"So what's next?" Teresa asked.
Newt took a deep breath. "Figure out who's going, who's staying. Get ready. Food, weapons, all that. Then we go. Thomas, I'd put you in charge since it was your idea, but it's going to be hard enough to get people on our side without making the Greenie our leader—no offense. So just lay low, okay? We'll leave the code business to you and Teresa—you can handle that from the background."
Thomas was more than fine with lying low—finding that computer station and punching in the code was more than enough responsibility for him. Even with that much on his shoulders he had to fight the rising flood of panic he felt. "You sure make it sound easy," he finally said, trying his best to lighten up the situation. Or at least sound like he was.
Newt folded his arms again, looked at him closely. "Like you said— stay here, one shank'll die tonight. Go, one shank'll die. What's the difference?" He pointed at Thomas, "if you're right."
"I am." Thomas knew he was right about the Hole, the code, the door, the need to fight. But whether one person or many would die, he had no clue. However, if there was one thing his gut told him, it was not to admit to any doubt.
Newt clapped him on the back. "Good that. Let's get to work."
The next few hours were frantic.
Most of the Gladers ended up agreeing to go—even more than Thomas would've guessed. Even Alby decided to make the run. Though no one admitted it, Thomas bet most of them were banking on the theory that only one person would be killed by the Grievers, and they figured their chances of not being the unlucky sap were decent. Those who decided to stay in the Glade were few but adamant and loud. They mainly walked around sulking, trying to tell others how stupid they were. Eventually, they gave up and kept their distance.
As for Thomas and the rest of those committed to the escape, there was a ton of work to be done.
Backpacks were handed out and stuffed full of supplies. Frypan— Newt told Thomas that the Cook had been one of the last Keepers to agree to go—was in charge of gathering all the food and figuring out a way to distribute it evenly among the packs. Syringes of Grief Serum were included, even though Thomas didn't think the Grievers would sting them. Chuck was in charge of filling water bottles and getting them out to everyone. Teresa helped him, and Thomas asked her to sugarcoat the trip as much as she could, even if she had to flat-out lie, which was mostly the case. Chuck had tried to act brave from the time he first found out they were going for it, but his sweaty skin and dazed eyes revealed the truth.
Minho went to the Cliff with a group of Runners, taking ivy ropes and rocks to test the invisible Griever Hole one last time. They had to hope the creatures would keep to their normal schedule and not come out during daytime hours. Thomas had contemplated just jumping into the Hole right away and trying to punch in the code quickly, but he had no idea what to expect or what might be waiting for him. Newt was right—they'd better wait until night and hope that most of the Grievers were in the Maze, not inside their Hole.
When Minho returned, safe and sound, Thomas thought he seemed very optimistic that it really was an exit. Or entrance. Depending on how you looked at it.
Thomas helped Newt distribute the weapons, and even more innovative ones were created in their desperation to be prepared for the Grievers. Wooden poles were carved into spears or wrapped in barb-wire; the knives were sharpened and fastened with twine to the ends of sturdy branches hacked from trees in the woods; chunks of broken glass were duct-taped to shovels. By the end of the day, the Gladers had turned into a small army. A very pathetic, ill-prepared army, Thomas thought, but an army all the same.
Once he and Teresa were done helping, they went to the secret spot in the Deadheads to strategize about the station inside the Griever Hole and how they planned to punch in the code.
"We have to be the ones to do it," Thomas said as they leaned their backs against craggy trees, the once-green leaves already starting to turn gray from the lack of artificial sunlight. "That way if we get separated, we can be in contact and still help each other."
Teresa had grabbed a stick and was peeling off the bark. "But we need backup in case something happens to us."
"Definitely. Minho and Newt know the code words—we'll tell them they have to get them punched into the computer if we . . . well you know." Thomas didn't want to think about all the bad things that might happen.
"Not much to the plan, then." Teresa yawned, as if life were completely normal.
"Not much at all. Fight the Grievers, punch in the code, escape through the door. Then we deal with the Creators—whatever it takes."
"Six code words, who knows how many Grievers." Teresa broke the stick in half. "What do you think WICKED stands for, anyway?"
Thomas felt like he'd been hit in the stomach. For some reason, hearing the word at that moment, from someone else, knocked something loose in his mind and it clicked. He was stunned he hadn't made the connection sooner. "That sign I saw out in the Maze—remember? The metal one with words stamped on it?" Thomas's heart had started to race with excitement.
Teresa crinkled her forehead in confusion for a second, but then a light seemed to blink on behind her eyes. "Whoa. World In Catastrophe: Killzone Experiment Department. WICKED. WICKED is good— what I wrote on my arm. What does that even mean?"
"No idea. Which is why I'm scared to death that what we're about to do is a whole pile of stupid. Could be a bloodbath."
"Everyone knows what they're getting into." Teresa reached out and took his hand. "Nothing to lose, remember?"
Thomas remembered, but for some reason Teresa's words fell flat— they didn't have much hope in them. "Nothing to lose," he repeated.
CHAPTER 54
Just before the normal Door-closing time, Frypan prepared one last meal to carry them through the night. The mood hanging over the Gladers as they ate couldn't have been more somber or sodden with fear. Thomas found himself sitting next to Chuck, absently picking at his food.
"So . . . Thomas," the boy said through a huge bite of mashed potatoes. "Who am I nicknamed after?"
Thomas couldn't help shaking his head—here they were, about to embark on probably the most dangerous task of their lives, and Chuck was curious where he'd gotten his nickname. "I don't know, Darwin, maybe? The dude who figured out evolution."
"I bet no one's ever called him a dude before." Chuck took another big bite, and seemed to think that was the best time to talk, full mouth and all. "You know, I'm really not all that scared. I mean, last few nights, sitting in the Homestead, just waiting for a Griever to come in and steal one of us was the worst thing I've ever done. At least now we're taking it to them, trying something. And at least . . ."
"At least what?" Thomas asked. He didn't believe for a second that Chuck wasn't scared; it almost hurt to see him acting brave.
"Well, everyone's speculating they can only kill one of us. Maybe I sound like a shuck, but it gives me some hope. At least most of us will make it through—just leaves one poor sucker to die. Better than all of us."
It made Thomas sick to think people were hanging on to that hope of just one person dying; the more he thought about it, the less he believed it was true. The Creators knew the plan—they might reprogram the Grievers. But even false hope was better than nothing. "Maybe we can all make it. As long as everyone fights."