But why was Aris here now? And where was Teresa? Things that had almost started to click in his mind fell apart again.
"Well, how'd you end up with us?" Newt asked. "Where are all these girls you keep talking about? How many of them escaped with you? Did they bring all of you here or just you?"
Thomas couldn't help but feel sorry for Aris. To get grilled with all these questions after something like that had happened. If the roles were switched, if Thomas had seen Teresa get killed ... Watching it happen to Chuck had been bad enough.
Bad enough? he thought. Or was seeing Chuck die worse? Thomas wanted to scream. At that moment, everything in the world just sucked.
Aris looked up finally, wiped a couple of tears from his cheeks. He did it without the slightest hint of shame, and Thomas suddenly knew that he liked this kid.
"Look," the boy said. "I'm just as confused as everyone else. About thirty of us survived, they took us to that gym, fed us, cleaned us up. Then they brought me to this place last night, saying I should be separate since I'm a guy. That's it. Then you sticks show up."
"Sticks?" Minho repeated.
Aris shook his head. "Never mind. I don't even know what it means. Just a word they used when I got there."
Minho exchanged a glance with Thomas, half smiling. Looked like both groups had come up with their own vocabulary.
"Hey," one of the Gladers Thomas didn't really know called out. He was leaning against the wall behind Aris, pointing at him. "What's that on the side of your neck? Something black, right below your collar."
Aris tried to look down, but couldn't bend his neck to see that part of his body. "What?"
Thomas saw a dark splotch just above the back neckline of the boy's pajama shirt as he shifted around. It appeared to be a thick line, stretching from the hollow of his collarbone around to his back. And it was broken up, like it might be lettering.
"Here, let me look," Newt offered. He stood from the bed and walked over, his limp―from something in the past he'd never shared with Thomas―showing more than usual. He reached out and pulled Aris's shirt down more so he could see the odd marking better.
"It's a tattoo," Newt said, squinting as if he didn't believe his eyes.
"What's it say?" Minho asked, though he'd already gotten up from the bed and approached to get his own look.
When Newt didn't answer right away, curiosity forced Thomas to his feet, and soon he was right beside Minho, leaning over to see the tattoo himself. What he saw printed there in blocky letters made his heart skip a beat.
Property of WICKED. Group B, Subject B1. The Partner.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Minho asked.
"What does it say?" Aris asked, reaching around to feel the skin of his neck and shoulders, pulling his shirt collar down. "I swear it wasn't there last night!"
Newt repeated the words to him, then said, "Property of WICKED? I thought we'd escaped them. Or you'd escaped them, too. Whatever." He turned around, visibly frustrated, and went back to sit down on his bed.
"And why would it call you the Partner?" Minho said, still staring at the tattoo.
Aris shook his head. "I don't have a clue. I swear. And there's no way that was there before last night. I showered, looked in the mirror. I would've seen it. And someone would've noticed it back in the Maze for sure."
"You're telling me they tattooed you in the middle of the night?" Minho said. "Without you noticing? Come on, dude."
"I swear!" Aris insisted. Then he got up and went to the bathroom, probably to try to see the words for himself.
"I don't believe a shuck word he says," Minho whispered to Thomas on his way back to his seat. Then, just as he leaned forward to plop back down on the mattress, his shirt shifted enough to reveal a thick line of black on his neck.
"Whoa!" Thomas said. For a second, he was too stunned to move.
"What?" Minho asked, looking at Thomas as if he'd just sprouted a third ear on his forehead.
"Your―your neck," Thomas finally got out. "You have it on your neck, too!"
"What the shuck you talkin' about?" Minho said, pulling at his shirt, face scrunched up as he struggled to see something he couldn't.
Thomas ran over to Minho, slapped his hands away, then pulled the neckline of the shirt back. "Holy ... It's right there! Same thing, except ..."
Thomas read the words to himself.
Property of WICKED. Group A, Subject A7. The Leader.
"What, dude!" Minho yelled at him.
Most of the other Gladers had gathered in a tight group behind Thomas, squeezing in to get a look. Thomas quickly read the tattooed words out loud, surprised he did it without stumbling on them.
"You're kiddin' me, man," Minho said, standing up. He pushed his way through the crowd of boys to follow Aris to the bathroom.
And then the frenzy began. Thomas felt his own shirt tugged down as he pulled at others. Everyone started talking over everyone else.
"They all say Group A."
"Property of WICKED, just like his."
"You're Subject A-thirteen."
"Subject A-nineteen."
"A-three."
"A-ten."
Thomas was slowly turning in a circle, dazed as he watched the Gladers discover the tattoos on each other. Most of them didn't have the additional designations like Aris and Minho, just the property line. Newt was going from boy to boy, looking for himself, his face set in stone as if he were concentrating on memorizing the names and numbers. Then, quite by accident, the two of them stood facing each other.
"What does mine say?" Newt asked.
Thomas pulled the neckline of Newt's shirt to the side, then leaned over to read the words etched into his skin. "You're Subject A-five and they called you the Glue."
Newt gave him a startled look. "The Glue?"
Thomas let go of his shirt and stepped back. "Yeah. Probably because you're kind of the glue that holds us all together. I don't know. Read mine."
"I already did―"
Thomas noticed that an odd expression had come over Newt's face. One of hesitation. Or dread. Like he didn't want to tell Thomas what his tattoo said. "Well?"
"You're Subject A-two," Newt answered. Then he lowered his eyes.
"And?" Thomas pushed.
Newt hesitated, then answered without looking at him. "It doesn't call you anything. It just says ... "˜To be killed by Group B.' "
CHAPTER 7
Thomas didn't really have time to process what Newt had said. He was actually trying to decide whether he was more confused or scared when a clanging bell began ringing throughout the room. He instinctively put his hands to his ears and looked around at the others.
He noticed the perplexed recognition on their faces, and then it hit him. It was the same sound he'd heard back in the Maze right before Teresa had shown up in the Box. That was the only time he'd heard it, and trapped within the confines of a small room it was different―stronger, laced with overlapping echoes. Still, he was pretty sure it was the same. It was the alarm used in the Glade to announce that a Newbie had arrived.
And it wasn't stopping; Thomas already felt a headache forming behind his eyes.
The Gladers milled about the room, gawking at the walls and the roof as if they were trying to figure out the source of the noise. Some of them sat down on the beds, hands pressed to the sides of their heads. Thomas tried to find the source of the alarm as well, but couldn't see anything. No speakers, no heating or air-conditioning vents in the walls, nothing. Just a sound coming from everywhere at once.
Newt grabbed his arm, shouted in his ear. "It's the bloody Newbie alarm!"
"I know!"
"Why's it ringing?"
Thomas shrugged, hoping his face didn't betray how annoyed he was. How was he supposed to know what was going on?
Minho and Aris had reappeared from the bathroom, both of them absently rubbing the backs of their necks as they searched the room for answers. It didn't take long for them to realize that the others had similar tattoos. Frypan had walked over to the door leading back out to the common room and was just about to touch the palm of his hand to the spot where the broken handle used to be.
"Wait!" Thomas shouted on impulse. He ran over to join Frypan at the door, sensing Newt right behind him.
"Why?" Frypan asked, his hand still hovering just inches from the door.
"I don't know," Thomas replied, not sure if he could even be heard over the clanging sounds. "It's an alarm. Maybe something really bad is happening."
"Yeah!" Frypan yelled back. "And maybe we need to get out of here!"
Without waiting to see what Thomas said, he pushed the door. When it didn't move, he pushed harder. When it still didn't budge, he leaned up against it with his full weight, shoulder first.
Nothing. It was closed as tight as if it were bricked shut.
"You broke the shuck handle!" Frypan screamed, then slapped the door with the palm of his hand.
Thomas didn't want to shout anymore; he was tired and his throat hurt. He turned and leaned back against the wall, folded his arms. Most of the Gladers seemed as run-down as Thomas―sick of looking for answers or a way out. All of them were either sitting on the beds or standing around with blank expressions on their faces.
Out of desperation more than anything, Thomas called to Teresa again. Then several times more. But she didn't respond, and with all the blaring noise, he didn't know if he could have focused enough to hear her anyway. He still felt her absence; it was like waking up one day with no teeth in your mouth. You wouldn't need to run to the mirror to know they were gone.
Then the alarm stopped.
Never before had silence seemed to have its own sound. Like a buzzing hive of bees, it settled on the room with ferocity, making Thomas reach up and wiggle a finger in each ear. Every breath, every sigh in the room was like an explosion compared to the bizarre haze of quiet.
Newt was the first one to speak. "Don't tell me we're still gonna get bloody Newbies thrown in our laps."
"Where's the Box in this shuck place?" Minho muttered sarcastically.
A slight creak made Thomas look sharply over at the door to the common area. It had swung open several inches, a slice of darkness marking where it now stood ajar. Someone had turned off the lights on the other side. Frypan backed up a step.
"Guessin' they want us to go out there now," Minho said.
"Then why don't you go first," Frypan offered.
Minho had already started moving. "No problem. Maybe we'll have a new little shank to pick on and kick in the butt when we got nothin' else to do." He made it to the door, then paused and looked sideways at Thomas. His voice turned surprisingly soft. "We could use another Chuck."
Thomas knew he shouldn't have been upset. If anything, Minho was trying―in his own strange way―to show that he missed Chuck just as much as everyone else. But being reminded of his friend, and at such an odd moment, made Thomas angry. Instinct told him to ignore it―he was having a hard enough time dealing with the things going on around him. He needed to separate himself from his feelings for a while and just move forward. Step by step. Figure it all out.
"Yeah," he finally said. "You going through or you need me to go first?"
"What did your tattoo say?" Minho responded quietly, ignoring Thomas's question.
"Doesn't matter. Let's go out there."
Minho nodded, still not looking directly at him. Then he smiled, and whatever had been troubling him so deeply appeared to vanish, replaced by his usual laid-back attitude. "Good that. If some zombie starts eating my leg, save me."
"Deal." Thomas wanted him to hurry and get on with it. He knew they were on the edge of yet another great change in their ridiculous journey, and he didn't want to draw it out any longer.
Minho pushed open the door. The single bar of blackness became a wide swath of it, the common area now as dark as it had been when they'd first left the boys' dorm. Minho stepped through the doorway, and Thomas followed right on his heels.
"Wait here," Minho whispered. "No need playing bumper cars with the dead folks again. Let me find the light switches first."
"Why would they have turned them off?" Thomas asked. "I mean, who turned them off?"
Minho looked back at him; the light from Aris's room spilled across his face, illuminating the smirk set firmly there. "Why do you even bother asking questions, dude? Nothing has ever made sense and it probably never will. Now slim it and sit still."
Minho was quickly swallowed by the darkness. Thomas heard his soft footsteps on the carpet and the swish sound of his hand running along the wall as he walked.
"Here they are!" he shouted from the spot that seemed about right to Thomas.
A few clicks sounded and then lights blazed throughout the room. For the tiniest fraction of a second, Thomas didn't realize what was so starkly different about the place. But then it hit him, and as if that awakened his other senses as well, he realized that the horrible smell of rotting corpses had vanished.
And now he knew why.
The bodies were gone, with no sign that they'd ever been there in the first place.
CHAPTER 8
Several seconds passed before Thomas realized he'd stopped breathing. Sucking in a deep pull of air, he gaped at the now-empty room. No bloated, purpled-skinned bodies. No stink.
Newt nudged past him, walking forward with his slight limp until he stood in the very center of the room's carpeted floor. "This is impossible," he said, turning in a slow circle, gazing up at the ceiling where the corpses had hung from ropes only minutes earlier. "Not enough time passed for someone to get them out. And no one else even came into this buggin' room. We would've heard them!"
