We All Have Scars

Ten

(Isobel's P.O.V)

After a while, something unexpected happened. The berg came back. Thomas was hanging in the air, strung tightly to a canvas litter with handles, swaying back and forth. A large rope attached to him was lowered from the berg.

Finally, there was a soft bump, and then a million faces appeared around him. Minho, Newt, Jorge, Brenda, Frypan, me, the other Gladers. Then, almost instantaneously, the vessel from which he'd been lowered vaulted away, disappearing into the brilliance of the sun directly overhead. The sounds of the engine faded, and soon it was gone.

Then everyone spoke at once.

"What was all that about?"

"Are you okay?"

"What'd they do to you?"

"Who was that?"

"Have fun in the berg?"

"How's your shoulder."

Thomas ignored it all and tried to get up, but realised that ropes bound him tightly to the litter. "A little help here?" He asked Minho.

Once freed, he got to his feet and stretched put his muscles, refusing to acknowledge the second volley of questions flung his way.

"What are you guys doing out here in the open? Your skin is gonna bake!"

Minho didn't answer, just pointed to the shabby hut. It seemed like it would crumble to dust any second, but it was big enough to provide shelter for everyone. And it had lasted so far.

"We better get back under that thing," Minho said.

The group trekked over to the shelter; Thomas told us a dozen times that he'd explain everything from beginning to end once we were settled. Brenda found him, walked right next to him. She didn't say anything, and neither did he.

The miserable city of the Cranks lay a few miles distant, huddling in all its decay and madness to the south. No sign of the infected people anywhere. To the north, the mountains loomed now, only a day or so away. Craggy and lifeless, they sloped up higher and higher until they ended in jagged brown peaks. Harsh cuts in the rock made the whole range appear as though a giant hand hacked at it with a massive axe for days and days, letting out all its giant frustration.

We reached the shelter, the wood dry as rotted bone. It looked as if it had stood there for a hundred years - maybe built by a farmer in the days before the world was ravaged. How it had withstood everything was a complete mystery. But one flick of a match and the thing would probably burn down in three seconds. Not a very comforting thought.

"All right," Minho said, pointing to a spot in the far end of the shade. "You sit there, get yourself all nice and comfy and start talking."

He took a seat and waited for us to get situated in front of him, sitting cross-legged on the hot and dusty ground, as if we were in circle time at kindergarten and Thomas was the school teacher readying to give the lesson.

Minho was the last to take a seat, right next to Brenda and I. "Okay, tell us about your adventures with the aliens in their big bad spaceship."

"You sure about this?" Thomas asked. "How many days left to get over those mountains, to the safe haven?"

"Five days, dude. But you know we can't go tramping around in this sun with nothing to protect us. You're gonna talk, then we're gonna sleep, then we're all gonna bust our humps walking all night. Get on it."

"Good that," Thomas said. "Save all your questions till the end, children." When not a single person laughed, or even smiled, he coughed and hurried on, making me face-palm subtly. "It was WICKED that came and got me. I kept passing out, but they took me to some doctors who totally fixed me up. I heard them saying something about how it wasn't supposed to happen, how the gun had been a factor they hadn't expected. The bullet set off a nasty infection in me, and I guess they felt it wasn't time for me to die."