Выбрать главу

"You're disgusting when you eat," Chuck said, sitting on the bench next to him. "It's like watching a starving pig eat his own klunk."

"That's funny," Thomas said, sarcasm lacing his voice. "You should go entertain the Grievers—see if they laugh."

A quick expression of hurt flashed across Chuck's face, making Thomas feel bad, but vanished almost as fast as it had appeared. "That reminds me—you're the talk of the town."

Thomas sat up straighter, not sure how he felt about the news. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, gee, let me think. First, you go out in the Maze when you're not supposed to, at night. Then you turn into some kind of freaky jungle dude, climbing vines and tying people up on walls. Next, you become one of the first people ever to survive an entire night outside the Glade, and to top it all off you kill four Grievers. Can't imagine what those shanks are talking about."

A surge of pride filled Thomas's body, then fizzled. Thomas was sickened by the happiness he'd just felt. Alby was still in bed, screaming his head off in pain—probably wishing he were dead. "Tricking them to go over the Cliff was Minho's idea, not mine."

"Not according to him. He saw you do the wait-and-dive thingy, then had the idea to do the same thing at the Cliff."

"The 'wait-and-dive thingy'?" Thomas asked, rolling his eyes. "Any idiot on the planet would've done that."

"Don't get all humbly bumbly on us—what you did is freaking unbelievable. You and Minho, both."

Thomas tossed the empty plate on the ground, suddenly angry. "Then why do I feel so crappy, Chuck? Wanna answer me that?"

Thomas searched Chuck's face for an answer, but by the looks of it he didn't have one. The boy just sat clasping his hands as he leaned forward on his knees, head hanging. Finally, half under his breath, he murmured, "Same reason we all feel crappy."

They sat in silence until, a few minutes later, Newt walked up, looking like death on two feet. He sat on the ground in front of them, as sad and worried as any person could possibly appear. Still, Thomas was glad to have him around.

"I think the worst part's over," Newt said. "The bugger should be sleepin' for a couple of days, then wake up okay. Maybe a little screaming now and then."

Thomas couldn't imagine how bad the whole ordeal must be—but the whole process of the Changing was still a mystery to him. He turned to the older boy, trying his best to be casual. "Newt, what's he going through up there? Seriously, I don't get what this Changing thing is."

Newt's response startled Thomas. "You think we do?" he spat, throwing his arms up, then slapping them back down on his knees. "All we bloody know is if the Grievers sting you with their nasty needles, you inject the Grief Serum or you die. If you do get the Serum, then your body wigs out and shakes and your skin bubbles and turns a freaky green color and you vomit all over yourself. Enough explanation for ya there, Tommy?"

Thomas frowned. He didn't want to make Newt any more upset than he already was, but he needed answers. "Hey, I know it sucks to see your friend go through that, but I just want to know what's really happening up there. Why do you call it the Changing?"

Newt relaxed, seemed to shrink, even, and sighed. "It brings back memories. Just little snippets, but definite memories of before we came to this horrible place. Anyone who goes through it acts like a bloody psycho when it's over—although usually not as bad as poor Ben. Anyway, it's like being given your old life back, only to have it snatched away again."

Thomas's mind was churning. "Are you sure?" he asked.

Newt looked confused. "What do you mean? Sure about what?"

"Are they changed because they want to go back to their old life, or is it because they're so depressed at realizing their old life was no better than what we have now?"

Newt stared at him for a second, then looked away, seemingly deep in thought. "Shanks who've been through it'll never really talk about it. They get . . . different. Unlikable. There's a handful around the Glade, but I can't stand to be around them." His voice was distant, his eyes having strayed to a certain blank spot in the woods. Thomas knew he was thinking about how Alby might never be the same again.

"Tell me about it," Chuck chimed in. "Gally's the worst of'em all."

"Anything new on the girl?" Thomas asked, changing the subject. He was in no mood to talk about Gally. Plus, his thoughts kept going back to her. "I saw the Med-jacks feeding her upstairs."

"No," Newt answered. "Still in the buggin' coma, or whatever it is. Every once in a while she'll mumble something—nonsense, like she's dreaming. She takes the food, seems to be doing all right. It's kind of weird."

A long pause followed, as if the three of them were trying to come up with an explanation for the girl. Thomas wondered again about his inexplicable feeling of connection with her, though it had faded a little—but that could have been because of everything else occupying his thoughts.

Newt finally broke the silence. "Anyway, next up—figure out what we do with Tommy here."

Thomas perked up at that, confused by the statement. "Do with me? What're you talking about?"

Newt stood, stretched his arms. "Turned this whole place upside down, you bloody shank. Half the Gladers think you're God, the other half wanna throw your butt down the Box Hole. Lotta stuff to talk about."

"Like what?" Thomas didn't know which was more unsettling— that people thought he was some kind of hero, or that some wished he didn't exist.

"Patience," Newt said. "You'll find out after the wake-up." "Tomorrow? Why?" Thomas didn't like the sound of this. "I've called a Gathering. And you'll be there. You're the only buggin' thing on the agenda."

And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving Thomas to wonder why in the world a Gathering was needed just to talk about him.

CHAPTER 24

The next morning, Thomas found himself sitting in a chair, worried and anxious, sweating, facing eleven other boys. They were seated in chairs arranged in a semicircle around him. Once settled, he realized they were the Keepers, and to his chagrin that meant Gally was among them. One chair directly in front of Thomas stood empty—he didn't need to be told that it was Alby's.

They sat in a large room of the Homestead that Thomas hadn't been in before. Besides the chairs, there was no other furniture except for a small table in the corner. The walls were made of wood, as was the floor, and it didn't look like anyone had ever attempted to make the place look inviting. There were no windows; the room smelled of mildew and old books. Thomas wasn't cold, but shivered all the same.

He was at least relieved that Newt was there. He sat in the chair to the right of Alby's empty seat. "In place of our leader, sick in bed, I declare this Gathering begun," he said, with a subtle roll of his eyes as if he hated anything approaching formality. "As you all know, the last few days have been bloody crazy, and quite a bit seems centered around our Greenbean, Tommy, seated before us."

Thomas's face flushed with embarrassment.

"He's not the Greenie anymore," Gally said, his scratchy voice so low and cruel it was almost comical. "He's just a rule breaker now." This started off a rumbling of murmurs and whispers, but Newt slushed them. Thomas suddenly wanted to be as far from that room as possible.

"Gally," Newt said, "try to keep some buggin' order, here. If you're gonna blabber your shuck mouth every time I say something, you can go ahead and bloody leave, because I'm not in a very cheerful mood."