by Morgan Rice
I’m getting used to the bike and gaining good speed, good enough that the whine of their engines is becoming louder. Encouraged, I gun the motorcycle faster than I should: I glance down and see I am doing 60. I know it’s reckless, since these hairpin turns force me to slow down to about 10 miles an hour if I want any chance of not wiping out in the snow. So I accelerate, and then decelerate, turn after turn. I finally gain enough ground that I can actually see, about a mile in the distance, the bumper of one of their cars, just disappearing around a bend. I am encouraged. I’m going to catch these guys—or die trying.
I take another turn, slowing down to about 10 and getting ready to speed up again, when suddenly, I almost run into a person, standing there in the road, right in front of me. He appears out of nowhere, and it’s too late for me to even react.
I’m about to hit him, and I have no choice but to slam on the brakes. Luckily I’m not going fast, but my bike still slides in the snow, unable to gain traction. I do a 360, spinning twice, and finally come to a stop as my bike slams against the granite face of the mountainside.
I’m lucky. If I had spun the other way, I would have spun right off the cliff.
It all happened so fast, I am in shock. I sit there on the bike, gripping the bars, and turn and look up the road. My first instinct is that the man is a slaverunner, placed in the road to derail me. In one quick move, I kill the ignition and draw the gun, aiming it right at the man, who is still standing there, about twenty feet from me. I release the safety and pull back the pin, like Dad taught me so many times in the firing range. I am it right for his heart, instead of his head, so if I miss, I’ll still hit him somewhere.
My hands are shaking, even with the gloves on, and I realize how nervous I am to pull the trigger. I’ve never killed anyone before.
The man suddenly raises his hands, high into the air, and takes a step towards me.
“Don’t shoot!” he yells.
“Stay where you are!” I yell back, still not quite prepared to kill him.
He stops in his tracks, obedient.
“I’m not one of them!” he yells. “I’m a survivor. Like you. They took my brother!”
I wonder if it’s a trap. But then I raise my visor and look him up and down, see his worn jeans, filled with holes, just like mine, see that he’s only wearing one sock. I look closer and see that he has no gloves, and that his hands are blue; he has no coat either and wears only a worn, grey thermal shirt, with holes in it. Most of all, I see that his face is emaciated, more hollowed-out than mine, and I notice the dark circles under his eyes. He hasn’t shaved in a long time, either. I also can’t help noticing how strikingly attractive he is, despite all of this. He looks to be about my age, maybe 17, with a big shock of light brown hair, and large, light blue eyes.
He’s obviously telling the truth. He’s not a slaverunner. He’s a survivor. Like me.
“My name is Ben!” he yells out.
Slowly, I lower the pistol, relaxing just a bit, but still feeling on edge, annoyed that he stopped me, and feeling an urgency to continue on. Ben has lost me valuable time, and almost made me wipe out.
“You almost killed me!” I scream back. “What were you doing standing in the road like that?”
I turn the ignition and kickstart the bike, ready to leave.
But Ben takes several steps towards me, waving his hands frantically.
“Wait!” he screams. “Don’t go! Please! Take me with you! They have my brother! I need to get him back. I heard your engine and I thought you were one of them, so I blocked the road. I didn’t realize you were a survivor. Please! Let me come with you!”
For a moment, I feel sympathy for him, but my survival instinct kicks in, and I am unsure. On the one hand, having him might be helpful, given there is strength in numbers; on the other hand, I don’t know this person at all, and I don’t know his personality. Will he fold in a fight? Does he even know how to fight? And if I let him ride in the sidecar, it will waste more fuel, and slow me down. I pause, deliberating, then finally decide against it.
“Sorry,” I say, closing my visor, and preparing to pull out. “You’ll only slow me down.”
I begin to rev the bike, when he screams out again.
“You owe me!”
I stop for a second, confused by his words. Owe him? For what?
“That day, when you first arrived,” he continues. “With your little sister. I left you a deer. That was a week’s worth of food. I gave it to you. And I never asked for a thing back.”
His words hit me hard. I remember that day like it was yesterday, and how much that meant to us. I’d never imagined I’d run into the person who left it. He must have been here, all this time, so close—hiding in the mountains, just like us. Surviving. Keeping to himself. With his little brother.
I do feel indebted to him. And I reconsider. I don’t like owing people. Maybe, after all, it is better to have strength in numbers. And I know how he feels: his brother was taken, just like my sister. Maybe he is motivated. Maybe, together, we can do more damage.
“Please,” he pleads. “I need to save my brother.”
“Get in,” I say, gesturing to the sidecar.
He jumps in without hesitating.
“There’s a spare helmet inside.”
A second later, he is sitting and fumbling with my old helmet. I don’t wait a second longer. I tear out of their fast.
The bike feels heavier than it did, but it also feels more balanced. Within moments, I’m back up to 60 again, straight down the steep mountain road. This time, I won’t stop for anything.
*
I race down the winding country roads, twisting and turning, and as I turn a corner, a panoramic view of the valley opens up before me. I can see all the roads from here, and I see the two slaverunner cars in the distance. They are at least two miles ahead of us. They must have hit Route 23 to be gaining that kind of speed, which means they are off the mountain and on a wide, straight road. It burns me to think that Bree is in the back of one of those cars. I think of how frightened she must be. I wonder if they’re restraining her, if she’s in pain. The poor girl must be in hysterics. I pray she didn’t see Sasha die.
I gun the bike with newfound energy, twisting and turning way too sharply, and I look over and notice that Ben is gripping the edge of the sidecar, looking terrified, hanging on for his life. After several more hairpin turns, we get off the country road and go flying onto 23. Finally, we are on a normal highway, on flat land. Now, I can gun the bike for all it has.
And I do. I shift, and turn the grip, giving it as much gas as it can handle. I’ve never driven this bike—or anything—this fast in my life. I watch it pass 100, then 110, then 120…. There is still snow on the road, and it comes flying up into my face, bouncing off the visor; I feel the flakes brushing against the skin on my throat. I know I should slow down, but I don’t. I have to catch these guys.
130…140…. I can barely breathe we are going so fast, and I know that if for some reason I need to break, I won’t be able. We would spin and tumble so fast, there’s no way we would make it. But I have no choice. 150...160….
“SLOW DOWN!” Ben screams. “WE ARE GOING TO DIE!”
I’m feeling the same exact thing: we are going to die. In fact, I feel certain of it. But I no longer care. All these years of being cautious, of hiding from everyone, have finally gotten to me. Hiding is not in my nature; I prefer to confront things head on. I guess I’m like Dad in that way: I’d rather stand and fight. Now, finally, after all these years, I have a chance to fight. And knowing that Bree is up there, just ahead of us, so close, has done something to me: it’s made me mad. I just can’t bring myself to slow down. I see the vehicles now, and I’m encouraged. My speed is working and I’m definitely gaining ground. They’re less than a mile away, and for the first time, I really feel I’m going to catch them.
The highway curves, and I lose sight of them, but as I curve around, I see them again. But this time,
they are not on the highway; they seem to have disappeared. I am confused, until I look up and see what has happened. And it makes me hit the brakes hard.
In the distance, a huge tree has been felled and lies across the highway, blocking it. Luckily, I still have time to brake. I see the slaverunners’ tracks, veering off the main road, and around the tree. As we come to a near stop before the tree, veering off the road, following the slaverunners’ tracks, I notice the bark is freshly cut. And I realize what happened: someone must have just felled it. A survivor, I am guessing, one of us. He must have seen what happened, seen the slaverunners, and he felled a tree to stop them. To help us.
The gesture surprises me, and warms my heart. I’d always suspected there was a silent network of us hiding out here in the mountains, watching each other’s backs. Now I know for sure. Nobody likes a slaverunner. And nobody wants to see it happen to them.
The slaverunners’ tracks are distinct, and I follow them as they turn along the shoulder and make a sharp turn back onto the highway. Soon I am back on 23, and I can see them clearly now, about half a mile up ahead. I have gained some distance. I gun it again, as fast as the bike can handle, but they are flooring it now, too. They must see me. An old, rusted sign reads “Cairo: 2.” We are close to the bridge. Just a few miles.
It is more built-up down here, and as we fly by I see the crumbling structures along the side of the road. Abandoned factories. Warehouses. Strip malls. Even houses. Everything is the same: burnt-out, looted, destroyed. There are even abandoned vehicles, just shells. It’s as if there is nothing left in the world that’s working.
On the horizon, I see their destination: the Rip van Winkle bridge. A small bridge, just two lanes wide, encased by steel beams, it spans the Hudson River, connecting the small town of Catskill on the west with the larger town of Hudson on the east. A little-know bridge, once used by locals, now only slaverunners use it. It suits their purposes perfectly, leading them right to Route 9, which takes them to the Taconic Parkway and then, after 90 miles or so, right into the heart of the city. It is their artery.
But I’ve lost too much time, and no matter how much gas I give it, I just can’t catch up. I won’t be able to beat them to the bridge. I am closing the gap, though, and if I gain enough speed, maybe I can overtake them before they cross the Hudson.
A former toll-keeper’s building sits at the base of the bridge, forcing vehicles to line up in a single lane and pass a toll booth. At one time there was a barricade that prevented cars from passing, but that has long since been rammed. The slaverunners fly through the narrow passageway, a sign hanging over them, rusted and dangling, that reads “E-Z PASS.”
I follow them through it and race onto the bridge, now lined with rusted streetlamps that haven’t worked in years, their metal twisted and crooked. As I gain speed, I notice one of the vehicles, in the distance, screech to a stop. I’m puzzled by this—I can’t understand what they’re doing. I suddenly see one of the slaverunners jump out of the car, plant something on the road, then jump back in his car and take off. This gains me precious time. I’m closing in on their car, a quarter mile away, and feel like I’m going to catch them. I still can’t understand why they stopped—or what they planted.
Suddenly, I realize—and I slam on the brakes.
“What are you doing?” Ben yells. “Why are you stopping!?”
But I ignore him as I slam harder on the brakes. I brake too hard, too fast. Our bike can’t gain traction in the snow, and we begin to spin and slide, around and around in big circles. If there were no railings, we’d slide right off the bridge and plunge to the icy river. Luckily, there are metal railings, and we slam into these hard instead.
We spin back towards the middle of the bridge. Slowly, we are braking, our speed reducing, and I only hope we can stop in time. Because now I realize—too late—what they’ve dropped on the road.
There is a huge explosion. Fire shoots into the sky as their bomb goes off.
A wave of heat comes right at us, and shrapnel goes flying everywhere. The explosion is intense, flames shooting everywhere, and the force of it hits us like a tornado, blowing us back. I can feel the heat, scorching my skin, even through the clothing. The heat and shrapnel engulf us. Hundreds of bits of shrapnel bounce off my helmet, the loud sound echoing in my head.
The bomb blew such a big hole that it cut the bridge in two, creating a ten yard gap between the sides. Now there is no way to cross it. And worse, we are still siding right to a hole that will send us plunging hundreds of feet below. It is lucky I slammed on the brakes when I did, and that the explosion is still fifty yards ahead. But our bike won’t stop sliding, bringing us right towards it.
Finally, our speed drops to thirty, then down to twenty, then ten…. But the bike won’t fully stop on this ice, and I can’t stop the sliding, right towards the center of the bridge—now just a gaping chasm.
I pull on the brakes as hard as I possibly can, trying everything. But I realize that none of that will do any good now, as we keep sliding, uncontrollably, to our deaths.
And the last thing I think, before we plunge, is that I hope Bree has a better death than I do.
PART TWO
FIVE
Fifteen feet…ten…five…. The bike is slowing, but not enough, and we are just a few feet away from the edge. I brace myself for the fall, hardly conceiving that this is how I am going to die.
Then, the craziest thing happens: I heard a loud thump, and I am jolted forwards, as the bike slams into something and comes to a complete stop. A piece of metal, ripped in the explosion, juts up from the bridge, and has lodged itself in the spoke of our front wheel, stopping us.
I’m in a state of shock as I sit there, on the bike. I slowly look down and my heart drops as I realize that I’m dangling in the air, over the edge of the chasm. There is nothing under me at all. Hundreds of feet below I see the white ice of Hudson. I’m confused as to why I am not plunging.
I turn and see that the other half of my bike—the sidecar—is still lodged on the bridge. Ben, looking more dazed than I, still sits in it. He lost his helmet somewhere along the way, and his cheeks are covered in soot, charred form the explosion. He looks over at me, then down at the chasm, then back up at me in disbelief, as if amazed I’m still alive.
I realize that his weight, in the sidecar, is the only thing balancing me out, keeping me from falling. If I hadn’t have taken him, I’d be dead right now.
I need to do something before the entire bike tips over. Slowly, delicately, I pull my aching body off the bike, and climb over onto the sidecar, on top of Ben. I then climb over him, set my feet down on the pavement, and slowly pull back the bike.
Ben sees what I’m doing and gets out and pulls it, too. Together, we pull it back off the edge, and get the whole bike back onto safe ground.
He looks at me with his big blue eyes, and looks as if he’s just been through a war.
“How did you know it was a bomb?” he asks.
I shrug. Somehow, I just knew.
“If you didn’t slam on the brakes when you did, we’d be dead,” he says, grateful.
“If you weren’t sitting in the sidecar, I’d be dead,” I respond.
Touché. We each owe each other.
We both look down, at the chasm in the bridge. I look up, and in the distance, spot the slaverunners’ cars crossing the bridge and making it to the other side.
“Now what?” he asks.
I look everywhere, frantic, weighing our options. I look down at the river again. It is completely white, frozen with ice and snow. I look up and down the expanse of the river, looking for any other bridges, any other crossings. I see none.
At this moment, I realize what I must do. It is risky. In fact, it probably will mean our deaths. But I have to try. I vowed to myself. I will not give up. No matter what.
I jump back onto the bike. Ben follows, jumping into the sidecar. I put back on my helmet and gun it, back in the direction from which we c
ame.
“Where are you going?” he calls out. “We’re going the wrong way!”
I ignore him, gunning it across the bridge, back to our side of the Hudson. As soon as I clear the bridge I make a left onto Spring Street, heading towards the town of Catskill.
I remember coming here as kid with Dad, and a road that led right to the river’s edge. We used to fish there, pull right up to it and never even have to leave our truck. I remember being amazed that we could drive right up to the water. And now, a plan formulates in my mind. A very, very risky plan.
We pass a small, abandoned church and cemetery on our right, and I see the gravestones sticking up out of the snow, so typical for a New England town. It amazes me that, with the whole world looted and destroyed, the cemeteries remain, seemingly untouched. It is as if the dead rule the earth.
The road comes to a tee, and I make a right on Bridge Street, and go down a steep hill. After a few blocks, I come to the ruins of a huge marble building, “Greene County Court House” still emblazoned across its portico, and make a left onto Main Street and speed down what was once the sleepy river town of Catskill. It is lined with stores on either side, burnt-out shells, crumbled buildings, broken windows, and abandoned vehicles. There’s not a soul in sight. I race down the center of Main Street, the electricity out, past stoplights that no longer work. Not that I’d stop if they did.
I pass the ruins of the Post Office on my left, and swerve around a pile of rubble in the street, ruins of a townhouse that must have collapsed at some point. The street continues downhill, twisting, and the road thins out. I pass the rusted hulls of boats, now beached on the land, their bodies destroyed. Behind them are the immense, rusted structures of what were once fuel depots, circular, rising a hundred feet high.
I make a left, towards the waterfront park, now covered in weeds. What’s left of a sign reads “Dutchman’s Landing.” The park juts out, right into the river, and the only thing separating the road from the water are a few boulders, with gaps in between them. I aim for one of those gaps, lower my visor, and gun the bike for all it’s worth. It’s now or never. I can already feel my heart racing.
