ACT II    SCENE XXXIV
AUTOLYCUS

   ABANDONED CARS lined the fractured highway like rusted gravestones, their windows shattered, tires flattened into the concrete, doors hanging open as if the people inside had vanished mid-escape. Soyun crouched low, her breath barely stirring the dust as she crept between the wrecks. Heat radiated off the metal, stinging her palms when she used them for cover.

She glanced at the boys behind her. They gave tight nods. Ahead, the convenience store loomed, its walls scorched and signage half-melted, the words MINI MART barely legible beneath grime and old blood.

Inside, the light was dim, filtering through jagged cracks in the boarded windows. Shelves were overturned, contents spilt and trampled. Most of the food had long been looted. But they were desperate—it had been days since their last real meal.

"Left side," the older boy whispered, motioning with two fingers. "You check the back room. We'll hit the aisles."

She nodded and crossed the threshold, boots crunching over glass as she moved down a narrow aisle. Her fingers skimmed empty cans, torn boxes, the occasional crushed energy bar wrapper. A body slumped against the refrigerator doors, mouth open in a soundless scream. She didn't flinch anymore.

In the store room, the shelves had been raided, but toward the back, she found a box of protein bars. Two were still sealed. Her hands trembled slightly as she pocketed them. Then she heard something—movement.

She froze. Heart pounding, she eased out of the store room, knife in hand. Something darted past the end of the aisle, small and light-footed. She turned just in time to glimpse a child—no older than nine—scrambling away with a sack in her arms.

"Wait!" Soyun called, giving chase without thinking.

Outside, the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the lot. The child ducked between two trucks, but Soyun caught up, grabbing her wrist.

"Hey—hey, I'm not going to hurt you!"

The child twisted and struggled. She was skin and bones beneath layers of ragged clothes. The sack clutched to her chest was half full: crackers, a can of beans, bottled water. Likely scavenged from deeper inside the mart.

"I just want to see what you've got," Soyun said, breathless but calm. "We're not here to take everything. Just enough to get through the night."

The child hesitated. Then her chin quivered. "My brother's hurt," she whispered, tears springing to her eyes. "He needs food."

Footsteps pounded behind them. Both boys arrived, breath ragged. The older one tensed when he saw the girl. "What the hell happened?"

Soyun didn't answer. She met the child's wide, frightened gaze and slowly let go of her wrist. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out one of the protein bars.

"Take this," she said, holding it out. "And give me half the water."

The girl blinked up at her, confused.

"It's a fair trade," Soyun added softly. "We both walk away with something."

After a long pause, the child nodded and fished out one bottle. She took the protein bar, then turned and disappeared back into the wreckage like a shadow. The boy watched her go, then looked at Soyun sideways.

"You're too soft," he remarked.

She shrugged. "We were that kid once."

The younger boy quietly pulled a folded paper from his jacket. "I found this," he said. "Do you know how to read it?"

The older boy took the map, his green eyes scanning it. The sun was falling fast behind them, the weight of the moment pressing on their ribs like hunger. "It's a long way to where we need to go," he murmured. "But... at least we've got safety in numbers, right?"

They exchanged glances with one another before she nodded eagerly. "Safety in numbers."

   Cassandra woke to the pale light of dawn filtering across her face, soft and gold like memory. Dust motes floated in the air like tiny ghosts, drifting through broken shafts of sunlight that spilt down from a cracked ceiling high above. It was quiet, like the world was still asleep in the aftermath of the storm. She blinked against the light, her lashes heavy with grit, and rubbed at her eyes. A yawn escaped her lips, and she stretched out instinctively—only for a sharp bolt of pain to shoot through her side. She sucked in a breath, stifling a groan.

It took all her strength to shift upright, her palms scraping the rough floor as she forced herself into a sitting position. Her back met the wall with a soft thud, and she let herself sag against it, breath coming in shallow, cautious pulls. When she looked up, Newt and Thomas were watching her.

She squinted. "Why are you two staring at me like I'm a dying horse?"

"You look like one," Newt said dryly.

"I feel like crap," she moaned.

"Think she bruised her ribs when Minho flew into her," Thomas said. "You hit that car pretty hard, I thought you'd go through the windshield."

Newt snorted. "Always said that shuckface had too much muscle for his own good. So what happened to him?"

"Lightning set his clothes on fire somehow. Don't ask me how it didn't fry his brain, but we managed to put it out before it did too much damage. I think."

"Before it did too much damage?" Newt raised an eyebrow. "Hate to see what you think real damage looks like."

Minho groaned then—a long, drawn-out sound of agony. "Oh, man," he rasped, blinking up at them. "I'm shucked. I'm shucked for good."

Newt rolled his eyes. "Drama king's alive, at least."

With a series of pained grunts, Minho shifted and propped himself up on one elbow. His shirt was half burned, the edges singed black, and a thin line of bandages peeked from beneath it. The exposed skin that showed through was red with blisters. But his face had been spared, and so had his hair. Every movement seemed to cost him.

Minho pushed himself up into a sitting position, grunting unhappily as he did so. Finally, he dragged himself next to Cassandra and leaned against the wall with his knees up. "Shuck it," he replied. "I'm tougher than nails. I could still kick your pony-lovin' butt with twice this pain."

"I do love ponies," Thomas said. "Wish I could eat one right now." As if to prove his point, his stomach grumbled right then.

"Was that a joke?" Minho asked, incredulous. "Did Thomas the boring slinthead actually make a joke?"

"I think he did," Newt replied.

"I'm a funny guy."

Cassandra couldn't help it. She laughed then winced, a sharp jolt flaring in her side. "You're hilarious," she said through her teeth.

Minho sat up straighter, scanning the room around them. Most of the Gladers were still asleep, scattered bodies slumped across the rubble-strewn floor. Some curled up together, others lying alone. They all sported cuts and burns, sheets draped over injured limbs.

"How many?" he asked, the humour gone from his voice.

"Twelve," Newt said quietly.

"Dude," Minho muttered, rubbing his face. "How're we supposed to fight through a whole city with only twelve people?"

Cassandra leaned her head back against the wall. Her gaze drifted upward, past the dusty beams of light that streamed through the gaps in the crumbling ceiling. The building they were in stretched several stories high, maybe eight floors, though most of them looked like they'd collapse if anyone so much as sneezed. All that remained intact was the skeletal steel frame holding the place together.

Then something caught her eye—a glint from above, like sunlight bouncing off glass. Third floor, maybe. Her brows furrowed, but before she could say anything, Newt spoke.

"What about the ones we lost?" he asked, the edge in his voice unmistakable. "Jack's gone. Winston—he never even had a chance. And I don't see Stan or Tim. What about them?"

Cassandra's heart sank. Jack, with his nervous jokes. Winston, always level-headed and dependable. She remembered the scream when the lightning took him. She hadn't seen where his body landed. A small chunk of debris dislodged from the ceiling above and shattered against the floor with a sharp crack. She stared at where it had landed.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Minho held his hands up. "Slim it nice and calm, brother. I didn't ask to be the shuck leader. You wanna cry all day about what's happened, fine. But that's not what a leader does. A leader figures out where to go and what to do after that's done."

"Well, guess that's why you got the job, then," Newt said. But a look of apology washed over his features. "Whatever. Seriously, sorry. I just..."

"Yeah, I'm sorry too." Minho rolled his eyes. She hoped Newt didn't notice that.

"Anyway," Cassandra spoke quickly. "We gotta think about what we're gonna do next."

"Yeah," Thomas muttered. "We'd better figure things out before we have a bunch of crazies show up. But I'm telling you, we gotta eat first. We gotta find food."

"Food?"

A face suddenly popped into view over the edge of the second floor. Thomas jerked back with a gasp, and Cassandra yelped in surprise.

There was a bark of laughter before the person jumped down like some kind of acrobat before landing on the floor in front of them. He sprang up and held his arms out in a show of talent. It was a man, wearing a loose red shirt underneath a worn black jacket with faded jeans.

"My name is Jorge," he spoke with a noticeable accent that was different from Newt's. "And I'm the Crank who rules this place." He then snickered to himself.

Around the room, the Gladers stirred. Eyes opened. Frypan sat up with a grunt. A few hands reached instinctively for whatever weapons they had left. The air was suddenly thick with tension, brittle and dry. Jorge turned in a slow circle, soaking in the silence like it pleased him.

"What?" he said. "You scared of the Cranks? Scared we'll drag you to the ground and eat your eyeballs out? Mmm, tasty. I love a good eyeball when the grub's runnin' short. Tastes like undercooked eggs."

"You admit you're a Crank?" Minho's voice cut sharply through the air. "That you're freaking crazy?"

"He just said he likes the taste of eyeballs," Frypan muttered. "I think that qualifies as crazy."

Jorge laughed again, louder this time. "Come, come, my new friends. I'd only eat your eyes if you were already dead. 'Course, I might help you get that way if I needed to. Understand what I'm saying?"

"How many of you are here?" Newt asked flatly.

Jorge gave him a crooked grin. "How many Cranks?" He spread his arms. "We're all Cranks around here, hermano."

"That's not what I meant and you know it," Newt snapped.

Jorge started pacing through them like a wolf among wounded prey, eyes flicking from face to face, looking for a weakness. "Those who speak first are at a disadvantage," he said. "So before I give anything away—I want to know why you're here, what your purpose is, and where the hell you came from. Now."

"We're at a disadvantage?" Minho scoffed. "Unless that lightning storm fried my retinas, I count twelve of us and one of you. Maybe you should start talking."

Jorge's face lost all humour. It went flat, dangerously calm. "You didn't just say that to me," he said quietly. "Tell me you didn't just speak to me like I'm a dog. You've got ten seconds to apologise."

Minho smirked, but the tension in his shoulders said he wasn't quite as cocky as he looked. He glanced at Thomas, who gave a subtle shake of his head. Jorge began counting down.

"One. Two."

"Do it!" Thomas hissed, eyes flicking upward. Cassandra looked too. There was movement from the upper floors.

Minho must've seen it as well, because he blurted, "Sorry!"

"I don't think you meant that," Jorge said, drawing his leg back and kicking him hard in the side. Minho cried out, curling around the pain. "Say it with meaning, hermano."

"Minho!" Cassandra called, scrambling forwards, but Newt quickly held her back.

"Say it with meaning!" Jorge screamed and kicked at the same spot with much more force than was necessary.

"I'm... sorry," Minho choked, arm clutched tight over his ribs.

Jorge's face lit up again, that same stupid grin plastered across it. He seemed satisfied with the humiliation he had inflicted. But the moment he relaxed, Minho swung his arm into the man's shin, knocking him off balance with a yelp. Then Minho pounced, yelling a string of colourful obscenities as he started punching the Crank.

"Minho!" Thomas shouted. "Stop!"

There was a flurry of movement. Scrapes and sounds came from the upper floors and ropes slithered down to the ground. Thomas launched himself at Minho, tackling him away. The two of them slammed into the wall with a thud. Cassandra wrenched free of Newt's grip and sprang forward, her blade flashing. She straddled Jorge and pressed the knife to his throat.

"Stop!" she screamed, just as boots thudded to the ground around her. They were surrounded.

There were about a dozen more of them, all filthy and bedraggled, but definitely outnumbering the Gladers now. They held crude weapons in their hands; machetes, baseball bats with jagged screws rammed through or metal bars with blood crusted on the ends.

"Tell them not to hurt us or I'll slit your throat!" she cried, voice shaking with panic.

Jorge didn't flinch. His smile only grew. "Looks like you're further Gone than I am, hermana."

"Cass!" Thomas called, his voice thick with urgency. "Stop. Let me talk to him. Just ten minutes."

She stared at him like he'd lost his mind. "What?"

"Ten minutes," he repeated. "Just me and him. Alone."

Voted and comments will be used like confetti to throw on Jorge.