Free The Death Cure by James Dashner Page B

in human form.
    Brenda sighed. “I hate to say it, but you might be right.” She thoughta moment. “Seriously. That would explain it.
Someone
came in here and took a bunch of weapons.”
    An icy chill filled Thomas. “If that’s it, our problems are a whole lot worse than we thought.”
    “Glad to see the guy not immune to the Flare isn’t the only one with a brain that still works.”
    Thomas turned to see Newt at the door.
    “Next time just explain yourself instead of getting all snippy,” Minho said, his voice empty of compassion. “I didn’t think you’d lose it so fast, but glad you’re back. We might need a Crank to sniff out these other Cranks if they really broke in.”
    Thomas winced at the cutting remark, looked at Newt for his reaction.
    The older boy wasn’t happy—that was clear by his expression. “You never have known when to shut your hole, have ya, Minho? Always gotta have the bloody last word.”
    “Shut your shuck face,” Minho replied. His voice was so calm for a second that Thomas could have sworn Minho was losing it himself. The tension in the room was almost palpable.
    Newt slowly walked over to Minho and stopped in front of him. Then, quick as a striking snake, he punched him in the face. Minho staggered back and slammed into the empty weapons rack. Then he rushed forward and tackled Newt to the ground.
    It all happened so fast, Thomas couldn’t believe it. He ran over and started pulling at Minho’s shirt. “Stop!” he screamed, but the two Gladers continued flailing at each other, arms and legs everywhere.
    Brenda stepped up to help and she and Thomas eventually got solid-enough grips to yank Minho to his feet, his fists still swinging wildly. A stray elbow smacked Thomas in the chin, sending a burst of rage through him.
    “How stupid can you get?” Thomas yelled, pinning Minho’s arms behind his back. “We’re running from at least one enemy, maybe two, and you guys are gonna brawl?”
    “He started it!” Minho snapped, spit spraying on Brenda.
    She wiped her face. “What are you, eight years old?” she asked.
    Minho didn’t answer. He struggled to free himself for a few more seconds before giving up. Thomas was sickened by the whole thing. He didn’t know which was worse: that Newt seemed to be slipping already or that Minho—the one who should have been able to control himself—was acting like such a slinthead.
    Newt got to his feet, gingerly touching a red spot on his cheek where Minho must’ve connected. “It’s my fault. Everything’s just tickin’ me off. You guys figure out what we should do—I need a buggin’ break.” And at that he turned and walked out of the room again.
    Thomas blew out a breath of frustration; he let go of Minho and adjusted his own shirt. They didn’t have time to dwell on petty arguments. If they were going to get out of there, they had to pull together and work as a team. “Minho—find a few more Launchers for us to bring, and then get a couple of the pistols on that shelf over there. Brenda, can you fill up a box with as much ammo as possible? I’ll go get Newt.”
    “Sounds good,” she replied, already looking around. Minho didn’t say a word, just started searching the racks.
    Thomas went out into the hall; Newt had taken a seat on the ground about twenty feet away and was leaning back against the wall.
    “Don’t say a bloody word,” he grumbled when Thomas joined him.
    Great start
, Thomas thought. “Listen, something weird’s going on—either WICKED is testing us or we’ve got Cranks running around this place killing people left and right. Whatever it is, we need to find our friends and get out of here.”
    “I know.” That was it. Nothing else.
    “Then get up and come back in there to help us. You were the one all frustrated, acting like we didn’t have time to mess around. And now you want to sit out here in the hall and pout?”
    “I know.” The same response.
    Thomas had never seen Newt like this.