Something was wrong.
Apparently Minho and Alby should have been back long ago. They'd left this morning to check out the dead Griever Minho had found yesterday, and they still hadn't returned. The Doors would close in an hour.
What was more, big, fat drops of water were falling from the sky. According to Alby, it never rained in the Glade. Ever. I stood with Chuck in the covered area, pacing restlessly. At least we didn't have to work. For Chuck, that was saying something, as he was undoubtedly sick of cleaning other boys' klunk from the toilet seats. I would be, if I'd been a Slopper. Guess I should be thankful I wasn't.
"What happens if they don't make it?" I asked Chuck. I had to raise my voice to be heard over the rain splattering on the dirt.
Chuck glanced at me, not answering. Right. He probably didn't know; he'd only been here for a month, after all. Still, I had a feeling he wouldn't have told me if he had known. I crossed my arms, shaking the hair out of my face.
A few minutes later, I overheard the Greenbean asking Newt my exact question. "What if they don't make it?"
I scoffed, knowing Thomas probably wouldn't get an answer better than what I'd gotten. A glance, a shrug.
But after a few moments passed, Newt answered quietly, "They're gonna make it."
"But what if they don't?" Thomas persisted, obviously unconvinced. I didn't blame him. You could never get a straight answer out of anyone around here.
Newt didn't look at Thomas. "They're gonna make it," he repeated more firmly.
I couldn't tell if he was trying to convince Thomas or himself.
I watched the Doors for any sign of movement. The sun was setting, the sky darkening. The Doors were closing in twenty minutes. I didn't know Alby and Minho very well. But I was concerned nonetheless--Alby was the leader; what would the group do if he died? And Minho. He was the best Runner, I'd heard from Chuck. Besides, he didn't treat me like a lot of the guys here did. Didn't treat me like...an outcast. I could almost count him as a half-friend.
Ten minutes. The rain continued to pour buckets down on us. Five minutes. My heart was in my throat. Did I really want to become a Runner, when this could happen to me? Three minutes. Two minutes. One minute.
All the hope I'd had crashed to the ground as the now-familiar grinding noise of the Doors closing began.
They were in there. Minho and Alby were stuck in the Maze. With the Grievers.
Then I saw movement.
A figure rounded a corner in the Maze, dragging another one. There were a few shouts, and the Gladers ran toward the Door. I followed them, my legs pulsing against the ground as fast as they could. The Doors inched closer and closer to each other.
"COME ON, MINHO! YOU CAN DO IT!"
Chuck's scream triggered dozens of other yells of encouragement. I joined in, although I knew it was hopeless, that they would never reach the Glade before the Doors closed, unless Minho dumped Alby right there. Alby looked to be unconscious. But... why? Had he been stung? By a Griever? He was obviously a huge burden, strong as Minho was.
They weren't going to make it.
But Minho didn't stop.
Until the Doors were barely two feet apart; he let out a final yell and collapsed to the ground, Alby falling limply beside him like a corpse. The Doors were going to close, locking them out. And the Grievers, the shucking monsters, would get them. They would die horrible deaths. I'd heard the screams. Ben's screams.
So I moved.
Behind me, so did two others.
A pair of strong hands grabbed me by the shoulders, yanking me back. I fell on my rear hard. Cold mud seeped through my pants, numbed the pain, spread across the fabric as quickly as the Doors were moving. My drenched hair flopped into my eyes, and I shoved it out, wincing against the pain in my butt.
Just in time to see Thomas's back disappearing as the Doors thudded shut.
