Subject of the Flame | Maze Runner [2]

SEVENTEEN

[ MINHO ]

❧

Minho's feet ached as he marched through the vast wasteland. The day had been long and unrelenting. The Gladers decided to pair off, stuff all their food and water into one makeshift bedsheet pack, and use the other bedsheet to cover the pair. Electra walked beside him under the same sheet, lugging the pack with all of their supplies on her shoulder. They'd decided to trade off the pack every thirty minutes, and each time Minho was handed the pack it seemed to get heavier.

He couldn't stop thinking of the boys they'd already lost; the ones who hadn't made it out of the pitch-black hallway. Minho wished his tattoo had said something besides leader, anything besides leader. It was his responsibility to lead all of these people to the safe haven. It was his responsibility to bring them all to safety. It was his responsibility that Gladers had already died and that more probably would within the upcoming weeks.

He also couldn't figure out why WICKED had deemed him the leader. Sure, back in the Maze he was the Keeper of the Runners, but hadn't Thomas or Newt always been the real leaders? It would be easier for him, possibly for everyone, if he wasn't the leader. Maybe if Newt or Thomas' tattoos had said leader, then all the Gladers would have a better chance of surviving. Maybe if their tattoos had said leader, then boys wouldn't have already died.

The weight of leadership was a heavy backpack clinging to Minho's shoulders, pushing him deeper into the suffocating sand beneath his feet. Still, he trudged forward.

"The safe haven better be worth all this trouble," Electra grumbled, uncomfortably adjusting the pack.

"Worth our lives, you mean? I think that's worth the hassle," Minho said, remembering the deal Rat Man had ingrained into their heads. Go one hundred miles, directly north, to the safe haven. Make it or die. Pretty clear. "Here, let me take the pack."

Electra shook her head. "It hasn't been thirty minutes yet."

"Well, you're obviously struggling so–" Minho began but was silenced by Electra's glare. If looks could kill. He raised his hand that wasn't clutching the sheet in defeat. "Okay, sorry. Nevermind."

"What do you think of their killzone patterns?" Electra spoke quickly, changing the subject as soon as she could. The edge on her voice when mentioning killzone was deadly. The sweet and open Electra from that morning was miles away, and the one from the night before who'd kissed him seemed nothing more than a dream.

"What made you think of that?" Minho asked, trying to remember what Rat Man had said about them.

"And yet it's not really an experiment as much as it is... constructing a blueprint. Stimulating the killzone and collecting resultant patterns. Putting them all together to achieve the greatest breakthrough in science and medicine."

"Janson said they were studying our responses. Analyzing our emotions," Electra said. "I wonder what patterns they got from Thomas saving that boy's life from the metal ball."

Minho knew that she was also wondering about something else, but she didn't have the nerve to say it.

I wonder what patterns they got from us kissing last night.

Minho frowned. "Well, hopefully, whatever they got was good enough because there's no way in hell I'm gonna willingly be bullied by steel balls again."

"I don't think we'd have a choice." Electra's tone was bitter; her anger was palpable. For some, fear was synonymous with cowardice but for Electra, fear was synonymous with rage. "WICKED continues to outsmart us, and now we're deliberately heading into a city filled with monsters."