Arena One: Slaverunners (Book #1 of the Survival Trilogy)

by Morgan Rice

I don’t know how long I’m out. I peel open my eyes, and wake to a tremendous pain in my head. Something is wrong, and I can’t figure out what.

  Then I realize: the world is upside down.

  I feel blood rushing to my face. I look about, trying to figure out what happened, where I am, if I’m even still alive. And then, slowly, I begin to take it all in.

  The car is sitting upside down, the engine has stopped, and I’m still buckled in the driver’s seat. It’s silent. I wonder how long I’ve been sitting here like this. I reach over, slowly moving my arm, trying to feel for injuries. As I do, I feel a sharp pain in my arms and shoulders. I don’t know if I’m injured, or where, and I can’t tell as long as I’m hanging upside down in the seat. I realize I need to unbuckle myself.

  I reach over and, unable to see the buckle, feel along the strap until I reach something cold and plastic. I dig my thumb into it. At first, it doesn’t give.

  I push harder.

  Come on.

  There is a sudden click, and the belt snaps off and I go plummeting down, landing right on my face, against the metal roof; the drop must be a foot, and makes my headache far worse.

  It takes a few seconds to get my wits back about me, and slowly, I get to my knees. I look over and see Ben there beside me; he is still buckled in, too, also hanging upside down. His face is covered in blood and blood drips slowly from his nose, and I can’t tell if he’s alive or dead. But his eyes are closed, and I take that as a good sign—at least they’re not open and unblinking.

  I check the backseat for our passenger, the boy—and as soon as do, I regret it. He lies on the bottom of the car, his neck twisted in an unnatural position, eyes open and frozen. Dead.

  I feel responsible. Maybe I should have forced him out of the car earlier. Ironically, this boy might have been better off if he stayed with the slaverunners than me. But there’s nothing I can do about it now.

  Seeing this boy dead reinforces the gravity of the accident; I check my body again for injuries, not even knowing where to look, since everything hurts. But as I twist, I feel a searing pain in my side, my ribs, and as I take a deep breath, it hurts to breathe. I reach over, and it’s sensitive to the touch. It feels like I’ve cracked another rib.

  I can move, but it hurts like hell. I also still have the burning pain in my arm from the shrapnel of our previous accident. My head feels heavy, as if it’s in a vice, my ears are ringing, and I have a pounding headache that just won’t quit. I probably have a concussion.

  But there’s no time to dwell on that now. I need to see if Ben is alive. I reach over and shake him. He doesn’t respond.

  I debate the best way to get him out and realize there’s no easy way to do it. So I reach over and push hard on his seatbelt release button. The strap flies off and Ben plummets down and lands hard, face first, on the metal roof. He grunts loudly, and I’m flooded with relief: he’s alive.

  He lays there, curled up, groaning. I reach over and shove him hard, again and again. I want to wake him, see how badly he’s hurt. He squirms, but still doesn’t seem fully conscious.

  I have to get out of this car: I feel claustrophobic in here, especially being so close to the dead boy, still staring at me with his unmoving eyes. I reach over, searching for the door handle. My vision is a bit blurry, and it’s hard to find, especially with everything upside down. I use two hands, groping the door, and finally, I find it. I pull on it, and nothing happens. Great. The door must be jammed shut.

  I yank on it again and again, but still, nothing happens.

  So I lean back, bring my knees to my chest, and kick the door as hard as I can with both feet. There is a crash of metal and a burst of cold air rushes in, as the door goes flying open.

  I roll out into the snow, into a world of white. It is snowing again, and it is coming down as hard as ever. It feels good to be out of the car, though, and I get to my knees, and slowly stand. I feel a rush of blood to my head, and for a moment, the world spins. Slowly, my headache lessens, and it feels good to be upright, back on my feet, breathing fresh air. As I try to stand straight, the pain in my ribs worsens, as does the pain in my arm. I roll my shoulders back and feel stiff, bruised all over. But I don’t feel that anything else is broken, and I don’t see any blood. I’m lucky.

  I hurry over to the passenger side door, get to one knee, and yank it open. I reach in and grab Ben by the shirt and try to yank him out. He is heavier than I suspect, and I have to yank hard; I pull slowly but firmly, and finally get him out into the fresh snow. He enters the snow face first, and finally, that wakes him. He rolls onto his side, wiping the snow off his face. He then gets to his hands and knees and opens his eyes, staring at the ground, breathing hard. As he does, blood drips from his nose into the white snow, staining it.

  He blinks several times, disoriented, and turns and looks up at me, holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the falling snow.

  “What happened?” he asks, his speech slurred.

  “We had an accident,” I answer. “You okay?”

  “I can’t breathe,” he says, sounding nasally, cupping his hands beneath his nose to catch the blood. As he leans back, I can finally see: he has a broken nose.

  “Your nose is busted,” I say.

  He looks back at me, slowly comprehending, and his eyes flood with fear.

  “Don’t worry,” I say, going over to him. I reach up with both hands, and place them on his nose. I remember when Dad taught me how to set a broken nose. It was late one night, after he’d come home from a bar fight. I couldn’t believe it. He made me watch, said it would be good for me to learn something useful. He stood there in the bathroom as I watched, leaned into the mirror, and reached up and did it. I still remember the cracking noise it made.

  “Hold still,” I say.

  In one quick motion, I reach up and push hard on both sides of his crooked nose, setting it straight. He screams out in pain, and I feel badly. But I know this is what he needs to get it back into place, and to staunch the flow of blood. I reach down and hand him a clump of snow, putting into his hands and guiding it up, so that he holds it against his nose.

  “This will stop the blood, and reduce the swelling,” I say.

  Ben holds the clump of snow to his nose, and within moments, it turns red. I look away.

  I step back and survey our car: it sits there, upside down, its chassis visible to the sky. Its three intact tires are still spinning, very slowly. I turn and look back towards the highway. We’re about thirty yards off the road—we must’ve really tumbled far. I wonder how big of a lead they have on us.

  It’s amazing, I realize, that we’re even still alive, especially given our speed. Surveying this stretch of highway, I realize we got lucky: if we had tumbled back there, we would have plunged off a cliff. And if the thick snow hadn’t sheltered us, I’m sure the impact would have been worse.

  I survey our car, wondering if there’s any way we can get it running again. I realize it’s doubtful. Which means I’ll never find Bree, and which means we’ll be stranded here, in the middle of nowhere, and probably dead within a day. We have no choice: we have to find a way to get it working.

  “We have to flip it over,” I say, with sudden urgency. “We have to get it back on its wheels and see if it still works. I need your help.”

  Ben slowly registers what I’m saying, then hurries over to my side, stumbling at first. The two of us stand beside each other, on one side of the car, and both begin to push.

  We manage to rock it, and then, using our momentum, push it again and again. It takes all that I have, and I can feel myself slipping in the snow, feel the pain tearing through my bicep, through my ribs.

  The car rocks in bigger and bigger swings, and just as I wonder if I can go on, we give it one final heave. I reach up, above my head, pushing and pushing it, walking forward in the snow as I do.

  It is just enough. The car reaches a tipping point, on its side, then suddenly lands with a crash on all four wheels. A
huge cloud of snow rises up. I stand there catching my breath, as does Ben.

  I survey the damage. It is extensive. The hood and roof and trunk look as if they’ve been worked over by a sledgehammer. But amazingly, the bones of it are still in shape. However, there is one glaring problem. One of the tires—the one that was shot out—is in such bad shape that there’s no way we can drive on it.

  “Maybe there’s a spare,” Ben says, reading my mind. I look over and he’s already hurrying over to the trunk. I’m impressed.

  I hurry over to it, too. He pushes the button several times, but it doesn’t open.

  “Look out,” I say, and as he steps back I raise my knee and kick down hard with my heel. The trunk pops open.

  I look down and am relieved to see a spare tire sitting there. Ben reaches in and grabs it, and I pull back the lining, and beneath it, find a jack and wrench. I grab it and follow Ben, who carries the spare to the front. Without missing a beat, Ben takes the jack, jams it under the chassis, then takes the wrench and starts cranking it up. I’m impressed by how comfortable he is with the tools, and how quickly he gets the car jacked up. He removes all the bolts and pulls off the useless tire and chucks it into the snow.

  He puts in the new tire, and I hold it steady as he puts the bolts back in, one by one. He tightens them and lowers the car, and as we step back and look, it’s like having a brand-new tire. Ben has surprised me with his mechanical skills; I never would have expected that from him.

  I waste no time opening the driver’s side door, jumping back in the car, and turning the keys. But my heart drops as I hear silence. The car is dead. I try the ignition again and again. But nothing. Nothing at all. It seems the accident destroyed the car somehow. A hopeless feeling sets in. Was this all for nothing?

  “Pop the hood,” Ben says.

  I pull the lever and Ben hurries around to the front, and I get out and join him. I stand over him as he reaches in and starts fiddling with several wires, knobs and switches. I am surprised by his dexterity.

  “Are you a mechanic?” I ask.

  “Not really,” he answers. “My Dad is. He taught me a lot, back when we had cars.”

  He holds two wires together, and there is a spark. “Try it now,” he says.

  I hurry back in and turn the ignition, hoping, praying. This time, the car roars to life.

  Ben slams closed the hood, and I see a proud smile on his face, which is already swelling up from the broken nose. He hurries back and opens his door and is about to get back in, when suddenly he freezes, staring into the backseat.

  I follow his gaze, and I remember. The boy in the back.

  “What should we do with him?” Ben asks.

  There’s no more time to waste. I get out, reach in and yank him out, trying not to look. I drag him several feet, in the snow, over to a large tree, and lay him down beneath it. I look at him for just a moment, then turn and run back to the car.

  Ben still stands there.

  “That’s it?” he asks, sounding disappointed.

  “What do you expect?” I snap. “A funeral service?”

  “It just seems…a bit callous,” he says. “He died because of us.”

  “We don’t have time for this,” I say, at my wit’s end. “We’re all going to die anyway!”

  I jump back into the running car, my thoughts fixed on Bree, on how far the other slaverunners have gone. While Ben is still closing his door, I peel out.

  Our car goes flying across the snowy field, up a steep bank and with a bang, back onto the highway. We skid, then catch traction. We are rolling again.

  I step on the gas, and we start to gain real speed. I am amazed: this car is invincible. It feels as good as new.

  In no time, we are doing over 100. This time, I’m a bit more cautious, shell-shocked from the accident. I bring it up to 110, but don’t press it past that. I can’t risk wiping out again.

  I figure they’re probably at least ten minutes ahead of us, and we might not be able to catch them. But anything can happen. All I need is for them to hit one bad pothole, for just one mishap to happen to them…. If not, I’ll just have to follow their tracks, and hope I can find them.

  “We have to find them before they reach the city,” Ben says, as if reading my mind. He has an annoying habit of doing that, I notice. “If they get there before us, we’ll never find them again.”

  “I know,” I respond.

  “And if we enter the city, we’ll never make it out. You know that, don’t you?”

  The very same thought has been going through my mind. He’s right. From everything I’ve heard, the city is a deathtrap, filled with predators. We’re hardly equipped to fight our way out.

  I step on it, giving it a bit more gas. The engine roars, and we are now cruising at 120. The snow hasn’t slowed, and bounces off the windshield. I think of the dead boy in the backseat, see his face, his unblinking eyes; I remember how close we came to death, and a part of me wants to slow down. But I have no choice.

  As we drive, time feels like it’s crawling, going forever. We must drive twenty miles, then thirty, then forty…on and on, forever into the snow. I’m gripping the steering wheel with both hands, leaning forward, watching the road more carefully than I have in my life. I’m swerving to avoid potholes left and right, like a videogame. Which is hard to do in this speed, and in this snow. Still, I manage to miss nearly all of them. Once or twice I don’t, though, and we pay the price dearly, my head slamming into the roof, and my teeth smashing into each other. But no matter what, I keep going.

  As we round the bend, I spot something in the distance that worries me: the tracks of the slaverunner’s car seem to veer off the road, into a field. It doesn’t make any sense, and I wonder if I am seeing things correctly, especially in this blizzard.

  But as we get closer, the more certain I become. I slow dramatically.

  “What are you doing?” Ben asks.

  My sixth sense tells me to slow down, and as we get close, I’m glad I do.

  I slam on the brakes, and luckily I’m only doing 50 when I do. We slip and slide for about 20 yards, and finally, we come to a stop.

  Just in time. The highway comes to an abrupt stop. It ends in a huge crater, plunging deep into the earth. If I hadn’t stopped, we would surely be dead right now.

  I look down, over the edge of the precipice. It is a massive crater, probably a hundred yards in diameter. It looks like a huge bomb had been dropped on this highway at some point during the war.

  I turn the wheel and follow the slaverunner’s tracks, which take me though a snowy field, then onto winding local roads. After several minutes, it leads us back onto the highway. I pick up speed again, this time bringing it up to 130.

  I drive and drive and drive, and feel like I’m driving to the end of the earth. I probably cover another 40 miles and I begin to wonder how much further this highway can go. The snowy sky begins to grow darker, and soon it will be nightfall. I feel the need to push, and get the car up to 140. I know it’s risky, but I need to catch up to them.

  As we go, we pass some of the old signs for the major arteries, still hanging, rusting away: the Sawmill Parkway; the Major Deegan; 287; the Sprain…. The Taconic forks, and I merge onto the Sprain Parkway, then the Bronx River Parkway, following the slaverunner’s tracks. We are getting closer to the city now, open sky gradually replaced by tall, crumbling buildings. We are in the Bronx.

  I feel the need to catch them and push the car up to 150. It becomes so loud that I can barely hear.

  As we round another bend, my heart leaps: there, in the distance, I see them, a mile ahead.

  “That’s them!” Ben screams.

  But as we close the gap, I suddenly see what they’re going for. A crooked sign reads “Willis Avenue Bridge.” It is a small bridge, encased in metal beams, barely wide enough for two lanes. At its entrance sit several Humvees, slaverunners sitting on the hoods, machine guns mounted and aimed towards the road. More Humvees sit on the fa
r side of the bridge.

  I gun it, pushing the gas pedal as far as it will go, and we top 150. The world flies by in a blur. But we are not catching up: the slaverunners are speeding up, too.

  “We can’t follow them in!” Ben yells. “We’ll never make it!”

  But we have no choice. They’ve got at least a hundred yards on us, and the bridge is maybe a hundred yards away. We’re not going to beat them there. I am doing all I can, and our car is already shaking from the speed. There’s no way around it: we’re going to have to enter the city.

  As we approach the bridge, I wonder if the guards realize we aren’t one of theirs. I only hope we can get through fast enough, before they catch on and fire on us.

  The slaverunner car flies between the guards, racing over the bridge. We follow, fifty years behind, and as we do, the guards still don’t realize. Soon, we are thirty yards away…then 20…then 10….

  As we race onto the entrance, we are close enough that I can see the horrified expressions on the guards’ faces. Now, they realize.

  I look up, and the guards raise their machineguns our way.

  A second later, shots ring out.

  We are covered in automatic machine gun fire, bouncing off the hood and windshield, bullets spraying everywhere. I duck.

  Worse, something starts to fall, impeding our way, and I see it is a spiked iron gate. It is being lowered on the bridge, to block our entrance to Manhattan.

  We’re going too fast, and I can’t possibly stop in time. The gate is falling too fast, and I realize, too late, that in just a few moments, we will smash into it, and it will tear our car to pieces.

  I prepare for impact.

  E L E V E N