Disclaimer:

I do not own The Maze Runner. If I did, Dylan O'Brien wouldn't have gotten SERIOUSLY INJURED AFTER A STUNT ACCIDENT ON SET I HOPE HE GETS BETTER SOON!!

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Running. It was something I hated, yet I always seemed to be doing it. Running from my problems, running from disasters, running from my brother. The distance between us was increasing with every pound of my feet on the dusty cement ground. My sore limbs were begging for me to stop, but I had to keep going. Every step felt like someone was trying to gauge my heart out of my chest. Thomas. Thomas.

I didn't realize I was crying until the wind dried out my watering eyes. The tears left clean tracks on my face from how dirty it was, the dust, debris, and dirt from the collapsing building behind us causing me to choke. I kept running further away with Minho beside me, supporting me and urging me along. I could hardly hear his voice over the sound of snapping steel beams and foundation crashing onto the ground. It blocked out every sound, even my own, quiet sobs as I struggled to fight off the congestion in my chest.

I forced myself to keep going, to dismiss the fact that Thomas was dead and cling onto the distant hope that he had gotten out somehow. It was the only thing that kept me from tripping over my own feet or collapsing to the ground from exhaustion. Wiping my tears, I focused on regaining my breath.

We turned for the first time since we leaped from the window, making a rounded left away from a more crowded part of the city. Ragged people in torn clothes and dirty faces barely seemed to notice us as we ran. It made me wonder if a building falling like that was an everyday occurrence.

Jorge had us stop once we were a fair distance away, about halfway down a long alley between two run-down buildings that were once a salon and an apartment complex. Nobody spoke; the only sound was that of our labored breaths as we all hunched over to catch our breath. My eyes drifted around our group. Most of us looked fine, though some were sporting new cuts and scrapes. Both of Theo's elbows were bleeding through his musty green quarter-sleeve.

"How many do we have?" Jorge asked breathlessly. There was no response but our panting. His forehead crinkled as he raised his eyebrows to look at us from his bent-over position. "Well?"

Theo sighed and straightened up to begin counting. His finger pointed to each of us as he mouthed the numbers, finally announcing, "Trece - I mean thirteen."

Jorge sent him a slightly bemused look. "I know. I speak Spanish, kid." Then, as if he had just processed what Theo said, his face went completely serious and he seemed more alert than before. "Thirteen? No, that can't be right."

We waited as he counted again. My breath was starting to return to me, and the cramp in my stomach began to subside. I was just in desperate need of water and a longer nap.

"Where's Thomas?" Frypan asked, crouched so low he was almost sitting down. His dark skin glittered with sweat from the sun peeking above our heads, though most of us stood in a shadow. The kids who hadn't noticed his absence straightened up with startled expressions. I felt a punch to my gut.

"And Brenda." Jorge appeared dismayed, eyes casting to the ground. Brenda must have been that girl whom Thomas was talking to before.

"Maybe they fell behind," Aris suggested innocently. "Maybe they lost our trail—"

"No," Jorge almost snapped, sending the younger boy a withering glare. He then rubbed his tired face with both hands. When his arms dropped at his sides, he looked more his age than I'd seen him yet. "Brenda is too smart and too fast. We have to assume—"

He didn't finish, and he didn't have to. We all knew what he meant.

We have to assume they're dead.

If Brenda was smart and fast, she could've gotten Thomas out. They could be off somewhere in another direction. We'd all meet up at the edge of the city and I'd slap Thomas upside the head for being so stupid as to fall behind, and we'd all be okay. We'd be fine.

The air was heavy now, but not with heat. It was dense with loss and death, mixed with the scent of blood, sweat, and our skin baking under the sun. I felt ice cold despite the stifling temperature. Thomas couldn't be dead. He couldn't because there was no way I'd survive and he wouldn't, no way we wouldn't always be together at the end of the day, no way I was going to let him be gone.

Panic was seizing me before I could stop it. Its vicious hands grasped my lungs and squeezed, forcing the air out of them and compressing my chest until the blood drained from my face. I took a step back and clutched my throat in an effort to breathe. My back hit the wall hard as I struggled to get oxygen into my lungs, but all I could feel was hot air in my mouth that was refusing to go down my trachea.

"Dylan—"

"Holy shuck—"

"Where's Clint or Jeff?"

"Gone. Both gone."

"You should not have said a word, culo."

I squeezed my eyes shut to block out the voices of my friends, trying to focus on breathing as my face began to heat up. Colors swam behind my eyelids. My mind was turning to mush. I could hardly think, and everything hurt and I wished I could just breathe, dammit.

Slowly, I felt oxygen fill my lungs. I had never felt so relieved. My face returned to its normal shade as my breathing evened itself out with time. Soon, I was able to open my eyes and was met with a pair of brown ones- Minho.

"You alright?" he asked, real concern evident on his face. "You gave us a real scare, shank. Never do that again."

"It's not like it was in my control," I pointed out weakly. Minho pretended not to hear me and put a hand on my shoulder, lifting his lips in the tiniest of reassuring smiles someone could possibly give. His eyes didn't smile with him.

Theo and Newt were shouting at Jorge, who looked slightly alarmed and confused by the fact that two teenage boys were scolding him. I couldn't hear what they were saying. All I could catch was, "You son of a shank," "twin brother," "never mention him again," "fist in your face," and "te patearé en las bolas."*

That last bit was obviously Theo.

It was strange that Minho was showing any type of physical affection toward me. Normally, he only teased and joked around with me, but now he was being nice and it weighed my heart down. He was being nice because he thought my brother was dead.

I shook my head slightly and pushed away the thought, locking it away in the back of my brain. Thomas wasn't dead. He and Brenda were safe. I would see him again.

That one thought is what kept me relatively sane as Jorge re-explained what Thomas had told him, making sure he had all the facts right. We were to go directly north for a hundred miles in two weeks in order to find a cure. He sighed and told us that going directly north in the city was impossible because the deeper into town you went, the worse the Cranks got. There was also the problem of finding food and water. Jorge himself didn't even seem to think we were capable of making it on time.

"Here's the plan," Jorge began in a hushed voice. "We go around the more abandoned parts of the city and weave in and out of places. It'll take longer and it'll be harder to see what's directly north, but it'll be much safer. I know someone in those areas that can get us food when we need it, comprende?"

"Yeah," we all quietly chorused while Theo replied, "Comprende."

Jorge smiled at the boy, who was busy looking at his dusty sneakers and didn't notice. The older man seemed to be taking a liking to Theo and his fluent Spanish. I wondered how long Jorge had to last being the only one who understood his occasional foreign word usage.

A short time later, we were on the move again. From the alley, we took the long way around the center square. Countless abandoned buildings stared us in the face. It was hard to believe that this was the world now - a planet full of humans eating other humans - but it was reality, and we had to face it. I swallowed down the bile in my throat when we passed by a few rotting bodies with flies swarmed around them.

"We need to make a stop on the way," Jorge announced from the front of the group. "We'll get some weapons. Man, you guys are lucky that you found me; I happen to know a lot of people."

Lucky. Yeah, right.

We spent hours walking along the empty streets of the city. The cement was covered in dust and sand, abandoned cars littered the pavement, and countless papers and plastic bags blew in the hot wind. I had taken to holding my jacket above my head to block out the sun. It only worked for a few minutes until my arms started to hurt and I had to put them back down.

Everywhere I looked was lifeless. There were no families living in these parts, Jorge said, and this area was considered a slum. It was the most run-down and therefore the first to be evacuated. He never saw any of the people again, including one of his best friends.

Jorge told us that we'd better get used to assuming people are dead if we get separated. No lone straggler survived on their own, and that was why he kept such a large pack around him at all times. It was important to stick together no matter what. We had to follow wherever one went, and keep them as close to arm's length as possible. All of us condensed into a tighter group after he had said this.

Finally, we approached an inconspicuous brick building with a torn and severely damaged awning that read Francesca's Fantastic Pet Salon in curly pink lettering. It looked like just another empty shop, but I guessed that was what the current owner was going for. Whoever it was had done a fairly decent job of making it blend in.

"Quiet, and follow me," Jorge instructed in a whisper. He slowly crept inside on the tips of his toes. I shared a look with Minho before following behind the Runner, entering through the shattered glass door.

The place was trashed. Broken pieces of glass covered the entryway from the broken door. The white tile was stained brown from dust and debris, making our feet leave footprints behind. The counter was once home to a computer that was smashed on the ground in front of it, the business name appearing on the base of the counter in peeling paint. Beyond that was an open area home to many empty cages and glass cases that were once home to pets for sale. Dusty and torn animal toys littered the floor.

"Man, this place gives me the heebie-jeebies," Minho commented below his breath as he surveyed the place.

"You're telling me," Frypan agreed.

Jorge hushed them with a glare. He turned toward a hallway that was considerably darker than the lobby because of the lack of working lights, but he didn't seem to be afraid. With a wave of his hand, he beckoned us down the corridor, slowly inching across the floor until he held up a hand and stopped at a closed door. It didn't look any different than the other closed doors. Then I took a closer look and noticed the dust was thinner here than anywhere else.

"Brace yourselves," Jorge muttered. Before I could, he reached his leg up and kicked the door as hard as he could. It busted open with a bang, hitting the wall on the other side and scaring the wits out of whoever was inside.

I peered around Jorge and saw a thin, bony Japanese man sitting at a desk against the left wall. He dropped whatever food he had been eating onto the floor and immediately reached into his pocket. Suddenly, a handgun was being pointed at Jorge. Our guide slowly raised his hands in defense.

The man blinked. He had long, black hair in a ponytail and brown eyes, along with papery thin skin that stretched around his narrow skull. It looked like he hadn't eaten in days, and I felly guilty for making him drop his food, even if it wasn't my fault.

"Jorge!" the man exclaimed, throwing the gun onto the desk carelessly and standing up from the desk chair, which looked like it was about to break in half from how far back it leaned. He stepped over his food and enveloped Jorge in a hug.

"Maseo!" Jorge laughed as he pulled away. The tension from just seconds ago snapped. "I knew I'd find you here. It's been a while, hermano. How is your family?"

"They've been better," Maseo admitted, but without the usual display of sadness I expected him to have while saying that. "It seems like they're diminishing left and right."

And then it hit me- they were speaking in code. The 'family' Jorge asked about was probably actually the weapons stock we came here for, but why wouldn't they speak about it directly? It's not like he didn't tell us why we were here in the first place.

Maseo swept his dark eyes over us, standing much taller than Jorge so he could easily see us standing behind him. His brow slightly wrinkled. "And who are they?"

"Diana brought 'em in," Jorge lied smoothly before any of us could respond. If it wasn't for his obvious quickness to cut in, it would have seemed completely natural. "Said they lost their families. They were a part of that school that used to be here - remember Seacrest? Anyways, I told D I'd help them find their campout again. Supposedly it's a few miles beyond the town, and I know this place best."

Maseo nodded, seeming to buy the lie. The taller man shook his head and smiled at Jorge.

"So what are you looking for today?" he questioned. "Like I said, diminishing, but still useful. You came at probably just the right time. Few more days 'til I take what's left and bolt."

Jorge turned his head and surveyed each of us to size up what weapons we were capable of carrying. I felt smaller than ever under his calculating stare. He turned back to Maseo, holding up corresponding fingers for each number he said. "Six handguns. Eight knives — more if you can grab 'em. Still got any more of those hand grenades?"

"One," Maseo replied. "But I'm willing to part with it. Be right back."

He faced the wall opposite of his desk and shoved a huge billboard sign aside, revealing a large hole in the wall. He climbed through it and the sign swung back in place. From here it looked like there was nothing behind the advertisement for promising pet care.

"There's got to be a lot of dust back there," Newt commented quietly.

"Not everyone's all orderly like you, Newt," Minho retaliated, shaking his head.

It only took Maseo a few moments to return. He appeared from the wall with two large, fraying sacks in each hand. They made a clattering sound when he set them on the floor in sync. The first one, he revealed, contained the handguns. After setting the cartridges inside, he tossed them to Jorge one by one. Minho, Newt, Aris, a boy named Sam, and I each got one. Jorge kept one for himself.

The next bag was full of sheathed knives. Maseo warmed us to keep the sheathes on them at all times because of their sharpness. Instead of tossing them, he handed each knife to Jorge. Those who hadn't gotten a gun received these, but Aris and I got one as well.

"You both are tiny," Jorge explained once he saw Aris' confused expression as he handed the boy the knife. "The Cranks that still have a few brain cells left will know to go for you first. Better to have more than one weapon."

His hand stretched out to me, bearing the knife. My eyes locked on it with uncertainty. Thomas' scar popped into my head, the blood pouring from his skin with the blade inside of it. My heart spasmed.

Minho stepped forward to stop him. "She doesn't--"

"No, Minho," I interrupted him, taking a deep breath before taking the knife in my hand. A shiver slid down my spine when the cool handle touched my skin. "I got it."

Jorge, looking partially confused, thanked Maseo and led us back outside into the blazing heat. He barely gave us time for our eyes to adjust before we started heading off again.

gif is the crew

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*te patearé en las bolas- i will kick you in the balls

hey guys! sorry it's been so long, but i went on a shortish writing hiatus because of some personal issues. updates will continue to be slower than usual because, like i said before, what happened to the others in the town is basically unknown ):

questions:

-do you think dylan will be able to use the knife?

-will brenda and dylan get along?

-do you trust maseo?

that's all for now. see you soon!

-kristyn