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anyway,” he answered quietly, his lips barely moving. “Just be patient.”
    Janson walked over to stand beside the guards. He pointed at one of the weapons. “These are called Launchers. These guards will not hesitate to fire them if any of you cause trouble. The weapons won’t kill you, but trust me when I say that they’ll give you the most uncomfortable five minutes of your life.”
    “What’s going on?” Thomas asked, surprised at how little fear he felt. “You just told us we could make this choice ourselves. Why the sudden army?”
    “Because I don’t trust you.” Janson paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. “We hoped you would do things voluntarily once yourmemories were back. It would just make things easier. But I never said we don’t still need you.”
    “What a surprise,” Minho said. “You lied again.”
    “I haven’t lied about a thing. You made your decision, now live with the consequences.” Janson pointed at the door. “Guards, escort Thomas and the others to their rooms, where they can dwell on their mistakes until tomorrow morning’s tests. Use whatever force is necessary.”

CHAPTER 8
     
    The two female guards lifted their weapons even higher, the wide, round muzzles pointed at the three boys.
    “Don’t make us use these,” one of the women said. “You have zero room for error. One false move and we pull the trigger.”
    The three men swung the straps of their Launchers over their shoulders, then moved toward the defiant Gladers, one per boy. Thomas still felt an odd calmness—coming in part from the deep determination to fight until he couldn’t anymore—and a sense of satisfaction that WICKED needed five armed guards to watch three teenagers.
    The guy who grabbed Thomas’s arm was twice as thick as he was, powerfully built. He walked briskly through the door and into the hallway, pulling Thomas along after him. Thomas looked back to see another guard half drag Minho across the floor to follow, and Newt was right behind them, struggling to no avail.
    The boys were hauled down corridor after corridor, the only sounds coming from Minho—grunts and shouts and curses. Thomas tried to tell him to stop—that he was only making it worse, that he was probably going to get shot—but Minho ignored him, fighting tooth and nail until the group finally stopped in front of a door.
    One of the armed guards used a key card to unlock the door. She pushed it open to reveal a small bedroom with two sets of bunk beds and a kitchenette with a table and chairs in the far corner. It certainlywasn’t what Thomas had been expecting—he’d pictured the Slammer back in the Glade, with its dirt floor and one half-broken chair.
    “In you go,” she said. “We’ll have some food brought to you. Be glad we don’t starve you for a few days after the way you’ve been acting. Tests tomorrow, so you better get some sleep tonight.”
    The three men pushed the Gladers into the room and swung the door closed; the click of the lock engaging echoed through the air.
    Immediately all the feelings of captivity Thomas had endured in the white-walled prison came flooding back. He crossed the floor to the door and twisted the knob, pulled and pushed with all his weight. He pounded on it with both fists, screaming as loudly as he could for someone to let them out.
    “Slim it,” Newt said from behind him. “No one’s coming to bloody tuck you in.”
    Thomas whirled around, but when he saw his friend standing in front of him, he stopped. Minho spoke before he could put words together.
    “I guess we missed our chance.” He plopped down on one of the bottom bunks. “We’ll be old men or dead before your magical moment comes rolling along, Thomas. It’s not like they’re going to make a big announcement: ‘Now would be an excellent time to escape, because we’ll be busy for the next ten minutes.’ We’ve gotta take some chances.”
    Thomas hated to admit that his friends were right, but