Horror filled his chest as he pictured the boy, what he must look like. Nothing about it made sense, but the kid was obviously dead, his head cut off somehow. Or ... turned into metal? What in the world had happened? Thomas's mind spun, and it took a moment before he realized that warm fluid was flowing over the hand he'd pressed to the floor when the ball slipped away. He freaked.
Scooting backward away from the body, wiping his hand on his pants, he shouted but wasn't able to form words. A couple of Gladers grabbed him from behind and helped him to his feet. He pushed them away, stumbled against a wall. Someone gripped his shirt at the shoulder, pulled him closer.
"Thomas!" Minho's voice. "Thomas! What happened?"
Thomas tried to calm himself, take hold of things. His stomach lurched; his chest tightened. "I ... I don't know. Who was that? Who was down there screaming?"
Winston answered, his voice shaky. "Frankie, I think. He was right next to me, just making a joke, and then it was like something yanked him away. Yeah, it was him. Definitely him."
"What happened!" Minho repeated.
Thomas realized he was still wiping his hands on his pants. "Look," he said before taking a long breath. Doing all this in the dark was maddening. "I heard him screaming, and ran up here to help. I jumped on him, tried to pin his arms down, find out what was wrong. Then I reached for his head to grab him by the cheeks―I don't even know why―and all I felt was ..."
He couldn't say it. Nothing could possibly sound more absurd than the truth.
"What?" Minho shouted.
Thomas groaned, then said it. "His head wasn't a head. It was like a ... a big ... metal ball. I don't know, man, but that's what I felt. Like his shuck head had been swallowed by ... by a big metal ball!"
"What're you talking about?" Minho asked.
Thomas didn't know how he could convince him or anyone else. "Didn't you hear it rolling away right after he stopped screaming? I know it―"
"It's right here!" someone shouted. Newt. Thomas heard a heavy scrape again, then Newt grunting with effort. "I heard it roll over here. And it's all wet and sticky―feels like blood."
"What the klunk," Minho half whispered. "How big is it?" The other Gladers joined in with a chorus of questions.
"Everybody slim it!" Newt yelled. When they quieted, he said flatly, "I don't know." Thomas heard him carefully handling the ball to get a feel for it. "Bigger than a buggin' head for sure. It's perfectly round―a perfect sphere."
Thomas was baffled, disgusted, but all he could think about was getting out of that place. Out of the darkness. "We need to run," he said. "We need to go. Now."
"Maybe we should go back." Thomas didn't recognize the voice. "Whatever that ball thing is, it sliced off Frankie's head, just like the old shank warned us."
"No way," Minho responded angrily. "No way. Thomas is right. No more dinkin' around. Spread out a couple of feet from each other, then run. Hunch down, and if something comes near your head, hit the living crap out of it."
No one argued. Thomas quickly found his food and water; then some unspoken communication permeated the group and they set off running, far enough apart not to trip over each other. Thomas wasn't in the very back anymore, not wanting to waste time to get back in order. He ran, ran as hard as he remembered ever running in the Maze.
He smelled sweat. He breathed dust and warm air. His hands grew clammy and gooey from the blood. The darkness, complete.
He ran and didn't stop.
A death ball got one more person. It happened closer to Thomas this time―got a kid he'd never spoken one word to. Thomas heard a distinct sound of metal sliding against metal, a couple of hard clicks. Then the screams drowned out the rest.
No one stopped. A terrible thing, maybe. Probably. But no one stopped.
When the screams finally cut off with a gurgling halt, Thomas heard a loud clonk as the ball of metal crashed onto the hard ground. He heard it rolling, heard it clank against a wall and roll some more.
He kept running. He never slowed.
His heart pounded; his chest hurt from deep, ragged breaths as he desperately gulped the dusty air. He lost track of time, had no sense of how far they'd gone. But when Minho called for everyone to stop, the relief was almost overwhelming. His exhaustion had finally won out over the terror of the thing that had killed two people.
Sounds of people panting filled the small space, and it reeked of bad breath. Frypan was the first one to recover enough to speak. "Why'd we stop?"
"'Cause I almost broke my shins on something up here!" Minho shouted back. "I think it's a stairway."
Thomas felt his spirits lift, but immediately squashed them back down. Getting his hopes up was something he'd sworn never to do again. Not until all this was over.
"Well, let's go up 'em!" Frypan said far too cheerfully.
"Ya think?" Minho responded. "What would we do without you, Frypan? Seriously."
Thomas heard the heavy stomps of Minho's footsteps as he ran up the stairs―it made a high-pitched ringing like they were made of thin metal. Only a few seconds passed before other footsteps joined in, and soon everyone was following Minho.
When Thomas reached the first step, he tripped and fell, banging his knee against the second one. He put his hands down to regain his balance―almost bursting his bag of water―then popped back up, skipping a step every once in a while. Who knew when another metal thing might attack, and hope or no hope, he was more than ready to move on to a place that wasn't pitch-black.
A bang sounded from above, a deeper thump than the footsteps, but it still sounded like metal.