Something had changed―slightly―in the Crank's face at that last thing he'd said, and Thomas knew he had won. The look was brief, but it was definitely hope, quickly replaced with a blank indifference. Yet Thomas knew what he'd seen.

"A cure," the Crank repeated.

"A cure." Thomas was determined to say as little as possible from here on out―he'd done his best.

Jorge leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking as if about to break, and folded his arms. He lowered his eyebrows in a look of contemplation. "What's your name?"

Thomas was surprised by the question. Felt sure, in fact, that he'd already told him. Or at least it seemed like he should have told him at some point. But then again, this whole scenario wasn't exactly your typical get-acquainted affair.

"Your name?" Jorge repeated. "I'm assuming you have one, hermano."

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry. It's Thomas."

Another flash across Jorge's face―this time something like ... recognition. Mixed with surprise. "Thomas, huh. You go by Tommy? Tom, maybe?"

That last one hurt, made him think of his dream about Teresa. "No," he said, probably a little too quickly. "Just ... Thomas."

"Okay, Thomas. Let me ask you something. Do you have the slightest clue in that squishy brain of yours what the Flare does to people? Do I look like someone who has a hideous disease to you?"

That seemed an impossible question to answer without getting your face beaten in, but Thomas went with the safest bet. "No."

"No? No to both questions?"

"Yes. I mean, no. I mean ... yes, the answer to both questions is no."

Jorge smiled―nothing but an uptick of the right corner of his mouth―and Thomas thought he must be enjoying every second of this. "The Flare works in stages, muchacho. Every person in this city has it, and I'm not shocked to hear that you and your sissy friends do, too. Someone like me is in the beginning, a Crank in name only. I caught it just a few weeks ago, tested positive at the quarantine checkpoint―government's trying their damnedest to keep the sick and the well separate. Ain't working. Saw my whole world go straight in the crap hole. Was sent here. Fought to capture this building with a bunch of other newbies."

At that word, Thomas's breath caught in his throat like a mote of dust. It brought back too many memories of the Glade.

"My friends out there with the weapons are all in the same boat as me. But you go and take a nice stroll around the city and you'll see what happens as time goes by. You'll see the stages, see what it's like to be past the Gone, though you might not live to remember it for very long. And we don't even have any of the numbing agent here. The Bliss. None."

"Who sent you here?" Thomas asked, saving his curiosity about this numbing agent for later.

"WICKED―same as you. Only we're not special like you say you are. WICKED was set up by the surviving governments to fight the disease, and they claim that this city has something to do with it. Don't know much else."

Thomas felt a mixture of surprise and confusion, then a hope for answers. "Who is WICKED? What is WICKED?"

Jorge looked just about as confused as Thomas felt. "I told you all I know. Why're you asking me that, anyway? I thought the whole point here was that you were special to them, that they were behind this whole story you told me."

"Look, everything I told you is the honest truth. We've been promised things, but we still don't know much about them. They don't give us any details. Like they're testing us to see if we can make it through all this klunk even though we have no idea what's happening."

"And what makes you think they have a cure?"

Now Thomas had to keep his voice steady, think back to what he'd heard from the Rat Man. "The guy in the white suit I told you about. He told us it's why we have to make it to the safe haven."

"Mmm-hmm," Jorge said, one of those noises that sounded like a yes but meant exactly the opposite. "And what in the world makes you think they'll let us just ride in on a horse with you and get the cure, too?"

Thomas had to keep playing it nice and calm. "Obviously I don't know that at all. But why not at least try? If you help us get there, you have a small chance. If you kill us, you have zero chance. Only a full-gone Crank would choose the second option."

Jorge gave that pathetic smile again, then let out a small bark of a laugh. "There's something about you, Thomas. Few minutes ago I wanted to stab your friend in the eyeballs and then do the same to the rest of ya. But I'll be licked if you haven't half convinced me."

Thomas shrugged, trying to keep his face calm. "All I care about is surviving one more day. All I want is to make it through this city, and then I'll worry about what comes next. And you know what else?" He braced himself to act tougher than he felt.

Jorge raised his eyebrows. "What's that?"

"If stabbing you in the eyeballs could get me to tomorrow, I'd do it right now. But I need you. We all need you." Thomas wondered if he could ever actually do such a thing even as he said it.

But it worked.

The Crank eyed Thomas for a drawn-out moment, then stuck out a hand across the table. "I believe we have ourselves a deal, hermano. For many reasons."

Thomas reached out and shook. And even though he was filled with relief, it took everything he had not to show it.

But then Jorge brought it all crashing down. "I just have one condition. That ratty kid who junked me on the ground? Think I heard you call him Minho?"

"Yeah?" Thomas asked in a weak voice, his heart thumping all over again.

"He dies."

CHAPTER 28

"No."

Thomas said it with every ounce of finality and firmness he could muster.

"No?" Jorge repeated with a look of surprise. "I offer you a chance to make it through a city full of vicious Cranks ready to eat you alive, and you say no? To my one little itsy-bitsy request? That does not make me happy."

"It wouldn't be smart," Thomas said. He had no idea how he was able to maintain his calm expression, where this bravery was coming from. But something told him it was the only way he could survive with this Crank.

Jorge leaned forward again, placed his elbows on the table. But this time he didn't clasp his hands; instead, he balled them into fists. His knuckles cracked. "Is it your goal in life to piss me off until I cut your arteries open one by one?"

"You saw what he did to you," Thomas countered. "You know the guts that took. If you kill him, you lose the skills he brings. He's our best fighter, and he's not scared of anything. Maybe he's crazy, but we need him."

Thomas was trying to sound so practical. Pragmatic. But if there was a person other than Teresa on the planet he could truly call a friend, it was Minho. And he couldn't handle losing him, too.

"But he made me angry," Jorge said tightly; his fists had not relaxed in the slightest. "He made me look like a little girl in front of my people. And that's not ... acceptable."

Thomas shrugged like he didn't care, like it was a small and meaningless point. "So punish him. Make him look like a little girl. But killing him doesn't help us. The more bodies we have that can fight, the better our chances. I mean, you live here. Do I really need to tell you this?"

Finally, finally, Jorge loosened his white-knuckled grips. He also let out a breath that Thomas hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Okay," the Crank said. "Okay. But it has nothing to do with your lame attempt to talk me into it. I'll spare him because I just made up my mind about something. Because of two reasons, actually. One of which you should have thought of yourself."

"What?" Thomas didn't mind his relief showing anymore―the effort to hide things was exhausting him. Plus, he was now too intrigued by what Jorge had to say.

"First off, you don't really know all the details behind this test or experiment or whatever it is that WICKED is putting you through. Maybe the more of you that make it back―to that safe haven―the better chances you have of getting the cure. Ever thought that this Group B you mentioned are probably your competitors? I think it's in my best interests to make sure all eleven of you make it now."

Thomas nodded, but didn't say anything. He didn't want to take the slightest chance of ruining the victory here: Jorge believed him about the Rat Man and the cure.

"Which leads to my second reason," he continued. "The thing I've made up my mind about."

"And what's that?" Thomas asked.

"I'm not taking all those Cranks out there with me. With us."

"Huh? Why? I thought the whole point was that you guys could help us fight our way through the city."

Jorge adamantly shook his head as he leaned back in his chair and assumed a much less threatening position, folding his arms across his chest. "No. If we're gonna do this, stealth will work way better than muscle. We've been sneaking around this hellhole ever since we got here, and I think our chances of making it through―and getting all the food and supplies we need―are way better if we take what we've learned and use it. Tiptoe our way past the long-gone-crazy Cranks instead of slashing through them like a bunch of wannabe warriors."

"You're hard to figure out," Thomas said. "Not to be rude, but it sure seems like warriors are exactly what you guys want to be. Ya know, based on all the ugly outfits and sharp things."

A long moment of silence passed, and Thomas was just starting to think he'd made a mistake when Jorge burst out laughing.

"Oh, muchacho, you're one lucky sucker I like you. Not sure why, but I do. Otherwise I would've killed you three times already."

"Can you do that?" Thomas asked.

"Huh?"

"Kill someone three times."

"I'd figure out a way."

"Then I'll try to be nicer."

Jorge slapped the table and stood up. "Okay. So here's the deal. We need to get all eleven of you punks to your safe haven. To do it, I'm only taking one other person―her name is Brenda, and she's a genius. We need her mind. And if we do make it, and it ends up that there's no cure for us, then I don't think I need to tell you what the consequences will be."

"Come on," Thomas said sarcastically. "I thought we were friends now."

"Pshh. We ain't friends, hermano. We're partners. I'll deliver you to WICKED. You get me a cure. That's the deal or there's gonna be a lot of death."

Thomas stood as well; his chair creaked against the floor. "We already agreed on that, didn't we?"

"Yeah. Yeah, we did. Now listen, don't you dare say a word out there. Getting away from those other Cranks is gonna be ... tricky."

"What's the plan?"

Jorge thought for a minute, his eyes glued to Thomas as he did. Then he broke his silence. "Just keep your tongue-hole shut and let me do my thing." He started to move toward the door to the hallway, but stopped short. "Oh, and I don't think your compadre Minho is going to like it very much."

As they walked down the hallway to join the others, Thomas realized how achingly hungry he was. The cramps in his stomach had spread to the rest of his body, as if his internal organs and muscles were starting to eat each other.

"All right, everybody listen!" Jorge announced when they reentered the large torn-up room. "Me and the bird-face here have come to a resolution."

Bird face? Thomas thought.

The Cranks still stood at attention, nasty weapons gripped tightly, glaring at the Gladers, all of whom sat around the edges of the space, backs against the walls. Light beamed through the shattered windows and holes above.

Jorge came to a stop in the middle of the room and slowly turned to address the whole group. Thomas thought he looked ridiculous―like he was trying too hard.

"First, we need to get these people food. I know it seems crazy to share our hard-earned grub with a bunch of strangers, but I think we could use their help. Give 'em the pork and beans―I'm sick of that horse crap anyway." One of the Cranks snickered, a skinny runt of a kid whose eyes darted back and forth. "Second, being the grand gentleman and saint that I am, I've decided not to kill the punk who attacked me."

Thomas heard a few disappointed groans break out and wondered just how far along some of these people were with the Flare. But one girl, a pretty, older teenager with long hair that was surprisingly clean, rolled her eyes and shook her head as if she thought the noise was idiotic. Thomas found himself hoping she was the Brenda girl Jorge had mentioned.

Jorge pointed at Minho, who, not shockingly to Thomas at all, smiled and waved at the crowd.

"Pretty happy, are you?" Jorge grunted. "That's good to know. Means you'll take the news well."

"What news?" Minho asked sharply.

Thomas glanced over at Jorge, wondering what was about to come out of the guy's mouth.

The Crank leader spoke matter-of-factly. "After we get you stragglers fed so you don't go dying of starvation on us, you get to have your punishment for attacking me."

"Oh yeah?" If Minho was scared, he didn't show any sign of it. "And what's that gonna be?"

Jorge just stared back at Minho―a blank expression spread eerily across his face. "You punched me with both of your fists. So we're gonna cut a finger off each hand."

CHAPTER 29

Thomas didn't understand at all how threatening to cut off Minho's fingers was going to set the groundwork for them escaping from the rest of the Cranks. And he certainly wasn't stupid enough to trust Jorge after just one brief meeting. He began to panic that things were about to go terribly, horribly wrong.