Our W.I.C.K.E.D Fate (The W.I.C.K.E.D Girl sequel)

17

Newt felt as though the entire world had crashed onto him, numbness overtaking his every sense.

It was more than he could deal with, more than he could ever bear.

An unbearable silence filled the room, allowing the dreadful realisation to sink deeper and deeper into everyone's minds.

Newt was light-headed. He thought he'd faint, but he didn't budge, clenching his fists so tightly his nails dug into the flesh of his palms. All of his good memories hurt just as badly as the terrible ones—he unvoluntarily recalled Emily telling him she loved him as she died in his arms. He was not going to be weak. A feeling of raging, white-hot hate washed over him. He wished every single member of W.I.C.K.E.D suffered an excruciating pain; they were the cause for all of this, controlling them like puppets, like lab mice they would electrocute every once in a while not to note the results, but to entertain themselves.

Minho buried his face in his hands and sighed. "Oh, God."

"What are we going to do now?" whispered Thomas.

Newt couldn't contain it any longer. "I hate you," he roared, and slammed his fist into the nearest wall. He hoped W.I.C.K.E.D was watching, studying their behaviour. He hoped they knew he was coming for each and every one of them.

Hands immediately gripped his shoulders and pulled him back, but no one could argue with Newt's vociferation. Monsters, they were, those despicable, inhumane scientists. Despite their judgement being an abomination, if you put it all on a scale, which weighed the most? The lives of everyone who'd managed to fend off the Scorch, or those of a few clueless, long-forgotten children?

Newt's vision was blurry from the tears gathered in his eyes. He tried to stop the flood by biting down on his lip as hard as he could, but keeping it contained wouldn't stop his heart from breaking. She had been the one keeping him together, his glue. He resumed his assail on the wall, the others' shouts fading away. Deep down, he'd never stop mourning her loss, but his body was refusing to keep going—he was hungry, thirsty, and tired, but the physical needs paled in comparison to the fury and sorrow.

"Newt, shank, stop." Minho twisted Newt's arms behind his back, barely dodging a blow.

"Why?" the blond boy retorted. "All of this is useless, I—"

"Newt, I know where she is."

Newt froze. He went limp in Minho's hold, who let go, and turned around to face the former Runner.

"She's in the goddamn middle of the headquarters."

* * *

"What?"

"You heard me. I recognised the background of the video. We have to get to the center of this godawful maze to get her back."

Newt was already stepping out of the room. "Let's go then, what are you waiting for?" he said, somehow managing to keep his voice from turning into a yell.

However, when he glanced back at his friends, the group shook their heads. "We can't, Newt. We're exhausted." Isabelle piped in.

Newt's anger resurfaced, boiling again. "Don't you give a damn about her anymore?" he spat out.

"Shank"—Minho stepped closer and grabbed Newt's shoulders—"I get it, I really do. But we're going to pass out if we don't get some rest. After that, I promise we'll go as fast as we can. One last run."

Newt huffed, but he didn't protest any further. He let himself slide down the wall, knowing that sleep would take over him if he'd let it—but he fought the fatigue, refusing to succumb to it until Emily was safe by his side. His mind began wandering as he realised what Emily's startling confession could mean for the two of them. Before, he'd barely talked to her, not trusting himself to keep their past from her, believing that the love they'd had was gone forever. Now, he needed desperately to see her, to hold her, to look at her and see the plain recognition in her eyes.

Newt only allowed his companions half an hour's worth of respite. Their stomachs as empty as before, they started towards the headquarters, lead by Minho instead of Newt. The latter felt both impatient and frightened—there was a feeling of amiss in the air, as though something was bound to happen, a sense of impending doom. All of rooms they stumbled into, hoping to run into some food, were empty, and it was becoming more and more obvious that no human being had set foot inside the labs for a long time. Newt walked alongside Thomas, both wishing they'd find Emily as soon as possible.

But then the group turned a corner and was greeted by a long, vivid smear of blood on a previously immaculate wall.

Newt's steps came to a sudden halt. A cold shiver ran down his spine as he glanced back at the group. He couldn't give it too much thought, wouldn't consider the dreadful possibility that the blood on the wall was Emily's. His eyes wide with panic, he inched towards the mark.

A grotesque groan echoed through the air.

All of them knew that sound too well. Newt's heart stammered in his chest. The realisation sank in, heavy as lead.

A single trail of blood.

A single Crank.

Newt brought a finger up to his lips, though the others didn't need any further incentive to be quiet, then moved to the nearest corner. His hand reached for his machete, tucked in his waistband. He prayed silently, prayed at whoever was watching over them, at whoever had allowed them to be put through everything without batting an eye.

Not Emily. Please, not Emily.

Newt's mind was racing as he tried to come up a plan. Another groan tore through the air, closer now. From the corner of his eye, Newt saw a Crank rear its head in past the wall, sniffing the air. Once upon a time, the creature been a burly man—Newt almost sighed with relief.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are!"

Newt froze. Though the voice was muffled, still far away, he still had no trouble recognising it. He had dreamt about silencing it forever to avenge Emily over the last few days.

James.

Silence fell as the Crank, mere inches away from Newt, found the source of the scent he'd been trailing. Newt held his breath, grasp tightening around the machete. Utterly slow, he turned his head to look at the Crank, preparing to strike.

The lights flickered once and plunged them into darkness.

A flurry of gunshots tore through the air, flashes of light ripping away the darkness of the hall. A chorus of snarls and shrill screams followed as the Cranks were slayed, their bodies hitting the ground one after another. The group huddled together behind one of the walls, hoping that whoever was carrying out the shooting, executing James's pack, didn't mean them harm, too.

The massacre was over before anyone could wrap their head around it. The silence left in its wake was as deafening as the storm of bullets. Newt counted his breaths, one, two, three . . . when he got to twelve, he whispered, "Is everybody alright?"

As his friends replied, the neons above them came back to life with a soft, static sound. The Crank who had gotten the closest to them was lying facedown a couple of steps away, dark blood pooling underneath it. Newt stood, still clenching his weapon. He made towards the hallway, where the fight had taken place, when Minho's voice rang in his ears.

"Where's Ella?"