Thomas wanted to scream at the man but knew it'd serve no point. Instead he answered in as calm a voice as possible. "No more games."

"First sign of trouble," Minho added, "we start fighting. If that means we die, then so be it."

David smiled fully this time. "You know, that's exactly what we predicted you'd do at this point." He motioned with an arm toward a small door at the back of the cargo hold. "Shall we?"

Newt spoke up this time. "What's next on the bloody agenda?"

"Just thought you'd like to eat something, maybe take a shower. Sleep." He started walking around the crowd of Gladers and girls. "It's a very long flight."

Thomas and the others spent a few seconds exchanging glances. But in the end they followed. They really had no other option.

CHAPTER 63

Thomas tried hard not to think about things as the next couple of hours passed.

He'd made a stand, but then all that tension and courage and victory kind of trickled away as the group went through the motions of the most ordinary of activities. Hot food. Cold drinks. Medical attention. Wonderfully long showers. Fresh clothes.

Through it all, Thomas recognized the chance that it was all happening again. That he and the others were being pacified, slowly being led to another shock like the one they'd had when they awakened in the dormitory after being rescued from the Maze. But really, what else was there to do? David and the others on his staff made no threats, did nothing to raise alarm.

Refreshed and full of food, Thomas ended up sitting on a couch that ran along the narrow middle section of the Berg, a vast room full of mismatched drab-colored furniture. He'd been avoiding Teresa, but she came over and sat next to him. He still had a hard time being near her, a hard time talking to her or anyone else. His insides burned with turmoil.

But he put it all away because there was nothing else to do. He didn't know how to fly a Berg and wouldn't know where to go even if he could take it over. They'd go wherever WICKED took them, they'd listen, they'd make their decision.

"What're you thinkin' about?" Teresa finally asked.

Thomas was glad she'd spoken aloud―he wasn't sure he wanted to communicate telepathically with her anymore. "What am I thinking about? Mostly trying not to."

"Yeah. Maybe we should just enjoy the peace and quiet for a while."

Thomas looked at Teresa. She sat next to him as if nothing had changed between them at all. As if they were still best friends. And he couldn't stand it anymore.

"I hate that you're acting like nothing happened."

Teresa looked down. "I'm trying to forget just as much as you probably are. Look, I'm not stupid. I know that we can never be the same. But I still wouldn't change anything. It was the plan and it worked. You're not dead and that's worth it to me. Maybe you'll forgive me someday."

Thomas almost hated her for sounding so reasonable. "Well, all I care about right now is stopping these people. It's not right what they've done to us. It doesn't matter how much I was a part of it. It's wrong."

Teresa stretched out a little so she could rest her head against the arm of the couch. "Come on, Tom. They might've erased our memories, but they didn't remove our brains. We were both part of this, and when they tell us everything―when we remember why we put ourselves through this―we're going to do whatever they tell us to."

Thomas thought about that for a second and realized he couldn't possibly have disagreed more. Maybe at one time he'd felt that way, but not now. Though discussing it with Teresa was the last thing he wanted to do. "Maybe you're right," he murmured.

"When's the last time we slept?" she asked. "I swear I can't remember."

Again with the act that all was well. "I do. For me, anyway. It had something to do with a gas chamber and you whacking me over the head with a big spear."

Teresa stretched. "I can only say sorry so many times. At least you got some rest. I didn't sleep for one second while you were out. I think I've been awake for two full days."

"Poor baby." Thomas yawned. He couldn't help himself―he was tired, too.

"Mmmm?"

He looked over to see her eyes closed, her breathing slowed. She'd fallen asleep just like that. He glanced around at the other Gladers and Group Bs. Most of them were zonked out, also. Except Minho―he was trying to talk to some cute girl, but her eyes were closed. Jorge and Brenda were nowhere to be found―something that struck Thomas as strange, not to mention at least a bit worrisome.

It was then that he realized he missed Brenda terribly, but his own eyelids began to droop, and weariness and fatigue crept in. As he sank deeper into the couch, he decided he'd have time to look for her later. Then he finally gave in and allowed the sweet darkness of unconsciousness to take him.

CHAPTER 64

He awoke, blinked, wiped his eyes and saw nothing but pure white. No shapes, no shadows, no variation, nothing. Just white.

A flicker of panic until he realized he must be dreaming. Strange, but a dream for sure. He could feel his body, feel his fingers against his skin. Feel himself breathing. Hear himself breathing. Yet he was surrounded by a complete and seamless world of bright nothing.

Tom.

A voice. Her voice. Could she talk to him while he was dreaming? Had she done it before? Yes.

Hey, he responded.

Are you ... okay? She sounded troubled. No, felt troubled.

Huh? Yeah, I'm fine. Why?

Just thought you'd be a little surprised right now.

He felt a stab of confusion. What are you talking about?

You're about to understand more. Very soon now.

For the first time, Thomas realized the voice wasn't quite right. There was something off about it.

Tom?

He didn't answer. Fear had crept into his gut. A horrible, sickening, toxic fear.

Tom?

Who ... who are you? he finally asked, terrified of the answer.

A pause before she answered.

It's me, Tom. It's Brenda. Things are about to get bad for you.

Thomas screamed before he knew what he was doing. He screamed and screamed and screamed until it finally woke him up.

CHAPTER 65

He sat straight up, covered in sweat. Even before he could fully compute his surroundings, before all the information traveled through the nerve wires and cognitive functions of his brain, he knew that everything was wrong. That everything had been taken from him all over again.

He lay on the ground, alone, in a room. The walls, the ceiling, the floor―everything was white. The floor beneath him was spongy, hard and smooth but with enough give to be comfortable. He looked at the walls―they were padded, with large buttoned indentations across them, about four feet apart. Bright light shone down from a rectangle in the ceiling, too high for him to reach. The place had a clean smell to it, like ammonia and soap. Thomas looked down to see that even his clothes had no color: a T-shirt, cotton pants, socks.

A brown desk sat about a dozen feet in front of him. It was the only thing in the entire room that wasn't white. Old and battered and scratched, it had a bare wooden chair pushed into the sitting well on the other side. Behind that was the door, padded like the walls.

Thomas felt a strange calm. Instinct told him he should be on his feet, screaming for help. He should be banging on the door. But he knew that door wouldn't open. He knew no one would listen.

He was in the Box all over again, should've known better than to get his hopes up.

I'm not going to panic, he told himself. It had to be another phase of the Trials, and this time he'd fight to change things―to end it all. It was strange, but just knowing he had a plan, that he'd do whatever it took to find freedom, caused a surprising calm to pass over him.

Teresa? he called out. He knew that at this point she and Aris were his only hope for communication with the outside. Can you hear me? Aris? You there?

No one responded. Not Teresa. Not Aris. Not ... Brenda.

But that had only been a dream. It had to have been. Brenda couldn't be working with WICKED, couldn't be speaking in his mind.

Teresa? he said again, throwing hard mental effort into it. Aris?

Nothing.

He stood and walked over to the desk, but two feet in front of it he ran into an invisible wall. A barrier, just like back in the dormitory.

Thomas didn't let the panic rise. Didn't let fear overcome him. He took a deep breath, walked back toward the corner of the room, then sat down and leaned into it. Closed his eyes and relaxed.

Waited. Fell asleep.

Tom? Tom!

He didn't know how many times she said it before he finally responded. Teresa? He woke with a jolt, looked around and remembered the white room. Where are you?

They put us in another dormitory after the Berg landed. We've been here a few days, just sitting around doing nothing. Tom, what happened to you?

Teresa was worried―scared, even. That much he knew for sure. As for himself, he mostly felt confused. A few days? What―

They took you away as soon the Berg landed. They keep telling us it was too late―that the Flare is too rooted in you. They said you've gotten crazy and violent.

Thomas tried to hold it together, tried not to think about how WICKED could wipe memories. Teresa ... it's just another part of the Trials. They've got me locked up in this white room. But ... you've been there for days? How many?

Tom, it's been almost a week.

Thomas couldn't respond. Almost wanted to pretend he hadn't heard what Teresa had just said. The fear he'd been holding back began to slowly seep into his chest. Could he trust her? She'd lied to him so much already. And how did he even know this was really her? It was high time to cut off ties with Teresa.

Tom? Teresa called to him again. What's going on here? I'm really confused.

Thomas felt a rush of emotion, a burning inside him that almost brought tears to his eyes. He had once considered Teresa his best friend. But it could never be like that again. Now all he felt when he thought of her was anger.

Tom! Why aren't you―

Teresa, listen to me.

Hello? That's what I'm trying to―

No, just ... listen. Don't say anything else, okay? Just listen to me.

She paused. Okay. A quiet, scared voice in his mind.

Thomas couldn't control it anymore. Rage pulsed inside of him. Luckily, he only had to think the words, because he could never have spoken them aloud.

Teresa. Go away.

Tom―

No. Don't say another word. Just ... leave me alone. And you can tell WICKED that I'm done playing their games. Tell them I'm done!

She waited a few seconds before responding. Okay. Another pause. Okay. Then I just have one thing left to say to you.

Thomas sighed. I can't wait.

She didn't say it right away, and he would've thought she'd left him except that he still felt her presence. Finally, she spoke again.

Tom?

What?

WICKED is good.

And then she was gone.

EPILOGUE

WICKED Memorandum, Date 232.2.13, Time 21:13

TO: My Associates

FROM: Ava Paige, Chancellor

RE: SCORCH TRIALS, Groups A and B

This is not a time to let emotions interfere with the task at hand. Yes, some events have gone in a direction we didn't foresee. Not all is ideal―things have gone wrong―but we've made tremendous progress and have collected many of the needed patterns. I feel a great amount of hope.

I expect all of us to maintain our professional demeanor and remember our purpose. The lives of so many people rest in the hands of so few. This is why it's an especially important time for vigilance and focus.

The days to come are fundamental to this study, and I have every confidence that when we restore their memories, every one of our subjects will be ready for what we plan to ask of them. We still have the Candidates we need. The final pieces will be found and put into place.

The future of the human race outweighs all. Every death and every sacrifice are well worth the ultimate outcome. The end of this monumental effort is coming, and I believe that the process will work. That we'll have our patterns. That we'll have our blueprint. That we'll have our cure.

The Psychs are deliberating even now. When they say the time is right, we'll remove the Swipe and tell our remaining subjects if they are―or are not―immune to the Flare.

That's all for now.

END OF BOOK TWO