Desire ❃ newt

cнapтer 50

I kept a steady pace as I ran with the other Gladers along the stone pathways toward the Cliff. The sounds of shuffling feet echoed up the walls and the red lights of the beetle blades flashed more menacingly in the ivy—the Creators were certainly watching, listening. One way or another, there was going to be a fight.

I notice Newt slow down to catch up to me.

"Scared?" Newt asked me as we ran.

"No, I love things made out of blubber and steel. Can't wait to see them." I felt no mirth or humor and
wondered if there'd ever be a time again when I would.

"So funny." He responded. He was right next to me, but my eyes stayed glued up ahead. "We'll be fine. Just stay close to me and Minho."

"Ah, my Knight in Shining Armor. What, you don't think I can fend for myself?"

"Actually, no, I'm just trying to be nice."

The group was spread out across the full width of the corridor, running at a steady but quick pace—I wondered how long the non-Runners would hold up. As if in response to the thought, Newt sprinted back, finally tapping Minho on the shoulder. "You lead the way now," I heard him say.

Minho nodded and ran to the front, guiding the Gladers through all the turns necessary. Every step was agonizing for me. What courage I'd gathered had turned to dread, and I wondered when the Grievers would finally give chase. Wondered when the fight would begin.

And so it went for me as we kept moving, those Gladers not used to running such distances gasping in huge gulps of air but no one quit. On and on we ran, with no signs of Grievers and as the time passed, I let the slightest trickle of hope enter my system—maybe they'd make it before getting attacked. Maybe.

Finally, after the longest hour of my life, we reached the long alley that led to the last turn before the Cliff—a short corridor to the right that branched off like the stem of the letter T.

I, my heart thumping, sweat slicking my skin, had moved up right behind Minho, Newt at my side. Minho slowed at the corner, then stopped, holding up a hand to tell me and the others to do the same. Then he turned, a look of horror on his face.

"Do you hear that?" he whispered.

I shook my head, trying to squash the terror Minho's expression had given me.

Minho crept ahead and peeked around the sharp edge of stone, looking toward the Cliff. Minho jerked back and turned to face me.

"Oh, no," the Keeper said through a moan. "Oh, no."

Then I heard it. Griever sounds. It was as if they'd been hiding, waiting, and now were coming to life. I didn't even have to look—I knew what Minho was going to say before he said it.

"There's at least a dozen of them. Maybe fifteen." He reached up and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "They're just waiting for us!"

The icy chill of fear bit me harder than ever before. I looked over at Newt, about to say something, but stopped when I saw the expression on his tanned face—I'd never seen terror present itself so starkly.

Thomas and Alby had moved up the line of waiting Gladers to join me and the others. Apparently Minho's pronouncement had already been whispered through the ranks, because the first thing Thomas said was "Well, we knew we'd have to fight." But the tremor in his voice gave him away—he was just trying to say the right thing.

I felt it myself. It'd been easy to talk about—the nothing-to-lose fight, the hope that just one of us would be taken, the chance to finally escape. But now it was here, literally around the corner. Doubts that I could go through with it seeped into my mind and heart. I wondered why the Grievers were just waiting—the beetle blades had obviously let them know the Gladers were coming. Were the Creators enjoying this?