The Immunity Illness

CHAPTER 4

Thomas laid down in the field that night with a purpose. His mind ran rampant with predicaments, but the drowsiness of the concussion engulfed him.
***
He's fourteen, and it's a December afternoon. The impressively large monitor in front of him broadcasts live feed of the Glade, where Alby and Newt are bickering about something in the Deadheads. After scribbling a few observatory notes on his pad, Thomas leans closer to the screen and presses a button for its volume to turn on. The room automatically fills with faint audio of someone wailing and a harsh banter between the two boys.
"—shank looks and sounds like a buggin' freakshow. Got me thinkin' we injected him with alien venom or something."
Alby walks around the bench between him and Newt and plops onto it. Scowls mark their faces.
"But he ain't dead," Alby argues. "That counts for somethin', right? Could've gone all wacko like Georgie did, but nope, he's pullin' through all right and fine like Gally did a few months ago."
Newt puffs out a humorless laugh, pointing angrily at the Homestead across the lawn. "You call that all right and fine? The Med-jacks are up to their arses tryin' to keep Doug from hacking out his bloody vocal cords and you call that fine? I'm gonna go deaf if this goes on for another hour. Gally's fits were nothin' like this shank's."
Alby fitfully drums his fingers against the metal armrest. He dips his head back on the seat to glance up at Newt.
"Call it whatever you like—nice, fine, dandy, I don't give a fat klunk. But he ain't dead, and Clint says he's gettin' better by the minute. That shows that the Serum definitely works for something, and the next time someone decides to antagonize our Griever friends out in the Maze, we'll always be prepared with our shiny miracle antidote."
"If that torture juice is our shiny miracle antidote, then we oughta been some mastermind criminals to land our heinies out here."
Alby snorts, and they both flinch as another grueling shriek reverberates throughout the Glade.
A door swings open behind Thomas, ripping his fixation off the monitor. He whirls around in his seat to discover Dr. Paige peering at him from the hallway, and his instinct tells him something is wrong.
"Dr. Paige," he stutters, straightening from his chair. "What's—"
She motions for him to follow and closes the door, leaving it slightly ajar for him. Anxiety brews in his stomach as he strolls out of the observation room to accompany her. She leads him across the facility, explaining,
"My staff and I have convened and agreed to introduce another project to you and Teresa, since you've proven yourselves more than worthy with the construction of the Maze."
"What kind of project?" he blurts out, unmasking his eagerness. The line of Dr. Paige's lips twitches upwards, but she provides him with no satisfaction in her answer.
"Patience, Thomas. You'll receive more details once we join Randall and Teresa in the conference room."
The image changes, like a movie switching scenes, to a technical room with arrays of notes and visuals scattered on a narrow desk. Teresa is already there, and so is Randall. When he enters through the doorway, they lock eyes with each other.
What's up with this? he mumbles to her in his thoughts.
She sends a mental image of her shrugging while he seats himself adjacently to her. Paige sits down rigidly at the end of the table and shoots a pointed glance at Randall. On cue, he nods to himself, flipping through one of the packets strewn about them.
"Ahem," the man grunts. He recites robotically off the page, "In the digital spectrum, there are endless layouts for trials and Variables, many of which go unused. Psychs worldwide often calculate their deductions based on metaphorical data sequences that conjure predicted killzone patterns; many of these artificial patterns become helpful in material experiments. Dr. Paige and I have decided it beneficial to assign you two Elites the tasks of designing singular trials. This is to better study your methods of technical input and creativity. Thomas will be partnering with me, and Teresa with Paige. The project should not last more than a week. It's a skill-booster activity, nothing more."
Randall looks up from the packet to grant them a weak smile. It doesn't reach his eyes. Dr. Paige's is more genuine, but Thomas thinks she appears more frazzled than usual. He pivots in his chair to eyeball Teresa for her reaction. She's busy examining the papers in front of them, fascinated by one in particular.
"What's this Endtime Trial?" she murmurs to nobody specifically. Dr. Paige grasps at the opportunity to speak.
"What you'll be working on with me. We're going to be analyzing multiple biomes and geographical outlines today. I assume you might enjoy it, actually. Randall, explain to Thomas what his task will be."
"Certainly," he says gruffly.
Thomas can't prevent the nervous edge that tickles the hairs on his skin. He hates Randall, and spending a week with him sounds unbearable. The man continues on in a blank tone,
"You and I are going to plot a false escape to the city of Denver. Picture it: a group of haggard subjects become convinced they are finally freed into a strange new climate. They encounter an insurgent agency to the WICKED cause and devote their trust to it, only to be betrayed in the end when they realize the agency is not real. False security is a strong stimulator of the killzone, Thomas. With that information at hand, we can use this...outlandish scenario to implement similar Variables into the Maze Trials."
Thomas stares at him, unblinking. He allows Randall's proposition to sink in.
"And you're positive all this stuff is hypothetical?" he inquires skeptically.
Dr. Paige bends toward him and clasps her hands together. She shoots him a tender smile. "Absolutely. I would never lie to you, Thomas. All hypothetical, not real. Make believe." She chuckles and draws her chair back with a screech. "I thought this project would be a couple of fun brain teasers, and, if I'm being honest, a good break from the monotony. Even adults get bored sometimes."
Teresa stands with her and bobs her head, although her gaze doesn't leave the Endtime paper.
"Sounds fun," she expresses cautiously. "When do we get started?"
"Right now, if you'd like," Randall butts in. "But you're more than welcome to have some breakfast first."
***
He awoke unexpectedly and grasped tightly at the memories before they drifted away. It all somewhat made sense now. It all made perfect sense.
He was the only person not asleep. People dozed everywhere with their innocent faces at rest, and Thomas carefully stepped over them, sneaking through the tallgrass to locate Minho. He'd curled himself up against a nearby tree, twitching as he fought a nightmare.
At first, Thomas didn't do anything. He wanted one last moment of calm before everything went wrong again. But after a short yawn, he knelt down so he was in front of Minho's snoring head. Without hesitation, he flicked him on the cheek with two fingers. A hand reflexively latched onto his outstretched wrist. When Minho saw who he was, he relaxed a bit. Thomas held a finger to his lips and waved for him to follow.
Together, they weaved through the Horizoners. He didn't know where he was going, but it had to be a place where absolutely no one would hear. When they reached as far as the Woods, he stopped to lean on a scrawny tree. Leaves drooped down on them, occasionally hitting Thomas's forehead when he stood too tall.
"Why'd you drag me out here before sunrise? This better be good," Minho pried.
"I had another memory pop up in my dreams. And I think...I think I know the story behind this place."
This perked Minho up. He acted electrified as he pressed,
"Well, don't just stand there, spit it out!"
"Yeah, yeah. So, WICKED must not have had enough data on its blueprint during the Maze Trials. Dr.—I mean Chancellor Paige assigned Teresa and I tasks to create last minute scenarios extending the Trials. I'm talking past the Scorch Trials type of extensions. We were tricked into believing they were fake. Minho, I designed the Denver Trial with some dude named Randall. It must have been a way to move us all from the complex in Alaska to the one here, wherever here is. The point is that Teresa was behind all of the Horizon—the Endtime Trial—with Paige, and maybe she still is."
"Wait, huh? How'd they have time to build a second giant cage without you knowing?"
"Your guess is as good as mine. Paige must have had to pull some major strings."
Minho chuckled dryly, picking at the bark of a tree trunk with his nail. "I'd figure. When Teresa contacted you, what did she say?"
"That someone was faking being our ally or something."
"Oh, then Brenda."
Thomas swatted him off. "Be reasonable."
"Just sayin', she broke the Flat Trans and burned down the shed. Doesn't get fishier than that."
"Harriet was out of pocket with that. Brenda was trying to protect us, and what about Gally? He spent days behind the scenes with the Right Arm. And Aris? That dude wants me dead."
Minho shook his head. "Gally may be a slinthead, but he's no turncoat. I'll keep my eyes on Aris."
Thomas's thoughts swirled with revelations. He yawned again, conflicted. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry for everything I've put you through. I've ruined your lives—"
"Ugh, no more apologizing. You could feed a whole nation with your apologies. That was the old you, some freakoid offspring of WICKED. That's not who you are anymore. You get me?"
"Yes," he muttered, slumping against his tree. "Sorry for"—Minho groaned at him—"waking you. We should go back to sleep while we can. Who knows the next time we'll rest."
"Nah, man, I'm staying up. Sleep hasn't exactly come with happy thoughts."
Thomas had a temptation to badger him about the nightmares. When it came to Minho, the guy was nearly indestructible. He wondered what torment haunted him this time. Was it the Grievers? The fleshy giants with the orange bulbs? Men with Launchers? Cranks? Newt? The list never ended. Thomas doubted it ever would. He held his tongue, deciding that Minho's experiences were better left unexplored.
"I'd rather not jog back to the field. I'm gonna try to sleep here," Thomas replied instead.
"Good that." Minho turned away and wandered to an unknown destination.
Thomas slouched to the earth floor, pulverizing a hill of twigs underneath his jeans. The settlement seemed microscopic from where he was, barren and undeveloped. They would have to keep the Immunes away from the Walls for as long as possible. Thomas squeezed his eyelids shut. So much to do. And he couldn't fathom ever being as naïve as he'd been in his dream.
       Tom?
A voice in his mind. Her voice. Clear as day, as familiar as a thumb print. A part of him lit up at hearing her again, knowing he hadn't imagined it.
      Tom, are you there? We don't have much time.
She put him at a loss. One half of him wanted to jump up, fists raised high in the air, yodeling for joy. The other half yearned to scream at her to go away or be dead again. Teresa had gotten her memories back. She'd known about the Endtime for a long period and didn't think to bring it up once. He had every reason not to trust her. She was a traitor and a liar like he'd guessed forever ago. Eventually, his two instincts joined to form the words,
       Yeah, I'm here. What do you want?
A short pause. He could tell that she was preparing to say something important.
       For you to meet me at what you call the 'Cliff', alone. They could find out I'm here any minute, so please hurry.
Thomas stifled a gasp. He'd accepted she was dead, and now to see her face to face? Alone? He couldn't imagine Minho's reaction. Reluctantly, he said to her,
       I'll be there in five. If this is another trap, you'll be sorry. I'm done with your lies.
       Please, you have no idea how many threats I was under. I couldn't tell you about Phases Four and Five even if I tried.
Save it, Teresa. I said I'll be there. Don't give me a reason to change my mind.
Tom, I...
She stopped, thinking the better of what she was going to say. Thomas was glad she did. Rather languidly, he got to his feet and darted through the field, transcending through the sleeping mass. Somehow, he managed not to trip on anyone in the thick darkness. It was too gloomy to see the Cliff in full resolution, but Thomas swore he made out a shadow shifting on its edge. She sat there waiting for him, as material and alive as ever.
The salty ocean air grew potent. He clenched and unclenched his fingers, and the impression hit him that he felt like a child again, confused beyond his wit.
"Teresa?" he called out, more evenly than he'd expected.
The silhouette turned. Gentle moonlight spilled onto its face. Her face. She wore a spotless white overcoat, showing no sign of her previous injuries. Teresa nodded to the spot beside her. She analyzed him like all the other members of WICKED did, although with a bit less formality. He couldn't help but compare the Teresa he'd been best friends with to the one he met now. The differences were tragically drastic.
Thomas seated himself next to her, putting noticeable space between them. He dangled his feet off the overhang while the suspense began to itch at him.
"I thought I'd never see you again," she murmured.
"Same goes to you," Thomas said cooly.
"How much do you remember?"
"Enough."
"Then you know that we created this. You worked with Randall on Denver, and I with Chancellor Paige on the Endtime."
"Who even is Randall? I saw him in my dream."
Teresa's eyes glazed over as she debated what to tell him. "Randall was one of the guys who oversaw our progress growing up. He caught the Flare and you had to kill him."
He felt dirty committing a crime he couldn't remember. Thomas widened his eyes.
"I killed him? How could you hold this from me? Whatever happened to trust?" The rise in his tone brought a fresh wave of pain to his temples, and he had to remind himself that the Immunes were less than a hundred yards away.
"Tom, we need a cure. I had to keep it from you, don't you understand? If we hadn't gone through with Denver and the Endtime after the Scorch Trials, we would've been left with an incomplete blueprint. And the real safe haven you're thinking of—it doesn't exist. This is the closest you'll get to it. The world's a sunbaked pile of dirt and Cranks."
Thomas didn't reply, so furious that he couldn't create a decent comeback. He raised a shaky finger at her. Nothing but coldness filled his next demand.
"Why are you here?"
"I-I...Tom, you're not the Final Candidate anymore. I want to get you out of here. You can believe me when I say that everything is going to get worse. Awful things are going to happen."
"How did you get in here?"
"I hacked into the security systems, disabled the cameras and alarms, then broke my way in."
"Where's the entrance, then?" he coaxed, finally getting somewhere with her.
"I can't tell you unless I'm positive you'll come with me."
Thomas took a second to rack his brain for more questions, settling on,
"Who can't I listen to? You said I couldn't listen to someone before you cut off our communication the last time."
"I can't tell you that either. All I can put out is that you'll be betrayed again."
"By who, Teresa? Aris? Gally? Brenda? Say it, slinthead, say it!" Thomas clutched her arm and squeezed it.
Teresa became visually fearful of him. "I can't, it's classified! Everything is classified! Please, Tom, let go of me."
It required everything in him to remove his hand from her sleeve. A ruthless heat coursed through his veins.
"Give me a valid reason why I should abandon all of my friends here in this torture chamber you built," he seethed.
Teresa allowed a drawn out pause, and it reeked of unease. Thomas felt his stomach drop when she spoke again.
"They want to kill you and Minho, and trust me, they have reason to."