The book was published in multiple languages including English, consists of and is available in Paperback format. The main characters of this young adult, fiction story are Chuck, Teresa Agnes. The book has been awarded with , and many others. Please note that the tricks or techniques listed in this pdf are either fictional or claimed to work by its creator.
We do not guarantee that these techniques will work for you. Some of the techniques listed in The Maze Runner Trilogy may require a sound knowledge of Hypnosis, users are advised to either leave those sections or must have a basic understanding of the subject before practicing them. Was that really just yesterday? Someone tapped him on the elbow; he looked over to see Chuck by his side again.
He pointed toward the doors of the Box. One a month, every month, same day. Thomas shot his new friend a fake glare. The kid folded his arms, looking very satisfied. Everyone needs a buddy in this place. Tried what? No ropes, nada. Never heard them land. It goes on for a long time. Chuck was a little annoying, but there was something about him that made things seem less terrible.
Thomas took a deep breath and looked back toward the crowd around the hole. With the ivy. Longest one they could possibly make. Cut in half like a knife through whipped cream. They keep him in a box to remind future kids not to be so stupid. But it never came. Hey, look. It was Gally, staring dead at them. Chuck nudged Thomas with his elbow and the boys resumed their walk to the edge of the crowd, then waited in silence; any questions Thomas had were forgotten.
Thomas wanted to think he was brave enough, but that currently sounded like the worst idea in history. Not a good person to pick a fight with. You could take him and all his buddies. A door closed behind them; Thomas turned to see Alby and Newt heading over from the Homestead. They both looked exhausted. Seeing them brought Ben back to his mind—along with the horrific image of him writhing in bed.
What have they been doing in there with that poor Ben kid? The Grievers do bad things to you, make your whole body go through something awful. What do you mean? And what does it have to do with the Grievers? Thomas almost screamed in frustration, but he kept quiet. He resolved to make Chuck tell him later, whether the guy wanted to or not.
Alby and Newt had reached the crowd and pushed themselves to the front, standing right over the doors that led to the Box. Everyone quieted, and for the first time, Thomas noted the grinds and rattles of the rising lift, reminding him of his own nightmarish trip the day before. Sadness washed over him, almost as if he were reliving those few terrible minutes of awakening in darkness to the memory loss.
He felt sorry for whoever this new kid was, going through the same things. A muffled boom announced that the bizarre elevator had arrived. Thomas watched in anticipation as Newt and Alby took positions on opposite sides of the shaft doors —a crack split the metal square right down the middle. Simple hook-handles were attached on both sides, and together they yanked them apart. With a metallic scrape the doors were opened, and a puff of dust from the surrounding stone rose into the air.
Complete silence settled over the Gladers. As Newt leaned over to get a better look into the Box, the faint bleating of a goat in the distance echoed across the courtyard. Thomas leaned forward as far as he possibly could, hoping to get a glance at the newcomer.
With a sudden jerk, Newt pushed himself back into an upright position, his face scrunched up in confusion. By this time, Alby had gotten a good look as well, with a similar reaction.
A chorus of questions filled the air as everyone began pushing forward to get a look into the small opening. What do they see down there?
What do they see! Alby stood up. Two years, nothing different, now this. There were more murmurs and another surge forward. Everyone started talking at once; Thomas only caught pieces here and there.
A girl? Who is she? Why— Newt shushed them again. A mood of reserved shock had come over most of the Gladers, who were milling about with solemn faces, kicking loose rocks and not saying much at all. Gally was one of the boys holding on to the ropes, ready to hoist her, Alby, and Newt out of the Box. Thomas watched him closely. His eyes were laced with something dark—almost a sick fascination. Everyone immediately ran forward, forming a packed crowd around her, a palpable excitement hovering in the air.
But Thomas stayed back. But he had caught a glimpse of her before being blocked off. She was thin, but not too small. Maybe five and a half feet tall, from what he could tell. She looked like she could be fifteen or sixteen years old, and her hair was tar black. But the thing that had really stood out to him was her skin: pale, white as pearls.
Only a few seconds later, the group parted again, and Newt was pointing straight at Thomas. What did they want him for? Things just kept getting worse and worse. He forced himself to walk forward, trying to seem innocent without acting like someone who was guilty who was trying to act innocent.
Oh, calm it, he told himself. But he had a strange feeling that maybe he had without realizing it. The boys lining the path to Newt and the girl glared at him as he walked past, as if he were responsible for the entire mess of the Maze and the Glade and the Grievers. Thomas refused to make eye contact with any of them, afraid of looking guilty. He approached Newt and Alby, who both knelt beside the girl.
Thomas, not wanting to meet their stares, concentrated on the girl; despite her paleness, she was really pretty. More than pretty. Silky hair, flawless skin, perfect lips, long legs. He was surprised at having such a morbid thought. Thomas was shocked by the question. Except for you guys. What could he possibly think I have to do with this? Two days, two Greenies, one alive, one dead. As she sucked in a huge breath, her eyes snapped open and she blinked, looking around at the crowd surrounding her.
Alby cried out and fell backward. Newt gasped and jumped up, stumbling away from her. Burning blue eyes darted back and forth as she took deep breaths. Her pink lips trembled as she mumbled something over and over, indecipherable. Then she spoke one sentence—her voice hollow and haunted, but clear. Her right fist shot into the air as she landed, staying rigid after she grew still, pointing toward the sky.
Clutched in her hand was a wadded piece of paper. Thomas tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry. Newt ran forward and pulled her fingers apart, grabbing the paper. With shaking hands he unfolded it, then dropped to his knees, spreading out the note on the ground. Thomas moved up behind him to get a look.
It was as if a supernatural wind had swept through the place and sucked out all sound. But no one said a word; all eyes were glued to the girl, now lying there as if asleep, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Contrary to their original conclusion, she was very much alive. Newt stood, and Thomas hoped for an explanation, a voice of reason, a calming presence. Alby cupped his hands around his mouth. Two older boys were pushing their way through the crowd—one was tall with a buzz cut, his nose the size of a fat lemon.
The other was short and actually had gray hair already conquering the black on the sides of his head. They must be the closest thing they have to doctors. The short one was already on the ground, kneeling beside the girl, feeling for her pulse and leaning over to listen to her heartbeat.
There were several barks of laughter. He felt sick inside. Banished, no questions. Breathing okay, normal heartbeat. She did seem familiar; he felt a connection to her, though it was impossible to grasp in his mind. He knew that he and the girl were connected somehow. What did it all mean? Alby leaned over to look in her face once more before they carried her off. Thomas watched all this in mute contemplation.
The not-so-veiled accusations thrown at him only a few minutes before proved that the others suspected something, too, but what? He was already completely confused—being blamed for things only made him feel worse. As if reading his thoughts, Alby walked over and grabbed him by the shoulder. Thomas hesitated before he answered. What if he did know her somehow? What would that mean? Why are you grilling me like this?
Call a Gathering. Then the leader and Newt walked off, and Thomas was relieved to see Chuck coming his way. You must be more psycho than I thought. A big oven, a microwave, a dishwasher, a couple of tables. It seemed old and run-down but clean. Seeing the appliances and the familiar layout made Thomas feel as if memories—real, solid memories—were right on the edge of his mind. But again, the essential parts were missing—names, faces, places, events.
It was maddening. As Chuck fumbled about with dishes and things from the fridge, Thomas pulled out a wooden chair from a small plastic table and sat down. How can this be for real? Somebody sent us here. Somebody evil. This seemed a good time to bring up one of the million questions bouncing through his brain. No answer. Chuck brought two plates with sandwiches and carrots over to the table. The bread was thick and white, the carrots a sparkling, bright orange.
After his last bite, Thomas sat back in his chair. He let out a low, gurgly burp that made Thomas cringe. So, when do I get a shot with the Runners? Chuck rolled his eyes dramatically, leaving no doubt as to how stupid an idea he thought that would be. They meet right when they get back, before they forget anything. Thomas was confused.
It was the first thing suggesting a potential solution to their predicament. It seemed impossible. But then, he remembered what Alby said about the moving walls. What if all of them were sentenced to live here until they died? The word made him feel a rush of panic, and the spark of hope the meal had brought him fizzled with a silent hiss. Our memories are wiped. We live inside a place that seems to have no way out, surrounded by bloodthirsty monster-guards. Nausea trickled into his chest.
You really think I did something that would send me to prison for the rest of my life? Either way, you have been sent to a prison. Does this seem like a vacation to you? Please let me be wrong. Chuck thought for a moment. He liked Chuck, but trying to have an intelligent conversation with him was impossible.
Not to mention frustrating and irritating. See ya tonight. The Glade had gone back to business as usual—people working the jobs, the doors of the Box closed, sun shining down. Any signs of a crazed girl bearing notes of doom had disappeared. Having had his tour cut short, he decided to take a walk around the Glade on his own and get a better look and feel for the place.
He headed out for the northeast corner, toward the big rows of tall green cornstalks that looked ready to harvest. He took a deep breath, loving the fresh whiff of dirt and growing plants. He was almost positive the smell would bring back some sort of pleasant memory, but nothing came. As he got closer, he saw that several boys were weeding and picking in the small fields.
One waved at him with a smile. An actual smile. Not everyone here could be a jerk. He took another deep breath of the pleasant air and pulled himself out of his thoughts—there was a lot more he wanted to see.
Next was the southeast corner, where shabbily built wooden fences held in several cows, goats, sheep, and pigs. No horses, though. That sucks, Thomas thought. Riders would definitely be faster than Runners.
Their smell, their sound—they seemed very familiar to him. As he explored the area, he realized more and more how well the Gladers kept up the place, how clean it was.
He was impressed by how organized they must be, how hard they all must work. He could only imagine how truly horrific a place like this could be if everyone went lazy and stupid. Finally, he made it to the southwest quarter, near the forest. He was approaching the sparse, skeletal trees in front of the denser woods when he was startled by a blur of movement at his feet, followed by a hurried set of clacking sounds.
He looked down just in time to see the sun flash off something metallic—a toy rat—scurrying past him and toward the small forest. A beetle blade. He caught a gleam of red light sweeping the ground in front of the creature as if it came from its eyes. Logic told him it had to be his mind playing tricks on him, but he swore he saw the word WICKED scrawled down its rounded back in large green letters. Something so strange had to be investigated. Thomas sprinted after the scurrying spy, and in a matter of seconds he entered the thick copse of trees and the world became dark.
Yet the trees were tall with sturdy trunks, packed tightly together, the canopy up above thick with leaves. The air around him had a greenish, muted hue, as if only several minutes of twilight remained in the day. It was somehow beautiful and creepy, all at once. Moving as fast as he could, Thomas crashed through the heavy foliage, thin branches slapping at his face.
He ducked to avoid a low-hanging limb, almost falling. Reaching out, he caught hold of a branch and swung himself forward to regain his balance. A thick bed of leaves and fallen twigs crunched underneath him. All the while, his eyes stayed riveted on the beetle blade scuttling across the forest floor. Deeper it went, its red light glowing brighter as the surroundings darkened.
Thomas had charged thirty or forty feet into the woods, dodging and ducking and losing ground with every second, when the beetle blade jumped onto a particularly large tree and scooted up its trunk. But by the time Thomas reached the tree, any sign of the creature had vanished. It had disappeared deep within the foliage—almost as if it had never existed. As strange as it seemed, the word felt natural on his lips, like he was already morphing into a Glader. A twig snapped somewhere to his right and he jerked his head in that direction.
He stilled his breath, listened. Another snap, this time louder, almost like someone had broken a stick over their knee. His voice bounced off the canopy of leaves above him, echoing through the air.
He stayed frozen, rooted to the spot as all grew silent, except for the whistling song of a few birds in the distance.
But no one answered his call. Nor did he hear any more sounds from that direction. Not bothering to hide his progress, he pushed aside branches as he walked, letting them whip back to position when he passed. He squinted, willed his eyes to work in the growing darkness, wishing he had a flashlight.
He thought about flashlights and his memory. It was probably just an animal, maybe another beetle blade. The new guy. Well, second-newest guy. He sounded like a complete idiot. Again, no reply. He stepped around a large oak and pulled up short. An icy shiver ran down his back. The clearing was small, maybe thirty square feet, and covered with a thick layer of leafy weeds growing close to the ground.
Thomas could see several clumsily prepared wooden crosses poking through this growth, their horizontal pieces lashed to the upright ones with a splintery twine.
The grave markers had been painted white, but by someone in an obvious hurry—gelled globs covered them and bare streaks of wood showed through. Names had been carved into the wood. Thomas stepped up, hesitantly, to the closest one and knelt down to get a look. The light was so dull now that he almost felt as if he were looking through black mist. For the first time, Thomas realized how humid it was in the woods, the damp air already beading sweat on his forehead, the backs of his hands. He leaned closer to the first cross.
Stephen, Thomas thought, feeling an unexpected but detached sorrow. Chuck annoy you to death? He stood and walked over to another cross, this one almost completely overgrown with weeds, the ground firm at its base. The name was George. Thomas looked around and saw there were a dozen or so other graves. A silvery glint caught his attention. It was different from the scuttling beetle that had led him to the forest, but just as odd. He moved through the markers until he got to a grave covered with a sheet of grimy plastic or glass, its edges slimed with filth.
He squinted, trying to make out what was on the other side, then gasped when it came into focus. It was a window into another grave—one that had the dusty remnants of a rotting body. Completely creeped out, Thomas leaned closer to get a better look anyway, curious. The tomb was smaller than usual—only the top half of the deceased person lay inside.
Thomas felt the odd urge to snicker—it seemed too ridiculous to be true. But he was also disgusted with himself for being so shallow and glib. Shaking his head, he had stepped aside to read more names of the dead when another twig broke, this time straight in front of him, right behind the trees on the other side of the graveyard. Then another snap. Then another. Coming closer. And the darkness was thick.
Instead of answering, the person gave up all pretense of stealth and started running, crashing through the forest line around the clearing of the graveyard, circling toward the spot where Thomas stood.
He froze, panic overtaking him. Now only a few feet away, the visitor grew louder and louder until Thomas caught a shadowed glimpse of a skinny boy limping along in a strange, lilting run. He saw only a flash of pale skin and enormous eyes—the haunted image of an apparition—and cried out, tried to run, but it was too late.
The figure leaped into the air and was on top of him, slamming into his shoulders, gripping him with strong hands. Thomas crashed to the ground; he felt a grave marker dig into his back before it snapped in two, burning a deep scratch along his flesh. He pushed and swatted at his attacker, a relentless jumble of skin and bones cavorting on top of him as he tried to gain purchase. He heard teeth snapping open and closed, a horrific clack, clack, clack. Thomas screamed, the pain like a burst of adrenaline through his blood.
Finally the kid fell back; a sharp crack filled the air as another grave marker met its demise. Thomas squirmed away on his hands and feet, sucking in breaths of air, and got his first good look at the crazed attacker. It was the sick boy. It was Ben. He wore nothing but shorts, his whiter-than-white skin stretched across his bones like a sheet wrapped tightly around a bundle of sticks.
Ropelike veins ran along his body, pulsing and green—but less pronounced than the day before. His bloodshot eyes fell upon Thomas as if he were seeing his next meal. Ben crouched, ready to spring for another attack. At some point a knife had made an appearance, gripped in his right hand. Thomas was filled with a queasy fear, disbelief that this was happening at all. What could possibly be wrong with that kid? The boy had turned into a monster. We have to kill him!
Let me gut him! Why did he think Thomas was bad? Better we all jumped off the Cliff! He swayed back and forth, switching the knife from hand to hand, eyes glued on Thomas. Thomas wanted to look away, get out of there. There was the sound of snapping wire. The whoosh of an object slicing through the air. The sickening, wet thunk of it finding a home. He made no sound. Thomas jumped to his feet and stumbled forward. Black in the darkness, like oil. Thomas fought the urge to puke. Was Ben dead because of him?
Was it his fault? Thomas thought, the world tilting around him as he stared at the lifeless body. What did I ever do to this kid? Thomas squeezed his eyes against the blinding light of the sun as he emerged from the woods. He was limping, his ankle screaming in pain, though he had no memory of hurting it. The image of it was the last straw. He fell to his knees by one of the scraggly trees on the outskirts of the forest and threw up, retching as he coughed and spat out every last morsel of the acidic, nasty bile from his stomach.
His whole body shook, and it seemed like the vomiting would never end. And then, as if his brain were mocking him, trying to make it worse, he had a thought. One full day. That was it. And look at all the things that had happened. All the terrible things. Surely it could only get better.
Hours later, deep in the night, Thomas was still the only one awake. He wanted to scream and kick and spit and open up the Box and jump into the blackness below. He closed his eyes and forced the thoughts and dark images away and at some point he fell asleep. Chuck had to drag Thomas out of his sleeping bag in the morning, drag him to the showers, and drag him to the dressing rooms. The whole time, Thomas felt mopey and indifferent, his head aching, his body wanting more sleep.
He was so tired, his brain felt like someone had gone in and stapled it to his skull in a dozen places. Heartburn ravaged his chest. But from what he could tell, naps were frowned upon in the giant working farm of the Glade. He stood with Newt in front of the barn of the Blood House, getting ready for his first training session with a Keeper. Despite the rough morning, he was actually excited to learn more, and for the chance to get his mind off Ben and the graveyard. Cows mooed, sheep bleated, pigs squealed all around him.
Hot dog, he thought. Who did I eat it with? Anything to get my mind off it. You get lazy, you get sad. Plain and simple. He wanted to know more about her, understand the odd connection he felt to her. Med-jacks are spoon-feeding her whatever soups Frypan can cook up, checking her vitals and such. She seems okay, just dead to the world for now. He wanted to know who she was and if he really did know her somehow.
Milk cows or slaughter some poor little pigs? Maybe I love killing animals. Newt nodded toward the barn. Maybe he was sent here for being a serial killer, he thought. Winston showed Thomas around for the first hour, pointing out which pens held which animals, where the chicken and turkey coops were, what went where in the barn. The dog, a pesky black Lab named Bark, took quickly to Thomas, hanging at his feet the entire tour. Wondering where the dog came from, Thomas asked Winston, who said Bark had just always been there.
Luckily, he seemed to have gotten his name as a joke, because he was pretty quiet. The second hour was spent actually working with the farm animals—feeding, cleaning, fixing a fence, scraping up klunk. Thomas found himself using the Glader terms more and more. The third hour was the hardest for Thomas. He had to watch as Winston slaughtered a hog and began preparing its many parts for future eating. Thomas swore two things to himself as he walked away for lunch break. The guy gave him the willies.
Thomas was just passing the Box when he was surprised to see someone enter the Glade from the Maze, through the West Door, to his left—an Asian kid with strong arms and short black hair, who looked a little older than Thomas. The Runner stopped three steps in, then bent over and put his hands on his knees, gasping for breath.
Plus, based on the last couple of days, the Runner was home hours early. Thomas stepped forward, eager to meet him and ask questions. But before he could form a sentence, the boy collapsed to the ground. The boy lay in a crumpled heap, barely moving, but Thomas was frozen by indecision, afraid to get involved.
What if something was seriously wrong with this guy? The first edition of this novel was published in November 10th , and was written by James Dashner. The book was published in multiple languages including English language, consists of pages and is available in Paperback format.
The main characters of this young adult, fiction story are ,. The book has been awarded with , and many others. Please note that the tricks or techniques listed in this pdf are either fictional or claimed to work by its creator.
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