Tomorrow. It had taken longer than he'd thought, but Thomas had no doubt they'd reach the city tomorrow. And though they'd probably be better off going around it, they had no choice. They needed to replenish their supplies.
Walking. Breaks. Heat.
When nightfall finally came, the sun disappearing below the far western horizon at a maddeningly slow pace, the wind picked up even more, and this time brought the slightest chill. Thomas enjoyed it, grateful for any relief from the heat.
By midnight, however, when Minho finally called on them to stop and get more sleep, the city and its now-burning fires ever closer, the wind had become even stronger. It blew in gales, whipping and curling with increasing power.
Soon after they stopped, as Thomas lay on his back, sheet tucked around him and pulled up tightly to his chin, he looked up at the sky. The winds were almost soothing, lulling him to sleep. Just as his mind got hazy from exhaustion, the stars seemed to fade away, and sleep brought him another dream.
He's sitting in a chair. Ten or eleven years old. Teresa―she looks so different, so much younger, yet it's still clearly her―sits across from him, a table between them. She's about his age. No one else is in the room, a dark place with only one light―a dull square of yellow in the ceiling directly overhead.
"Tom, you need to try harder," she says. Her arms are folded, and even at this younger age, it's a look he doesn't find surprising. It's very familiar. As if he has already known her a long time.
"I am trying." Again it's him speaking, but not really him. It doesn't make sense.
"They'll probably kill us if we can't do this."
"I know."
"Then try!"
"I am!"
"Fine," she says. "You know what? I'm not speaking out loud to you anymore. Never ever again until you can do it."
"But―"
Not inside your mind, either. She's talking in his head. That trick that still freaks him out and he still can't reciprocate. Starting now.
"Teresa, just give me a few more days. I'll get it."
She doesn't respond.
"Okay, just one more day."
She only stares at him. Then, not even that. She looks down at the table, reaches out and starts scratching a spot in the wood with her fingernail.
"There's no way you're not gonna talk to me."
No response. And he knows her, despite what he just said. Oh, he knows her.
"Fine," he says. He closes his eyes, does what the instructor told him to do. Imagines a sea of black nothingness, interrupted only by the image of Teresa's face. Then, with every last bit of willpower, he forms the words and throws them at her.
You smell like a bag of crap.
Teresa smiles, then replies in his mind.
So do you.
CHAPTER 23
Thomas woke up to wind beating at his face and hair and clothes. It felt like invisible hands were trying to rip them off. It was still dark. And cold, too, his whole body shivering from it. Getting up on his elbows, he looked around, hardly able to see the huddled shapes sleeping near him, their sheets pulled tightly against their bodies.
Their sheets.
He let out a frustrated yelp, then jumped to his feet―at some point in the night his own sheet had slipped loose and flown off. With the tearing wind, it could be ten miles away by now.
"Shuck it," he whispered; the howl of the wind stole the words before he could even hear them. The dream came back to him―or was it a memory? It had to be. That brief glimpse into a time when he and Teresa had been younger, learning how to do their telepathy trick. He felt his heart sink a little, missing her, feeling guilt over yet more proof that he'd been part of WICKED before going to the Maze. He shook it off, not wanting to think about it. He could block it out if he tried hard enough.
He looked up at black sky, then sucked in a hurried breath as the memory of the sun vanishing from the Glade came rushing back. That had been the beginning of the end. The beginning of the terror.
But common sense soon calmed his heart. The winds. The cool air. A storm. It had to be a storm.
Clouds.
Embarrassed, he sat back down, then lay on his side and curled into a ball, his arms wrapped around himself. The cold wasn't unbearable, just a vast change from the horrible heat of the last couple of days. He probed his mind and wondered about the memories he'd had lately. Could they be lingering results of the Changing? Was his memory coming back?
The thought gave him mixed feelings. He wanted his memory block finally cracked for good―wanted to know who he was, where he came from. But that desire was tempered by fear of what he might find out about himself. About his role in the very things that had brought him to this point, that had done this to his friends.
He needed sleep desperately. The wind a constant roar in his ears, he finally slipped away, this time to nothing.
The light woke him to a dull, gray dawn that finally revealed the thick layer of clouds covering the sky. It also made the endless expanse of desert around them look even more dreary. The city was so close now, only a few hours away. The buildings really were tall; one of them even stretched up and disappeared in a low-hanging fog. And the glass in all those broken windows was like jagged teeth in mouths open to catch food that might be flying about in the stormy wind.
The gusty air still tore at him, and a thick layer of dirt seemed forever baked onto his face. He rubbed his head and his hair felt stiff with wind-dried grime.
Most of the other Gladers were up and about, taking in the unexpected shift in the weather, deep in conversations he couldn't hear. There was only the roar in his ears.
Minho noticed him awake and came over; he leaned into the wind as he walked, his clothes flapping around him. "'Bout time you woke up!" He was fully shouting.