Thomas was so stunned by the turn of events, it took a moment for him to act. "Newt!" he finally screamed, forcing his gaze away from Minho and Alby to face the other direction. "They're coming! I can see 'em!" He knew he should run into the Maze and help, but the rule about not leaving the Glade was seared into his mind.
Newt had already made it back to the Homestead, but at Thomas's cry he immediately spun around and broke into a stuttering run toward the Door.
Thomas turned to look back into the Maze and dread washed through him. Alby had slipped out of Minho's clutches and fallen to the ground. Thomas watched as Minho tried desperately to get him back on his feet, then, finally giving up, started to drag the boy across the stone floor by the arms.
But they were still a hundred feet away.
The right wall was closing fast, seeming to quicken its pace the more Thomas willed it to slow down. There were only seconds left until it shut completely. They had no chance of making it in time. No chance at all.
Thomas turned to look at Newt: limping along as well as he could, he'd only made it halfway to Thomas.
He looked back into the Maze, at the closing wall. Only a few feet more and it'd be over.
Minho stumbled up ahead, fell to the ground. They weren't going to make it. Time was up. That was it.
Thomas heard Newt scream something from behind him.
"Don't do it, Tommy! Don't you bloody do it!"
The rods on the right wall seemed to reach like stretched-out arms for their home, grasping for those little holes that would serve as their resting place for the night. The crunching, grinding sound of the Doors filled the air, deafening.
Five feet. Four feet. Three. Two.
Thomas knew he had no choice. He moved. Forward. He squeezed past the connecting rods at the last second and stepped into the Maze.
The walls slammed shut behind him, the echo of its boom bouncing off the ivy-covered stone like mad laughter.
CHAPTER 17
For several seconds, Thomas felt like the world had frozen in place. A thick silence followed the thunderous rumble of the Door closing, and a veil of darkness seemed to cover the sky, as if even the sun had been lightened away by what lurked in the Maze. Twilight had fallen, and the mammoth walls looked like enormous tombstones in a weed-infested cemetery for giants. Thomas leaned back against the rough rock, overcome by disbelief at what he had just done.