The Immunity Illness

CHAPTER 16, Minho

He was mad. He was mad about a lot of things. Teresa had explained to him in the complex—with his fists chained down—how he'd have to watch Thomas break first. His immunity sucked, plain and simple. There was no traceable rhyme or reason to it, she'd said. Minho was angry about that. It had stung to listen to her say how he'd have to be strong, because if he wasn't, the Trial would fail and Gally's sacrifice would be for nothing. "Hold on to Thomas for as long as you can". She'd had the nerve to tell him that to his face. The audacity.
Well, he was sure trying to. He'd held on so tightly to Thomas while he'd kicked and thrashed, while his pupils held no recognition and he'd screamed like his body was getting mowed over by a truck. Minho now sympathized with the term used to describe the Cranks, being gone. Because when he'd looked at Thomas, he had been gone. There'd been nothing left of him for one terrifying moment.
He packed the last of the materials into the box with a little too much force. A couple of granola bars crunched under the weight. Minho turned to Thomas, scrutinizing him up and down.
"Can you walk?" he inquired.
"Yeah, I can walk fine." Thomas peered frigidly at Isaac's unconscious body. "You knocked him out good, right?"
"What, do you want me to kick 'em again?"
"No, don't do that," he said, waving his hands. "Grab the knife, though. Put it in the box."
Minho pinched at the bloody blade in the sand and slipped it into the package. He brushed his hands on his jeans and jogged away from the rockbed, guiding Thomas on his heels. They rounded the Hill and their traction weakened as the sand converted to mud. A baby's wail carried across the camp. A few people were out fixing their tents. Minho attempted to be discreet about the box and tread faster, scanning the landscape for an unoccupied shelter.
Close by, a quilt-like tarp laid abandoned in the soggy grass, unsupported by the upright beams surrounding it. He decided to improvise, ordering Thomas to help him tug the giant woven blanket onto its poles. It was a challenge, but they got three sides of it up and functional again.
"Looks promising," Minho judged, setting the box down in the far corner of the shelter. He closed the flap and dressed in the damp darkness, cutting his ankle twice on a jutting plank of wood. The Serum vial was the trickiest part to reapply along his vertebral column, especially when he had to stick on the medical tape.
"Done in there yet?" Thomas badgered him.
"I'll be done when I'm done!" he squawked, hunching over to tie his shoelaces. After adjusting his shirt collar, he picked Thomas's items out of the package. Minho ducked out of the tent and slapped the pile of clothing, essentials and Serum into his arms. "We can use the shampoo and crap tomorrow."
Thomas gave him a small nod, not meeting his eyes. He disappeared into the tent and didn't come out for another five to seven minutes.
When he reemerged, the package shuddered in his grasp.
Minho's lips thinned. "Lemme take that for you."
"No, I've got it."
"I can—"
"I said I've got it!" Thomas erupted.
He spun around and ambled down the path, exhibiting a visible heaviness to his step. Minho marched after him with reluctance, giving him space but not too much. When they curved around the bend by the Hill, he felt inclined to speak up.
"Please tell me what happened. Did you find Aris?"
Thomas's grip slipped on the box and he stumbled to regain it. "Aris is dead."
Minho's eyes widened. "You're sure?"
"I saw his body, man. And he wasn't crazy either. He was trying to explain something about Frypan or a Variable before Teresa made him forget it and blacked us out. When I went down to the beach, Aris was lying there in the sand. Then the Board tried to freaking drown me with this dude I met in the cave, and Isaac and Iris showed up out of the blue after that, but the body, Minho. Maybe if I'd gotten there sooner, maybe he wouldn't..." Thomas's voice cracked.
Minho reached for him, consoling,
"It's not your fault—"
"Yes it is!" Thomas bursted out, slamming the box into the mud. "It's all my fault and there's nothing I can do about it! I'm a murderer and a monster! All I do is get everyone killed." He cupped his face in his palms.
"That's not true. You're not a monster," Minho asserted.
"I am," came an afflicted moan. "I am, and the worst kind. You said it yourself on the Cliff. I show up in everyone's lives and get them hurt."
"I didn't mean that! For shuck's sake, none of this is your fault!" Minho advanced toward him and gripped onto his wrist like he'd done to rattle him out of the Flare. "You're not a monster," he reiterated, forcing Thomas to hold his gaze. "Do you hear me, Thomas? You're not."
Thomas blinked, fighting back tears. The inexplicable pain in the look shattered Minho; he did not believe him. A rude series of footsteps tramped across the field to them, partnered by Frypan's yell,
"Guys? Minho, why'd you zoom off like that? What's with all the shouting?"
Thomas broke out of his grasp and bent over to pick up the package.
"We had an issue with Isaac," Minho said, aggravated by the interruption. "It's resolved now."
"If you can wait till morning to fill me in on the details, tell me then. I'm beat." Frypan unfolded his jaw into a yawn.
Minho exchanged a long glance with Thomas. "Get some sleep," he finally answered.
Frypan stomped into a tent without another word. Minho stole the package for himself. Thomas opened his mouth to protest, but he hung his shoulders, withholding whatever was on his mind. They trudged back to the rockbed at a snail's pace, bone-weary and spent. Isaac lay face down in the sand. If he wasn't a WICKED spy, Minho might've felt bad for ramming him in his skull.
He carried the package to a crook in the rocks and squashed it into the wet grit. Thomas lugged himself to a large smooth stone and sat on it. He resembled his actual age, then. With his guard down, huddled so small, he passed for an actual sixteen year old. Shuck, he could have been seventeen by now. It wasn't like any of them were keeping track. Thomas seemed much older, though. They'd both endured a lifetime's worth of hardships.
Minho furrowed his brow at the unpleasant task ahead of them. He swiped the blanket from the box and took a seat next to Thomas, draping it gingerly over each of their shoulders. "We're gonna have to sleep in shifts to make sure the wacko over there doesn't make a run for it, or his sis doesn't come to slaughter us. I can take the first turn, if you want," he negotiated.
Thomas tugged his end of the beige cotton closer around himself, replying emptily,
"I'll do it."
Minho rotated to face him. "You mind if I stay up too? It's 'cause of the—"
"Nightmares?"
"Yeah."
Thomas mumbled in agreement and laid back on the wide malformed rock.