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- Джеймс Дэшнер
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Thomas
once
again
felt
a
pressing
ache
of
confusion
--
hearing
so
many
words
and
phrases
that
did
n't
make
sense
.
Shank
.
Shuck
.
Keeper
.
Slopper
.
They
popped
out
of
the
boys
'
mouths
so
naturally
it
seemed
odd
for
him
not
to
understand
.
It
was
as
if
his
memory
loss
had
stolen
a
chunk
of
his
language
--
it
was
disorienting
.
Different
emotions
battled
for
dominance
in
his
mind
and
heart
.
Confusion
.
Curiosity
.
Panic
.
Fear
.
But
laced
through
it
all
was
the
dark
feeling
of
utter
hopelessness
,
like
the
world
had
ended
for
him
,
had
been
wiped
from
his
memory
and
replaced
with
something
awful
.
He
wanted
to
run
and
hide
from
these
people
.
The
scratchy-voiced
boy
was
talking
.
"
--
even
do
that
much
,
bet
my
liver
on
it
.
"
Thomas
still
could
n't
see
his
face
.
"
I
said
shut
your
holes
!
"
the
dark
boy
yelled
.
"
Keep
yapping
and
next
break
'll
be
cut
in
half
!
"
That
must
be
their
leader
,
Thomas
realized
.
Hating
how
everyone
gawked
at
him
,
he
concentrated
on
studying
the
place
the
boy
had
called
the
Glade
.
The
floor
of
the
courtyard
looked
like
it
was
made
of
huge
stone
blocks
,
many
of
them
cracked
and
filled
with
long
grasses
and
weeds
.
An
odd
,
dilapidated
wooden
building
near
one
of
the
corners
of
the
square
contrasted
greatly
with
the
gray
stone
.
A
few
trees
surrounded
it
,
their
roots
like
gnarled
hands
digging
into
the
rock
floor
for
food
.
Another
corner
of
the
compound
held
gardens
--
from
where
he
was
standing
Thomas
recognized
corn
,
tomato
plants
,
fruit
trees
.
Across
the
courtyard
from
there
stood
wooden
pens
holding
sheep
and
pigs
and
cows
.
A
large
grove
of
trees
filled
the
final
corner
;
the
closest
ones
looked
crippled
and
close
to
dying
.
The
sky
overhead
was
cloudless
and
blue
,
but
Thomas
could
see
no
sign
of
the
sun
despite
the
brightness
of
the
day
.
The
creeping
shadows
of
the
walls
did
n't
reveal
the
time
or
direction
--
it
could
be
early
morning
or
late
afternoon
.
As
he
breathed
in
deeply
,
trying
to
settle
his
nerves
,
a
mixture
of
smells
bombarded
him
.
Freshly
turned
dirt
,
manure
,
pine
,
something
rotten
and
something
sweet
.
Somehow
he
knew
that
these
were
the
smells
of
a
farm
.
Thomas
looked
back
at
his
captors
,
feeling
awkward
but
desperate
to
ask
questions
.
Captors
,
he
thought
.
Then
,
Why
did
that
word
pop
into
my
head
?
He
scanned
their
faces
,
taking
in
each
expression
,
judging
them
.
One
boy
's
eyes
,
flared
with
hatred
,
stopped
him
cold
.
He
looked
so
angry
,
Thomas
would
n't
have
been
surprised
if
the
kid
came
at
him
with
a
knife
.
He
had
black
hair
,
and
when
they
made
eye
contact
,
the
boy
shook
his
head
and
turned
away
,
walking
toward
a
greasy
iron
pole
with
a
wooden
bench
next
to
it
.
A
multicolored
flag
hung
limply
at
the
top
of
the
pole
,
no
wind
to
reveal
its
pattern
.
Shaken
,
Thomas
stared
at
the
boy
's
back
until
he
turned
and
took
a
seat
.
Thomas
quickly
looked
away
.
