Desire ❃ newt

cнapтer 54

I took a step backward, noticing others doing the same. A deathly silence sucked the life out of the air as every last Glader stared at the row of windows, at the row of observers. I watched one of them look down to write something, another reach up and put on a pair of glasses. They all wore black coats over white shirts, a word stitched on their right breast—I couldn't quite make out what it said. None of them wore any kind of discernible facial expression—they were all sallow and gaunt, miserably sad to look upon.

They continued to stare at the Gladers; a man shook his head, a woman nodded. Another man reached up and scratched his nose—the most human thing I had seen any of them do.

"Who are those people?" Chuck whispered, but his voice echoed throughout the chamber with a raspy edge.

"The Creators," Minho said; then he spat on the floor. "I'm gonna break your faces!" he screamed, so loudly I almost held my hands over my ears.

"What do we do?" I asked. "What are they waiting on?"

"They've probably revved the Grievers back up," Newt said. "They're probably coming right—"

A loud, slow beeping sound cut him off, like the warning alarm of a huge truck driving in reverse, but much more powerful. It came from everywhere, booming and echoing throughout the chamber.

"What now?" Chuck asked, not hiding the concern in his voice.

For some reason everyone looked at Thomas; he shrugged in answer.

I craned my neck as I scanned the place top to bottom, trying to find the source of the beeps. But nothing had changed. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the other Gladers looking in the direction of the doors. I did as well; my heart quickened when I saw that one of the doors was swinging open toward us.

The beeping stopped, and a silence as deep as outer space settled on the chamber. I waited without breathing, braced myself for something horrible to come flying through the door.

Instead, two people walked into the room.

One was a woman. An actual grown-up. She seemed very ordinary, wearing black pants and a button- down white shirt with a logo on the breast—wicked spelled in blue capital letters. Her brown hair was cut at the shoulder, and she had a thin face with dark eyes. As she walked toward the group, she neither smiled nor frowned—it was almost as if she didn't notice or care they were standing there.

I know her. But it was a cloudy kind of recollection—I couldn't remember her name or what she had to do with the Maze, but she seemed familiar. And not just her looks, but the way she walked, her mannerisms—stiff, without a hint of joy. She stopped several feet in front of the Gladers and slowly looked left to right, taking us all in.

The other person, standing next to her, was a boy wearing an overly large sweatshirt, its hood pulled up over his head, concealing his face.

"Welcome back," the woman finally said. "Over two years, and so few dead. Amazing." I felt my mouth drop open—felt anger redden my face.

"Excuse me?" Newt asked.

Her eyes scanned the crowd again before falling on Newt. "Everything has gone according to plan, Mr. Newton. Although we expected a few more of you to give up along the way."

She glanced over at her companion, then reached out and pulled the hood off the boy. He looked up, his eyes wet with tears. Every Glader in the room sucked in a breath of surprise. I felt my knees buckle.

It was Gally.

I blinked, then rubbed my eyes, like something out of a cartoon. I was consumed with shock and anger.