LIMERENCE ﹐ the maze runner.

44

Thomas kept a steady pace as he ran with the other Gladers along the stone pathways toward the Cliff. He'd grown used to running the Maze, but this was completely different. The sounds of shuffling feet echoed up the walls and the red lights of the beetle blades flashed more menacingly in the ivy-the Creators were certainly watching, listening. One way or another, there was going to be a fight.

Scared? Teresa asked him as they ran.

No, I love things made out of blubber and steel. Can't wait to see them. He felt no mirth or humor and wondered if there'd ever be a time again when he would.

So funny, she responded.

She was right next to him, but his eyes stayed glued up ahead. We'll be fine. Just stay close to me and Minho. And Clara, she'd probably kick a Griever's ass, then complain for hours afterwards.

What, you don't think I can fend for myself?

Actually, he thought quite the opposite-Teresa seemed as tough as anybody there. No, I'm just trying to be nice.

The group was spread out across the full width of the corridor, running at a steady but quick pace -Thomas wondered how long the non-Runners would hold up. As if in response to the thought, Newt fell back, finally tapping Minho on the shoulder. "You lead the way now," Thomas heard him say.

Minho nodded and ran to the front, guiding the Gladers through all the turns necessary. Every step was agonizing for Thomas. What courage he'd gathered had turned to dread, and he wondered when the Grievers would finally give chase. Wondered when the fight would begin.

And so it went for him as they kept moving, those Gladers not used to running such distances gasping in huge gulps of air. But no one quit. On and on they ran, with no signs of Grievers. And as the time passed, Thomas let the slightest trickle of hope enter his system-maybe they'd make it before getting attacked. Maybe.

Finally, after the longest hour of Thomas's life, they reached the long alley that led to the last turn before the Cliff-a short corridor to the right that branched off like the stem of the letter T.

Thomas, his heart thumping, sweat slicking his skin, had moved up right behind Minho and Clara, Teresa at his side. Minho slowed at the corner, then stopped, holding up a hand to tell Thomas and the others to do the same. Then he turned, a look of horror on his face.

"Do you hear that?" he whispered.

Thomas shook his head, trying to squash the terror Minho's expression had given him.

Minho crept ahead and peeked around the sharp edge of stone, looking toward the Cliff. Thomas had seen him do that before, when they'd followed a Griever to this very spot. Just like that time, Minho jerked back and turned to face him.

"Oh, no," the Keeper said through a moan. "Oh, no."

Then Thomas heard it. Griever sounds. It was as if they'd been hiding, waiting, and now were coming to life. He didn't even have to look-he knew what Minho was going to say before he said it.

"There's at least a dozen of them. Maybe fifteen." Clara said and reached up and rubbed her eyes. "They're just waiting for us!"

The icy chill of fear bit Thomas harder than ever before. He looked over at Teresa, about to say something, but stopped when he saw the expression on her pale face-he'd never seen terror present itself so starkly.

Newt and Alby had moved up the line of waiting Gladers to join Thomas and the others. Apparently Clara's pronouncement had already been whispered through the ranks, because the first thing Newt said was "Well, we knew we'd have to fight." But the tremor in his voice gave him away-he was just trying to say the right thing.