the maze runner files

[arms]

FIRST MEMORY OF THE FLARE

It had been five days since they'd locked Thomas up in the white room. On that fifth day, after trying his best to go through the routine he'd established--exercise, eat, think, repeat--he decided to lie down and sleep. Let his terrible new world wash away for a while. Exhausted, he faded quickly and images began to bloom in his mind.

Thomas is young--he can't tell how young exactly. He's curled up in a corner, knees pulled up to his chest, shivering with fright. His dad--the man who holds him, reads to him, kisses him on the cheek, hugs him, bathes him--is on a rampage, screaming hateful things and turning over furniture. HIs mom tries to stop him, but he pushes her away without even seeming to realize who she is. She stumbles, tries to regain her balance, then slams into the wall a few feet from Thomas.

Sobbing, she crawls to him, pulls him into her arms.

"Don't worry, honey," she whispers. "They're coming to take him away. They'll be here soon."

"Who?" Thomas asks. His voice sounds so young, and it breaks his dreaming heart.

"The people who are going to take care of him," she answers. "Remember, your daddy's sick, very sick. This isn't really him doing all of this. It's the disease."

Suddenly Dad spins around to face them, his face aflame with anger. "Disease? Did I just hear you say disease?" Each word comes out of his mouth like a poisoned dart, full of venom.

Mom shakes her head, hugs Thomas tighter to her body.

"Why don't you just say it, woman," Dad continues, taking a step toward them. His chest is lurching with his attempts to suck in breath, and his hands are clenched into tight fists. "The Flare. Tell the boy how it is. Tell him the truth. Your dad has the Flare, Thomas. It's comin' along real nicely." Another step closer. "Your mom has it, too. Oh yes. Soon she'll be chewing on her fingers and feeding you dirt for breakfast. Laughing hysterically while she breaks the windows and tries to cut you. She'll be bat crazy, boy, just like your daddy."

Another step closer. Thomas squeezes his eyes shut, hoping it'll all go away. The dreaming part of him doesn't want to see anymore, either. Wants it to end.

"Look at me, boy," Dad says with a snarl. "Look at me when I'm talking to you."

Thomas can't help it. He always does as he's told. His dad looks calm now in every way except one: those fists. Fingers and knuckles white.

"That's good," Dad says. "Good boy. Look at your daddy. Do I look crazy to you? Huh? Do I?"

He shouts those last two words.

"No, sir," Thomas says, surprised he can say it without shaking.

"Well, you're wrong, then." Dad's face pinches with anger again. "I'm crazy, boy. I'm a madman. I could eat both of you for dinner and love every bite."

"Stop it!" Mom screams, a sound so loud it pierces Thomas' eardrums painfully. "You stop it right now! I swear to God I'll rip your heart out if you touch my son!"

Dad laughs. Not just a chuckle, either. His whole body shakes and he throws his head back as booming laughter pours from him, filling the house with its noise. Thomas has never heard something sound so wrong before. But the man keeps it up, laughing and laughing and laughing. "Stop it!" Mom screams again. She repeats it over and over until finally Thomas can't take it anymore and covers his ears.

Then the doorbell rings, barely loud enough to be heard. But both of his parents go silent. Dad looks in the direction of the front door, his face suddenly showing fear.

"They're here to get you," Mom says through a sob. "My sweet, the love of my life, they're here to get you."

Thomas woke up.

PHRASE 3 TRIAL

Three days had passed since they'd arrived on the Bergs from the Scorch, and Minho was just about ready to go whacker. He'd been kept in a small dorm room with plenty of food and absolutely nothing to do. Counting the rows on the wallpaper and imagining faces in the swirly patterns of the ceiling had grown old. And he'd heard nothing about Thomas or his other friends.

On the morning of the fourth day, the Rat Man showed up at his door with two armed guards.

"Follow me," he said.

"No hugs and kisses?" Minho asked. "I've missed your ugly face."

"Follow me or you'll be fired upon." Not even a crack in his stone-hard expression.

Minho sighed and did what he was told. He wasn't in the mood to be shot that day. And if he was honest with himself, anything would be better than sitting in that room for one more second.

Minho followed the Rat Man down a long hallway and then into a small chamber that led to several marked doors.

"You're in room number eight," the Rat Man announced. He gestured to the door marked #8.

They stood there in silence until Minho asked, "Oh really? And what am I supposed to do in there?"

"A simple test," Rat Man answered. "Nothing like the Trials before, I assure you. Yours is probably the easiest of all the tests we've created, and I think the shortest. You will be asked one question and one question only, and the answer will consist of exactly one word. Sound simple enough?"

It sounded too simple. "You actually think I could ever trust you, shuckface?"

"Excuse me?" the Rat Man asked.

Minho shook his head. "I swear to God that if you do one more thing to me or my friends, I won't quit fighting until I'm dead."

A smirk appeared on the man's face, enraging Minho even more. "I give you my word that your response alone will dictate what happens. Everything from this point on is voluntary. The Trials are over."

Minho was so angry he almost shook. He knew he had no choice but to do what he was told, and it drove him crazy.

"Are you ready?" the Rat Man asked.

Minho grunted. He walked over to the door marked with an eight and opened it. He was surprised--there was no fancy gadgetry, no complex machines. It was just a small beige room with a single wooden chair in the middle of a brown-tiled floor. A whiteboard hung on the opposite wall, and beside it stood a tall, muscular man dressed in green scrubs and a white lab coat. He had perfectly combed black hair and the worst mustache Minho had ever seen.

"Welcome," the man said. "My name is Lincoln. Please have a seat, facing me."

Curiosity took over. Minho sat in the chair, wondering what to do with his hands, until he finally folded them into his lap.

"Now please observe," Lincoln said in a cold, clinical voice.

The man turned and started writing with his finger on the upper left hand corner of the board, his touch creating a bright red line as he moved.

The first word Lincoln wrote was Thomas. Then he moved down a few inches and wrote Newt.

Then down again and added Frypan, and Aris under that. The man shifted to the right and wrote Harriet in the upper corner on the side. He moved down and wrote Sonya. Then Teresa. Then, to Minho's surprise, Brenda.

When Lincoln was finished, eight names were printed in red on the board, evenly spaced. He turned to face Minho again.

"Do you confirm that you are aware of these eight individuals?" Lincoln asked.

Minho rolled his eyes. "Yeah, genius, I know them. The Rat said you'd only ask me one question. Is that it?"

"The actual Experience exercise has not begun. This is what we would call prep work. Please answer the preliminary question and then we will begin the test. Do you--"

"Yes!" Minho yelled. "I know them. What now?"

Lincoln showed no signs of being caught off guard. He calmly responded, "Thank you for confirming."

His eyes flickered to one of the back corners of the ceiling; Minho turned to see what he was looking at. A beetle blade was attached to the wall; its red light made it impossible to miss. Minho could see hte familiar scrawl of WICKED painted on its body. Memories of the Maze flooded in, and he shifted to face Lincoln again.

Of course they'd be observing all this, he told himself. But did they really have to use beetle blades? He hadn't seen those since leaving the Maze.

"Okay, we're ready to begin," Lincoln said loudly. The man returned his full attention to Minho.

"As you've been told, I'm going to ask you one question and one question only. Your response should be limited to one word. I'll pose the question in ten seconds if you're ready."

Minho let out a small laugh to show how absurd the situation was, the nodded. He was ready.

When the allotted time had passed, Lincoln spoke in a grave voice that showed he meant every single word. "Our doctors have determined that we need to dissect the brains of these subjects for a more in-depth study. But we will allow you to spare one of them. Which person do you choose to save? That is your question."

₪
Five full minutes passed. Minho sat in silence. It couldn't possibly be true. Did WICKED really mean to cut his friends' brains apart?

"Minho," Lincoln said, "I need you to answer the question, but you can take some more time if you need to. I know it must be difficult."

"I'm not going to answer your stupid question," Minho replied, surprised at how much venom was captured in each word.

"This is no game. The people on this list have been used to their fullest extent, and the only value remaining is to study them physically. Your friends will have the honor of donating their lives to the noblest cause ever known to mankind."

Minho said nothing, seething in his chair.

Lincoln persisted. "Be thankful that the Psychs determined that this Trial would be beneficial. At least you get to save one of the people you care about."

Minho broke contact and looked down at his hands. He'd been gripping the sides of his chair tightly, he realized. Spots swam before his eyes, blood pounded in his head--almost as if he could hear it running through his veins and to his heart. Of all the many times he'd felt anger since entering the Maze, it had never been like this. Never.

"How much time would you--"

"I don't need any time!" Minho yelled before the man could finish. "I refuse to answer! If you even touch a single one of them, I swear..."

"I'm afraid you have no choice in the matter," Lincoln's voice was firm, and he seemed unfazed.

"Times are desperate, and we need to complete this blueprint. We need those brains for study."

"I won't let you do it," Minho said, suddenly calm. "If one of them gets hurt, I'm done. Take your chances with me, do however many tests you need to, but leave them out of it."

"That's simply not an option, Minho. I'm sorry. We need you to make this choice. And we're willing to take whatever actions necessary to... encourage you to continue volunteering."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

The lines of Lincoln's jaw tightened. "It means what it means. Now which of these names do you choose?"

"I choose all of them," Minho said.

"You can choose only one."

"All of them."

"One and one only."

"All."

Lincoln took a step forward. "I'll ask it a final time before taking further measures. Which of your friends do you want to save?"

"Every single one."

Lincoln rushed forward and grabbed Minho by the shirt, pulling him to his feet. "You will choose, now!"

Minho was terrified, but he ignored it. "All!"

Lincoln reared back with his right hand, formed a fist, and punched Minho in the face. Pain burst through his head as he fell to the floor. Lights seemed to flash along the brown tiles a few inches from his eyes. Lincoln grabbed him and pulled him back up, turned him around so they were facing each other once again. His strength was ridiculous; Minho had no chance.

"Which name do you choose?" Lincoln asked him.

Minho's face felt broken and he tasted blood, but he refused to give up. "I won't choose!" He spat a wad of red goo onto Lincoln's face.

The man didn't flinch; he punched Minho again, but held him up this time so he couldn't fall.

Another explosion of pain, more lights.

"Minho," Lincoln said with insulting calm. "Which of the names do you choose?"

"I won't," Minho forced out.

Lincoln punched him on the other cheek. Again. Then again. Minho's head felt like needles and mush.

"Make a choice." Lincoln spoke between heavier breaths now. "Which of the names do you choose?"

Minho didn't get it, couldn't comprehend how this could all be necessary. The confusion just made him even angrier and more stubborn.

"All of them," he said, ashamed of how it came out, nothing but a whimper.

"We can do this all day," Lincoln said. "We're not leaving and I'm not stopping until you give me an answer. All you have to do is say one name. Just say it! Now, which one! Say it!"

"All of them, you slinthead shuck-faced piece of klunk." Minho smiled.

Lincoln showed the slightest hint of surprise on his face, but he recovered almost as quickly as he had slipped up. He stepped back, smoothed out his clothes.

"The test is over," the man said. "You're free to go."

Stunned and battered, Minho remained speechless until the guards came into the room and escorted him back to his dorm.

WAKING UP IN THE BOX

Minho didn't panic as the memories drained from his consciousness. He didn't yell or scream when the world clanked and moved. Slowly, keeping his hands on the wall to steady himself, he stood up, then slowly walked around the perimeter of the ascending box.

He found nothing but crates and boxes. His mind growing emptier and darker, he still refused to panic. He moved the tallest crate to the center. Carefully keeping his balance, he climbed atop the crate and reached for the ceiling. More cold, hard metal.

But a crease ran down its middle.

He tried, straining every muscle, to pull the two sides apart.

Nothing.

He jumped down and kept searching for a way out. Searching.