"Did anybody get what it said?" Newt called out.
"Couple of words," Winston replied. "Sounded like "˜go back' right in the middle."
"Yeah, it did," someone agreed.
Thomas thought about what he'd heard, and in retrospect, it did seem like those two words had been in there somewhere. Go back.
"Everybody slim it and listen real hard this time," Minho announced. The dark hallway lapsed into silence.
The next time the voice came, Thomas understood every single syllable.
"One-chance deal. Go back now, you won't be sliced."
Judging by the reactions in front of him, everyone else got it this time, too.
"Won't be sliced?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"He said we can go back!"
"We can't trust some random shank whispering in the dark."
Thomas tried not to think about how ominous the last four words had been. You won't be sliced. That didn't sound good at all. And not being able to see anything made it worse. Driving him crazy.
"Just keep going!" he shouted up to Minho. "I can't take this much longer. Just go!"
"Wait a minute." Frypan's voice. "The voice said this was a one-chance deal. We have to at least think about it."
"Yeah," someone added. "Maybe we should go back."
Thomas shook his head even though he knew no one could see it. "No way. Remember what that guy at the desk told us. That we'd all die horrible deaths if we go back."
Frypan pushed. "Well, what makes him any more in charge than this whispering dude? How're we supposed to know who to listen to and who to ignore?"
Thomas knew it was a good question, but going back just didn't feel right. "The voice is just a test, I bet. We need to keep going."
"He's right." This was Minho from up in front. "Come on, let's go."
He'd barely said the last word when the whispering voice whooshed through the air again, this time laced with an almost childish hatred. "You're all dead. You're all going to be sliced. Dead and sliced."
Every hair on Thomas's neck stood up straight and a chill tickled his back. He expected to hear even more calls to go back, but once again the Gladers surprised him. No one said a thing, and soon they were all walking forward again. Minho had been right when he'd said all the sissies had been weeded out.
They made their way deeper into the darkness. The air warmed a bit, seemed to thicken with dust. Thomas coughed several times and was dying to take a drink, but he didn't want to risk untying his water bag without being able to see it. That was all he needed, to spill it all over the floor.
Forward.
Warmer.
Thirsty.
Darkness.
Walking. Time passed ever so slowly.
Thomas had no idea how this hallway could even be possible. They had to have journeyed at least two or three miles since last hearing the creepy whisper of warning. Where were they? Underground? Inside some massive building? The Rat Man had said they needed to find open air. How―
A boy screamed a few dozen feet in front of him.
It started out as an abrupt shriek, like simple surprise, but then escalated into pure terror. He didn't know who it was, but the kid was now screaming his throat raw, screeching and squealing like an animal at the old Blood House in the Glade. Thomas heard the sounds of a body thrashing on the ground.
He ran forward on instinct, pushing past several Gladers who seemed frozen by fear, moving toward the inhuman sounds. He didn't know why he thought he'd be able to help more than anyone else, but he didn't hesitate, not even taking care with his steps as he sprinted through the darkness. After the long insanity of walking blindly for so long, it was as if his body craved the action.
He made it, could hear that the boy now lay right in front of him, his arms and legs thrashing on the concrete floor as he struggled against who knew what. Thomas carefully set his water bag and shoulder pack far to the side, then timidly reached forward with his hands to find a grip on an arm or leg. He sensed the other Gladers crowding behind him, a loud and chaotic presence of shouts and questions that he forced himself to ignore.
"Hey!" Thomas yelled at the squirming boy. "What's wrong with you?" His fingers brushed the kid's jeans, then his shirt, but the boy's body convulsed all over the place, impossible to catch, and his shrieks continued to pierce the air.
Finally, Thomas went for broke. He dove forward, launching himself fully onto the body of the thrashing kid. With a jolt that knocked the breath out of him, he landed, felt the squirming torso; an elbow dug into his ribs, then a hand slapped his face. A knee came up and almost got him square in the groin.
"Stop it!" Thomas shouted. "What's wrong!"
The screams gurgled to a stop, almost like the kid had just been pulled underwater. But the convulsing didn't ease in the slightest.
Thomas put an elbow and forearm on the chest of the Glader for leverage, then reached out to grab his hair or his face. But when his hands slid over what was there, confusion consumed him.
There was no head. No hair or face. Not even a neck. None of those things that should've been there.
Instead, Thomas felt a large and perfectly smooth ball of cold metal.
CHAPTER 15
The next few seconds were beyond strange. As soon as Thomas's hand made contact with the odd metal ball, the boy stopped moving. His arms and legs stilled and the stiffness in his twitching torso went away in an instant. Thomas felt a thick wetness on the hard sphere, oozing up from where the kid's neck should've been. He knew it was blood, could smell the coppery scent of it.
Then the ball slipped from under Thomas's fingers and rolled away, making a hollow grating sound until it thumped into the closest wall and came to a stop. The boy lying below him didn't move or make a sound. The other Gladers continued to shout questions into the dark, but Thomas ignored them.