The Maze Runner Files, Page 3

  The screen goes black. Frypan realizes this was his first memory, the earliest his mind can go back; he was maybe three years old. He is remembering his dad, his kind face full of love as he smiled and spoke.

  Frypan knows what to do next, reminds himself that it’s all imagined—this is how his brain has chosen to give him his life back. He walks to the next screen.

  He’s sitting in a small pool, splashing and shrieking, crying when too much water gets in his eyes. Warm hands reach down—a woman’s hands—and wipe his face; then he begins all over again. A ball is thrown in and he kicks it. His mom’s body keeps appearing and disappearing in the background as she paces back and forth. She’s just learned some awful news about the disease spreading across the world.

  He doesn’t know how all this is so clear from just watching a few images. But it is. He moves on to the next screen.

  A little older, helping his dad in the kitchen. They’re making stew, chopping up all the veggies and meat. His dad is crying. Frypan knows that his mom has been taken away for further testing, and that they’ve said his dad will be next.

  On to the next screen.

  A man in a dark suit, standing by a car. Papers in his fist, a grave look on his face. Frypan is holding hands with his dad on the porch. WICKED has been formed, a joint venture of the world’s governments—those that survived the sun flares, an event that happened long before Frypan was born. WICKED’s purpose is to study what is now known as the killzone, where the Flare does its damage. The brain.

  Frypan is immune. Others are immune. Less than one percent of the population, most of them under the age of twenty. Many people have developed hatred toward those who are immune, call them the Munies and do terrible things out of jealousy. WICKED says they can protect Frypan while they’re working toward a cure.

  His dad says many things to him. Mostly that he loves him and is so glad that he’ll never go through the horrible things they’re seeing happen around the world. Madness and murder.

  Frypan has no reason to process or think too deeply about the returning memories. They’re not like new revelations, things to which he should respond somehow. They’ve always been there, inside him. He has already reacted to them. He has been shaped by them. He’s not learning. He’s not experiencing. He’s remembering.

  He walks to the next screen, hungry to be himself again.

  Minho, Phase 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 in silence until Minho asked, “Oh really? And what am I supposed to do in there?”

  “A simple test,” the 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 in 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 that 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 once 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 the 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, then 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.

  “T
his 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 eye 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 one 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 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 as the guards came into the room and escorted him back to his dorm.

  Turn the page for a special sneak peek!

  Excerpt copyright © 2013 by James Dashner. Published by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s books, a division of Random House LLC, New York.

  CHAPTER 1

  THE COFFIN

  Michael spoke against the wind, to a girl named Tanya.

  “I know it’s water down there, but it might as well be concrete. You’ll be flat as a pancake the second you hit.”

  Not the most comforting choice of words when talking to someone who wanted to end her life, but it was certainly the truth. Tanya had just climbed over the railing of the Golden Gate Bridge, cars zooming by on the road, and was leaning back toward the open air, her twitchy hands holding on to a pole wet with mist. Even if somehow Michael could talk her out of jumping, those slippery fingers might get the job done anyway. And then it’d be lights-out. He pictured some poor sap of a fisherman thinking he’d finally caught the big one, only to reel in a nasty surprise.

  “Stop joking,” the trembling girl responded. “It’s not a game—not anymore.”

  Michael was inside the VirtNet—the Sleep, to people who went in as often as he did. He was used to seeing scared people there. A lot of them. Yet underneath the fear was usually the knowing. Knowing deep down that no matter what was happening in the Sleep, it wasn’t real.

  Not with Tanya. Tanya was different. At least, her Aura, her computer-simulated counterpart, was. Her Aura had this bat-crazy look of pure terror on her face, and it suddenly gave Michael chills—made him feel like he was the one hovering over that long drop to death. And Michael wasn’t a big fan of death, fake or not.

  “It is a game, and you know it,” he said louder than he’d wanted to—he didn’t want to startle her. But a cold wind had sprung up, and it seemed to grab his words and whisk them down to the bay. “Get back over here and let’s talk. We’ll both get our Experience Points, and we can go explore the city, get to know each other. Find some crazies to spy on. Maybe even hack some free food from the shops. It’ll be good times. And when we’re done, we’ll find you a Portal, and you can Lift back home. Take a break from the game for a while.”

  “This has nothing to do with Lifeblood!” Tanya screamed at him. The wind pulled at her clothes, and her dark hair fanned out behind her like laundry on a line. “Just go away and leave me alone. I don’t want your pretty-boy face to be the last thing I see.”

  Michael thought of Lifeblood Deep, the next level, the goal of all goals. Where everything was a thousand times more real, more advanced, more intense. He was three years away from earning his way inside. Maybe two. But right then he needed to talk this dopey girl out of jumping to her date with the fishes or he’d be sent back to the Suburbs for a week, making Lifeblood Deep that much further away.

  “Okay, look …” He was trying to choose his words carefully, but he’d already made a pretty big mistake and knew it. Going out of character and using the game itself as a reason for her to stop what she was doing meant he’d be docked points big-time. And it was all about the points. But this girl was legitimately starting to scare him. It was that face—pale and sunken, as if she’d already died.

  “Just go away!” she yelled. “You don’t get it. I’m trapped here. Portals or no Portals. I’m trapped! He won’t let me Lift!”

  Michael wanted to scream right back at her—she was talking nonsense. A dark part of him wanted to say forget it, tell her she was a loser, let her nosedive. She was being so stubborn—it wasn’t like any of it was really happening. It’s just a game. He had to remind himself of that all the time.

  But he couldn’t mess this up. He needed the points. “All right. Listen.” He took a step back, held his hands up like he was trying to calm a scared animal. “We just met—give it some time. I promise I won’t do anyt
hing nutty. You wanna jump, I’ll let you jump. But at least talk to me. Tell me why.”

  Tears lined her cheeks; her eyes had gone red and puffy. “Just go away. Please.” Her voice had taken on the softness of defeat. “I’m not messing around here. I’m done with this—all of this!”

  “Done? Okay, that’s fine to be done. But you don’t have to screw it up for me, too, right?” Michael figured maybe it was okay to talk about the game after all, since she was using it as her reason to end it—to check out of the Virtual-Flesh-and-Bones Hotel and never come back. “Seriously. Walk back to the Portal with me, Lift yourself, do it the right way. You’re done with the game, you’re safe, I get my points. Ain’t that the happiest ending you ever heard of?”

  “I hate you,” she spat. Literally. A spray of misty saliva. “I don’t even know you and I hate you. This has nothing to do with Lifeblood!”

  “Then tell me what it does have to do with.” He said it kindly, trying to keep his composure. “You’ve got all day to jump. Just give me a few minutes. Talk to me, Tanya.”

  She buried her head in the crook of her right arm. “I just can’t do it anymore.” She whimpered and her shoulders shook, making Michael worry about her grip again. “I can’t.”

  Some people are just weak, he thought, though he wasn’t stupid enough to say it.

  Lifeblood was by far the most popular game in the VirtNet. Yeah, you could go off to some nasty battlefield in the Civil War or fight dragons with a magic sword, fly spaceships, explore the freaky love shacks. But that stuff got old quick. In the end, nothing was more fascinating than bare-bones, dirt-in-your-face, gritty, get-me-out-of-here real life. Nothing. And there were some, like Tanya, who obviously couldn’t handle it. Michael sure could. He’d risen up its ranks almost as quickly as legendary gamer Gunner Skale.