The Fever Code (The Maze Runner Series, Book Five)

230.04.8 | 7:15 p.m.

Thomas ate dinner quickly. He had the observation room scheduled for the entire evening, and he didn’t want to waste a single minute of his available time. It was the closest he could get to actually being with all those friends he missed so much. He wolfed down his last few bites of food, then ran until he got there.

He sat down, made sure all the monitors were up and running. Did a quick scan of the controls and the different perspectives up on the screens.

Then Thomas leaned forward.

And he watched.

—

Minho and Newt had been partners today, Runners out in the maze. He watched them come in through the east door, headed for the hulking turtle of a building they’d transformed into a map room of sorts. They’d requested old-school paper and pencils by leaving a message in the Box after it delivered its weekly supplies, and their request had been granted.

They didn’t stop jogging until they’d reached the menacing door of the concrete-block building. It had always had a locking wheel-handle, like something you’d see on a submarine—which was why they’d chosen it to store the maps they drew. Minho inserted a key, then spun the wheel until something clicked and the door popped open. The two of them went inside, the first Runners to arrive back home. A beetle blade followed them in and Thomas switched that view and audio to the main display.

As Minho grabbed pieces of paper for them, both boys were chanting words under their breath. It sounded like they were saying, “Left, left, right, left, right, right, right” and “two-fisted rock, then three rights” and “rainbow crack, left, bald ivy spot, left, right, right.” They wrote furiously on their respective papers, recording their words before they forgot.

“Phew!” Minho said, dropping his pencil; he stretched his arms up over his head and yawned. “Sweet run today.”

“Not too shabby,” Newt muttered, grinning to himself.

Then they grabbed new pieces of paper and started turning their words into a visual map.

—

Alby sat on the bench by a flagpole, alone. Night had fallen, and the doors had long since closed. An empty plate sat next to him; crumbs dotted his shirt. His eyes were closed; his body was perfectly still.

“Alby?” someone said, walking up to him.

“Shh!” Alby hissed. “Leave me alone. I want to listen.”

“Fine.” But the kid stayed close, closing his eyes like Alby.

Outside the huge enclosure of their home, the walls of the maze began their process of changing positions. The ground trembled, and the distant roar of stone against stone filled the air. Alby had something close to a smile on his face.

“Thunder,” he whispered.

“What?” his visitor asked.

“Thunder. I remember thunder.”

A tear trickled its way down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away.

—

Thomas sat in his chair, silent and sullen as Dr. Paige worked on measuring his vitals. He had a full load of classes today, and he dreaded it with a heaviness that made him want to cry.

“You’re quiet this morning,” the doctor said.

“I need to be,” he replied. “Please. Today, I need to be quiet.”

She whispered her response. “Okay.”

Thomas pictured his friends going about their various activities in the Glade. Tried to imagine what they were doing that very second. And he thought about something he’d been thinking for a while: Someday he should probably join them there. It would be the right thing to do.

Dr. Paige stuck a needle in him, and this time he felt it.

—

Thomas went along in his weird, boring, sometimes heartbreaking, sometimes uplifting life. Watching his friends tough it out inside the Glade and the maze. But also watching them prosper, work hard to make it a better place. Rules were established, jobs assigned, routines worked out. The Homestead was three times bigger than when they’d started, and Minho had been named Keeper of the Runners.

All these things and much more happened as the days turned into weeks turned into months. Teresa and Chuck were his constant companions, and he loved having them around. They made his life bearable, even fun at times. But it was hard to get too flippant when the place where you lived constantly reminded you of two things: your friends were in an experiment, and that experiment existed because an awful, hideous disease rampaged in the outside world.

And so, he lived. Day in, day out. Getting his body monitored, attending classes, doing as he was asked. Like helping Teresa prep the new boy each month for insertion. The basement, where he’d made so many fond memories, was now a place he visited only once a month. It seemed darker and danker than it ever had before. He did whatever he could to find time for the observation room, taking his own notes on what he saw, sharing those with Dr. Paige. The better the analysis, the more sessions he got.

Mostly, it was a life of boredom, interrupted by sweet times with Teresa and Chuck. Made tolerable by the ever-increasing kindness of Dr. Paige, who seemed to be the only member of WICKED with a heart, the only one who remembered what it was like to be a kid. She didn’t shy away from repeating what she’d said that day, about loving them like her own children. But it was always laced with a sense of danger, as if she knew on some level that letting herself feel that way might be the biggest risk she’d ever take.

It was a strange world. But Thomas was alive, and he lived.