by Morgan Rice
I feel my face splatter in blood, the warmth of it sticking to my skin, and I wonder if I’m dead.
I slowly open my eyes, and then realize what has happened. I am not dead; I was not even fired upon. The slaverunner was shot from behind, in the back of the head, and his brains splattered all over me. Someone shot him. Someone saved me.
I look up to see Logan standing behind him, his gun outstretched, still smoking. I can’t believe it. He’s come back for me.
Logan reaches down and holds out a hand. I take it. It’s huge and rough, and he pulls me to my feet in one swift motion.
“GET IN!” he screams.
I run to the passenger side and jump in. Logan jumps into the driver’s side, slams the door, and while I am barely in, he pulls out, gunning the Humvee. It slips and slides in the snow as we peel out.
The other slaverunners notice; they scramble, jump off their hoods and take off after us. One of them charges on foot. Logan reaches out his window, aims, and shoots him in the head, killing him before he can fire. Another charges us, hand outstretched with his gun, aiming right at us. I reach out my window and fire. It is a direct hit in the head, and he goes down.
I aim for another one, but suddenly I go flying back, as the torque of the car sends me backwards. Logan is flooring it, and we are all over the place in the snow. We turn the corner and gain speed quickly on the three bulky buses. They are only a few hundred yards ahead of us.
Behind us, though, a half dozen Humvees are on our tail. They are gaining speed and I realize that they will soon overtake us. We are outmanned.
Logan shakes his head. “You couldn’t just come with me, could you?” he says in exasperation, as he puts it into fifth gear and floors it again. “You’re more stubborn than I am.”
We gain more speed as we follow the buses crosstown on 34th Street, heading east. We cross Seventh Avenue…then Sixth…then the buses make a sharp right on Fifth and we follow, only a hundred yards behind.
I check the rearview and see the Humvees right on us. One of the slaverunners reaches out his window and aims his gun, and next thing I know, bullets ricochet off our vehicle, echoing off the metal. I flinch, and am grateful it’s bulletproof.
Logan steps on it, and I watch the streets fly by: 32nd street…31st…30th…. I look up and am shocked to see an enormous wall right before us, blocking off Fifth Avenue. There is a narrow arched opening in the middle of it, the only way in or out.
Several guards open its huge metal bars, allowing the three buses to pass through, single file.
“We have to stop!” Logan screams. “Beyond those gates is the wasteland! It’s too dangerous!”
“NO!” I scream back. “You can’t stop! Go! GO!”
Logan shakes his head, sweating. But to his credit, he sticks to the course.
The gate closes. Logan doesn’t slow, though.
“Hold on!” he screams.
I brace myself for impact, and a moment later, there’s a tremendous crash of metal.
Our Humvee smashes into the iron gate, and the impact is tremendous. I brace myself, not thinking we’re going to make it.
But luckily, this Humvee is built like a tank: I can’t believe it, but as we make impact, the iron gate comes off and flying into the air. Our windshield is cracked and our hood is badly dented, but luckily, we are unhurt. We are gaining on the buses, now only fifty yards ahead.
I check the rearview, expecting to see the other Humvees behind us—and am shocked to see them all slam on their brakes before the open gate. None of them dares follow us. I can’t understand—it’s as if they’re afraid to pass through to this side of the wall.
“What are they doing?” I ask. “They’re stopping! They stopped following us!”
Logan doesn’t seem surprised—which I don’t understand either.
“Of course they stopped.”
“Why?”
“We crossed the wall. It’s the wasteland. They’re not that stupid.”
I look at him, still not understanding.
“They’re scared,” he says.
I don’t understand: how can a large group of armed warriors, in machinegun-mounted Humvees, be scared?
I look around us, take in our surroundings, and am suddenly more wary than I’ve ever been. A chill runs up my spine. What can be so dangerous about this place that a squadron of soldiers in Humvees are afraid to enter it?
As I lean forward and look closely, I suddenly spot movement. I look up high, and see faces of Biovictims, faces terribly scarred, sticking out of all the abandoned buildings. There are hundreds of them.
Suddenly, the manholes all around us begin to rise. Heads stick up out of the ground, and I am shocked to see dozens more Biovictims rise up from the ground. We pass an abandoned subway station, and dozens more come running up the stairs. They run right for us.
My heart starts to pound at the sight of these people. There are hundreds of them, charging from every direction. I feel like I’ve entered their territory, crossed a line into a place I’m not supposed to be. I realize I have to get to Bree as soon as possible, and get us the hell out of here.
A crazy jumps up and grabs onto my open window. He reaches a hand in and grabs at me. I lean back, then wind up and hit him in the face with the butt of the pistol. He falls, his body sliding in the snow.
The buses swerve erratically in front of us, and Logan swerves, following their path. The motion is making me nauseous.
“Why are you swerving like that?” I ask.
“Mined!” Logan yells back. “This entire goddamn wasteland is mined!”
As if to hammer home his point, suddenly there is a small explosion in the road before us, and one of the buses manages to swerve out of the way at the last second. My heart drops. How much worse can this place get?
“Catch up to her bus!” I scream over the roaring of the engine.
He floors it, and we close the gap. We’re maybe 30 yards away now, and I’m trying to formulate a plan. As we’re closing in, suddenly, a crazy rises from a manhole, raises an RPG to his shoulder, and fires.
The missile races across the air and hits one of the buses—the black one. It is a direct hit. The bus explodes right in front of us, bursting into flames, forcing us to swerve at the last second.
The bus skids and lands on its side, then bursts into a huge ball of flames. I think of all the girls I saw board it, and my heart sinks at the sight. Now there are only two buses left. I thank God Bree was on one of the yellow ones. Now time is even more of the essence.
“HURRY!” I yell. “DRIVE UP TO HER BUS!”
We are heading right for the Flatiron building. Fifth Avenue forks, and one of the yellow buses bears left, heading down Broadway, while the other bears right, staying on Fifth. I have no idea which one carries Bree. My heart pounds with anxiety. I have to choose.
“Which bus?” Logan screams, frantic.
I hesitate.
“WHICH BUS?” he screams again.
We are coming up on the intersection and I have to choose. I think hard, desperately trying to remember which one she boarded. But it is no use. My mind is a blur, and the two buses look identical to me. I just have to guess.
“Go right!” I scream.
As the last second, he swerves right. He guns it after one of the buses. I pray I have chosen the right one.
Logan floors it, and manages to speed up to the bus. We are now just yards behind it, sucking in its exhaust. The back windows are grimy and I can’t really make out the faces inside, but I do see shapes, the bodies of all those young, chained girls. I pray that one of them is Bree.
“Now what?” Logan screams.
I am wondering the exact same thing.
“I can’t run them off the road!” Logan adds. “I might kill her!”
I think fast, trying to formulate a plan.
“Get closer,” I say. “Pull up beside it!”
He pulls up to the back, our bumpers nearly touching, and as he does, I lift myself ou
t of the seat and begin to crawl out the open window, sitting on the ledge of the door. The wind is so strong, it nearly knocks me off.
“What are you doing!?” Logan screams, and I can hear his concern. But I ignore it. There’s no time for second-guessing now.
Snow and wind whip my face as Logan pulls up right beside the bus. I steady myself, waiting for the perfect moment. The back of the bus is now only a foot away, and there is a wide, flat ledge by its bumper. I brace myself, my heart pounding.
And then I leap.
My shoulder slams into the side of the bus as I land on the ledge. I reach out and grab the thick, metal bars, and I make it. The metal is freezing on my bare hands, but I hold on tight. The ground flies by beneath me in a blur. I can barely believe it. I made it.
The bus must be doing 80 in the snow, and it swerves erratically. I wrap one arm thoroughly around the bar, hugging it with all that I have, and just barely manage to hang on.
We hit a pothole and I slip, nearly losing my grip. One of my feet dips down and drags on the snow—it is my wounded leg, and I scream out in pain as it bumps along the ground. With a supreme effort, I slowly pull myself back up.
I try to open the back door, but my heart drops to discover that it is locked, with a padlock and chain. My hand shaking, I manage to remove my gun from my belt. I lean back and brace myself, and fire.
Sparks fly. The padlock breaks, and the chain clatters and falls to the ground.
I open one of the doors, and it pops open with tremendous force, flying against the wind, and nearly knocking me off. I pull myself through the open door and into the back of the bus.
I now stand inside, in the aisle of the school bus. I quickly hurry down it, looking back and forth frantically as I go. There are dozens of young girls in here, chained to each other, and chained to their seats. As I go, they all look up at me, terrified. I scan each row quickly, from left to right, looking for any sign of my sister.
“BREE!” I yell out, desperate.
As the girls catch on to my presence and realize I might be a key to their salvation, they start crying, hysterical.
“HELP ME!” one of them screams.
“PLEASE, GET ME OUT OF HERE!” another screams.
The driver catches on to my presence; I look up and catch him starting at me in the rearview. He suddenly swerves the bus hard. As he does, I go flying across the aisle and bang my head on the metal casing of the ceiling.
I regain my balance, but then he swerves in the other direction, and I go flying across the other side of the bus.
My head is pounding, but I steady myself, this time clutching the seats as I pull myself carefully forward, going row to row. I look each way for Bree, and there are only a few rows left.
“BREE!” I scream out, wondering why she’s not raising her head.
I check the next two rows, then the next two, then the next two…. Finally, I reach the last row, and my heart drops.
There’s no sign of her.
The realization hits me like a hammer: I chose the wrong bus.
Suddenly, I glimpse motion out the window and hear an explosion. I turn to see our Humvee, Logan inside, go flying up in the air as it hits a land mine. It lands on its side, skidding through the snow. Then it stops.
My heart drops. Logan must be dead.
T W E N T Y F I V E
