monachopsis - maze runner

chapter 31

Chapter 31
How to Cross the Bridges You’ve Burned

They entered the outer city easily - their group was just another handful of miserable, dusty faces in the crowd. They kept only the supplies they needed - weapons, mostly, that remained concealed under their coats. Florence refused to leave her backpack, knowing that with their track record, first aid would be required.

She stayed to the center of their line with Brenda. Both girls kept their hoods up and Brenda clung to the strap of Florence’s bag, not wanting to lose her in the masses. Jorge led their group down the aisle of crumbling buildings, occasionally looking over his shoulder for a headcount. Frypan, being the tallest, bookended their group at the back.

Laundry was strung up over the streets, though it didn’t seem like anyone was coming to collect it. The people who swarmed the labyrinth of seedy alleyways were only concerned with survival. The smell in the outer city was horrendous - decay, bile, and liquor (people seemed to rely on the stuff to stay sane, not that Florence could blame them).

“This place has really gone to hell,” Jorge complained to Thomas, leaning close to his ear. The horde was shouting all around them, making conversation nearly impossible. Florence shuffled closer to Thomas’ back, taking Brenda with her. She heard Thomas say something half-assed about staying together. Then a limping old man shoulder-checked her and she nearly stumbled. It was as if these people were trying to make it difficult for them.

“We are the voice of the voiceless!” Their group stalled at the sound. A convoy of armored vans was rolling down the street. “They hide behind their walls, thinking they can keep the cure for themselves, while they watch the rest of us wither and rot!” Atop the leading vehicle sat a man with a megaphone. “But there are more of us than there are of them.” He waved a scarred, burly arm behind him.

Each van held several other men, as fit and foreboding as their spokesman. Gas masks obscured their faces as they scanned the streets, daring any opposition. None was given - the machine guns they held gave a clever incentive. Florence’s group hid amongst the crowd and ducked their heads low as the first truck rolled past. But a man in a red-hued mask spotted them. His eyes found Florence behind Thomas’ shoulder and he tracked her as they drove away. None of her group took notice.

“I say we rise up,” the speaker continued, “and take back what it ours! Let’s bring back our victory!” The masses roared in agreement, swarming the vans and following the path they carved. Florence breathed deeply as their group pushed on, bobbing and weaving to keep sight of each other. She could hear Bergs humming above them, surveying the streets. The eye of WCKD was always watching. She pulled her hood down further.

The closer they got to the barrier between the outer and inner cities, the louder the protests became. People stood atop cars and hung out of shattered windows, pumping their fists toward the polluted sky. They waved signs that bashed WCKD’s regime and demanded entry to the inner city. Their hope was crushing; Florence wanted to tell them all to give up. WCKD’s walls weren’t the sanctuary they seemed to be.

The entrance to the inner city towered before them. Florence was split between rushing to follow Thomas and ogling at their size. “It looks like the Maze,” she whispered to no one in particular. Newt heard her. He looked horrified.

“Thomas!” Jorge surged forward to get to him. Thomas was barreling to the front of the crowd, his eyes set on the walls. He turned back only for a second, but Florence could see a plan forming behind his eyes. She’d grown to fear that look. “This isn’t what you’re looking for. All these people trying to find their way in, you think you’re gonna find something they can’t?”