"Hey," he panted, glancing at her with a furrowed brow, his eyes filled with concern. "You alright?"
Emma forced a nod, though her voice came out strained. "I'm okay, Newt."
She kept her gaze forward, trying to focus on the ground rushing by beneath her feet rather than the ache that pulsed through her entire body. She felt as though her heart was splitting, not just from the physical strain but from the weight of everyone they'd lost.
Zart's face flashed before her eyes, along with the screams of the others who hadn't made it. But she swallowed down her grief.
Now wasn't the time.
She had to keep going and make it through this. She had to survive for those who no longer could, to carry their memory and honor their sacrifices.
Zart would want her to make it out...
Minho's voice rang out, urgent and sharp. "Keep up, shanks! Not much farther!" He glanced back at the struggling group, his expression determined, though a shadow of exhaustion lingered in his eyes.
Newt pressed on beside Emma, his gaze flicking down to the spot where she clutched her side. "How bad is it?" he asked, gesturing subtly to her bruised abdomen, a parting gift from the griever attack the night before.
Emma knew he was talking about the blows that still throbbed beneath her ribs, but she gritted her teeth against the pain and forced a reassuring smile.
"I'm okay, Newt. I promise." She tried to sound convincing, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her.
Newt's frown deepened; he didn't believe her, not for a second, but he kept his mouth shut, knowing they had no choice but to keep moving.
The group suddenly ground to a halt, and Emma nearly collapsed right there, her legs buckling beneath her. She braced her hands on her knees, struggling to catch her breath as she looked up to see Minho signaling for them to stop.
The tension among the Gladers thickened as they clustered together, scanning their surroundings with wide, anxious eyes.
They had reached a long, narrow corridor, the air heavy with the smell of cold metal and damp stone. Minho held up a hand, urging silence. Emma's pulse pounded in her ears as she struggled to calm her ragged breathing, trying to ignore the sharp pain that flared in her ribs with each inhale.
"Is there a Griever?" Chuck asked, his small voice trembling as he clutched at Thomas's sleeve.
"Yeah," Thomas replied grimly.
He poked his head around the sharp edge of the wall that concealed them, his movements deliberate and quiet. When he pulled back, his expression was pale, his jaw tight, but his eyes remained steady.
"Just one," he said, his voice low and even, carrying none of the panic threatening to claw its way up his throat.
His grip on his spear tightened, the faintest tremor betraying the fear he was trying to mask. He forced his breathing to slow, swallowing hard to steady himself.
The Gladers exchanged nervous glances, the memory of their last encounter with the creatures still fresh and raw in their minds.
Emma felt a shiver crawl down her spine, the cold grip of fear tightening around her. But there was a strange relief too, one Griever, not a dozen. Maybe they had a chance.
Newt stepped forward, his expression hardening into a mask of resolve as he moved toward the front of the group.
"We already knew we'd have to fight," he said, his voice steady but carrying the weight of what they were about to face. He gripped his spear tightly, knuckles white against the worn wood, and gave the others a firm nod.
The group fell silent, the gravity of his words settling over them like a heavy fog. Unease flickered in their eyes as they glanced between one another, each of them grappling with the fear they didn't dare voice aloud.
Emma's chest tightened as she watched the tension ripple through them. She could feel it too, that deep, gnawing anxiety clawing at her resolve.
Before she could second-guess herself, Emma stepped forward, moving past the others until she stood at the front with Newt and Thomas. Her pulse thundered in her ears, but her steps were steady.
This was her mess too. She had played a part in creating this nightmare, whether intentionally or not, and it was only fair that she stand and fight with them now.
Newt turned to her, his eyes narrowing slightly as if to question her choice. His concern was palpable, a flicker of worry that softened his usual stern expression. But Emma didn't meet his gaze.
If she did, she feared it might unravel the fragile confidence she'd just mustered.
Instead, she reached out and grabbed a spear from Minho, her fingers curling around the rough wood with purpose. Minho raised an eyebrow at her, but he said nothing, only handing her the weapon with a quiet nod of approval.
She then turned to Thomas, her expression firm as she nodded at him, the motion meant to reassure him, and maybe herself. Thomas's gaze lingered on her for a moment, his lips pressing into a thin line before he gave her a nod in return.
Thomas turned his attention back to the rest of the group, noticing the uncertainty and fear reflected in their faces. They all had placed their trust in him, and he bore that weight heavily.
It was easy to speak of bravery when huddled together, but now, faced with the real danger of the Grievers, each step felt like a battle of its own.
His thoughts briefly flickered to the Creators, how they must be watching, enjoying this chaos they had orchestrated, observing every moment of their desperation and struggle with pride.
As Thomas faced the group, his grip tightened around the key, before handing it to Chuck.
"Chuck, you stay behind us, okay? Hold this and keep it safe." His voice was firm but gentle, offering Chuck a sliver of reassurance in the chaos.
Chuck, pale with fear, clutched the key tightly, nodding as he tried to suppress his trembling hands. His lips were pressed together in a firm line, his jaw tight with the effort of keeping himself composed.
He glanced around at the others, trying to mirror their determined expressions, but no matter how hard he tried, the fear in his wide eyes betrayed him.
His hands trembled despite his efforts to steady them, the key rattling faintly in his grip. He quickly shoved it into his pocket, as if hiding it would make the weight of its importance disappear.
Teresa moved closer to Chuck, her face set with resolve as she took his hand.
"It's okay, Chuck. I'll stay with you," she said, offering a reassuring squeeze. Her voice was steady, but even she couldn't hide the fear in her eyes as she looked towards the dark, mechanical forms of the Grievers crawling up the walls.
Thomas nodded in agreement, placing a firm hand on Chuck's other shoulder before turning toward Minho and the others. His voice dropped as he addressed them, urgency sharpening his words as he worked to form a plan.
But Emma wasn't listening.
Her grip on the wooden staff tightened, her fingers trembling slightly as splinters pressed into her palms. She stared down at it, willing herself to focus.