THIRTY
「the art of
puncture wounds」
＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚

   SYLVIA KEPT A steady pace as she ran through the winding corridors. The Gladers behind her—most of them never having been in the Maze—were looking around and gaping at the space. Some were out of breath from the run and struggling to keep up.

   She saw Beetleblades as she ran, their red, blinking lights flashing under the ivy every so often. The Creators were tracking them, watching their every move. They knew the Gladers were coming to end it for good. She was sure that there would be Grievers being sent to them.

   Her and Minho lead the way through the corridors. They knew the Maze by heart. Every passage, every turn, every pattern. Sylvia was still trying to convince herself that this was real. That they were really doing this.

   Finally, after what felt like the longest hour of her life, they arrived at the Cliff. Both of the Keepers slowed before the turn, stopping fully to look back at the rest of the Gladers catching up to them. Thomas had come up beside her, glancing at her briefly. Sylvia's heart was pounding, sweat slicking her skin. Her body was thrumming with anticipation for the fight.

   "Do you hear that?" Minho whispered.

   She turned her good ear towards the Cliff. Minho edged next to the turn, peeking around the corner carefully. Faintly, she could hear a low whirring. The sound nearly sent a shiver down her spine. Minho jerked back and turned to face them. His face was gaunt.

   "Oh, no," the Keeper said through a moan. "Oh, no."

   "How many?" She asked quietly, dread pooling in her gut.

   "There's at least a dozen of them. Maybe fifteen." He reached up and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "They're just waiting for us!"

   A crack of fear thundered through her body like lightning. Her fingers twitched and she gripped the hilt of the axe at her hip, knuckles whitening. She stared down the corridor across from them, and then back at Minho.

   Newt pushed his way up beside them. He tried to look brave, holding his head high. "Well, we knew we'd have to fight." But the tremor in his voice gave him away—he was just trying to say the right thing.

   Thomas shook his head anxiously. "Maybe they've already taken a kid back at the Glade. Maybe we can get past them—why else would they just be sitting—?"

   A loud noise from behind cut him off—the four of them spun to see more Grievers moving down the corridor toward them, spikes flaring, metal arms groping, coming from the direction of the Glade. Sylvia was just about to say something when she heard sounds from the other end of the long alley—she looked to see yet more Grievers.

   The Grievers had surrounded them on all sides. Sylvia's eyes were wild. She didn't think she'd ever felt this frightened in her entire life.

   The Gladers formed a tight group, almost like a circle. They pushed out so that they were in the middle of the intersection. Sylvia could see the Grievers waiting at the Cliff's corridor, green skin glistening, metal spikes protruding. If any of them were having second thoughts, it was too late. All exits were blocked off. This was it. The fight was here.

   Sylvia was pressed between Minho and Cole in the tightly packed circle. She put a trembling hand against Cole's arm, looking at him reassuringly. None of the Grievers had moved yet. They were just sitting there, staring, waiting. Sylvia thought she might just about burst waiting for the fight to come, her muscles pulled taut.

   She heard Thomas speaking vaguely to one of them. "Got any ideas?"

   "No," Newt replied, his voice just the tiniest bit shaky. "I don't understand what they're bloody waitin' for."

   "We shouldn't have come," Alby said. She could barely make out his voice. He'd been so quiet, his voice sounded odd, especially with the hollow echo the Maze walls created.

   "Well, we'd be no better off in the Homestead. Hate to say it, but if one of us dies, that's better than all of us." Thomas responded. Sylvia would've shot him a glare if her eyes weren't glued to the Grievers.

   A long moment passed before Alby replied. "Maybe I should..." He trailed off and broke away from the group, starting to walk forward—in the direction of the Cliff—slowly, as if in a trance. Sylvia watched him with a mixture of awe, fear, and detachment.

   "Alby?" Newt called. "Get back here!"

   Instead of responding, Alby took off running—he headed straight for the pack of Grievers between him and the Cliff.

   "Alby!" Newt screamed

   Sylvia nearly flinched as Alby dove right at the pack of monsters. He jumped on top of one, animalistically clawing at its bulbous flesh. A couple of them burst to life and started attacking him. Sylvia saw a blur of metal and flesh and blood. More Grievers moved, tearing at the boy viciously. Impossibly, the boy didn't scream, but Sylvia still felt like her ears were ringing. She glanced hazily at Newt and saw his mouth moving in a shout. Maybe she just couldn't hear anything at all.

   A sudden, crushing guilt weighed on her shoulders. She had hated Alby almost her entire life, said terrible things to him. She had been cruel, never considering what he might've gone through. She felt guilty that she hadn't at least tried to understand why he made the choices he did.

   After a couple of seconds, Alby disappeared from sight, the Grievers blocking their view of his torn body. She felt dazed, like she was watching from far away. She had never liked Alby, but she didn't want him to die.

   Sound snapped back into her ears with a harsh pop when Minho moved closer to Thomas and Newt, squeezing Newt's shoulder. "We can't waste what he did." He turned toward Thomas. "We'll fight 'em if we have to, make a path to the Cliff for you and Teresa. Get in the Hole and do your thing—we'll keep them off until you scream for us to follow."

   Thomas nodded, his face pale. "Hopefully they'll go dormant for a while. We should only need a minute or so to punch in the code."

   "How can you guys be so heartless?" Newt murmured, disgust filling his voice.

   "What do you want, Newt?" Minho said. "Should we all dress up and have a funeral?"

   "There's nothing we can do, Newt." She muttered half-heartedly.

   Newt didn't respond, eyes trained on the spot where the Grievers had piled up over Alby's body. Minho continued. "Alby didn't wanna go back to his old life. He freaking sacrificed himself for us—and they aren't attacking, so maybe it worked. We'd be heartless if we wasted it."

   Newt only shrugged, closed his eyes.

   Minho turned and faced the huddled group of Gladers. "Listen up! Number one priority is to protect Thomas and Teresa. Get them to the Cliff and the Hole so—"

   The sounds of the Grievers revving to life cut him off. The Grievers were moving, appendages popping out of their sickly skin. Their low moans filling the space. Their bodies shuddered and pulsed. Then they started moving forward as one, slowly heading towards the circle of Gladers. Sylvia lifted her spear.

   Alby's sacrifice didn't work.

   "Somehow I have to get through that!" Thomas shouted to both her and Minho, gesturing to the steadily moving pack of Grievers getting closer by the second. The faded gray light of the sky cast terrifying shadows on the walls.

   Minho, Newt, and Sylvia exchanged a look.

   "They're coming!" Teresa yelled. "We have to do something!"

   "You and Syl lead," Newt finally said to her and Minho, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Make a bloody path for Tommy and the girl. Do it."

   Minho nodded once and glanced at her, a steel look of resolve hardening his features. She tightened the grip on her spear. Then he turned toward the Gladers. "We head straight for the Cliff! Fight through the middle, push the shuckin' things toward the walls. What matters most is getting Thomas and Teresa to the Griever Hole!"

   Bark brushed against her legs and she said to him. "Follow Thomas." She had no idea if the dog understood her, but she had to hope he did. The dog gave her a witheringlook—like the entire situation was an inconvenience to him—and walked closer to Thomas.

   Sylvia looked back to the approaching Grievers. She held the spear in her right hand, and closed her left hand around the axe at her hip, pulling it out of the holster. A scowl adorned her features.

   "Ready!" Minho yelled, raising his barbwire wrapped club into the air with one hand, a long silver knife in the other. He pointed the knife at the horde of Grievers; a flash glinted off the blade. "Now!"

   Sylvia and Minho ran forward without waiting for a response from the others. She charged at the Griever to her left, while Minho took the one to the right. She heard boys roaring behind her as she thrusted the spear into the Griever's bulbous flesh, trying to push it as far into the wall as she could to make a path for Thomas and Teresa. It shrieked, metal spikes coming at her. She parried back, dodging the attack.

   Sylvia felt the fear that buzzed in the air like a palpable thing, like something she could inhale and suffocate on, but there was something else there as well. There was courage. It was in the faces of the fighting Gladers coming to her side, in the determined guild of each weapon strike.

   She stabbed at the Griever with the spear again, and quickly pulled the wooden weapon out of its flesh to fend off an oncoming limb. She slashed and stabbed and kicked. She could only hope that Thomas and Teresa could get to the Griever Hole safely with Bark in tow.

   In the background, she could faintly hear the clashing of metal against wood from the other fights going on. Screams of both anger and pain ringing through the corridor. She tuned everything out. She wacked the Griever against the wall again, and it slumped. She took the advantage of the Griever slowing to deflect an attack coming from another one of the monsters.

   She felt a searing pain over her bicep on her left arm and hissed. Sylvia jammed the spear into the Griever's body again and again. It seemed to slow, but nothing was killing them. She yelled in frustration and stabbed the thing until it seemed to stop moving. The other Griever she had left was coming towards her now. She took a quick glance around and saw a flurry of fighting and Gladers and metal. She could see in the distance as Thomas jumped off the Cliff, clutching Bark in his arms.

   She spun back around to face the oncoming Griever and hurled the spear into its head. It screeched, reared up, and knocked her over. She flew a few feet and landed on the concrete with a thud. Her body jolted with pain and she quickly gripped the axe at her hip. The Griever crawled over her until it was right above her. She shouted out and hacked the axe into its underside. The creature slashed out at her and hit her ribs. A blooming pain cracked over the bones and it took everything in her to hack at it again and again. Just as it was about to strike at her again, she slashed at its underside in the same spot, the wound deep, and a yellowish liquid spurted out and onto her shirt. The Griever's movements jerked, and then the incessant whirring distorted.

   Sylvia crawled out from under the thing just before it collapsed in a heap. She scrambled up from the ground, looking at the oily yellow liquid as it pooled beneath the monster. She looked around her frantically. Boys and Grievers lay in heaps on the floor. Most were still alive. Still fighting. She ran over to a Griever that was about to attack Oscar, who was already struggling with a different one, and jumped on top of it. She sliced down with her axe until the yellow liquid sloshed up again, soaking her clothes, the Griever's slime slicking her skin.

   "Aim for its middle!" She yelled out, hoping the boys around her would process her words. "Until you see the yellow klunk!"

   She skipped towards Oscar, the Griever he was fighting off close to stabbing him. She brought the axe down on its head. It sliced at her leg and she doubled forwards at the searing pain. The adrenaline quickly made her forget about the injury as she hewed down on it, Oscar helping on its other side. The oily liquid spurted out and the Griever powered down.

   "You good?" She called to Oscar hastily.

   He panted. "Great!"

   She only nodded. She saw other Gladers catching onto the trick. More Grievers had been downed. She kept her eyes off of the bodies. The blood coating the ground. She couldn't look at them. It would destroy her.

   She spotted another Glader in need of help and quickly rushed over. She helped the boy push the monster back. She held it off, deflecting its attacks while he stabbed at its middle. Before they had even reached the middle, the whirring started to slow. It's movements turned jerky and Sylvia urged the boy away from it.

   Thomas had done it.

   She glanced back at the rest of the boys. She noticed Cole still fighting one of the stronger Grievers that was taking longer to shut down. She threw her axe at it and the monster shrieked loudly. She quickly picked up a discarded machete from the ground and slashed at the appendage that was making its way towards Cole.

   The Griever's movements started jerking and it shuddered. She stabbed down its middle for good measure. Once she finally saw the yellow liquid, she sighed and stepped away from it. She wiped a hand over her brow and turned.

   "Cole—?" Her words were cut short once she turned. Cole was standing a few feet away, blood coating his shirt. The red liquid trickled down his torso in a stream, a gaping gash running over his middle.

   "Syl?" His face gaunt, his voice hollow.

   "No..." she mumbled. Cole started tipping, and she jumped towards him, arms reaching out. "No!"

   Her knees hit the ground harshly as she caught him. Her hands moved frantically over the wound, blood coating her fingers, the substance warm and sticky. Cole's arms clawed at Sylvia desperately, hands grabbing her arms.

   "Sylvia." He cried.

   "Shh, shh. You're okay. You're gonna be okay." Her voice was breaking. Heat built behind her eyes like fire, magma streaming down her cheeks and scorching the flesh. "It's okay, kid. Just stay with me. Stay with me."

   "I don't want to die. I don't want to die, Syl." Tears were running down his cheeks. His hold on her arms creating crescents in her skin. The blood didn't stop coming, flowing from the wound like an endless stream. He whispered, voice cracking, "I'm so scared."

   "I know, baby. I know." She cried. Then she said firmer, one hand frantically trying to stop the incessant bleeding and the other wiping the tears from his cheeks. "You are not going to die, you hear me?"

   "Sylvia!" He whimpered, pain and terror painting his features. She wanted to make it all go away. She would give anything—anything—to take his pain.

   "Someone help! Get the bandages!" She shouted to the rest of them. Some had their heads hung low, others staring with shock and sadness adorning their feaures. "Help!"

   No one moved. She sobbed, hand caressing Cole's face.

   "Syl..." His eyes fluttered, his eyes glazing over. His breath stopping in his lungs.

   "No!" Sylvia's cry was long and dragged out, strained and animalistic. She felt every thread in her body being ripped apart at the seams, like a harsh snap in her head. Her hand cradled his head, her head falling so that her brow rested against his shoulder. "Cole, please. Please stay with me. Cole!"

   A hand was against her shoulder, a strained voice in her ear, "Syl, we have to go."

   "No!" She cried, whole body shaking. "I can't...I can't leave him."

   "Syl..." Minho trailed off. Gently, he wrapped his hands under her arms and hoisted her up.

   "No!" She screeched, thrashing in his hold as he dragged her away. "No! Minho, please! We can't leave!"

   "I'm so sorry." He whispered, still dragging her towards the Cliff. All of the other boys had gone already, and they were the only two left. "We need to go."

   "Minho," she wailed. Her body felt numb. Her chest felt like it had been ripped open. She felt like she might die. "Please..."

   "Come on, Syl." He begged. At this point he was holding her up, the only thing keeping her from collapsing to the ground. His hands holding her. "All you have to do is jump, then we're out. We won. Please."

   Sylvia's breaths came shakily, rasping into her lungs like scraping metal. She looked out over the Cliff. His hand was on the small of her back, gently encouraging her forwards.

   She jumped.

   It was a blur of gray and then her body tingled as she passed through the illusionary plane of the Griever Hole. Her knees buckled when she hit the ground and she collapsed in a heap, pain ricocheting in her bones. Her hands pressed against the ground shakily, and then there was a hand on her arm, pulling her up.

   "Sylvia, you alright?" Newt's voice flooded her ears and she felt a small amount of relief.

   She looked up at him drearily, and simply stared, eyes going in and out of focus. Everything faded away, becoming blurs of shapes and colors and distorted sounds. A hand around her wrist, and she was being led somewhere. She followed the voices.

   Everything converged together, cracking, splitting, conforming. All she could feel was the whirring of her mind as it raced and slowed, the shaking in her bones as her body convulsed uncontrollably with aching shudders. She was so cold. So, so cold. Freezing pinpricks on her face like freshly fallen snow, the touch of frigid hands on her skin, the chill receding into her.

   Passingly, she saw the faces of the dead. Every Glader that hadn't made it. George, Quinn, Gally, Troye, Nick, Cole. The list could go on. Their features weren't right, slightly crooked or arranged on their faces wrong. She was almost forgetting what they looked like.

   Everything pounded and ached and she felt a deep throbbing between the rungs of her ribs, the stretch of her skin against dried, cracked blood. It was so far away. Everything was so far away. Cole. Cole.

   Voices in her ear, whispers, maybe shouts. She couldn't tell. The warmth of a hand against the side of her face, fingers curling beneath her mussed hair. Hand moved to her back, pushing her forwards. Her movements felt robotic, automated. Numbness in her limbs.

   Then she was tumbling through the sky, skin slicked with something slimy, sides and hips and arms winding through a surface forcefully. A breath of air caught in her lungs and expelled as she hit the ground, sickly feeling of skin sliding against other sliminess. Her nails scraped the hard floor. Concrete. She crawled, collapsed. Then she was being pulled up again, mangled voices around her.

   It was like hearing them from under water. She felt like she was drowning.

   Then she stood. For a long time she stood, staring at nothing, doing nothing, feeling nothing. Feeling everything. Feeling the ghosts screaming at her, clawing at her skin, wailing in her ear, begging her for help. She stood still. Still as a statue, still as a stone. If she did not move, she could not crumble.

   A harsh pop in her ears and a snap of sudden clarity in her vision hurled her back.

   "The Creators."

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

i don't have any words and i don't think apologies for killing off characters is cutting it anymore ☹️ cole, my pookie, i am so so so sorry