Just like the Griever's Hole, the dead men hung by hooks, the Rat Man, the Cranks and the brick walls, Minho had hopes that Frankie's death was just another illusion. As much as he tried to distance himself from disappointment, this was one thing he...
"THANKS TO MR. Minho over there, we all didn't get much sleep last night," Jorge sneered, "But I'm only going over this once, so shut your mouths and pay attention!"
The man stood halfway through the stack of rubble so he could be seen by everyone, despite the fact that there were only fourteen people to begin with.
"Pair up and scour the city for any sign of Thomas and Brenda. Make sure to remember what I did yesterday —lay low, be stealth. Never kill a Crank unless it's alone, or you will definitely be eaten alive. If you find any food or weaponries, that's good, so bring them here.
"When the sun's high up in the air, get back here. If you see those two, get back here immediately. WICKED girl's gonna be here the whole time —don't be stupid and die trying to save them alone. Trust me, you need us.
"South is where we came from. So we need... seven groups. There are eleven of you, five. Who here don't mind walking with Reggie?"
"Not Frankie?"
"Frances," Reggie said with deliberate emphasization of her current name, "is off-limit."
"She's guarding the base camp," Jorge's voice rang through the abandoned building, "Who's going with Reggie?"
Murmurs and pointed fingers erupted within the small group, until Jorge interjected again, "Just pick the weakest one. Come on —he ain't biting."
Minho smugly raised his eyebrows at that. He folded his arms, showing his biceps.
Someone interjected, "Newt has a limp."
"Newt's good with me," Minho spoke up.
"Aris."
"Hey!"
"What? You're skinny."
"Definitely not me."
"Not Jason."
"Joey?"
"This is mad, Jorge. They're yapping like idiots. I'll just go on my own," Reggie retorted with a yawn.
"No."
"I'm not going to run away!" He groaned.
"No. How about that guy with funny name... Who's that, Frypan?"
"He's good with knives," Frankie said. That one sentence of four words touched Frypan's heart, and he couldn't stop a grin to form on his face.
"Just go with him."
"He's with Marc."
"Aris, right? He seems breakable."
"I'm not going with him," Reggie grumbled with a tone of finality.
"Go with Doug," Frankie interjected.
Doug's head whipped to meet her eyes in awe. She remembered me.
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"Why?"
"He's strong, but he's not trained around knives."
"Alright, it's settled then," Jorge clapped, "Who here has weapons?"
Jorge smiled in satisfaction when he saw that nobody rose their hands.
"Good. Now that I know that no one will kill me in my sleep—"
("I can kill him in his sleep with my shucking bare hands," Minho grumbled to Newt)
"Get in line, two by two. Take your share of knife from Frances and Reggie, then get."
"Hey, old man!" Minho raised his hand, "Do I get the chance to talk?"
"Why?"
"I am the leader."
"Says who?"
"Says the sign on my neck," Minho pointed to his nape, where the ink tattoo glinted under the sunlight.
Jorge smirked, "Okay. One minute."
Her mind fleeted to her own marking, and she forced herself to stop being pitiful on herself. Stop thinking about the tattoo. Stop thinking altogether, actually.
"Alright, you shanks! I don't want to see anyone runnin' back with so much as a graze or a buggin' scratch. No funny business or I'll kill you shuckfaces myself. Good that?"
Frankie found herself mumbling back, "Good that," toughtlessly.
"Quick! Time is money!" Jorge hollered.
Frankie tried her best to avoid the judging looks from her fellow Gladers. She glued her gaze onto the floor as she stripped herself from her hidden armaments and handed them over to the boys.
Two knives from her boots plus two from the fold of her pants for Jacob and Frypan.
Two from her pockets plus two from her the inside of her jacket for Marc and Clint.
Lastly, two hidden in her sleeves plus two in her backpack for Minho and Newt.
"Be careful," she mumbled almost inaudibly.
"Hey, Frances!" Reggie called before anyone had the chance to response, "Got yours?"
Frankie lifted one side of her T-shirt a bit to reveal a polished gun in a holster and two knives hung on the latches of her pants. She patted the revolver twice.
Dean, a Glader, whistled in awe at the assortment of arms the WICKED duo had hidden in their bodies.
"Alrighty, then. No funny business, you hear me? Come on, Dog, we're taking Southeast."
"It's Doug," the young boy frowned but followed the his lead anyway.
Aris shuffled over with his back slouched and his hands slipped into his pockets, "Hey, sorry about yesterday."
Frankie glanced at him and noticed the bright blue color splattered all around his cheekbone, courtesy of Reggie's punch from yesterday.
She shrugged, "Yeah, sure."
"Whoa!"
Doug's sudden exclaim captured everyone's attention. He was gripping tightly onto the edge of an open window, probably where Reggie had jumped a few stories down from. That guy and his theatrical stunts.
