He gripped the sides of the stretching silver, felt its odd combination of soft toughness, then yanked once again up and away from Winston’s head. Winston must’ve heard, or maybe it was luck, but at the same time, he pushed at the goop with the heels of his hands, like he was trying to rip off his own forehead. The entire mess of silver came off, a wobbly, thick and heavy sheet of the stuff. Thomas didn’t hesitate; he flung his arms up and threw the junk over his head and down the stairwell, then spun around on his heels to see what happened.

As it flew through the air, the silver quickly formed back into a sphere, its surface rippling for a moment, then solidifying. It stopped just a few steps down from them, hovered for a second, like it was taking a long and lasting look at its victim, perhaps thinking over what had gone wrong. Then it shot away, flying down the stairway until it disappeared in the darkness far below.

It was gone. For some reason, it hadn’t attacked again.

Thomas sucked in huge gasps of air; every inch of his body felt drenched with sweat. He leaned his shoulder against the wall, scared to look back at Winston, who was whimpering behind him. At least the screams had stopped.

Thomas finally turned around and faced him.

The kid was a mess. Curled up into a ball, shaking. The hair on his head had vanished, replaced with raw skin and spots of seeping blood. His ears were cut and ragged, but whole. He sobbed, surely from the pain, probably also from the trauma of what he’d just been through. The acne on his face looked clean and fresh compared to the raw wounds on the rest of his head.

“You okay, man?” Thomas asked, knowing it had to be the dumbest question he’d ever spoken aloud.

Winston shook his head with a quick jerk; his body continued to tremble.

Thomas looked up to see Minho and Newt and Aris and all the other Gladers just a couple of steps above them, all staring down in complete shock. The brilliant glare from above shadowed their faces, but Thomas could still see their eyes-wide like those of cats stunned by a spotlight.

“What was that shuck thing?” Minho murmured.

Thomas couldn’t bring himself to speak, just shook his head wearily.

Newt was the one to answer. “Magic goop that eats people’s heads, that’s what it bloody was.”

“Has to be some kind of new technology.” This came from Aris, the first time Thomas had seen him participate in a discussion. The boy looked around, obviously noticing the surprised faces, then shrugged as if embarrassed and continued. “I’ve had a few splotchy memories come back. I know the world has some pretty advanced techno stuff-but I don’t remember anything like flying molten metal that tries to cut off body parts.”

Thomas thought about his own sketchy memories. Certainly nothing like that came to mind for him, either.

Minho pointed absently down the stairwell past Thomas. “That crap must keep gelling around your face, then eat into the flesh of your neck until it cuts clean through it. Nice. That’s real nice.”

“Did you see? Thing came right out of the ceiling!” Frypan said. “We better get out of here. Now.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Newt added.

Minho glanced down at Winston with a look of disgust, and Thomas followed his gaze. The kid had quit shaking, and his sobs had calmed to a stifled whimper. But he looked awful, and was surely scarred for life. Thomas couldn’t imagine hair ever growing back on the red, raw mess of his head.

“Frypan, Jack!” Minho called out. “Get Winston on his feet, help him along. Aris, you gather the klunk he dropped, have a couple of guys help you carry it. We’re leaving. I don’t care how bright or brutal that light is up there-I don’t feel like having my head turned into a bowling ball today.”

He turned around without waiting to see if people followed his orders. It was a move that, for some reason, made Thomas think the guy would end up making a good leader after all. “Come on, Thomas and Newt,” he called over his shoulder. “The three of us are going through first.”

Thomas exchanged glances with Newt, who returned a look that had a little fear in it but was mostly full of curiosity. An eagerness to move on. Thomas felt it himself, and hated to admit that anything seemed better than dealing with the aftermath of what had happened to Winston.

“Let’s go,” Newt said, his voice rising on the second word, as if they had no choice but to do what they were told. Though his face revealed the truth: he wanted to get away from poor Winston just as much as Thomas did.

Thomas nodded and carefully stepped over Winston, trying not to look at the skin on his injured head again. It was making him sick. He moved to the side to let Frypan, Jack and Aris past him to do their jobs, then started up the stairs, two at a time. Following Newt and Minho to the top, where it seemed like the sun itself waited just outside the open door.

CHAPTER 17

The other Gladers moved out of their way, seemingly more than happy to let the three of them be the ones to see what was outside. Thomas squinted and then shielded his eyes as they got closer. It was getting hard to believe they could actually step through the door into that horrible brightness and survive.

Minho stopped on the last step, just short of the direct line of the light. Then he slowly held his hand out until it entered the square of brilliance. Despite the boy’s olive complexion, it looked to Thomas as if Minho’s skin shone like white fire.

After only a few seconds Minho pulled his hand back and shook it at his side like he’d hit his thumb with a hammer. “That’s definitely hot. Definitely hot.” He turned to face Thomas and Newt. “If we’re gonna do this, we better have something wrapped around us or we’ll have second-degree sunburns in five minutes.”

“Let’s empty out our packs,” Newt said, already taking his off his shoulder. “Wear these sheets like buggin’ robes as we check things out. If it works well enough, we can stuff the food and water into half our sheets and use the other half for protection.”

Thomas had already freed his sheet to help Winston. “We’ll look like ghosts-scare away any bad guys out there.”

Minho didn’t take the same care as Newt; he just upended his pack and let everything drop. The Gladers closest to them scrambled on instinct to stop the stuff from tumbling down the stairs. “Funny boy, that Thomas. Let’s just hope we don’t have some nice Cranks to greet us,” he said as he started untying the knots he’d made in the bedsheet. “I don’t see how anyone could just be hanging out in that heat. Hopefully there’ll be trees or some kind of shelter.”

“I don’t know,” Newt said. “Then they might be hiding, bloody waitin’ to get us or something.”

Thomas was just itching to check things out. Quit making guesses and see for himself what they were up against. “We won’t know till we investigate. Let’s go.” He whipped out his sheet, then pulled it over himself and wrapped it tightly around his face like an old woman in a shawl. “How do I look?”

“Like the ugliest shanky girl I’ve ever seen,” Minho responded. “You better thank the gods above you were born a dude.”

“Thanks.”

Minho and Newt did as Thomas had done, though both of them took more care to grip the sheet with their hands under it so they were completely covered. They also held it out to make sure their faces were shaded. Thomas followed suit.

“You shanks ready?” Minho asked, looking at Newt, then Thomas.

“Kind of excited, actually,” Newt responded.

Thomas didn’t know if that was quite the right word, but he felt the same urge to act. “Me too. Let’s go.”

The remaining steps above them went all the way to the top, like an exit from an old cellar, the last few glowing with the brilliance of the sun. Minho hesitated, but then ran up them, not stopping until he’d disappeared, seemingly absorbed into the light.