Desire ❃ newt

cнapтer 51

I grabbed Minho by the arm. "Somehow I have to get through that!" I nodded toward the rolling pack of Grievers between us and the Cliff—they looked like one big mass of rumbling, spiked blubber, glistening with flashes of lights off steel. They were even more menacing in the faded gray light.

I waited for an answer as Minho and Newt exchanged a long glance. The anticipation of fighting was almost worse than the fear of it.

"They're coming!" Teresa yelled. "We have to do something!"

"You lead," Newt finally said to Minho, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Make a bloody path for Tommy, Greenbean, and the girl. Do it."

Minho nodded once, a steel look of resolve hardening his features. Then he turned toward the Gladers. "We head straight for the Cliff! Fight through the middle, push the shuckin' things toward the walls. What matters most is getting Kam, Thomas, and Teresa to the Griever Hole!"

I looked away from him, back at the approaching monsters—they were only a few feet away. I gripped my poor excuse for a spear.

"We have to stay close together." I told Thomas. "Let them do the fighting—we have to get through that Hole." I felt like a coward, but I knew that any fighting—and any deaths—would be in vain if we didn't get that code punched, the door to the Creators opened.

"I know," he replied. "stick together."

"Ready!" Minho yelled next to me, raising his barbwire-wrapped club into the air with one hand, a long silver knife in the other. He pointed the knife at the horde of Grievers; a flash glinted off the blade. "Now!"

The Keeper ran forward without waiting for a response. Newt went after him, right on his heels, and then the rest of the Gladers followed, a tight pack of roaring boys charging ahead to a bloody battle, weapons raised. Thomas held me and Teresa's hand, let them all go past, felt them bump me, smelled their sweat, sensed their terror, waiting for the perfect opportunity to make my own dash.

Just as the first sounds of boys crashing into Grievers filled the air—pierced with screams and roars of machinery and wood clacking against steel—Chuck ran past me, who quickly reached out and grabbed his arm.

Chuck stumbled backward, then looked up at me, his eyes so full of fright I felt something shatter in my heart. In that split second, I'd made a decision.

"Chuck, you're with me Tom, and Teresa." I said it forcefully, with authority, leaving no room for doubt.

Chuck looked ahead at the engaged battle. "But . . ." He trailed off, and I knew the boy relished the idea though he was ashamed to admit it.

I quickly tried to save his dignity. "We need your help in the Griever Hole, in case one of those things is in there waiting for us."

Chuck nodded quickly—too quickly. Again, I felt the pang of sadness in my heart, felt the urge to get Chuck home safely stronger than I'd ever felt it before.

"Okay, then," I said. "Hold my other hand. Let's go."

Chuck did as he was told, trying so hard to act brave. And, I noted, not saying a word, perhaps for the first time in his life.

"They've made an opening!" Teresa shouted—it sent a quick snap of pain shooting through my skull. She pointed ahead, and I saw the narrow aisle forming in the middle of the corridor, Gladers fighting wildly to push the Grievers toward the walls.

"Now!" Thomas shouted.

He sprinted ahead, pulling me and Teresa behind him, me pulling Chuck, running at full speed, spears and knives cocked for battle, forward into the bloody, scream-filled hallway of stone. Toward the Cliff.