Chapter Sixteen
"there"

❣︎

"Don't fight," whispers a voice. A female, once again.

Not Newt.

My eyes are wide as she slowly moves away from me, swaying through the dark like she's done it a thousand times before. I stay frozen. Confused. Hurt. Horrified. Afraid.

My head pounds. I can still feel blood slowly dripping down my throat, arm, and side. I'm pretty much unable to move my wrists. And my voice is still completely gone.

"Did you want to get yourself killed?" She hisses. "Why would you go after her? She was keeping you alive and surely wouldn't kill those friends of yours. Trust me, she went easy on you."

Perhaps if all that didn't make me suffocate, I'd agree with her.

I want to ask who she is, but that's not possible, obviously. I also just want to go back to the boat and cry my eyes out—which is also impossible, because I can't cry heavily without making a sound.

Out of nowhere, the girl holds a flashlight right in front of my eyes. I force my eyes to stay open, even through the bright light.

"What was your name again?" She asks suspiciously.

I point at my throat, then pretend to zip my mouth shut.

A short silence falls. The light is too bright for me to look past it, at the girl. Then she asks, "You're mute?"

I nod.

"Oh, lord." She seems to cover her face with her hands. "If Desmia would've known, she wouldn't have..." the girl trails off. I'm not sure if it's because she accidentally spilled the name or doesn't know what else to tell me.

"You look terrible. I'll get you something to drink."

My eyes wide even more when a plastic bottle of water rolls our way. She's still holding the flashlight in my face, so I can't tell if that was some strange kind of magic or if someone is siting in the corner of the room.

Whatever. What confuses me more is why she's helping me, while she's clearly acquaintances with the other girl—Desmia.

"Here. Drink." She hands me the bottle.

I squint my eyes to inspect it. It might be poisoned. My instincts scream not to trust her, but my body, aching and drained, screams louder. I'm desperate and she knows it.

Still, I hesitate. I shake the bottle lightly, listening for anything unusual. It's heavy, sloshing in a way that sounds normal. No strange powders clinging to the sides, no odd color. But poison doesn't always leave a trace.

The girl exhales sharply. "If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn't waste water doing it. Drink it, or don't. Your choice."

I glance up, squinting past the beam of the flashlight. Her tone isn't exactly kind, but it doesn't carry the sharp edge of a threat, either.

Against my instincts, I unscrew the cap and take a cautious sip. The cool water rushes down my throat, and for a moment, relief washes over me, right before the pain hits. I still ignore it, however, and keep drinking.

"Look," she says, "I'm not your enemy. Desmia is not your enemy."

The name makes my skin crawl. The girl who knocked me out, tied me to a chair, and tried to get words out of my by holding a knife against my skin.

"I'm only helping you because I think you've been dragged into something you don't understand," the girl continues.

I narrow my eyes at her, still clutching the water bottle. If she's trying to earn my trust, she's not doing a great job.

Slowly, I shake my head, as if telling her that I will soon understand. Everyone seems to underestimate me when they see me. It can't be my height. Is it my face? Do I just have a weak aura around me?

Then I point at her with a questioning look on my face.

She lowers the flashlight enough for me to see her. Dark hair, almost past her waist. Her face is round and surprisingly clean. She wears an old pink button-up with black pants below it. A knife is tucked in her waistband. "It's Rachel," she says. "My name is Rachel."

I spit all the water out, choking so heavily that I can almost confirm I've permanently lost my voice.

She points the flashlight at the ground, frowning. "What?"

She doesn't recognize me. Probably because I'm stained with dirt and blood, and have changed during the years I haven't seen her.

I don't think I want her to recognize me.

Tommy. Aris.

Newt is here. He must be.

Panicked, I stand up, looking around for him. He's here. He is. Somewhere.

"Hey, sit down." Rachel forces me back on the ground, holding my wrists tightly. I try to wince, but am incapable of doing so. "What the hell is going on?"

I point at her, back at me, make a movement as if I'm flying—like a Shade—and then mouth 'Newt' before pointing up to tell her Aris and Thomas are there.

Her frown deepens.

I slump against the wall, disappointed. My last attempt is pretending to write; if she could give me a pen...

"I'm sorry, we ran out of ink," she murmurs. "What are you trying to say?"

I inhale sharply, preparing myself for the pain that's about to come. My throat is raw, my voice utterly gone, but I force myself to try. If she recognizes the names, maybe she'll finally understand.

"...N..." The sound barely escapes my lips, more of a strangled whisper than anything else. It burns, but I push through. "Ne—" I clench my teeth together. Come on. "New—" but my voice ebbs away before I can finish saying the name.

Her eyes widen slightly, but she doesn't let go of my wrists. "Newt?" she repeats.

I nod furiously, ignoring the searing pain in my throat.

"A...ris and..." I croak. My body trembles from the effort. I can't do it.

Rachel stiffens, her grip loosening just enough for me to pull one wrist free. Her expression shifts—shock, realization, fear. She knows those names. "Aris?"

I nod again, just as heavily, and point upwards.

"Aris is here?" She gulps.

I nod another time.

Rachel sits frozen for a minute. I can see her thinking, see her considering this. And then she stands up with a firm nod, walking to the corner of the room. I snatch the flashlight from the ground so I can see what she's doing.

She begins lifting lightweight-looking boxes from the spot. Ten boxes later, she removes some kind of blanket. It's blue with vague stains of dirt and holes hinting at how worn out it is. When she moves that out of the way, a last, big box is left.

"Brace yourself," she calls. I can't tell if she's taking to me or someone else entirely.

I scoot closer, my heart slamming against my ribs in both excitement and fear.

The box gets tossed away towards the pile of smaller boxes, and finally, she reveals something useful.

A black WCKD suit with hints of red here and there lies on the ground.

Next to it sits a body. Or rather, weakly rests a body. The blonde hair is so greasy that it looks like he dipped it in a bucket of oil. His face is pale, the skin around his eyes irritated and red. Chappy, thin lips. A weak posture, so slim that my first thought is starvation.

And yet his eyes are open.

Newt. It's Newt. It must be.

I gape at him, my mouth ridiculously wide open. He stares back. "Is... is Tommy— Thomas with you?" He murmurs, the exhaustion in his voice clear.

I nod as hard as I can and once again, point at the ceiling.

"And Aris," Rachel tells Newt excitedly. "We're going home!" She turns to me. "Help me lift him. He's weak and sick."

Nodding, I push myself up. It takes a while, but we manage to drag Newt all the way to the room with the trapdoor. Now that Rachel is holding a flashlight, I can check our surroundings better. The loose plank that leads towards the other room is closed again. We came from a second loose plank. Multiple rooms were there. I'm not sure how many, but at least two: the one with the chair, and the one Newt and Rachel hid in.

"Okay, so climbing up can be tough." Rachel eyes me. "You need to stand on the desk, and reach for that lamp over there. If you tap it, the trapdoor will open and you must pull yourself up, into the other room. You got some decent arm strength?"

I look down at my bruised wrists and cut-open arm, then hesitantly shake my head. Right now, I don't have enough strength for sure.

"DESMIA!" Rachel yells. "Help us get Newt and... wait, what was your name again?"

Does she still not remember me from the Spring? The way I had attacked her? Maybe in broad daylight—or maybe she's just too cheerful to think about it right now. Who knows how long she's been living in this place.

"Never mind," she says. "Eh, okay, I'll help you up first. Desmia can pull Newt out while I push from below."

I climb on top of the desk and tap the light. Wood creaks before the trapdoor opens. It's multiple feet away from me.

Biting my lip, I reach for the edge of the opening, curling my fingers around it. I'm standing on my tiptoes. Rachel takes my ankles. "Okay. I will push you up, but you have to hold on yourself. Ready?"

I nod.

Before I know it, she swings my legs off the desk. I silently yelp as she pushes up with such strength that I am soon sprawled over the floor.

The fake book is the first thing I see above me, and then six pairs of eyes. Aris, Thomas, and the probably the same girl that put me in that chair.

Her skin is a dark, warm tone. Thick dreadlocks in her hair, some of them adorned with rusty jewelry. Her natural expression is angry. She has perfect lips, not a single sign of dryness—she clearly cares about her appearance, even though she lives in the Scorch.

"Is it really Newt?" Thomas asks impatiently, excitedly, breathlessly, wildly—too much emotion bursting through him. I nod and quickly get up, wiping my clothes.

"Are you o—" Aris cuts himself off when Rachel yells his name. His head snaps towards the trapdoor before he lowers himself closer to it. "Rachel?"

"Aris!" She peeps. "It is you!"

He laughs out loud as he helps them pull Newt out of the place, followed by Rachel. Thomas embraces Newt in a hug, and he refuses to let go for at least five minutes, crying his eyes out. He holds Newt so tightly that even though he's unstable, he manages to keep standing.

Aris and Rachel hug each other, too. I can't see Aris's face from here, but Rachel is shamelessly sobbing.

Though I'm standing awkwardly by their side, I'm happy for them. Desmia steps next to me, leaning against the wall. A sigh escapes from her. I expect some kind of apology to follow, but all she does is stare at the duos in front of us.

I stare at the ground, past my bloody and ripped clothes. Guess it was worth something after all.

"Tommy and Arro? Seriously?" She murmurs.

I glare at her.

"Our boat is about four miles away from here." Thomas wipes his tears. "We can carry Newt with a blanket or something—"

"I can walk."

"No, you can't," Rachel insists. "You've barely recovered from the stab wound and are underfed."

"Doesn't mean I can't walk."

"Save us the trouble and just listen, Newt," Rachel sighs out. With a final sigh, Newt nods.

"Oh, by the way." Aris clears his throat, stepping away as he motions at me. "This is Adelaide. You obviously know, but yeah, this is Newt and this is Rachel."

I nod.

"And this is Desmia." Rachel points at the girl. I nod again, but this time half-heartedly. I'm not sure whether to appreciate her presence or not.

"Let's go before it gets dark. We'll be back home in a few days. We have medical supplies and food on the boat," Thomas hurries.

❣︎

Thomas and Aris crafted a makeshift stretcher from a blanket and a few sturdy sticks they found, careful to keep Newt stable as they prepare for the journey. Rachel fusses over him as we walk, tucking the blanket around his body and glaring every time he protests. Desmia gathers random supplies she finds—water bottles, scraps of food, and anything remotely useful.

No one asks about the blood staining my clothes or the way I clutch my arm to my side as we begin our walk through the Scorch. Not even Aris, who looked my way a couple of times but never said anything.

My throat is screaming in pain, raw from the effort it took to get those words out, and my wrists throb where the ropes had bitten into them.

Thomas and Desmia walk ahead, carrying Newt between them on the stretcher. Aris and Rachel linger behind them, whispering to each other, I catch the occasional glance from Rachel—quick, fleeting—but nothing more.

The heat presses against my skin, every step kicking up more dust that clings to my face and fills my lungs. My arm and neck burn where the knife had sliced into it, the dried blood cracking every time I move. My wrists are raw and swollen, the bruises shades of purple and blue. My legs tremble, weak from exhaustion and hunger.

It's not that I want them to stop and take care of me. I'm not a child. I don't need their pity. But as the distance grows between us, as their laughter and quiet conversations drift just out of reach, I force myself to think about seeing Gally in a few days.

Gally would ask about the blood. Gally would walk next to me. Gally would hand me a new pen and a notepad.

❣︎

A/n: Watch me turn this into a Gally story

Jk, I won't