by Morgan Rice
Ben must realize what I’m doing. He sits bolt upright, gripping the sides of the bike in terror.
“STOP!” he screams. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?”
But there’s no stopping now. He enlisted for this ride, and there is no turning back. I’d offer to let him out, but there is no more time to lose; besides, if I stopped, I might not get up the nerve again to do what I’m about to do.
I check the speedometer: 60…70…80….
“YOU’RE GOING TO DRIVE US RIGHT INTO THE RIVER!” he screams.
“IT’S COVERED IN ICE!” I scream back.
“THE ICE WON’T HOLD!” he screams back.
90…100…110….
“WE’LL FIND OUT!” I respond.
He’s right. The ice might not hold. But I see no other way. I have to cross that river, and I have no other ideas.
120…130…140….
The river is coming up on us fast.
“LET ME OUT!” he screams, desperate.
But there is no time. He knew what the signed up for.
I gun it one last time.
And then our world turns white.
SIX
I drive the bike in the narrow gap between the rocks, and next thing I know, we go flying. For a second we are airborne, and I wonder if, when we hit the ice, it will hold—or whether we will crash right through it and plummet into the icy water, to a certain and brutal death.
A second later my entire body is jolted, as we hit something hard.
Ice.
We hit it at 140, faster than I can even imagine, and as it hits, I lose control. The tires can’t gain traction, and my driving becomes more like a controlled slide; I do my best to just steer the handlebars, which sway wildly. But, to my surprise and relief, at least the ice is holding. We go flying across the solid sheet of ice that is the Hudson River, veering left and right, but at least heading in the right direction. As we do, I pray to God that the ice holds.
Suddenly I hear the horrific noise behind me of cracking ice, even louder than the roar of my engine. I check back over my shoulder, and as I do, an enormous crack opens in the river, following the trail of our bike. The river opens up right behind us, revealing water. Our only saving grace is that we are going so fast, the cracking isn’t quite fast enough to catch us, always a foot behind. If our engine and tires can just hold, just for a few more seconds, maybe, just maybe, we can outrace it.
“HURRY!” screams Ben, eyes wide open with fear as he looks back over his shoulder.
I gun it as fast as I possibly can, just topping 150. We are thirty yards away from the opposite shore, and closing in.
Come on, come on! I think. All we need is a few more yards.
The next thing I know there is a tremendous crash, and my entire body is jerked front and back. I hear Ben groan out in pain. My whole world shakes and spins, and it is then I realize that we have arrived on the opposite shore. We slam into it doing 150, hitting the steep bank hard, which snaps our heads back on impact. But after a few vicious bumps, we clear the bank.
We made it. We are back on dry land.
Behind us, the river is now entirely split open, cracked in half, water spilling onto the ice. I don’t think we could have made it a second time.
There is no time to think about that now. I try to gain control of the bike again, to slow it down, as we are going faster than I would like. But the bike is still fighting me, its tires still trying to gain traction—and suddenly we drive over something incredibly hard and uneven, which sends my jaw smashing into my teeth. It feels like we drove over rocks.
I look down: train tracks. I’d forgotten. There are still old tracks here, right along the river, from when trains used to run. We hit them hard as we cross the river, and as we jump them, the metal shakes the bike so violently, I almost lose hold of the grips. Amazingly, the tires still hold, and we cross the tracks on a country road, running parallel to the river, and I am finally able to slow the bike, dropping down to 70. We pass the rusted hull of an old, huge train, lying on its side, burnt out, and I bang a sharp left on a country road with an old sign that reads “Greendale.” It is a narrow country lane with a sharp ascent uphill, away from the river.
We lose speed as we drive nearly straight up. I pray that the bike will make it in the snow and not slide back down. I gun it, as the speed drops. We are down to about 20 miles an hour, when finally, we clear the hilltop. We even out on level land, and I gain speed again as we fly down this narrow country road, taking us alternately through woods, then farmland, then woods again, then past an old, abandoned firehouse. It continues, dipping and rising, twisting and turning, taking us past abandoned country houses, past herds of deer and flocks of geese, even over a small country bridge spanning a creek.
Finally, it merges into another road, Church Road, aptly named, as we pass the remnants of a huge Methodist church on our left and adjoining graveyard—of course, still intact. I know there is only one way the slaverunners can go. If they want the Taconic, which they must, then there’s no way there without taking Route 9. They are heading North to South—and we are heading West to East. My plan is to cut them off. And now, finally, I have the advantage. I crossed the river about a mile further south than they. If I can just go fast enough, I can beat them to the punch. Finally, I am feeling optimistic. I can cut them off—and they will never expect it. I will hit them perpendicularly and maybe I can take them out.
I gun the bike again, pushing it past 140.
“WHERE ARE YOU GOING?” Ben yells out.
He still looks shell-shocked, but I have no time to explain: in the distance, I suddenly spot their cars. They are exactly where I thought they’d be. They don’t see me coming. They don’t see that I am lined up to smash right into them.
Their cars ride single file, one about twenty yards behind the other, and I realize I can’t take them both out. I am going to need to choose one. I decide to aim for the one in front: if I can run it off the road, perhaps it will cause the one behind it to slam on the brakes, or spin out and crash, too. It is a risky plan: the impact may very well kill us. But I don’t see any other way. I can’t exactly ask them to stop. I only pray that, if I am successful, Bree survives the crash.
I increase speed, closing in on them. I am a hundred yards away…then 50…then 30….
Finally, Ben realizes what I’m about to do.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?” he screams, and I can hear the fear in his voice. “YOU’RE GOING TO HIT THEM!”
Finally he gets it. That’s exactly what I’m hoping to do.
I rev it one last time, topping 150, and barely catch my breath as we go racing at top speed on the country road. Seconds later, we go flying onto Route 9—and smash directly into the first vehicle. It is a perfect hit.
The impact is tremendous. I feel the crash of metal on metal, feel my body jerking to a stop, then feel myself go flying off my bike and through the air. I see a world of stars, and as I’m flying, I realize that this is what it feels like to die.
SEVEN
I go flying through the air, head over heels, and finally feel myself land in the snow, the impact crushing my ribs and knocking the wind out of me. I go tumbling, again and again. I roll and roll, unable to stop, bumped and bruised in every direction. The helmet is still fastened to my head, and I am grateful for it as I feel my head crack against rocks in the ground. Behind me, there is the loud sound of crashing metal.
I lay there, frozen, wondering what I have done. For a moment, I am unable to move. But then I think of Bree, and force myself to. Gradually, I move my leg, then raise an arm, testing it. As I do, I feel excruciating pain on my right, in my ribs, enough to take my breath away. It feels like I’ve cracked one of them. With a supreme effort, I am able to turn over to my side. I lift my visor, look over and take in the scene.
It looks like I hit the first car with such force that I knocked it on its side; it lays there, its wheels spinning. The other vehicle has spun out, but is still upright; it si
ts in a ditch on the side of the road, about fifty yards ahead of us. Ben still sits in the sidecar; I can’t tell if he’s dead or alive. It seems I am the first one to regain consciousness. There seems to be no other signs of life from anyone.
I don’t waste any time. I feel more achy than ever—as if I’ve just been run over by a Mack Truck—but I think again of Bree, and somehow summon the energy to move. I have the advantage now, while everyone else is recovering.
Limping, feeling a throbbing pain in my ribs, I hobble over to the car on its side. I pray that Bree is in there, that she’s unhurt, and that I can get her out of here somehow. I reach down and take out the gun as I approach, holding it cautiously in front of me.
I look in and see that both slaverunners are slumped in their seats, covered in blood. One’s eyes are open, clearly dead. The other appears to be dead, too. I quickly check the backseats, hoping to see Bree.
But she’s not there. Instead, I find two other teenagers—a boy and a girl. They sit there, frozen with fear. I can’t believe it. I hit the wrong car.
I immediately look over to the car on the horizon, the one in the ditch, and as I do, it suddenly revs its engine and its wheels spin. It is trying to get out. I prepare to sprint towards it, to reach it before it pulls out. My heart thumps in my throat, knowing Bree is right there, barely fifty yards away.
Just as I’m about to burst into action, I suddenly hear a voice.
“HELP ME!”
I look over and see Ben, sitting in the sidecar, trying to get out. I look behind him and see flames spreading on the bike, behind the gas tank. My bike is on fire. And Ben is stuck. I stand there, torn, looking back and forth between Ben and the car that holds my sister. I need to go and rescue her. But at the same time, I can’t let him die. Not like this.
Furious, I run to him. I grab him, feeling the heat from the flames behind him, and yank on him, trying to get him out. But the metal of the sidecar has bent in on his legs, and it’s not easy. He tries to help, too, and I yank, again and again, the flames growing higher. I am sweating, grunting, as I yank with all I have. Finally, I pry him loose.
And just as I do, suddenly, the bike explodes.
EIGHT
The explosion sends us both flying back through the air, and I land hard on my back in the snow. For the third time this morning, the wind is knocked out of me.
I look up at the sky, seeing stars, trying to clear my head. I can still feel the heat on my face from the force of the flames, and my ears ring from the noise.
As I struggle to my knees, I feel a searing pain in my right arm. I look over and see that a small piece of shrapnel is sticking through the edge of my bicep, maybe two inches long; it looks like a piece of twisted metal. It hurts like crazy.
I reach over and, without thinking, in one quick motion grab the end of it, grit my teeth and yank. For a moment, I am in the worst pain of my life, as the metal goes completely through my arm and out the other side. Blood rushes down my arm and into the snow, staining my coat.
I quickly take off one sleeve of the coat and can see the blood on my shirt. I tear off a piece of the sleeve with my teeth and take a strip of cloth and tie it tight over the wound, then put my coat back on. I hope it will staunch the flow of blood. I manage to sit up, and as I look over, I see what was once my Dad’s bike: now it is just a heap of useless metal, on fire. It will clearly never run again. Now we’re stuck.
I look over at Ben. He looks dazed, too, on his hands and knees, breathing hard, his cheeks black with soot. But at least he is alive.
I hear the roar of an engine, and look over and see that in the distance, the other car has caught traction. It is already taking off down the highway, gaining speed, with my sister inside. I am furious at Ben for making me lose her. I have to catch them.
I turn to the slaverunner car before me, still on its side, and wonder if it runs. I run over to it, determined to try.
I push it for all I have, trying to get it back on all four tires. But it’s too heavy, barely rocking.
“Help me!” I yell to Ben.
He gets up and hurries to my side, limping. He takes position beside me, and together, we push with all we have. The car is heavier than I imagine, weighed down by all its iron bars. It rocks more and more, and finally, after one big heave, we get it back onto all four tires. It lands in the snow with a crash.
I waste no time. I open the driver’s side door and reach in and grab the dead driver with both hands by the shirt and yank him out of the seat. His torso is covered in blood, and my hands turn red as I throw him into the snow.
I lean in and examine the slaverunner in the passenger seat. His face is covered in blood, too, but I am not certain he is dead. In fact, as I look closer, I detect some signs of movement. Then he shifts in his seat. He’s alive.
I lean across the car and grab him by his shirt, tight in a fist. I hold my gun to his head and shake him roughly. Finally, his eyes bat open. He blinks, disoriented.
I assume the other slaverunners are heading to Arena One. But I need to know for sure. They have such a big head start on us, that I need to know. I lean in close.
He turns and looks at me, and for a moment, I am stunned: half his face is melted away. It is an old wound, not from the accident, which means he must be a Biovictim. I’ve heard rumors of these people, but I’ve never seen one up close. When the nuclear payloads were dropped in the cities, those few who survived a direct attack carried the scars, and were rumored to be more sadistic and aggressive than others. We call them the Crazies.
I have to be extra careful with this one. I tighten my grip on the gun.
“Where are they taking her?” I demand, through gritted teeth.
He looks back blankly, as if trying to comprehend. I feel certain, though, that he understands.
I shove the barrel tight against his cheek, letting him know I mean business. And I do. Every passing moment is precious, and I can feel Bree getting further away from me.
“I said, where are they taking her?”
Finally, his eyes open in what seems to be fear. I think he gets the message.
“The arena,” he finally says, his voice raspy.
My heart flutters, my worst fears confirmed.
“Which one?” I snap.
I pray he does not say Arena One.
He pauses, and I can see he is debating whether or not to tell me. I jab the pistol tighter against his cheekbone.
“Tell me now or you’re wasted!” I yell, surprising myself with the anger in my voice.
Finally, after a long pause, he answers: “Arena One.”
My heart pounds, my worst fears confirmed. Arena One. Manhattan. It is rumored to be the worst of them all. That can only mean one thing: a certain death for Bree.
I feel a fresh rage towards this man, this bottom feeder, this slaverunner, the lowest rung of society, who has come up here to kidnap my sister, and God knows who else, to feed the machine, just so that others can watch helpless people kill each other. All this senseless death, just for their own entertainment. It is enough to make me want to kill him on the spot.
But I pull the gun back, and loosen my grip. I know that I should kill him, but a part of me can’t bring myself to. He answered my questions, and somehow I feel killing him now wouldn’t be fair. So instead, I decide I will abandon him here. I will kick him out of the car and leave him here, which will mean a slow death by starvation. There is no way a slaverunner can survive alone in nature. They are city dwellers—not survivors like us.
I lean back to tell Ben to yank this slaverunner out of the car, when suddenly, I detect motion out of the corner of my eye. I suddenly stop and see the slaverunner is reaching for his belt. He is moving faster than I thought he was capable of. He has tricked me: he is actually in fairly good shape.
He pulls out a gun faster than I could have ever thought possible. Before I can even register what’s happening, he is already raising it in my direction. Stupidly, I’ve underestimat
ed him.
Some instinct in me takes over, perhaps some instinct inherited from Dad, and without even thinking clearly, I raise my gun, and right before he shoots, I fire.
NINE
The gunshot is deafening, and a moment later, the car is splattered in blood. I am so overcome by adrenaline, I don’t even know who fired first.
I am shocked as I look down and realize that I shot him in the head.
A screaming erupts. I look to the back seat and see that the young girl sitting behind the driver’s side is shrieking. She suddenly leans forward, pulls herself out from the back, jumps out, and hits the snow running.
For a moment, I debate whether to chase her down—she is clearly in shock, and in her state, who knows if she even knows where she’s going. In this weather, and in this remote location, I doubt she can survive long.
But I think of Bree, and have to stay focused. She is what matters most now. I can’t afford to waste time tracking this girl down. I turn and watch her run, and it feels odd to think of her as being so much younger than I am. In truth, she is probably close to my age.
I check the reaction of the captured boy in the backseat, maybe twelve. But he just sits there, staring, frozen. He looks to me like he’s in a catatonic state. He’s not even blinking. I wonder if he’s had some kind of psychotic break. I stand and look over at Ben, who still stands there, staring down at the dead corpse. He doesn’t say a word.
The gravity of what I have done suddenly hits me: I have just killed a man. Never in my life did I think I would. I have always felt bad even killing an animal, and I realize I should feel awful.
But I am too numb. Right now, all I feel is that I did what I had to to defend myself. He was a slaverunner after all, and he came up here to hurt us. I realize I should feel more remorse—but I don’t. That frightens me. I can’t help but wonder if I’m more like Dad than I care to admit.
