The woman nodded as if proud of him. "One day you'll all be grateful for what we've done for you. I can only promise this, and trust your minds to accept it. If you don't, then the whole thing was a mistake. Dark times, Mr. Newton. Dark times."
She paused. "There is, of course, one final Variable." She stepped back.
Thomas focused on Gally. The boy's whole body trembled, his face pasty white, making his wet, red eyes stand out like bloody splotches on paper. His lips pressed together; the skin around them twitched, as if he were trying to speak but couldn't.
"Gally?" Thomas asked, trying to suppress the complete hatred he had for him.
Words burst from Gally's mouth. "They . . . can control me ... I don't—" His eyes bulged, a hand went to his throat as if he were choking. "I . . . have . . . to . . ." Each word was a croaking cough. Then he stilled, his face calming, his body relaxing.
It was just like Alby in bed, back in the Glade, after he went through the Changing. The same type of thing had happened to him. What did it—
But Thomas didn't have time to finish his thought. Gally reached behind himself, pulled something long and shiny from his back pocket. The lights of the chamber flashed off the silvery surface—a wicked-looking dagger, gripped tightly in his fingers. With unexpected speed, he reared back and threw the knife at Thomas. As he did so, Thomas heard a shout to his right, sensed movement. Toward him.
The blade windmilled, its every turn visible to Thomas, as if the world had turned to slow motion. As if it did so for the sole purpose of allowing him to feel the terror of seeing such a thing. On the knife came, flipping over and over, straight at him. A strangled cry was forming in his throat; he urged himself to move but he couldn't.
Then, inexplicably, Chuck was there, diving in front of him. Thomas felt as if his feet had been frozen in blocks of ice; he could only stare at the scene of horror unfolding before him, completely helpless.
With a sickening, wet thunk, the dagger slammed into Chuck's chest, burying itself to the hilt. The boy screamed, fell to the floor, his body already convulsing. Blood poured from the wound, dark crimson. His legs slapped against the floor, feet kicking aimlessly with onrushing death. Red spit oozed from between his lips. Thomas felt as if the world were collapsing around him, crushing his heart.
He fell to the ground, pulled Chuck's shaking body into his arms.
"Chuck!" he screamed; his voice felt like acid ripping through his throat. "Chuck!"
The boy shook uncontrollably, blood everywhere, wetting Thomas's hands. Chuck's eyes had rolled up in their sockets, dull white orbs. Blood trickled out of his nose and mouth.
"Chuck . . . ," Thomas said, this time a whisper. There had to be something they could do. They could save him. They—
The boy stopped convulsing, stilled. His eyes slid back into normal position, focused on Thomas, clinging to life. "Thorn . . . mas." It was one word, barely there.
"Hang on, Chuck," Thomas said. "Don't die—fight it. Someone get help!"
Nobody moved, and deep inside, Thomas knew why. Nothing could help now. It was over. Black spots swam before Thomas's eyes; the room tilted and swayed. No, he thought. Not Chuck. Not Chuck. Anyone but Chuck.
"Thomas," Chuck whispered. "Find . . . my mom." A racking cough burst from his lungs, throwing a spray of blood. "Tell her . . ."
He didn't finish. His eyes closed, his body went limp. One last breath wheezed from his mouth.
Thomas stared at him, stared at his friend's lifeless body.
Something happened within Thomas. It started deep down in his chest, a seed of rage. Of revenge. Of hate. Something dark and terrible. And then it exploded, bursting through his lungs, through his neck, through his arms and legs. Through his mind.
He let go of Chuck, stood up, trembling, turned to face their new visitors.
And then Thomas snapped. He completely and utterly snapped.
He rushed forward, threw himself on Gally, grasping with his fingers like claws. He found the boy's throat, squeezed, fell to the ground on top of him. He straddled the boy's torso, gripped him with his legs so he couldn't escape. Thomas started punching.
He held Gally down with his left hand, pushing down on the boy's neck, as his right fist rained punches upon Gally's face, one after another. Down and down and down, slamming his balled knuckles into the boy's cheek and nose. There was crunching, there was blood, there were horrible screams. Thomas didn't know which were louder— Gally's or his own. He beat him—beat him as he released every ounce of rage he'd ever owned.
And then he was being pulled away by Minho and Newt, his arms still flailing even when they only hit air. They dragged him across the floor; he fought them, squirmed, yelled to be left alone. His eyes remained on Gally, lying there, still; Thomas could feel the hatred pouring out, as if a visible line of flame connected them.
And then, just like that, it all vanished. There were only thoughts of Chuck.
He threw off Minho's and Newt's grip, ran to the limp, lifeless body of his friend. He grabbed him, pulled him back into his arms, ignoring the blood, ignoring the frozen look of death on the boy's face.
"No!" Thomas shouted, sadness consuming him. "No!"
Teresa was there, put her hand on his shoulder. He shook it away.
"I promised him!" he screamed, realizing even as he did so that his voice was laced with something wrong. Almost insanity. "I promised I'd save him, take him home! I promised him!"
Teresa didn't respond, only nodded, her eyes cast to the ground.
Thomas hugged Chuck to his chest, squeezed him as tightly as possible, as if that could somehow bring him back, or show thanks for saving his life, for being his friend when no one else would.
Thomas cried, wept like he'd never wept before. His great, racking sobs echoed through the chamber like the sounds of tortured pain.
CHAPTER 60
He finally pulled it all back into his heart, sucking in the painful tide of his misery. In the Glade, Chuck had become a symbol for him—a beacon that somehow they could make everything right again in the world. Sleep in beds. Get kissed goodnight. Have bacon and eggs for breakfast, go to a real school. Be happy.
But now Chuck was gone. And his limp body, to which Thomas still clung, seemed a cold talisman—that not only would those dreams of a hopeful future never come to pass, but that life had never been that way in the first place. That even in escape, dreary days lay ahead. A life of sorrow.
His returning memories were sketchy at best. But not much good floated in the muck.
Thomas reeled in the pain, locked it somewhere deep inside him. He did it for Teresa. For Newt and Minho. Whatever darkness awaited them, they'd be together, and that was all that mattered right then.
He let go of Chuck, slumped backward, trying not to look at the boy's shirt, black with blood. He wiped the tears from his cheeks, rubbed his eyes, thinking he should be embarrassed but not feeling that way. Finally, he looked up. Looked up at Teresa and her enormous blue eyes, heavy with sadness—-just as much for him as for Chuck, he was sure of it.
She reached down, grabbed his hand, helped him stand. Once he was up, she didn't let go, and neither did he. He squeezed, tried to say what he felt by doing so. No one else said a word, most of them staring at Chuck's body without expression, as if they'd moved far beyond feeling. No one looked at Gally, breathing but still.