Desire ❃ newt

cнapтer 55

I finally pulled it all back into my heart, sucking in the painful tide of my misery. In the Glade, Chuck had become a symbol for me—a beacon that somehow we could make everything right again in the world. Sleep in beds. Get kissed goodnight. Have bacon and eggs for breakfast, go to a real school. Be happy.

But now Chuck was gone. And his limp body, to which I still clung, seemed a cold talisman—that not only would those dreams of a hopeful future never come to pass, but that life had never been that way in the first place. That even in escape, dreary days lay ahead. A life of sorrow.

My returning memories were sketchy at best. But not much good floated in the muck.

I reeled in the pain, locked it somewhere deep inside him. He did it for Newt. For Thomas and Minho. Whatever darkness awaited us, we'd be together, and that was all that mattered right then.

I let go of Chuck, slumped backward, trying not to look at the boy's shirt, black with blood. I wiped the tears from my cheeks, rubbed my eyes, thinking I should be embarrassed but not feeling that way. Finally, I looked up. Looked up at Newt and his enormous brown eyes, heavy with sadness—just as much for me as for Chuck, I was sure of it.

He reached down, grabbed my hand, helped me stand. Once I was up, he didn't let go, and neither did I. I squeezed, tried to say what I felt by doing so. No one else said a word, most of them staring at Chuck's body without expression, as if we'd moved far beyond feeling. No one looked at Gally, breathing but still.

The woman from WICKED broke the silence.

"All things happen for a purpose," she said, any sign of malice now gone from her voice. "you must understand this."

I looked at her, threw all my compressed hatred into the glare. But I did nothing. Newt placed his other hand on my arm, gripped my bicep.

"What now?" He asked quietly.

"I don't know." I replied. "I can't—"

My sentence was cut short by a sudden series of shouts and commotion outside the entrance through which the woman had come. He visibly panicked, the blood draining from his face as he turned toward the door. I followed his gaze.

Several men and women dressed in grimy jeans and soaking-wet coats burst through the entrance with guns raised, yelling and screaming words over each other. It was impossible to understand what they were saying. Their guns—some were rifles, other pistols—looked . . . archaic, rustic. Almost like toys abandoned in the woods for years, recently discovered by the next generation of kids ready to play war.

I stared in shock as two of the newcomers tackled the WICKED woman to the floor. Then one stepped back and drew up his gun, aimed.

Flashes lit the air as several shots exploded from the gun, slamming into the woman's body. She was dead, a bloody mess.

I took several steps backward, almost stumbled.

A man walked up to the Gladers as the others in his group spread out around them, sweeping their guns left and right as they shot at the observation windows, shattering them. I heard screams, saw blood, looked away, focused on the man who approached us. He had dark hair, his face young but full of wrinkles around the eyes, as if he'd spent each day of his life worrying about how to make it to the next.

"We don't have time to explain," the man said, his voice as strained as his face. "Just follow me and run like your life depends on it. Because it does."

With that the man made a few motions to his companions, then turned and ran out the big glass doors, his gun held rigidly before him. Gunfire and cries of agony still rattled the chamber, but I did my best to ignore them and follow instructions.