Antidote | A3

c h a p t e r . s e v e n

The Gladers were mostly awake when Thomas and I trudged back into the group.

"What happened?" Newt asked, scanning our faces. "Something's wrong."

"Teresa," Thomas managed weakly. "She's... gone. She left."

"What?" Minho, incredulous, got to his feet. "What do you mean she left?"

Thomas began recounting the story. Finding her stood there, how she trembled and cried, how she had acted like Gally - almost possessed - before he killed Chuck, the warning she'd given. The only thing he left out was the kiss.

"Wow," Minho said finally.

"She's tough," I managed. "She'll survive."

"Yeah, she will," Minho agreed, resolute. "And so will we, but we need to get going."

He moved off then, began rounding the other Gladers up. I was pretty sure most of them had been listening anyway. It was obvious enough that we were now missing half the girls of our group.

"I can't hear her anymore," Thomas muttered to me. "She's not talking back."

"She'll be okay, Thomas," I said again, for my sake as much as his. He nodded, once, and then wandered back to collect his bag.

I did the same, and soon we were on the move again. The sun had started to rear its ugly head above the horizon now, already kicking out searing heat.

We moved slower through the day, only walking. It was all we could afford to do, and all I had the energy for after the gut punch of losing Teresa. What had they done to her?

I watched Thomas trudging on ahead of me, hunched over, his sheet tucked tightly over his head. He was walking out a ways on his own, clearly not in the mood to talk. I didn't need to be in his head to know his thoughts must be on her too.

Newt was out in front on Minho's orders, limp and all. I watched as he soldiered on ahead, determined. What would I do if I lost him? I could hardly imagine it.

It had been a couple of hours of walking, when I spotted two people, far ahead, from the direction of the town, running towards us. Small plumes of dust kicked up from their feet, and their shadowy figures, almost like a mirage emerging from the heat waves, grew larger as they got closer to us.

Newt stopped up front, holding his hand in the air as a sign for us to halt. I felt a cold chill run down my spine despite the blistering heat. We vastly outnumbered them, obviously, but the unknown of what was approaching us had fear gripping my chest all the same.

"Pack in tighter!" Minho commanded. "And get ready to fight these shanks at the first sign of trouble."

We waited, tense, as the figures came into focus. Once they were only a hundred metres or so away, I could make out that there was one man and one woman. Both were tall and scrawny, heads and faces wrapped in the same kind of beige tattered cloth, with small jagged slits cut out for them to see and breathe. The only parts of them exposed were their hands, which were red and cracked and scabby, reminding me somewhat of Winston's scalp.

They'd approached us completely now, standing in front of us and panting like sick dogs as they caught their breath.

"Who are you?" Minho called out to them.

They didn't answer, and instead split apart, starting in a broad circle around our bunched up group. I widened my stance instinctively, bracing myself.

"There are a lot more of us than there are of you," Minho said. "Who are you?"

"We're Cranks."

My heart lurched in my chest as the woman spoke. Her voice was gruff and raspy. Her and the man continued to walk in slow circles around us, and my eyes kept darting between the two of them, waiting for one to pounce.