one.”
Thomas felt like he’d been slapped. “But … why do you keep accusing—”
“Cuz it can’t be a coincidence, slinthead! You pop in here, then weget us a girl Newbie the next
day
, a crazy note, Ben tryin’ to bite ya, dead Grievers. Something’s goin’ on and I ain’t restin’ till I figure it out.”
“I don’t
know
anything, Alby.” It felt good to put some heat into his words. “I don’t even know where I
was
three days ago, much less why this Minho guy would find a dead thing called a Griever. So back off!”
Alby leaned back slightly, stared absently at Thomas for several seconds. Then he said, “Slim it, Greenie. Grow up and start thinkin’. Ain’t got nothin’ to do with accusing nobody of nothin’. But if you remember anything, if something even
seems
familiar, you better start talking. Promise me.”
Not until I have a solid memory
, Thomas thought
. Not unless I want to share
. “Yeah, I guess, but—”
“Just promise!”
Thomas paused, sick of Alby and his attitude. “Whatever,” he finally said. “I promise.”
At that Alby turned and walked away, not saying another word.
Thomas found a tree in the Deadheads, one of the nicer ones on the edge of the forest with plenty of shade. He dreaded going back to work with Winston the Butcher and knew he needed to eat lunch, but he didn’t want to be near anybody for as long as he could get away with it. Leaning back against the thick trunk, he wished for a breeze but didn’t get one.
He’d just felt his eyelids droop when Chuck ruined his peace and quiet.
“Thomas! Thomas!” the boy shrieked as he ran toward him, pumping his arms, his face lit up with excitement.
Thomas rubbed his eyes and groaned; he wanted nothing in the world more than a half-hour nap. It wasn’t until Chuck stopped rightin front of him, panting to catch his breath, that he finally looked up. “What?”
Words slowly fell from Chuck, in between his gasps for breath. “Ben … Ben … he isn’t … dead.”
All signs of fatigue catapulted out of Thomas’s system. He jumped up to stand nose to nose with Chuck.
“What?”
“He … isn’t dead. Baggers went to get him … arrow missed his brain … Med-jacks patched him up.”
Thomas turned away to stare into the forest where the sick boy had attacked him just the night before. “You gotta be kidding. I saw him….” He wasn’t dead? Thomas didn’t know what he felt most strongly: confusion, relief, fear that he’d be attacked again …
“Well, so did I,” Chuck said. “He’s locked up in the Slammer, a huge bandage covering half his head.”
Thomas spun to face Chuck again. “The Slammer? What do you mean?”
“The Slammer. It’s our jail on the north side of the Homestead.” Chuck pointed in that direction. “They threw him in it so fast, the Med-jacks had to patch him up in there.”
Thomas rubbed his eyes. Guilt consumed him when he realized how he truly felt—he’d been relieved that Ben was dead, that he didn’t have to worry about facing him again. “So what are they gonna do with him?”
“Already had a Gathering of the Keepers this morning—made a unanimous decision by the sounds of it. Looks like Ben’ll be wishing that arrow had found a home inside his shuck brain after all.”
Thomas squinted, confused by what Chuck had said. “What are you talking about?”
“He’s being Banished. Tonight, for trying to kill you.”
“Banished? What does
that
mean?” Thomas had to ask, though he knew it couldn’t be good if Chuck thought it was worse than being dead.
And then Thomas saw perhaps the most disturbing thing he’d seen since he’d arrived at the Glade. Chuck didn’t answer; he only smiled.
Smiled
, despite it all, despite the sinister sound of what he’d just announced. Then he turned and ran, maybe to tell someone else the exciting news.
That night, Newt and Alby gathered every last Glader at the East Door about a half hour before it closed, the
Thomas felt like he’d been slapped. “But … why do you keep accusing—”
“Cuz it can’t be a coincidence, slinthead! You pop in here, then weget us a girl Newbie the next
day
, a crazy note, Ben tryin’ to bite ya, dead Grievers. Something’s goin’ on and I ain’t restin’ till I figure it out.”
“I don’t
know
anything, Alby.” It felt good to put some heat into his words. “I don’t even know where I
was
three days ago, much less why this Minho guy would find a dead thing called a Griever. So back off!”
Alby leaned back slightly, stared absently at Thomas for several seconds. Then he said, “Slim it, Greenie. Grow up and start thinkin’. Ain’t got nothin’ to do with accusing nobody of nothin’. But if you remember anything, if something even
seems
familiar, you better start talking. Promise me.”
Not until I have a solid memory
, Thomas thought
. Not unless I want to share
. “Yeah, I guess, but—”
“Just promise!”
Thomas paused, sick of Alby and his attitude. “Whatever,” he finally said. “I promise.”
At that Alby turned and walked away, not saying another word.
Thomas found a tree in the Deadheads, one of the nicer ones on the edge of the forest with plenty of shade. He dreaded going back to work with Winston the Butcher and knew he needed to eat lunch, but he didn’t want to be near anybody for as long as he could get away with it. Leaning back against the thick trunk, he wished for a breeze but didn’t get one.
He’d just felt his eyelids droop when Chuck ruined his peace and quiet.
“Thomas! Thomas!” the boy shrieked as he ran toward him, pumping his arms, his face lit up with excitement.
Thomas rubbed his eyes and groaned; he wanted nothing in the world more than a half-hour nap. It wasn’t until Chuck stopped rightin front of him, panting to catch his breath, that he finally looked up. “What?”
Words slowly fell from Chuck, in between his gasps for breath. “Ben … Ben … he isn’t … dead.”
All signs of fatigue catapulted out of Thomas’s system. He jumped up to stand nose to nose with Chuck.
“What?”
“He … isn’t dead. Baggers went to get him … arrow missed his brain … Med-jacks patched him up.”
Thomas turned away to stare into the forest where the sick boy had attacked him just the night before. “You gotta be kidding. I saw him….” He wasn’t dead? Thomas didn’t know what he felt most strongly: confusion, relief, fear that he’d be attacked again …
“Well, so did I,” Chuck said. “He’s locked up in the Slammer, a huge bandage covering half his head.”
Thomas spun to face Chuck again. “The Slammer? What do you mean?”
“The Slammer. It’s our jail on the north side of the Homestead.” Chuck pointed in that direction. “They threw him in it so fast, the Med-jacks had to patch him up in there.”
Thomas rubbed his eyes. Guilt consumed him when he realized how he truly felt—he’d been relieved that Ben was dead, that he didn’t have to worry about facing him again. “So what are they gonna do with him?”
“Already had a Gathering of the Keepers this morning—made a unanimous decision by the sounds of it. Looks like Ben’ll be wishing that arrow had found a home inside his shuck brain after all.”
Thomas squinted, confused by what Chuck had said. “What are you talking about?”
“He’s being Banished. Tonight, for trying to kill you.”
“Banished? What does
that
mean?” Thomas had to ask, though he knew it couldn’t be good if Chuck thought it was worse than being dead.
And then Thomas saw perhaps the most disturbing thing he’d seen since he’d arrived at the Glade. Chuck didn’t answer; he only smiled.
Smiled
, despite it all, despite the sinister sound of what he’d just announced. Then he turned and ran, maybe to tell someone else the exciting news.
That night, Newt and Alby gathered every last Glader at the East Door about a half hour before it closed, the
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