Thomas stared at Rat Man, transfixed. It almost felt as if he were watching a recording―as if the stranger weren't really there. The other Gladers must've felt the same, because no one answered the simple question. What was a Flat Trans, anyway?
"I'm quite certain you can all hear," Rat Man said. "Do ... you ... under ... stand?"
Thomas nodded; a few boys around him murmured quiet yeahs and yeses.
"Good." Rat Man absently picked up another piece of paper and turned it over. "At that point, the Scorch Trials will have begun. The rules are very simple. Find your way to open air, then head due north for one hundred miles. Make it to the safe haven within two weeks' time and you'll have completed Phase Two. At that point, and only at that point, you'll be cured of the Flare. That's exactly two weeks―starting the second you step through the Trans. If you don't make it, eventually you'll end up dead."
The room should've erupted into arguments, questions, panic. But no one said a word. Thomas felt as if his tongue had dried up into an old, crusty root.
Rat Man quickly slammed the folder shut, bending its contents even more than before, then put it away in the drawer from which he'd retrieved it. He stood, stepped to the side and pushed the chair underneath the desk. Finally, he folded his hands in front of him and returned his attention to the Gladers.
"It's simple, really," he said, his tone so matter-of-fact one would think he'd just given them instructions on how to turn on the showers in the bathroom. "There are no rules. There are no guidelines. You have few supplies, and there's nothing to help you along the way. Go through the Flat Trans at the time indicated. Find open air. Go one hundred miles, directly north, to the safe haven. Make it or die."
The last word seemed to finally snap everyone out of their stupor, all of them speaking up at once. "What's a Flat Trans?"
"How'd we catch the Flare?"
"How long till we see symptoms?"
"What's at the end of the hundred miles?"
"What happened to the dead bodies?"
Question after question, a chorus of them, all melding into one roar of confusion. As for Thomas, he didn't bother. The stranger wasn't going to tell them anything. Couldn't they all see that?
Rat Man waited patiently, ignoring them, those dark eyes darting back and forth between the Gladers as they spoke. His gaze settled on Thomas, who sat there, silent, staring back at him, hating him. Hating WICKED. Hating the world.
"You shanks shut up!" Minho finally shouted. The questions stopped instantly. "This shuck-face ain't answering, so quit wastin' your time."
Rat Man nodded once toward Minho as if thanking him. Perhaps acknowledging his wisdom. "One hundred miles. North. Hope you make it. Remember―you all have the Flare now. We gave it to you to provide any incentive you may be lacking. And reaching the safe haven means receiving a cure." He turned away and moved toward the wall behind him, as if he planned to walk right through it. But then he stopped and faced them again.
"Ah, one last thing," he said. "Don't think you'll avoid the Scorch Trials if you decide not to enter the Flat Trans between six and six-oh-five tomorrow morning. Those who stay behind will be executed immediately in a most ... unpleasant manner. Better off taking your chances in the outside world. Good luck to all of you."
With that he turned away and once again started inexplicably walking toward the wall.
But before Thomas could see what happened, the invisible wall separating them started to fog up, whitening to an opaque blur in a matter of seconds. And then the whole thing disappeared, once again revealing the other side of the common area.
Except there was no sign of the desk and its chair. And no sign of Rat Man.
"Well, shuck me," Minho whispered next to Thomas.
CHAPTER 12
Once again, the Gladers' questions and arguments filled the air, but Thomas left. He needed some space and knew the bathroom was his only escape. So instead of heading to the boys' dorm, he went to the one Teresa, then Aris, had used. He leaned back against the sink, arms folded, staring at the floor. Luckily, no one had followed him.
He didn't know how to begin processing all the information. Bodies hanging from the ceiling, reeking of death and rot, then gone completely in a matter of minutes. A stranger―and his desk!―appear out of nowhere, with an impossible shield protecting them. Then they disappear.
And these were by far the least of their worries. It was clear now that the rescue from the Maze had been a sham. But who were the pawns WICKED had used to pull the Gladers from the Creators' chamber, put them on that bus and bring them here? Had those people known they were going to be killed? Had they even really been killed? Rat Man had said not to trust their eyes or their minds. How could they believe anything ever again?
And worst of all, this stuff about them having the Flare disease, about the Trials earning them a cure ...
Thomas squeezed his eyes closed and rubbed his forehead. Teresa had been taken from him. None of them had families. The next morning they were supposed to start some ridiculous thing called Phase Two, which by the sound of it was going to be worse than the Maze. All those crazy people out there―the Cranks. How would they deal with them? He suddenly thought of Chuck and what he might say if he were there.
Something simple, probably. Something like, This sucks.
You'd be right, Chuck, Thomas thought. The whole world sucks.
It had only been a few days since he'd seen his friend get stabbed in the heart; poor Chuck had died as Thomas held him. And now Thomas couldn't help but think that as horrible as it was, maybe that had been the best thing for Chuck. Maybe death was better than what lay ahead. His mind veered toward the tattoo on his neck―