Count On Me ➵ Newt [1]

SIX | i become a keeper

▬Life was normal for the next few months - well, as normal as it can get in the Glade anyway. A boy was sent up the Box once every month, and Minho addressed them as 'Greenie' every time until they finally remembered their actual names. I continued my job as Med-jack, tending to the Glader's wounds and injuries. As Frederick had warned me and Clint and Jeff, our most frequent patients were the Slicers, and he was right. Without fail, there would be at least one Slicer who would show up every day.

One day, I was walking around the Glade, having nothing to do. I observed the Track-hoes as they worked, watching the way they planted seeds into the ground with delicate care and discarded the rotten produce to the side. Then I looked on as the Builders discussed and argued with each other about any additional expansion they could add to the buildings in the Glade.

I was passing by the map room when I spotted Alby, Newt, Nick and Jack carry someone between them. A group of boys trailed behind them, muttering between themselves nervously.

Curious, I went over to them. The other workers had taken notice of the commotion as well and jogged over to see what was going on. Alby, Newt, Nick and Jack dropped the figure in the middle of the field, and a amal crowd surrounded them, jostling and muttering. I pushed my way to the front of the crowd and stared at the writhing figure on the ground. It was George, one of the Runners.

He looked absolutely horrible. His skin looked burned and red and his eyes were bloodshot. His lips were pressed together in a pale line; he was squirming, his muscles clenched and tensed.

I was about to ask what had happened when Nick yelled: "Listen up! Georgie and I were out in the maze, running the corridors, and he got ahead of me. Something attacked me. He kept saying he got stung. Anybody know anything about this?"

"Minho's seen some kind of creature out there," Alby said. "Where's Minho?"

"Still running," someone answered. "Probably taking a nap in one of the Deadends."

"It was one of those creatures he talked about though," Alby said. "Had to be."

"It doesn't really matter what it was." Nick pointed down at George, who was curled into a tight ball, rocking back and forth on his side. "What are we going to do with him? All we have is a bunch of aspirin and bandages."

"There was something weird in the supplies they sent up last week," Frypan said, stepping forward. "It was in the bottom of a cardboard box. "Some kind of syringe, had the word serum printed on it. I figured it was a mistake - somebody accidentally dropped it in there, whatever. Threw it out with the sausage leftovers this morning."

Alby stepped up to Frypan and grabbed him by the shirt, pulling him close. "You threw it out? Didn't bother telling anybody? No wonder you wanna cook - ain't got brains for nothin' else."

Frypan had the nerve to smile. "If that makes you feel smarter. Anyway, I'm telling you now, aren't I? Slim it."

"Where'd you throw it away?" Nick asked. "Maybe it's not broken. Let's at least take a look at it."

"Be right back," Frypan said, and he jogged off towards the Homestead.

Three or four minutes later, he finally returned with the syringes. By that time, George had gone from bad to worse. Instead of writhing in agony and squirming, he now laid still, gasping for air like a fish on land. Frypan gave the syringe to Nick, who knelt by George's side.

"Anyone know how to do this?" Nick called out. "Where to stick this?"

"I think one of the Med-jacks should do it," Newt suggested.

Nick handed me the syringe and I took it hesitantly, crouching by George's side with Nick. I braced my thumb against the syringe and stabbed it into George's arm. He didn't even flinch. I pressed the plunger down until all the fluid was gone, then stood up and stepped back, wondering what would happen next.