James Dashner - The Scorch Trials

Thomas held one end of the sheet up with his left hand and had a pack draped around his right shoulder. Aris was to his right; they’d agreed to trade off the now-much-heavier pack every thirty minutes. Step by dusty step, they made their way toward the town, the heat seeming to suck a full day of their life away every hundred yards.

They didn’t talk for a long while, but Thomas finally broke the silence. “So you’ve never heard the name Teresa before?”

Aris looked sharply at him, and Thomas realized he’d probably had a less-than-subtle hint of accusation in his voice. But he didn’t back down. “Well? Have you?”

Aris returned his gaze forward, but there was something suspicious there. “No. Never. I don’t know who she is or where she went. But at least you didn’t see her die right in front of you.”

That was a punch to the gut, but for some reason it made Thomas like Aris more. “I know, sorry.” He thought for a second before he asked the next questions. “How close were you guys? What was her name, again?”

“Rachel.” Aris paused, and for a second Thomas thought the conversation might be over already, but then he continued. “We were way more than close. Things happened. We remembered stuff. Made new memories.”

Thomas knew Minho would’ve laughed his face off at that last comment, but to him it sounded like the saddest three words he’d ever heard. He felt he had to say something-offer something. “Yeah. I did see a really good friend die, though. Every time I think about Chuck I get ticked off all over again. If they’ve done the same thing to Teresa, they won’t be able to stop me. Nothing will. They’ll all die.”

Thomas stopped-forcing Aris to as well-shocked that those words had just come out of his own mouth. It was like something else had taken over him and said those things. But he did feel it. Very strongly. “What do you think-”

But before he could finish the thought, Frypan started shouting. He was pointing at something.

It only took a second for Thomas to realize what had gotten the cook all excited.

Far ahead, from the direction of the town, two people were running toward them, their bodies like ghostly forms of darkness in the heat mirage, small plumes of dust rising from their feet.

Thomas stared at the runners. He sensed that the other Gladers around him had stopped as well, as if there’d been an unspoken command to do so. Thomas shivered, something that seemed completely impossible in the sweltering heat. He didn’t know why he felt the tickle of cold fear along his back-the Gladers outnumbered the approaching strangers almost ten times over-but the feeling was undeniable.

“Everyone pack in tighter,” Minho said. “And get ready to fight these shanks the first sign of trouble.”

The blurry mirage of upward-melting heat obscured the two figures until they were only a hundred yards or so away. Thomas’s muscles tensed when they came into focus. He remembered all too well what he’d seen through the barred window just a few mornings ago. The Cranks. But these people scared him in a different way.

They stopped just a couple of dozen feet in front of the Gladers. One was a man, the other a woman, though Thomas could only tell this from the lady’s slightly curvy figure. Other than that, they had the same build-tall and scrawny. Their heads and faces were almost completely covered in wrappings of tattered beige cloth, small ragged slits cut for them to see and breathe through. Their shirts and pants were a hodgepodge of filthy clothing sewn together, tied with ratty strips of denim in some places. Nothing was exposed to the beating sun but their hands, and those were red and cracked and scabby.

The two of them stood there, panting as they caught their breath, a sound like sick dogs.

“Who are you?” Minho called out.

The strangers didn’t respond, didn’t move. Their chests heaved in and out. Thomas observed them from under his makeshift hood-he couldn’t imagine how anyone could run so far and not die of heat exhaustion.

“Who are you?” Minho repeated.

Instead of answering, the two strangers split apart and started walking in a broad circle around the bunched-up Gladers. Their eyes, hidden behind the slits in those odd mummy wrappings, stayed fixed on the boys as they made their way in a wide arc, as if sizing them up for a kill. Thomas felt the tension inside him rise, hated when he could no longer see both of them at once. He turned around and watched as they met back up behind the group and once again faced them, standing still.

“There are a whole lot more of us than there are of you,” Minho said, his voice betraying his frustration. To threaten them so soon seemed desperate. “Start talking. Tell us who you are.”

“We’re Cranks.”

The two words came from the woman, a short burst of guttural annoyance. For no discernible reason she pointed across the Gladers back toward the town from which they’d run.

“Cranks?” Minho said; he had pushed his way through the crowd to be closest to the strangers again. “Just like the ones that tried to break into our building a couple days ago?”

Thomas cringed-these people would have no idea what Minho was talking about. Somehow the Gladers had traveled a long way from wherever that place had been-through the Flat Trans.

“We’re Cranks.” This time from the man, his voice surprisingly lighter and less gruff than the woman’s. But there was no kindness in it. He pointed over the Gladers just like his companion had done. “Came to see if you’re Cranks. Came to see if you’ve got the Flare.”

Minho turned to look at Thomas and then a few others, his eyebrows raised. No one said anything. He turned back. “Some dude told us we had the Flare, yeah. What can you tell us about it?”

“Don’t matter,” the man responded; the strips of cloth wrapped around his face jiggled with every word. “You got it, you’ll know soon enough.”

“Well, what do you bloody want?” Newt asked, stepping up to stand next to Minho. “What’s it matter to you if we’re Cranks or not?”

The woman responded this time, acting as if she hadn’t heard the questions. “How’d you get in the Scorch? Where’d you come from? How’d you get here?”

Thomas was surprised at the… intelligence evident in her words. The Cranks they’d seen back at the dorm had seemed absolutely insane, like animals. These people were aware enough to realize that their group had appeared out of nowhere. Nothing lay in the opposite direction from the town.

Minho leaned over to consult with Newt, then turned and stepped closer to Thomas. “What do we tell these people?”

Thomas had no clue. “I don’t know. The truth? It can’t hurt.”

“The truth?” Minho said sarcastically. “What an idea, Thomas. You’re freaking brilliant, as usual.” He faced the Cranks again. “We were sent here by WICKED. Came out of a hole just a little while that way, from a tunnel. We’re supposed to go one hundred miles to the north, cross the Scorch. Any of that mean a thing to you?”

Once again, it was as if they hadn’t heard a word he’d said.

“Not all Cranks are gone,” the man said. “Not all of them are past the Gone.” He said that last word in a way that made it sound like the name of a place. “Different ones at different levels. Best you learn who to make friends with and who to avoid. Or kill. Better learn right quick if you’re coming our way.”

“What’s your way?” Minho asked. “You came from that town, right? Is that where all these Cranks live? Is there food and water there?”

Thomas felt the same urge as Minho-to ask a million questions. He was half tempted to suggest they capture these two Cranks and make them answer. But for the moment the pair didn’t seem intent on helping at all, and they split again to circle back around to the side of the Gladers closest to the town.