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trigger warning: mentions of suicide and self-harm are described in this chapter. please read at your own risk.
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SAMSON FINALLY SLEPT. When he woke up in the Med-jack hut, which was an accomplishment on its own, he felt well-rested for the first time in a long time. Samson inhaled deeply, lifting his head off of his pillow slightly so he could check out his wound. Someone had dressed him in a new shirt while he'd been asleep, which he was grateful for. He peeked under his shirt at the bandage, which had been changed since he'd bled out in the field after the Grievers had attacked the Glade. He felt cleaner, healthier. Better. The serum had worked.
He sat up, holding his torso up with his elbows. Thomas was asleep on the cot beside him, rolled over so that his back faced Samson, and Clark stood at the counter with his back to him too.
"Clark?" Samson croaked out.
His friend spun around and smiled. "Hey," he said quietly, coming over to the bed. "How're you feeling?"
"Better," he sighed. "Much better, actually." Samson's eyes drifted back to Thomas. He could only vaguely remember what had happened to Thomas that night, all he knew for sure was that it hadn't been good.
"He's okay, too. He got the serum right away and has been sleeping ever since. Been almost two days," he said.
Samson nodded. "How's everyone else doing?" he asked.
Alby was dead. Samson remembered that much. And without him, Samson could only imagine how hard things must've been for the Gladers. It had taken so long for the Glade to recover after Nick's death. Now they've lost another leader, in only a matter of months, which meant it was up to Newt to pick up the pieces. Newt. Samson hoped he was okay. But after the way he'd fallen apart in his arms that night, he doubted it.
"The Glade is falling apart, Sam. Literally," Clark said. "The Homestead and the Kitchen were destroyed, and Gally's missing, so the Builders don't know where to start. Newt's losing his mind, he's been yelling a lot. The Runners quit. All of them except Minho, that is. And--"
Samson cut Clark off. "Gally's missing? What do you mean?"
Clark shrugged. "After the attack, no one could find him. He's probably dead, but we haven't found a body."
Samson's heart sank into his chest. For some reason, he couldn't help but blame himself. If he had tried a little harder that night to get Gally to stay in the Box, he would still be there with them, not missing in action or presumed dead. Gally would've been able to help Newt get the Glade back in order. He was a friend. And now he was gone.
"We lost Zart and Brandon too," Clark sighed. Samson bit his lip and turned away from Clark. Not Brandon, too. He had grown close to him while working in the Kitchen. Zart, too. Gally, Brandon, and Zart. They'd all been his friends. It wasn't fair. The Creators couldn't keep killing them. Samson wouldn't stand for it.
