Antidote | A3

c h a p t e r . n i n e

Two things woke me properly this time: the glow of sunrise and a sudden rush of silence. The rain outside had stopped, letting the scorching sun take its claim again as the morning had broken.

I was half laying on my side, my head on Newt's chest with my arm snaked round his waist like a pillow. Both of his arms were wrapped around me, the steady rise and fall of his breathing indicating he hadn't woken up yet. I didn't really remember falling asleep like this.

Across the room, I immediately locked eyes with Minho, staring at me. He was sat upright, elbows resting on his bent knees, a dangerous smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His clothes were blackened and ragged, and patches of his exposed skin held red, raw blisters. Most of his face had been spared, though, and he still had all his hair.

I pushed myself upright, waking Newt in the process as his arms slipped off from around me.

"Don't you shanks look cozy," Minho called out, a shit-eating grin plastered to his face. Newt straightened against the wall, shifting himself upright as he yawned.

"Minho," I said, foregoing a retort to his jab solely because I was so relieved to see he was back to his usual self. And, also, I was a little embarrassed. "You good?"

"Alright, mate," Newt said, impossibly casual as he wiped the grogginess from his eyes with the heels of his palms. "Thought you bloody died."

"I'm shucked," Minho groaned, his tone exaggerated and dramatic. "I'm shucked for good."

I noticed Leo sat on the floor next to him, meticulously folding his bedsheet over and over until it was a perfectly neat, small white square. Minho glanced over at him.

"Turns out your brother was a Med-Jack in his Glade," he said, still with an air of teasing flippancy. "Cleaned me up real good."

"His burns are manageable," Leo said matter-of-factly, hardly looking up. "I obviously have no supplies, so I soaked my bedsheet in the rain last night to have something cool to cover them with. Clothes are still mostly intact, so hasn't burned too much skin. They'll heal themselves soon enough."

"Good job we packed spares," Newt said, digging a fresh set of clothes from his bag and tossing them across the floor. Leo reached forward and managed to grab them, thrusting them into Minho's lap.

No food, though.

My stomach cramped at the word. I'd almost forgotten how hungry I was after the madness of the storm, but at the mere mention of it, my body reminded me how desperately in need it was. I thought of Leo, puking his guts up onto the sand at Jack's feet. ...foot. His own stomach must be agony.

None of the other Gladers had stirred yet. I noticed Thomas, leant on the wall next to Minho, eyebrows knit into a deep, deep frown as he slept. Minho began to get to his feet, the action slow and laborious. Leo sprang to his and began helping Minho up.

"None of you slintheads look," he ordered as he started to peel his charred t-shirt away from his skin, wincing as he did so.

I bowed my head, allowing him his privacy as my mind raced. There were only eleven of us left. Would that be enough to make it through the Scorch? We still had an impossibly long way to go.

A few minutes later, as if reading my mind, Minho cleared his throat. "Okay, I'm done. I count eleven of us. Is that really it?"

I looked up grimly. "Three dead in the tunnel. Then Teresa disappeared, meaning we lost seven in the storm."

Newt's eyes scanned the room. "Jack's missing," he started. I cut him off sharply.

"Jack's gone." Visions of Jack's horrible demise flashed in my mind, and I winced at the memory. I felt Newt glance at me in my peripheral vision. His voice softened as he continued.