The Fever Code (34 page)

WICKED Memorandum, Date 232.1.1, Time 3:12

TO: Leadership Council

FROM: Chancellor Ava Paige

RE: Reasons

I want to briefly thank everyone on the WICKED staff. It's been ten years, but our pre-trials are finally over. You've taught our Elite subjects well, and at this point we are ready to begin the final days of the Maze Trials—what we've always known to be most important.

Thomas and Rachel have been fully prepared. Everything leading up to this moment, their insertion into the mazes, would not have been possible without each and every one of you. It took a lot of long hours and meticulous planning and care to get us where we are today. Thank you for the hard work you've so tirelessly accomplished over the last decade, and especially over the last two years.

We never knew who the final candidates would be, but today we are happy to celebrate Teresa and Aris and their loyalties to our purpose here. Phase Two is imminent, and I believe our future is brighter than ever.

Again, thank you.

WICKED Memorandum, Date 232.1.1, Time 2:01

TO: All Staff

FROM: Teresa Agnes

RE: A last word

I've just said goodbye to Thomas, and he's now in the Glade, safe and sound. Tomorrow, it will be my turn. Dr. Paige has asked me to send a final note to everyone, sharing my thoughts. I'm more than happy to do so.

I feel good about the plan to leave my and Aris's memories intact. You need someone in each group with whom you can communicate and plan during the phases of the Trials. Aris and I can also coordinate throughout.

I promise to keep my role a secret. I will act the part of their true equal to the best of my abilities, and I will not interfere with the decisions they make unless you instruct me to do so.

I've been with WICKED for well over ten years, the vast majority of my life. I barely have any memories of my time before. Most people in the world would consider me lucky to have lived a life of comfort—I've had clean clothes, warmth, safety, food. I'm thankful for what WICKED has provided. I'm thankful for the friends I've made, friends who are the finest people in the world. I'd never do these things unless I fully believed that one day they'll understand and thank me. I'm grateful for what I've learned, for the growth I've had, for the many experiences that have shaped who I am. I'm thankful to be alive.

I also want to make it clear that I believe in what WICKED is doing.

I plan to write three words on my arm before entering the Box, hoping that its simple message will plant a seed in the Gladers who see it. To remind them, even subconsciously, what it is we fight for. It's a phrase I saw on a cold, dark night long ago, the Crank pits seething behind me. It's a phrase that I believe with all my heart, despite the horrors.

I think you know what it is.

I always repeat myself, for good reason. The following people have made my life what it is, and there's no possible way I could ever repay them or do them justice with a simple thank-you. Hopefully, to no one else's offense, I'm only going to list a few to truly show them what they mean to me and my career.

Krista Marino, my editor. This book was tough and we fought a little. And like the best of siblings, we came out of it loving each other more than ever. Side note: She's always right.

Michael Bourret, my agent. It's impossible to describe just how amazing it is to have an agent who also feels like your best friend. Cliché or not, he's the island in the middle of a raging, violent storm.

Lauren Abramo, my international agent. This is the woman you can thank if you read this in a language other than English. It's through her tireless efforts that we're now in over forty languages. Plus, she loves soccer/football, which makes her a perfect human.

Kathy Dunn, my publicist. As you can imagine, life got a little crazy lately. And Kathy is the one who made sure I didn't go insane or get overwhelmed. It's a rare thing when a publicist cares more about you as a person than your success as an author.

Last, and most, my family: Lynette, Wesley, Bryson, Kayla, and Dallin. The last few years taught me to appreciate them on a level I never understood before. I love them more than I could ever describe, no matter how many thesauruses you threw at me.

And you, the reader. I dedicated the book to you. And I meant it. Thank you.

James Dashner is the author of the #1
New York Times
bestselling Maze Runner series:
The Maze Runner, The Scorch Trials, The Death Cure, The Kill Order,
and
The Fever Code,
as well as the Mortality Doctrine series:
The Eye of Minds, The Rule of Thoughts,
and
The Game of Lives,
all available from Delacorte Press.

Dashner was born and raised in Georgia but now lives and writes in the Rocky Mountains. To learn more about him and his books, visit
jamesdashner.com
, follow
@jamesdashner
on Twitter, and find
dashnerjames
on Instagram.

Turn the page for a special preview of what will happen next for Thomas and Teresa.

Excerpt copyright © 2009 by James Dashner. Published by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children's Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

He began his new life standing up, surrounded by cold darkness and stale, dusty air.

Metal ground against metal; a lurching shudder shook the floor beneath him. He fell down at the sudden movement and shuffled backward on his hands and feet, drops of sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air. His back struck a hard metal wall; he slid along it until he hit the corner of the room. Sinking to the floor, he pulled his legs up tight against his body, hoping his eyes would soon adjust to the darkness.

With another jolt, the room jerked upward like an old lift in a mine shaft.

Harsh sounds of chains and pulleys, like the workings of an ancient steel factory, echoed through the room, bouncing off the walls with a hollow, tinny whine. The lightless elevator swayed back and forth as it ascended, turning the boy's stomach sour with nausea; a smell like burnt oil invaded his senses, making him feel worse. He wanted to cry, but no tears came; he could only sit there, alone, waiting.

My name is Thomas,
he thought.

That…that was the only thing he could remember about his life.

He didn't understand how this could be possible. His mind functioned without flaw, trying to calculate his surroundings and predicament. Knowledge flooded his thoughts, facts and images, memories and details of the world and how it works. He pictured snow on trees, running down a leaf-strewn road, eating a hamburger, the moon casting a pale glow on a grassy meadow, swimming in a lake, a busy city square with hundreds of people bustling about their business.

And yet he didn't know where he came from, or how he'd gotten inside the dark lift, or who his parents were. He didn't even know his last name. Images of people flashed across his mind, but there was no recognition, their faces replaced with haunted smears of color. He couldn't think of one person he knew, or recall a single conversation.

The room continued its ascent, swaying; Thomas grew immune to the ceaseless rattling of the chains that pulled him upward. A long time passed. Minutes stretched into hours, although it was impossible to know for sure because every second seemed an eternity. No. He was smarter than that. Trusting his instincts, he knew he'd been moving for roughly
half
an hour.

Strangely enough, he felt his fear whisked away like a swarm of gnats caught in the wind, replaced by an intense curiosity. He wanted to know where he was and what was happening.

With a groan and then a clonk, the rising room halted; the sudden change jolted Thomas from his huddled position and threw him across the hard floor. As he scrambled to his feet, he felt the room sway less and less until it finally stilled. Everything fell silent.

A minute passed. Two. He looked in every direction but saw only darkness; he felt along the walls again, searching for a way out. But there was nothing, only the cool metal. He groaned in frustration; his echo amplified through the air, like the haunted moan of death. It faded, and silence returned. He screamed, called for help, pounded on the walls with his fists.

Nothing.

Thomas backed into the corner once again, folded his arms and shivered, and the fear returned. He felt a worrying shudder in his chest, as if his heart wanted to escape, to flee his body.

“Someone…help…me!”
he screamed; each word ripped his throat raw.

A loud clank rang out above him and he sucked in a startled breath as he looked up. A straight line of light appeared across the ceiling of the room, and Thomas watched as it expanded. A heavy grating sound revealed double sliding doors being forced open. After so long in darkness, the light stabbed his eyes; he looked away, covering his face with both hands.

He heard noises above—voices—and fear squeezed his chest.

“Look at that shank.”

“How old is he?”

“Looks like a klunk in a T-shirt.”

“You're the klunk, shuck-face.”

“Dude, it smells like
feet
down there!”

“Hope you enjoyed the one-way trip, Greenie.”

“Ain't no ticket back, bro.”

Thomas was hit with a wave of confusion, blistered with panic.

The voices were odd, tinged with echo; some of the words were completely foreign—others felt familiar. He willed his eyes to adjust as he squinted toward the light and those speaking. At first he could see only shifting shadows, but they soon turned into the shapes of bodies—people bending over the hole in the ceiling, looking down at him, pointing.

And then, as if the lens of a camera had sharpened its focus, the faces cleared. They were boys, all of them—some young, some older. Thomas didn't know what he'd expected, but seeing those faces puzzled him. They were just teenagers. Kids. Some of his fear melted away, but not enough to calm his racing heart.

Someone lowered a rope from above, the end of it tied into a big loop. Thomas hesitated, then stepped into it with his right foot and clutched the rope as he was yanked toward the sky. Hands reached down, lots of hands, grabbing him by his clothes, pulling him up. The world seemed to spin, a swirling mist of faces and color and light. A storm of emotions wrenched his gut, twisted and pulled; he wanted to scream, cry, throw up. The chorus of voices had grown silent, but someone spoke as they yanked him over the sharp edge of the dark box. And Thomas knew he'd never forget the words.

“Nice to meet ya, shank,” the boy said. “Welcome to the Glade.”