Chapter Eleven
"rubble"

❣︎

"It was here," Thomas states.

He stands between the ruins of the Last City. We're almost in the center of it after hours of searching—and according to Thomas, this is the spot Newt died on.

"We need to search below every rock, every object, everything. We won't leave until we pull a conclusion."

"What if we find nothing?"

"Then our conclusion is that he's not here, but somewhere else."

Aris hesitates as the next words leave his mouth, "Don't you think that could mean he's... you know, dead?"

"No. The knife can't burn, nor can the WCKD suit. It was fire proof."

"To an extent, yes. But come on, no way it doesn't melt in such a big fire."

"Well, even if it melted, we'll find the remains."

"I don't know if that's how it works."

But Thomas looks determined to find something. "Let's just start looking. Ready, Adelaide?"

I nod, because there aren't a lot of ways to decently protest without using words, and start lifting all the objects I can find.

We've wandered around this place for hours by now. We saw many bodies, most of them burned or already skeletons. Thomas recognizes none of them as Newt, even the skeletons aren't Newt according to him. I'd say every skeleton is pretty much the same, and he's just seeing things at this point, but okay.

I'm worried about him. His expectations have risen too high and it will break him if Newt turns out to be dead. It will be like him dying again, except Thomas's reaction will be ten times worse.

I don't even know what Newt looks like. No one ever explained it to me. Perhaps now is a good moment to ask.

I use my knee as a surface to write on. 'What does Newt look like?' I hand the note to Aris.

"Oh, I'm sorry for not telling you before." He rubs the back of his head. "He has blonde hair. Thin lips, brown eyes. He's tall and very skinny. He was wearing a black uniform when he died. It had some hints of red as well."

I nod and mouth a 'thank you' before I continue looking.

"Found anything?" Thomas wonders.

"No, not yet," Aris sighs out, because he knows Thomas will ask every ten minutes, if not five.

"Don't worry. We will."

"Thomas," he starts coldly, "tell yourself we won't find anything. Otherwise, it will be the worst realization of your life. And if we do find something, you'll be happy."

"We must find something. It's impossible we don't."

"Yes, okay, but I mean... prepare yourself for the fact he's dead."

Thomas doesn't reply—I didn't expect him to—and returns to searching. "Blood!" He suddenly peeps.

"We've seen lots of blood already. Is it fresh?"

"No, but it could be Newt's, which means he didn't burn. The blood would've been gone."

He's making up random theories at this point. It barely makes sense.

Yet I walk over to him, bending down. The blood sticks to the broken pavement. Slowly, I drag my fingers across it.

It flakes slightly under my touch. It's not recent. That much is clear. I lean closer, narrowing my eyes, and focus on the small details. The shade is dark, almost brown, indicating it's long past fresh—once again.

It doesn't make sense. The Last City was scorched to its very bones. Most bodies and bloodstains we've found have been destroyed beyond recognition. This patch stands out. There's no ash smudged into it.

It's as though whoever bled here had fallen after the fire burned out.

I glance at the ground around it, tracing patterns in the destruction. The pavement is cracked, uneven, and there are faint scuff marks leading away from the blood. As if someone crawled—or was dragged. I press my hand against one of the marks and run my finger over it. It's shallow, barely visible, but the drag lines overlap with the blood trail. They lead toward a pile of rubble about ten feet away.

I grab a piece of broken metal nearby and carefully scrape at the blood. The texture is grainy but intact, confirming my suspicion: it hasn't been exposed to heat.

Thomas watches me expectantly, hope shining in his eyes. I glance up at him.

'The blood's old,' I write on a scrap of paper, showing it to him. 'But it's not burned. Whoever bled here wasn't caught in the fire. They were hurt later. Maybe even after the flames died down.'

Thomas reads my note and blinks. His expression shifts from eager to confused. "So... that means he could've survived? It's his, right?"

I hesitate, glancing at the blood again. There's no way to be certain it's Newt's. I can't tell him that. I will only give him more false hope.

Instead, I gesture toward the rubble.

He's on his feet in an instant. "We'll follow it."

Aris lingers beside me. "Do you really think it's Newt's?" he murmurs, keeping his voice low enough so Thomas won't hear.

I shake my head slightly, pressing my lips into a thin line. I don't know. It's possible, but the odds feel slim. Still, it's the only lead we've found, and Thomas won't stop until he's followed every possible path.

Aris sighs. "Guess we better keep going, then."

Thomas moves with an almost reckless energy, pulling apart bits of rubble with his bare hands. His fingers bleed from sharp edges, but he doesn't seem to notice—or maybe he just doesn't care. The drag marks lead directly into the collapsed remains of a building. Whoever had been dragged here didn't get out again.

"Thomas, stop," Aris says sharply, grabbing his shoulder. "You're going to hurt yourself."

Thomas shakes him off violently. "I don't care. If Newt's under here, we have to get him out. Help me or don't—but I'm not stopping."

If Newt would be under there, how would he be able to send Thomas that note?

Exactly. Thomas is not thinking clearly. Or something is off—maybe something happened after Newt sent the note.

Aris shoots me a glance before he kneels beside him. There's no guarantee we'll find anything—or anyone—beneath this mess. And if we do, it might not be what Thomas is hoping for.

Still, I bend down and start helping. The rubble is heavier than it looks, and every piece we move seems to reveal nothing but more useless stones. Dust fills the air, stinging my eyes and throat, but Thomas doesn't falter. He keeps going, fueled by hope.

Hours seem to pass. The sun begins to set, casting long shadows over the ruins. My arms ache, my hands are raw, and I'm sure Aris is just as worn out. But Thomas doesn't stop. His determination is both admirable and terrifying.

Finally, we reach something. A glimpse of fabric, half-buried beneath the rubble. Black with faint hints of red.

The uniform.

I'm scared of what will happen next. Not exactly of what we'll find—though it seems obvious—but of how Thomas will react.

For a moment, he doesn't breathe. Then, with trembling fingers, he pulls the fabric free, revealing more of the body beneath.

It's him—or at least, it's someone in a WCKD uniform. The figure is partially skeletonized. The black uniform clings to the remains like a second skin. I can't identify the face: it's barely there. The impact of the fallen stones, fire, skeletonization, and maybe even the Flare make it unrecognizable.

It doesn't have to be Newt, but there's a big chance.

Thomas falls back, sitting hard on the ground. His face is pale, his eyes wide. He looks like he's been punched in the gut—no, like he's been shot ten times. Aris crouches beside the body. I stand frozen, unsure of what to do.

"No," Thomas whispers, his voice breaking. "No, no, no."

"Thomas," Aris tries gently. "It's okay—"

But Thomas doesn't hear him. He shakes his head violently. "This isn't him. It's not him. It can't be. Newt's alive. He's alive, and we just have to keep looking."

'We could, but keep in mind that this is probably him.'

He slaps the paper away, his face twisting in anger. "Shut up! You don't know that! You don't know anything! We're not done! We're not done until I say we're done!"

Aris stands, his face hardening. "Thomas, you need to stop. You're not thinking clearly."

"I'm thinking perfectly clearly!" Thomas snaps. "We're going to find him, and he's going to be fine. He's going to—" His voice cracks, and he buries his face in his hands.

Aris slowly wraps an arm around Thomas, who begins sobbing as he pulls strands of his hair.

I turn back to the body, leaning close. The smell of death is horrible, yet I continue. My hands push down on the corpse's chest. Bones crack. I feel the texture of the uniform.

But no texture of a stab. No texture of a knife.

I check everywhere for a sign of it, or at least melted metal, plastic— whatever, but it's not there.

There is no knife.

And no stab wound.

I shake Thomas so heavily that he is forced to look up, and then point at the body, shaking my head.

"It's not Newt?" He asks, but his voice is tiny. Not a single sign of hope left.

I nod and point at my heart, as if preforming the stab wound. Thomas takes a closer look at the body. You can perfectly see when he realizes.

"It's not Newt," he whispers, and jumps up. "It's not him! We need to continue looking. Right now."

But whoever it is was clearly dragged there. The red uniform can't be a coincidence. Was Newt trying to disguise the man? Did he try to fake his own death? If he did, that means he was, or is, in danger.

I look back at the pile of rubble we lifted, and my heart drops.

He's not alone.

With a stab wound and still half-affected by the Flare, there is no way he could've dragged the man here, changed his clothes, and lifted all of those stones on top of the man by himself. Someone must be with him.

Rachel? It starts to make sense. Tommy and Aris. Both of them calling for the ones who they care about the most. Either way, whoever is with Newt, is connected to Aris. And it's not Teresa, as we realized earlier.

It's too much to write on paper right now. I clench my jaw. I'm starting to hate this mutism more and more. At first, with no friends and no serious situations, I could handle it just fine. Now it's becoming irritable.

"Newt?!" Thomas starts screaming. I shrink in my skin. Yelling might not be the best idea. We don't know if there are any Cranks close.

We might be immune, but that doesn't mean they can't kill us. They're easily capable of that.

Aris seems to think it's a bad idea as well, because he hits Thomas on the back of his head, eyes warning him.

"We should go back to the boat," Aris says. "It's getting dark."

❣︎

The three of us eat dinner in silence. We brought cans with food. I'm eating sliced carrots, Thomas is eating hot dogs for some reason, and Aris has a can with a mix of corn and beans.

The boat is swaying in the water, our candles moving dangerously. We're sitting inside around a table, our stuff on top of it.

"Can we play a game to lighten the mood up?" Aris wonders.

Thomas grunts, not looking up from his can of hot dogs. He doesn't seem to have the energy to argue, but it's clear he's not thrilled about the suggestion. Aris glances at me instead. I shrug and nod. A distraction might help, even if it's temporary.

"Alright," Aris says. "Something simple. Let's play 'Two Truths and a Lie.' It'll keep our minds off... everything." He gestures vaguely toward the ruins in the distance. "Adelaide, you in?"

Games aren't exactly my thing, especially when they require speaking. But Aris's expression is earnest, his lips curving just enough to betray a hint of a smile.

I sigh and nod again, trying not to look at him too long. He smiles wider, pleased. Thomas stays silent, his eyes focused on the distant horizon, though he still doesn't protest.

"Okay, I'll start," Aris says, sitting up straighter. "Let's see... One, I once climbed a tree so high I got stuck and had to be rescued by Sonya and Harriet. Two, I am obsessed with peanut butter. And three..." He pauses, tapping his chin. "I never sleep on my left side. What do you think, Adelaide? Which one's the lie?" He asks almost teasingly.

I tilt my head, considering. It's hard to imagine Aris getting stuck in a tree. But then again, I barely know him. I pick up my notepad and quickly scribble, 'Peanut butter?'

Aris laughs softly. "Yes, was it that obvious? I despise it. Can't stand the stuff. Your turn, Thomas."

Thomas doesn't answer right away. He pokes at his food absently, his expression dark. Aris frowns but doesn't push him, and just turns his attention back to me. "Alright, guess it's just you and me. Your turn."

I tap the pen against the paper. It feels silly to play this game when we're surrounded by ruins and death, but something about the way Aris is watching me makes it hard to say no. His gaze is almost encouraging.

'One: I can play the violin. Two: I broke my arm while skating once. Three: My leg is fake.' I pass the note to Aris, avoiding eye contact.

He reads it, his brows furrowing. "Hmm... I'm guessing the broken arm is a lie. You don't seem the type to get into accidents like that."

I smirk, shaking my head. The violin is the lie—I've always wanted to learn, but never had the chance, obviously. I point to the correct answer on the note, and Aris lets out an exaggerated groan.

"Of course. Should've known." His grin returns quickly. "Though I keep getting surprised by you."

The comment catches me off guard, and I feel my cheeks heat up. I busy myself with the can of carrots, avoiding his gaze.

'How did you know my leg is fake?'

He shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe it's the way you stand. You lean a little bit more onto your right side, as if you don't want to force too much weight on your left side—"

Thomas suddenly gets up "I'm going to check the perimeter," he announces, not looking at either of us. He grabs his flashlight and heads off before Aris or I can say anything.

Aris runs a hand through his hair. "I'm worried about him," he admits. "He's not handling this well."

I nod. 'He needs time, I think.'

"Yeah," Aris agrees. "As long as that time doesn't make him spiral even more."

We sit in silence after that. The distant sounds of the sea settle around us. Though I begin to feel tired, I glance at Aris from the corner of my eye. He's staring into the distance, his expression thoughtful.

"You know," he says after a while, "I'm glad you're here. I'd go crazy if I was alone with this version of Thomas."

The warmth returns to my cheeks. I don't know how to respond, so I look down, nodding in appreciation. He doesn't press for a real reply, but I catch the faintest hint of a smile on his face as he leans back again.

'I'm glad you're here, too.'