Gladers choice | TMR | Thomas | Minho

Chapter Thirty Five

THE SCORCH TRIALS

Lyra jolted awake to the sound of a crash, her heart immediately thrumming with adrenaline. She sat up, blinking rapidly to shake off the lingering hold of sleep, then slipped off the bunk, moving toward the noise without hesitation. Every nerve felt taut, on edge. As she edged closer, Thomas stirred in his bunk, slowly sitting up, his movements mirroring hers as he too drew toward the noise. They both instinctively veered toward Minho, who stood at the front of the group, Frypan and the others behind him, their expressions stricken and fearful.

A broken window cast shadows across the room, moonlight filtering through to reveal a figure at the bars, a man—or what might have once been a man. His skin was gray, taut over his bones, his eyes wild with a frantic gleam, empty of any trace of humanity. Blood dripped from his face, staining his tattered clothes. He clawed at the bars, gnashing his teeth, his hoarse voice grating in the silence as he screamed, "Kill me! Kill me! For god's sake, kill me!"

Lyra moved closer to Minho, steadying herself beside him. Her stomach twisted at the sight of the man, this...thing. She swallowed, looking up at Minho, trying to keep her voice steady. "Minho, what's going on?" she whispered, her hand clenched tightly at her side.

Minho didn't answer right away, his eyes hard as he stared at the man. The cries became louder, more insistent, each word a strained rasp.

"He said he's a...a Crank?" Thomas's voice was tentative, still laced with disbelief. He looked rattled, the tension visible in his clenched jaw and guarded posture.

Newt appeared from behind them, voice low and grave. "They're everywhere," he said, barely looking away from the thrashing figure on the other side of the bars. His usual calm seemed fractured, as though even he couldn't fully process what he was seeing.

Lyra stared at him, her stomach churning. "What do you mean, everywhere?" Her voice was a whisper, as if speaking too loudly would make the nightmare worse.

Minho's face tightened as he spoke, not breaking eye contact with the Crank. "There's no sign of the rescuers. We're locked in here. All the lights outside are off." He finally looked at her, his expression grim. "We're on our own."

She took a shaky breath, her gaze darting back to the Crank. It felt surreal—this creature before them, once human, thrashing and screaming for death, calling himself a name that meant nothing to her but everything in its terror. Her thoughts tangled, scrambling for sense, for anything that made this less monstrous. Her entire body felt tense, but she forced herself to stay upright, to meet Minho's gaze.

But the Crank began to laugh, the sound chilling and fragmented, a hollow mockery of real laughter. He pressed himself against the steel bars, his hands clutching them so hard his knuckles whitened. "They did this to me... made me a monster... and now... all of you..." He trailed off, and his eyes gleamed with a manic, haunted glint.

The others exchanged glances, the tension thick, every small movement magnified in the silence. Frypan muttered something under his breath, his voice barely audible, and Minho took another protective step forward, keeping himself between the group and the Crank.

Lyra forced herself to look at Thomas even though she really didn't want to, who was standing beside her now, shoulders set. She could see the worry etched across his face, but more than that, she saw the same fear reflected in his eyes.

"So...they just left us here?" Her voice cracked, but she managed to keep her tone steady. She searched Newt's face, then Minho's, hoping one of them would offer some glimmer of reassurance. But they all looked as lost as she felt.

Newt pressed his lips into a thin line. "Seems that way," he murmured, almost to himself. His gaze fell to the floor, frustration and fear etched into every line of his face.