Desire ❃ newt

cнapтer 13

I was fascinated at the mention of a Griever. The nasty creature was terrifying to think about, but I wondered why finding a dead one was such a big deal.

Had it never happened before?

Alby looked like someone had just told him he could grow wings and fly. "Ain't a good time for jokes," he said.

"Look," Minho answered, "I wouldn't believe me if I were you, either. But trust me, I did. Big fat nasty one."

It's definitely never happened before.

"You found a dead Griever," Alby repeated.

"Yes, Alby," Minho said, his words laced with annoyance. "A couple of miles from here, out near the Cliff."

Alby looked out at the Maze, then back at Minho. "Well ... why didn't you bring it back with you?"

Minho laughed again, a half-grunt, half-giggle. "You been drinkin' Frypan's saucy-sauce? Those things must weigh half a ton, dude. Plus, I wouldn't touch one if you gave me a free trip out of this place."

Alby persisted with the questions. "What did it look like? Were the metal spikes in or out of its body? Did it move at all—was its skin still moist?"

Metal spikes?

Moist skin?

What in the world?

"Slim it, man," Minho said. "You gotta see it for yourself. It's ... weird."

"Weird?" Alby looked confused.

"Dude, I'm exhausted, starving, and sun-sick. But if you wanna haul it right now, we could probably make it there and back before the walls shut."

Alby looked at his watch. "Better wait till the wake-up tomorrow."

"Smartest thing you've said in a week." Minho righted himself from leaning on the wall, hit Alby on the arm, then started walking toward the Homestead with a slight limp. He spoke over his shoulder as he shuffled away—it looked like his whole body was in pain. "I should go back out there, but screw it. I'm gonna go eat some of Frypan's nasty casserole."

I felt a wash of disappointment. I had to admit Minho did look like he deserved a rest and a bite to eat, but I wanted to learn more.

Then Alby turned to me, surprising me. "If you know something and ain't tellin' me ..."

I was sick of being accused of knowing things.

Wasn't that the problem in the first place?

I didn't know anything. I looked at the boy square in the face and asked, simply, "Why do you hate me so much?"

The look that came over Alby's face was indescribable—part confusion, part anger, part shock. "Hate you? Kid, you ain't learned nothin' since showing up in that Box. This ain't got nothin' to do with no hate or like or love or friends or anything. All we care about is surviving. Drop your sissy side and start using that shuck brain if you got one."

I felt like I had been slapped. "But ... why do you keep accusing—"

"Cuz it can't be a coincidence, slinthead! You pop in here, then we get us a girl Newbie the next day, a crazy note, Ben tryin' to bite ya, dead Grievers. Something's goin' on and I ain't restin' till I figure it out."

"I don't know anything, Alby." It felt good to put some heat into my words. "I don't even know where I was three days ago, much less why this Minho guy would find a dead thing called a Griever. So back off!"