The Fever Code (The Maze Runner 0.6)

The days when they’d had basement get-togethers were long, long, long past. Surely some cosmic catastrophe had forever shifted the normal passing of time, stretching it out.

Thomas lay in his bed that night, his uneaten dinner sitting on the desk. He’d barely had a bite for hours, and his stomach had made sure to leave nothing inside. He was empty in every way.

He was also exhausted, yet unable to fall asleep. Instead, he closed his eyes, listened to himself breathe.

Something buzzed in his head.

He sat up, looking around the room. He’d heard…or more like…felt…a buzz somewhere deep in the pounding ache within his skull that had been plaguing him all day. He shook his head, pressed his fingers against his temples. He stood up to call Dr. Paige, to ask for something to knock him out for the night, when the buzz came back, this time stronger.

He fell to the bed, rolled into a ball, and held his hands over both sides of his head. The buzz didn’t hurt, really. It was just so strange, so foreign. What ridiculous test had WICKED come up with now?

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

Louder and stronger each time. It felt like an invasion of his body; it scared him, made him think of Cranks. Going crazy. Seeing and hearing things that weren’t there.

Maybe they lied to us, he thought. Maybe we’re not immune. They’d said Newt wasn’t. Could it be possible—

BUZZ.

He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, his hands still glued to the sides of his head, as if that could do anything to help. Dr. Paige. He had to call Dr. Paige.

Thomas.

This time it was a voice. But at the same time, not a voice. A vibration, a rattling of his mind, a disturbance that felt like the buzzing had formed into a solid word. He slowly stood up, hands out for balance.

Thomas, this is Teresa.

He was going crazy. He was actually going crazy. It was the oldest and most common symptom—hearing voices in your head.

“Uh…,” he said aloud.

Is this working? Is this working?

The last word landed between his eyes like a thunderbolt. The pain knocked his legs out from under him and he collapsed onto the floor. Never had the world felt so fluid beneath him, as if nothing solid existed, no form, no substance.

“Teresa?” he asked aloud, disoriented. “Teresa?”

No answer. Of course there was no answer. He’d gone crazy. He had the Flare; he’d be a Crank soon. His life was over.

Listen to me, the voice came again, the series of words like a horse galloping in his mind. If you can hear me, pound on your door. I’ll be able to hear it.

Thomas pulled himself to his knees. He supposed he had nothing left to lose, so, the world swimming around him, he crawled across his room toward the door. As strange as it sounded, the odd voice in his head was more like a presence, and he didn’t know how to explain it, but it felt like Teresa.

He made it to the door, tall as a mountain as he knelt before it.

Thomas? came the voice. Thomas, please. Please tell me this works. It’s taken me months to figure it out. If you can hear me, pound on your door!

She shouted the last part, another series of thunks in his skull that hurt like an ice pick.

He steadied himself, raised his hands to rest on the door’s surface, then squeezed his fingers into fists. What you’re about to do, he told himself, just might be the last nail in your Flare coffin. If you’re wrong, you’ll know you’re truly crazy.

The voice again. Teresa.

Thomas? Thomas? Make the sound.

He did it. He reared back with both fists, then banged them against the door, beat it like it might be the last barrier to his freedom. In for a penny, in for a pound. He’d read that in one of those classics they’d given him. For a solid ten seconds, he threw his fists forward onto the hard surface until his knuckles ached and the pain shimmied up both arms.

Then he collapsed to the floor again, struggling to catch his breath. He heard shouts down the hall, footsteps, someone coming to check on him. But before anyone arrived, one last sentence surfaced in his mind.

Good, got it, Teresa said, a sense of excitement somehow attached to her voice. I’ll teach you how to do this later.

And then she was gone. Not just her voice, but her presence as well. Gone. Like an extinguished light.

The door swung open and Dr. Paige stood there.

“What in the world’s come over you?” she asked.





225.05.12 | 7:44 p.m.

The next day passed in agony for Thomas. He could barely wait to see Teresa in the flesh—for just ten minutes. Five minutes. All he needed was enough time to look her in the eyes and ask her. Was it you? He’d know in an instant, and he needed the confirmation desperately. As he ate breakfast, had a checkup, went from class to class, the same question ran through his mind.

Am I crazy?

He’d even tried to ask Dr. Paige about his fears when she’d first retrieved him that morning.

“So how do you know I’m immune?” he’d asked her, watching her expression carefully as she answered.

“It’s fairly straightforward,” she replied easily, walking next to him down the hallway. “There are very specific markers in your blood makeup, DNA, and cerebrospinal fluid that are consistent among all those who are immune. The markers are missing in those who are not immune. It took a lot of study to get to that point, but it’s solid now.”

He considered that. It certainly sounded like she was telling the truth.

“Also,” she added, “it’s doubly confirmed in someone like you and the other immune subjects we’ve gathered.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we can verify with brain scans that the virus itself has taken hold inside you, that it’s made a home for itself. And yet it has no effect whatsoever on your physical matter, your mental capacity, your bodily functions. And you’ve had the virus for years, with no change. Unless it’s some sort of massive mutation of the virus—which our studies have shown no evidence of—then we can say with almost certain scientific and medical accuracy that you’re immune.”

He nodded, fairly confident she was being honest with him. “So if I started showing symptoms of the Flare, say, tomorrow, how shocked would you be? On a scale of one to ten?”

She looked over at him. “Ten, Thomas. I’d be beyond shocked. As shocked as if you sprouted a third ear. What’s all this about?”

He stopped in the hallway and faced her. “Dr. Paige. Do you swear, swear on your own life, that I’m immune? That this isn’t some kind of…I don’t know, some kind of test? I know you guys are really fond of tests. How do I know I’m not like Newt? Not immune?”

Dr. Paige gave him that smile—that smile that always made him feel a little better. “I swear to you, Thomas. I swear on the graves of the countless loved ones who have died…I swear that I’ve never lied to you. You’re as immune as science and medicine can possibly conclude. And if there was any chance of anything endangering your life, I wouldn’t allow it.”

He stared into her eyes. He found that he truly believed her, and that made him feel warm inside—as if a little piece of the wall he’d built up to protect himself had crumbled away.

“Why are you asking me these things?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

He almost told her the truth. That he’d heard a voice inside his head. He almost told her.

“Dreams,” he answered. “I keep having these dreams that I go crazy. And the worst part is that I’m not even aware it’s happened. Do any of the Cranks actually know that they’ve lost their minds? How do we know we’re not Cranks?”

She nodded, as if that was a completely valid question. “That sounds like something for your philosophy class. Next month, I believe.”

She’d started walking again, and the conversation was over.

—