Chapter Text
Like the starting gun at a track race, the resounding crowing of a rooster announced the machinery clicking into its track. The rooster, like the girl, was disturbed by the total darkness they found themselves in. The difference was the girl knew there was nothing to be done about it. They were helpless as the world thrusted upwards advancing them into the unknown.
As they picked up speed, light flashed from the sparks of metal on metal, capturing the space in red and orange photographs. She was in a metal box about the size of a shipping container cut into two halves laid side by side, forming a square. Wooden crates, anxious livestock, and bagged supplies spread in the space around her. She reached out and brushed her fingertips over the rough woven-texture of the burlap sack closest to her. The burlap sack’s contents rustled like beads, the noise like synaptic notes plucked from harp strings.
Rice.
She could remember the many qualities of rice—its texture in her mouth, how it sounded when poured into the metal pot, how long it should simmer. Yet, she could not remember if she even liked rice or the last time she ate some or who she once ate rice with.
She knew the capitals of all fifty states but not which state she lived in. She remembered how many blood types there were but not her own. She remembered the feeling of pencil on paper, but when she pictured her handwriting, it was like looking through tears, too blurred to read. She knew of friendship, love, and family but when she tried to picture the face of her best friend or her parents, even a family dog, her mind was at a loss.
Her memory was blank, wiped clean like ammonia on mirrors and windows, identity and circumstance stripped away, leaving just an outline in the mirror and a window to nothing. Even her name danced around her, caught in the undertow of her consciousness.
——
Newt dragged his feet this morning. Each day was another shovel worth of dirt burying his hope. The maze was the worst kind of puzzle, missing a single, center piece and thus unsolvable. Even with the corridor walls shifting each night, nothing ever really changed; the missing piece never showed itself. Instead, the maze repeated, rotated layouts over weeklong periods, like taking the puzzle apart and putting it back together again and again, hoping that missing piece would suddenly appear. 11 months of this, 47 cycles of the same seven-day pattern.
In the center of the unsolvable maze was a tamed countryside they called the glade. The glade consisted of a square, stone-tiled courtyard, several olympic swimming pools in size, surrounded by a garden, a barn and pens, a dilapidated house called the homestead, a wooded area, and plush grassy meadows occupying the blank space. Four 100-foot-tall walls, each about half a mile in length surrounded the glade, making a perfect square. The wall was a cold grey stone adorned with patches of dark green ivy. As tall as the walls themselves, an opening split the exact middle of all four walls. Through the openings were glimpses of the passages and long corridors of the maze. These openings were doors, closing every night, hiding the maze as it rearranged itself.
Newt was amongst the first boys to arrive in the glade. Nearly 12 months ago, Newt and 39 other boys woke up flat on their backs in the center of the glade. None of them remembered anything—not who they were nor where they came from. The only piece of them they could claim was their name.
In the early days of the glade, survival was a matter of trial and error. Ten died in the first month. With each death, they learned to respect the maze. The gladers devised rules of survival:
1) Never go outside the maze, especially at night. Runners, who must be elected by the council, can enter the maze, but only during the day—when the walls are open. If a runner does not return, they are considered lost to the maze; no glader can run into the maze to save another glader less both be lost.
2) Do your part. No freeloaders. Everyone is expected to contribute by doing their assigned jobs as directed by the keepers.
3) Never hurt another glader. Harming another glader results in banishment to the maze.
Newt was a runner. Each day he woke early with the sun, then returned just before sunset when the walls closed. The days were long, the weeks were long, the months were long, and a year in the maze was almost in reach. Yet, no end was in sight—not even a single piece of straw to cling to. Each day, he climbed higher up the maze walls, which were shorter than the glade walls but still high enough to make palms sweat and feet tingle. At first, Newt told himself it was to get a new vantage point, searching for a way out from above. Now the appeal of the climb was the fall.
With a deep breath, Newt took a single step into the maze, then another. He was off, missing the excitement the box would deliver today.
——
After what she estimated was thirty minutes, the elevator slowed. Daylight came into view. She squinted. Her eyes would not adjust. A dull throbbing worsened on the side of her head, like a bruise pressed on. Her hand flew to the space just above her left ear. Where hair should have been, she felt an ugly raised line held together by hard thread.
Stitches. A surgical wound?
The chatter of voices, the pitches lower but not deep enough to be a man’s, grew louder like the volume on a radio gradually turning up. She dropped to her knees and scrambled for a hiding place. Wedged between a crate of vegetables and propped up wooden planks, she peeked out. The top of the elevator was a grate. Black silhouettes hid the straight edges and right angles.
When the elevator stopped, it jerked and swayed. Once all but the anxious livestock stilled, the elevator ceiling grates lifted. A person dropped into the elevator. Her stomach released when the elevator remained unmoving. They were not going to fall.
“Where’s the Greenbean?” a voice called from above.
Several other boys joined, shouting more questions and jeers.
“What’s he look like?”
“I bet he’s a slopper. As ugly as a pile of klunk.”
“Did the newbie klunk his pants?”
“Just give me a shucking minute, you slintheads,” the boy in the elevator snapped.
She took stock of her situation. One boy in the elevator with her, his dark ankles and tennis shoes moving with firm steps. He only needed to crouch down to find her. At least fifteen boys, a very uncertain count as she only saw their silhouettes, were standing at the brim above her. 16 versus 1. A pack of wolves versus a lost doe. The odds were not in her favor.
The dark-skinned boy's tennis shoe landed next to her hiding spot. There was no time to second guess herself. She swiped out a fist at the back of the boy's knee. He shouted and fell forward. She was off, her movements knocking over the vegetable crates as she shot up. At the edge of the elevator, she slammed her foot down on a box, giving her the momentum to volt herself over the edge. She landed with bruising force on a hard stone slab. She pushed between two boys and ran 25 meters away before spinning in a circle.
“Is that a girl?” a dumfounded boy behind her shouted. None of the boys could even remember the last time they saw a girl.
She bounced around on the soles of her feet, frantically searching for somewhere high. Several hundred feet away she saw a wooded area. Her destination was set.
“Well, what are you shanks doing?” the boy from the elevator shouted. He was pulling himself over the edge of the elevator. “Stop her!”
Her feet caught on the cracks in the stone tiled ground as she dashed for the trees. She lifted her knees higher, pushing down harder with each step. The boys, shouting to each other like barking wolves, were gaining on her, but she reached the woods before they reached her.
“Spread out,” ordered the dark-skinned boy with the tennis shoes.
He must be their leader, she thought.
“Surround the woods. Winston, Zart, Gally, and Fry. I want each of you stationed at an entrance to the maze. Can’t let her get out.”
After passing under the trees edge, the ground under her became uneven, roots twisting the like arthritic hands. Patches of the dark dirt were soft and wet, hidden between dead leaves. She tripped on a root. Her elbows smeared in the cold mud. Her steps slid as she forced herself back on her feet. Continuing to run was no good. She needed to pick a tree and climb fast.
She chose a tall tree with thick limbs. The rough bark scraped her skin as she climbed, rubbing off the top layers of her knees and palms. Twigs and leaves fought her ascension, scratching her face and wedging into her hair, joining the bruises already present on her skin, souvenirs of angry hands from the “before”. Her hands grasped at the air looking for more branches when she finally reached the top.
——
When Newt returned from the maze, he was taken aback by the state of the glade. It was empty—no one was in the garden, no smells wafted from the kitchen, not even a single straggler wandered about the courtyard.
“Hey!” a scratchy voice called.
Newt turned. Gally, one of the tallest of the gladers with flared nostrils and arched eyebrows, waved Newt towards him.
“What the bloody hell is going on here?” Newt asked. He took deep breaths, recovering from the day’s long run, while Gally answered.
“It’s the greenie. She’s gone and vanished near the deadheads.”
“She? What do you bloody mean? She?” Newt turned away from Gally. His eyes scanned looking for the dark-skinned boy who was the Glader’s first in command. “Where’s Alby?”
“He’s—”
Newt did not wait for Gally’s answer. “Just keep your shank arse here. I’ll find him,” Newt interjected. He jogged towards the wooded area of the glade.
——
She spent hours clinging to that tree, listening to the boys call to each other as they tromped through the woods below. The boys never thought to look up, but she had an eerie sense that someone else was watching her.
First, she heard the rustling of leaves. As it got closer, a new noise emerged, metallic clicking like a jack-in-a-box winding up. Then a flash of silver and red light. It stopped, just out of reach. It was lizard-like and clearly man made with a long torso covered in metal skin and glowing red eyes. She looked straight into the red light, getting a distinct feeling she was looking directly into the eyes of someone, the man controlling this metal machine.
The metal creature broke eye contact first. It turned. Six legs instead of four scurried up the tree branch, towards the trunk. The word “WICKED” scrawled down its rounded back in large green letters. A tapered tail was the last thing she saw before it disappeared.
A loud boom exploded through the air followed by a horrible crunching, grinding sound. The whole earth shook. The tree vibrated as she clung even tighter to its rough bark.
——
An echoing boom rumbled across the glade as all four doors sealed shut for the night. Alby holding a flashlight walked beside Newt. Frypan, the glade’s cook, followed behind with his own flashlight. They had yet to find the girl.
“Shuck it—head back to the homestead. We’ll resume the search in the morning. The walls are closed. She ain’t going nowhere. We’ll reconvene at the wakeup,” Alby said. His fixed scowl worsened.
“Good that,” Newt seconded. Newt scratched his neck. The day’s sweat had dried on his skin, becoming a salty layer that collected under his fingernails and itched like a mosquito bite. He had not had a chance to shower yet, having joined the search for the greenbean as soon as he returned. “I need a bloody wash.”
“I’ll get some sandwiches prepped for everyone,” Frypan said.
“Good that,” Newt said again, “A wee snack before bed, real proper.”
The girl watched as their flashlights disappeared. She was hungry, thirsty, and had to use the bathroom. It was a relief to see them go. She dropped down from the tree and followed far behind using the distant flashlight beams to guide her to the wood’s edge.
——
She hid, seated just out of sight in the brush at the wood’s edge. The terror of the day and ache above her left ear had her eyelids heavy. Her head dropped often, then jerked upwards with sharp gasps.
She waited until the place seemed settled. The boys she could see, sleeping on hammocks and in sleeping bags scattered around the lawn, were still except for regular chest rise and falls. Stars sparkled in dark sky.
She stood now, half behind a tree, and got her first real look at the place with its four enormous walls and green meadows. She could see the grates over the elevator she arrived in, centered in a vast courtyard. The floor of the courtyard was made of huge stone blocks, many of them cracked and filled with long grasses and weeds, tiny yellow flowers peeping through. A few trees surrounded the courtyard, their roots like gnarled hands digging into the rock floor searching for food.
Surrounding the courtyard, were plush green meadows, ending at the perfectly straight and perfectly square grey stone walls. Each corner of this space was devoted to a certain building or activity. The woods she sat in took up one corner. To her left, a wooden building—building was generous, more like a dilapidated shack with unsteady additions— nestled near the opposite wall. The house was two stories high with windows thrown in like an afterthought. To her right, a barn paired with wooden pens, clusters of sleeping livestock grouped in mud or short grass. The corner across from her, held a garden and orchard. Appraising the space, the word “farm” came to mind.
She took a light step out of the forest. Stopping at the few trees around the courtyard. No one stirred and she made it to the building unspotted. She peered into a window. Finding the room empty and window unlocked, she slid the lower part up and climbed in. Dust and the smell of mildew kissed her skin.
Inside one of the rooms on the first floor, she found crates of supplies. She recognized them from the elevator. As slow as honey dripping from a spoon, she lifted and slid the lids back. Inside the crates, she found items to grow food rather than food items themselves—paper packets that rustled with seeds, metal spades that winked in the moonlight through the windows, fertilizer in cardboard boxes. She replaced the lids, less carefully, one hand dropping to her stomach as it growled like an angry dog.
Back in the hallway, she sneaked towards the next room, her steps squeaking on the old wood floorboards. Through the next doorway, she found the kitchen. This room was bigger with long countertops and modern appliances that felt out of place in the old mildewy home. She opened an industrial-sized fridge to a rainbow of colorful fruits and vegetables. She snatched the easiest accessible produce, an orange, then closed the fridge doors, fearful of the light it cast in the room. Only after the doors shut did she wonder where the electricity came from.
Sturdy shelves filled the space between the fridge and the wall. Massive pots and pans, the size for making food for a large group of people, occupied the lower shelves. On a higher shelf, she found canned food in glass jars with silver metal lids. She grabbed a can of apple sauce and pressed on the lid’s center. No pop. The food looked home canned. Impressive.
A sink was below a window. She bent down and drank directly from the faucet until she was gasping for air.
She had everything she came for. It was time to leave, staying here to eat was risking being caught. She would eat back in the woods with no difficulty, having picked foods that required no utensils.
She exited the room, returning to the main hallway. She crept carefully, taking odd steps to avoid the creakiest floorboards. Holding the applesauce in her left hand and tucking the orange between her ribs and arm, she pulled on the window. The window would not move. It was locked. Fear like electricity traveled up her spine.
Someone knows I am here. I should have known better than to enter the wolf den.
The lights turned on and the room’s door closed. The orange fell from underneath her arm as she spun towards the threat.
——
Newt had trouble sleeping this past month. Every night his mind whirred like a bee instead of relaxing into sleep. He’d stay awake in a hammock or in the homestead with his thoughts screaming about the maze. His chest would feel tight like something was sitting on top of him. He could not lay down during that. He’d get up and try to force himself to breathe normally.
Tonight was no different. He was sitting awake in the homestead trying and failing to suppress his racing thoughts when he saw her. Her dark shape creeping across the lawn, casting a shadow on the windowpanes. He watched as she disappeared towards one side of the homestead beyond his view. He stood. Before he could enter the hallway, Newt heard a window slide open. Her footsteps creaked on the floorboards.
He slipped through the hallway into the room she entered through. He locked the window then hid behind the door. He waited several minutes before she slinked back into the room. He watched her shoulders stiffen as she discovered the window locked. He closed the door and flicked the lights. She spun towards him, the orange falling from her grasp and rolling towards him.
“What are you doing here?” the girl asked Newt, like she was not the one breaking and entering.
Newt lifted his hands and answered, “I could ask you the same bloody thing.”
Her eye twitched. Newt spoke with a foreign accent—British, she thought. He had soft blonde hair left long for a boy, tickling his neck just under his strong, square jawline.
She slowly raised the jar of applesauce in her left hand like someone cocking a revolver. Newt's eyes flicked to the jar then back to her face. He had deep set and round eyes—eyes she imagined crinkled shut when he smiled.
“No need for that.” He brought a hand to his chest. “Name’s Newt. You got a name greenie?”
She ignored his niceties. “Where am I?”
Newt patiently replied, “Done said a question when I asked for an answer. We’ll get to where you are and all that. Your name, greenie?”
She cut him off. “Forget it, just tell me how to get out of here. If you don’t, I’ll hurt you.” She shook the apple sauce jar in her hand like it was a bomb.
She was bluffing. While this boy—Newt—was thin, he was tall, taller than most of the boys his age, which looked about 16 or 17. Plump veins ran down his muscular arms. Was she strong like him? Probably not. She had no idea what she looked liked—if she was muscular, if she was short or tall, if her frame was thin or sturdy. She only knew how she felt, which was weak, bruised, and exhausted.
“Don’t think you mean that.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “Shuck it. Sit. I’ll give you some answers—but not any you’ll like.”
“I’ll stand. Thank you very much,” she immediately countered. “You feel free. Don’t put yourself out on my behalf.”
Newt shook his head and laughed. His eyes crinkled shut when he smiled, just like she imagined they would. “Good that. I’ll sit. You stand.”
“And I am opening the window.” She added very quickly.
Newt choked back another laugh. Was this girl a feral cat? Looking at her closely, she was looking a little feral—hair a mess, pupils enlarged, dirt smeared on her clothes and arms.
“Fine.” Newt sat on one of the old carved chairs in the room.
She was lucky that neither Alby nor Gally found her. Otherwise, she would be the one in that chair, most certainly tied to it as well. But Newt kept his promise. He sat.
“Newt? I heard your voice. Why are you awake?” A voice called from outside the room.
The brass knob on the door turned. A thick, heavily muscled Asian kid entered. His hand had yet to let go of the doorknob when he froze, eyes on the female intruder.
“Wow? Newt, I didn’t know you were such a lady’s man.”
Newt sighed. “Not the time or place, slinthead.”
“Right, right,” Minho said. He let go of the doorknob and leaned against the frame, an attempt of casual confidence. He folded his arms across his chest, a good opportunity to flex his biceps. He looked a year or two older than Newt, 18 or so.
“Sorry.” Minho nodded towards the girl. “It’s not every day the newbie is a girl—well, not any day. Ever. You’re the first one.”
“What he means to say is—” Newt interrupted, “—his name is Minho.”
She remained silent and unmoving.
“What she mute or something?” Minho pushed off the doorframe to face Newt.
Newt sighed again and shook his head. He turned his body towards Minho, now sitting sideways.
“Make yourself useful. Wake Alby?” Newt said.
“No, you go wake Alby, shuck face. I’m comfortable right here.”
“Minho—”
“—Newt”
The boys bickered, missing when one leg than another was out the window. Their attention snapped when the window slammed shut.
“Bloody hell,” Newt murmured, while Minho shouted, “Klunk!”
They opened the window to chase after her.
Newt and Minho were fast, really fast while they raced across the glade, but once in the trees she had the advantage—twisting, jumping, and ducking behind branches and tree trunks. She picked a tree, not as sturdy as the original one, and climbed. She groaned at the way the bark tore at her already sore hands.
She made it above the canopy line before Newt and Minho ran by. Newt stopped only a few trees past before doubling back. The tree she picked was surrounded by soft mud. Her footprints in the soft ground at the tree base betrayed her hiding spot. Newt called loudly to Minho. She flattened herself against the trunk as he looked up.
“Alright,” Newt said, resting his hands on the tree trunk, “Time to come down now. I’m not here to hurt ya.”
She didn’t answer him, just tightened her grip on the tree, nails digging into the bark.
“Greenie! This is bloody crazy. Get down here.” Newt shouted. She ignored him.
Minho crashed through the brush, knocking into Newt.
“Where is she?”
Newt pointed up the tree.
“I’m going up,” Minho said.
Newt put an arm on Minho’s shoulder, but Minho shook him off. Minho jumped for a thick branch and pulled himself up.
Her mind tried to find a solution, eyes flashing in the brush around her. A tree with long thin green leaves like sowing needles neighbored her current tree. She would have to jump.
She waited for Minho to get close. Just before he was in arm’s length, she launched herself. At first, she felt triumphant, smile spreading across her face. The smile was gone as quick as a blink of an eye. The branches below her bent then snapped, the sound mingling with her screams.
Pain bloomed as she landed on her left hip. The side of her head slammed on the ground seconds after. Her stitches ripped, popping like a balloon under too much pressure. Then, there was nothing. The world was dark, just like in those first unmoving minutes in the elevator.