The Deadliest Generation: The Desert of Death

Chapter Eleven: 'Four Miles West.'

Trigger Warnings: discreet mentions of suicide attempt, guns

They were running when the person started screaming.

Thomas had woken everyone up, shaky and petrified, and when he reached Newt —

Well.

The voices hadn't gone, it had just that when he woke Newt up, and Newt's very sleepy face, drenched and glowing in the pale moonlight, hair silver and still looking pretty even when he'd just woken up with tousled hair and sand dusted skin, it didn't feel as wrong anymore.

Especially when Newt's face softened and he spoke softly, "Morning, Tommy."

"Morning," Thomas croaked out, and Newt cracked a smile.

Minho had asked them all to get up and stretch before they ran.

And then they started running.

Maybe an hour or so passed before it began, coming from the buildings.

At first he didn't know what he was hearing, or if maybe it was just his imagination. With the thumps of dry footsteps, the rustling of the packs, the whispers of conversation between heavy breaths, it was hard to tell. But what had started as almost a buzz inside his head soon became unmistakable. Somewhere ahead of them, hidden by the clouds of gritty sand blanketing their once clear view but more likely closer, a person's high, ripped harshly from the throat, agonising screams tore through the night.

The others had obviously noticed it, too, and soon the Gladers quit running. Once everyone caught their breath, it became easier to hear the disturbing sound.

It was almost like a cat. An injured, wailing cat. The kind of noise that made your skin crawl and made you press your hands to your ears and pray it went away. There was something unnatural about it, something that chilled Thomas inside and out. The darkness only added to the creepiness. Whoever the source, she still wasn't very close, but her shrill screeches bounced along like living echoes, trying to smash their unspeakable sounds against the dirt until they ceased to exist in this world.

"You know what that reminds me of?" Minho asked, his voice a whisper with an edge of fear.

Thomas knew. "Ben. Alby. Me, I guess? Screaming after the Griever sting?"

"You got it."

"No, no, no," Frypan moaned. "Don't tell me we're gonna have those suckers out here, too. I can't take it!"

Newt responded, just a couple of feet to the left of Thomas and Aris. "Doubt it. Remember how moist and gooey their skin was? They'd turn into a big dust ball if they rolled around in this stuff."

"Well," Thomas said, "if WICKED can create Grievers, they can create plenty of other freaks of nature that might be worse. Hate to say it, but that rat-lookin' guy said things were finally going to get tough."

"Once again, Thomas gives us a cheerful pep talk," Frypan announced; he tried to sound jovial, but it came out more like a spiteful rub.

"Just saying it how it is."

Frypan huffed. "I know. And how it is sucks big-time." "What now?" Thomas asked.

"I think we should take a break," Minho said. "Fill our little tummies and drink up. Then we should book it for as long as we can stand it while the sun is still down. Maybe get a couple hours' sleep before dawn."

"And the psycho screaming person out there?" Frypan asked.

"Sounds like they're plenty busy with their own troubles."