The Death Cure (18 page)

It went on to talk about a five- to seven-day incubation period and the symptoms—how such things as irritability and trouble with balance were early warning signs, followed by dementia, paranoia and severe aggression later on. Thomas had witnessed them all firsthand, having crossed paths with Cranks on more than one occasion.

Red Shirt gave Thomas a slight shove and they continued walking. As they made their way, Thomas couldn’t stop thinking about the poster’s dire message. The part about the Flare’s being manmade not only haunted him, it tickled something in his brain, a memory he couldn’t quite latch on to. Even though the sign didn’t say it outright, he knew
there was something else, and for the first time in a while he wished he could access the past for just a moment.

“It’s right up here.”

Red Shirt’s voice pulled him back to the present. A small white car waited at the end of the block, just a few dozen feet down the street. Thomas desperately tried to think of a way out of this—if he got in that vehicle it might all be over. But could he really risk getting shot?

“You’re going to slide nice and easy into the backseat,” Red Shirt said. “I’ve got some cuffs in there, and I’m going to watch you put them on yourself. You think you can handle that without doing something stupid?”

Thomas didn’t respond. He hoped desperately that Minho and the others were close, making a plan. He needed someone or something to distract his captor.

They reached the car and Red Shirt pulled out a key card and pressed it to the front passenger window. The locks clicked and he opened the back door, his gun trained on Thomas the whole time.

“Get in. Easy does it.”

Thomas hesitated, searching the streets for anyone, anything. The area was deserted, but out of the corner of his eye he noticed movement. A hovering machine almost as large as a car. He spun to look and the cop machine swerved onto the street two blocks down and started heading their way. A humming sound grew louder as it approached.

“I said get in,” Red Shirt repeated. “The cuffs are in the console in the middle.”

“One of those cop machine things is coming,” Thomas said.

“Yeah, so what? It’s just patrolling, sees this stuff all the time. The people controlling it are on my side, not yours. Which is tough luck for you, big fella.”

Thomas sighed—it had been worth a shot. Where were his friends?
He scanned the area one last time, then stepped up to the open door and slipped inside. Just as he looked up at Red Shirt the air filled with the sound of heavy gunfire. Then Red Shirt was stumbling backward, jerking and twitching. Bullets tore into his chest, sparks flying as they hit the metal mask. He dropped his gun, and his mask fell off as he slammed into the wall of the closest building. Thomas watched in stunned horror as the man slumped onto his side.

Then it stopped. Thomas was frozen, wondering if he’d be shot next. He heard the steady hum of the machine as it hovered just outside his open door, and he realized that it had been the source of the attack. The things were unmanned but heavily armed. A familiar voice rang out from a speaker on its roof.

“Get out of the car, Thomas.”

Thomas shivered. He would know that voice anywhere.

It was Janson. The Rat Man.

Thomas couldn’t have been more surprised. He hesitated at first but quickly scooted out of the car. The cop machine hovered only a few feet away. A panel had opened on its side, revealing a screen from which Janson’s face stared back at him.

Relief flooded him. It
was
Rat Man, but he wasn’t in the cop machine—there was just a video feed of his image. Thomas could only assume that the man could see him as well. “What happened?” he asked, still stunned. He tried to avert his eyes from the man now lying on the ground. “How’d you find me?”

Janson was as grim-faced as ever. “It took a considerable amount of effort and luck, trust me. And you’re welcome. I just saved you from this bounty hunter.”

Thomas let out a laugh. “You’re the ones paying them anyway. What do you want?”

“Thomas, I’m going to be frank with you. The only reason we haven’t come to Denver to retrieve you is because the infection rate is astronomical. This was our safest means of contacting you. I’m urging you to bring yourself in and complete the testing.”

Thomas wanted to scream at the man. Why would he return to WICKED? But the Red Shirt’s attack—his body only feet away—was too clear in his mind. He had to play this right. “Why would I come back?”

Janson’s expression was blank. “We’ve been using our data to select
a Final Candidate, and you’re the one. We need you, Thomas. It all rests on your shoulders.”

Not in a million years
, Thomas thought. But saying that wouldn’t get rid of the Rat Man. Instead he cocked his head and pretended to consider, then said, “I’ll think about it.”

“I trust you will.” The Rat Man paused. “There’s something I feel obligated to tell you. Mainly because I think it will influence your decision. Make you realize that you have to do what we’re asking.”

Thomas had leaned back against the rounded hood of the car—the whole ordeal had exhausted him emotionally and physically. “What?”

The Rat Man’s face screwed up to look even rattier, as if he reveled in telling bad news. “It’s about your friend, Newt. I’m afraid he’s in a tremendous amount of trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?” Thomas asked, his stomach dropping.

“I know you’re well aware that he has the Flare, and that you’ve already seen some of its effects taking place.”

Thomas nodded, suddenly remembering the note in his pocket. “Yeah.”

“Well, he seems to be succumbing to it rapidly. The fact that you were already seeing symptoms of anger and loss of concentration before you left means he’ll be spiraling into madness very soon.”

Thomas felt a fist clutch his heart. He’d accepted that Newt wasn’t immune, but he’d thought it would take weeks, or months even, before it got really bad. Yet Janson had made sense—that the stress of everything seemed to be making Newt fall fast. And they’d left him all alone outside the city.

“You could very well save him,” Janson said quietly.

“You enjoying this?” Thomas asked. “Because sometimes it seems like you enjoy it a lot.”

Janson shook his head. “I’m just doing my job, Thomas. I want this
cure more than anyone else. Except for you, maybe, before we took away your memories.”

“Just go,” Thomas said.

“I hope you’ll come,” Janson replied. “You have a chance to do great things. I’m sorry for our differences. But Thomas, you need to hurry. Time is running out.”

“I’ll think about it.” Thomas forced himself to say it again. It made him sick to pacify the Rat Man, but it was the only thing he could think to say to buy himself time. And there was the possibility that if he didn’t stall Janson, he could end up like Red Shirt—shot down by this cop machine hovering a few feet in front of him.

Janson smiled. “That’s all I can ask for. I hope to see you here.”

The screen blacked out and the panel closed; then the cop machine rose into the air and flew away, its hum slowly fading. Thomas watched until it disappeared around a corner. When it was gone, his eyes fell upon the dead man. He quickly looked away—that was the last thing he wanted to see.

“There he is!”

He whipped his head around to see Minho running down the sidewalk toward him, Brenda and Jorge close behind. Thomas had never been so happy to see anyone.

Minho pulled up short when he saw Red Shirt in a heap on the ground. “Holy … What happened to
him
?” He turned his attention to Thomas. “And you? You okay? Did you do that?”

Absurdly, Thomas felt like laughing. “Yeah, I pulled out my machine gun and blasted him to tiny bits.”

Minho’s face showed that he didn’t appreciate the sarcasm, but Brenda spoke before he could come up with a retort.

“Who killed him?”

Thomas pointed at the sky. “One of those cop machines. Flew in
here, shot him to death, then next thing I know the Rat Man appears on a screen. He tried to convince me that I need to go back to WICKED.”

“Dude,” Minho said, “you can’t even—”

“Give me some credit!” Thomas yelled. “There’s no way I’d go back, but maybe them needing me so much could help us at some point. What we should worry about is Newt. Janson thinks that Newt’s succumbing to the Flare a lot faster than average. We have to go check on him.”

“He really said that?”

“Yeah.” Thomas felt bad for blowing up at his friend. “And I believe him on this. You saw how Newt’s been acting.”

Minho stared at Thomas, his eyes filled with pain. It hit Thomas that Minho had known Newt for two years longer than he had. So much more time to grow close.

“We better check on him somehow,” Thomas repeated. “Do something for him.”

Minho just nodded and looked away. Thomas was tempted to pull Newt’s note out of his pocket and read it right then and there, but he’d promised he’d wait until he knew for sure the time was right.

“It’s getting late,” Brenda said. “And they don’t let people in and out of the city at night—it’s hard enough to keep things under control during the day.”

Thomas noticed for the first time that the light was beginning to fade, the sky above the buildings taking on an orange hue.

Jorge, who’d been quiet until then, spoke up. “That’s the least of our problems. Something weird’s going on around this place,
muchachos
.”

“What do you mean?” Thomas asked.

“All the people seem to have vanished in the last half hour, and the few I’ve seen don’t look right.”

“That scene at the coffee shop
did
send everyone scattering,” Brenda pointed out.

Jorge shrugged. “I don’t know. This city is just giving me the creeps,
hermana
. Like it’s alive and waiting to unleash something really nasty.”

A strange unease crawled up Thomas’s spine and he turned his focus back to Newt. “Can we get out there if we hurry? Or can we break out?”

“We can try,” Brenda said. “Better hope we can find a cab, though—we’re on the other side of the city from where we came in.”

“Let’s try it,” Thomas offered.

They took off down the street, but the look on Minho’s face wasn’t good. Thomas sure hoped it wasn’t a sign of bad things to come.

They walked for an hour and didn’t see a single car, much less a cab. They ran into only a few scattered people, and cop machines let out their eerie hum as they flew by at random. Every few minutes they’d hear a sound in the distance that brought memories of the Scorch back to Thomas—someone talking too loudly, a scream, an odd laugh. As the light faded to darkness, he began to feel more and more spooked.

Finally Brenda stopped and faced the rest of them. “We’ll have to wait till tomorrow,” she announced. “We’re not going to find transportation tonight and we’re too far to walk. We need to sleep so we’ll be fresh in the morning.”

Thomas hated to admit it, but she was right.

“There’s gotta be a way to get out there,” Minho countered.

Jorge squeezed his shoulder. “It’s useless,
hermano
. The airport’s at least ten miles from here. And by the looks of this town we’d get mugged or shot or beaten to death on the way. Brenda’s right—better to rest up and go help him tomorrow.”

Thomas could tell Minho wanted to be his usual defiant self, but he gave in without arguing. Jorge made too much sense. They were in a huge city, at night, completely out of their element.

“Are we close to our motel?” Thomas asked. He told himself that Newt could make it through one more night alone.

Jorge pointed to his left. “Just a few blocks.”

They headed in that direction.

They were a block away when Jorge pulled up short, holding one hand in the air and putting a finger to his lips with the other. Thomas stopped dead in his tracks, alarm suddenly tingling through his nerves.

“What?” Minho whispered.

Jorge turned in a slow circle, scanning the area around them, and Thomas did the same, wondering what had suddenly made the older man so apprehensive. Darkness had completely fallen, and the few streetlights they passed barely put a dent in it. The world Thomas could see seemed made of shadows, and he imagined horrible things hiding behind every one of them.

“What?” Minho whispered again.

“I keep thinking I hear something right behind us,” Jorge replied. “Whispering. Anyone else—”

“There!” Brenda shouted, her voice like a crack of thunder in the silence. “Did you see that?” She was pointing off to her left.

Thomas strained to look but saw nothing. The streets were empty as far as he could tell.

“Someone was just coming out from behind that building, then jumped back. I swear I saw it.”

“Hey!” Minho yelled. “Who’s over there?”

“Are you crazy?” Thomas whispered. “Let’s get inside the motel!”

“Slim it, dude. If they wanted to shoot us or something, don’t you think they would’ve done it by now?”

Thomas just sighed in exasperation. He didn’t like the feel of this at all.

“I should’ve said something when I first heard it,” Jorge said.

“Maybe it’s nothing,” Brenda responded. “And if it is, standing around won’t help. Let’s just get out of here.”

“Hey!” Minho yelled again, making Thomas jump. “Hey, you! Who’s over there?”

Thomas smacked him on the shoulder. “Seriously, would you stop that?”

His friend ignored him. “Come out and show yourself!”

Whoever it was didn’t respond. Minho moved like he was going to walk across the street and take a look, but Thomas grabbed him by the arm.

“No way. Worst idea in history. It’s dark, it could be a trap, it could be a lot of terrible things. Let’s just get some sleep and keep a better eye out tomorrow.”

Minho didn’t put up much of an argument. “Fine. Be a wuss. But I get one of the beds tonight.”

And with that they went up to their room. It took forever for Thomas to fall asleep, his mind spinning with the possibilities of who might be following them. But no matter where his thoughts wandered, they always came back to Teresa and the others. Where were they? Could that have been Teresa out on the street, spying on them? Or had it been Gally and the Right Arm?