by Morgan Rice
I can’t believe it. I feel numb. I sit there, frozen, in the silence, our car stopped for the first time in hours, and feel my body trembling. I hadn’t foreseen this. I wonder why this wall is here, why they would wall off a part of Manhattan. What they would need protection from.
And then, a moment later, I have my answer.
An eerie noise rises up all around me, the sound of screeching metal, and the hair raises on the back my neck. I turn and see people rise up from the earth, popping up from manholes in every direction. Biovictims. All throughout Times Square. They are emaciated, dressed in rags, and look desperate. The Crazies.
They really do exist.
They rise from the earth, all around us, and head right for us.
TWELVE
Before I can even react, I sense movement high above, and look up. Standing up high, atop the wall, are several slaverunners, wearing their black face masks, holding machine guns. They aim them down towards us.
“DRIVE!” Ben screams, frantic.
I’m already stepping on the gas, tearing out of there, as the first gunshots ring out. A hail of fire pours down on the car, bouncing off the roof, off the metal, off the bulletproof glass. I only pray that it doesn’t slip between the cracks.
Simultaneously, the crazies rush us from all sides. One of them reaches back and throws a glass bottle with a burning rag on it. A Molotov cocktail lands right before our car and explodes, the flames rising before us. I swerve just in time, and the flames graze the side of our car.
Another comes running up and jumps on the windshield. He grabs on and won’t let go, his face snarling at me through the glass, inches away. I swerve again, scraping against a pole, and it knocks him off.
Several more jump on the hood and trunk, weighing us down. I floor it, trying to shake them, as I continue west across 42nd.
But three of them manage to hold onto our car. One of them is dragging on the cement, and another is crawling his way up the hood, towards us. He raises a crow bar and prepares to bring it down, right on the windshield.
I make a sharp turn sharp left on Eighth Avenue, and that does it. The three of them go flying off the car, and sliding across the snow on the ground.
It was a close call. Too close.
I race down Eighth Avenue, and as I do, spot another opening in the wall. Several slaverunner guards stand before it, and I realize they might not know I’m not one of theirs. After all, the Times Square entrance is an entire avenue away. If I drive right for it, confidently, maybe they’ll assume I’m one of theirs, and keep it open.
I aim right for it, going faster and faster, closing the distance. A hundred yards…fifty…thirty…. I race right for the opening, and so far, it’s still open. There’s no stopping now. And if they bring it down, we’re dead.
I brace myself, and so does Ben. I’m almost expecting us to crash.
But a moment later, we are through it. We made it. I exhale with relief.
We’re in. I’m doing 100 now as I race down Eighth Avenue, against the one way. I am about to make a left, to try to catch them on Broadway, when suddenly, Ben leans forward and points.
“THERE!” he screams.
I squint, trying to see what he’s pointing at. The windshield is still covered in blood and pine needles.
“THERE!” he screams again.
I look again, and this time I see it: there, ten blocks ahead. A group of Humvees, parked outside Penn Station. I see the slaverunner car I’ve been chasing, the vehicle parked out front, sitting there, exhaust still smoking. The driver is out of the car, hurrying down the steps to Penn Station, dragging Bree and Ben’s brother, both of them handcuffed, chained together. My heart leaps at the sight of her.
The empty fuel gauge is beeping louder than ever, and I gun it. All I need is a few more blocks. Come on. Come on!
Somehow, we make it. I screech up to the entrance, and am about to pull to a stop and jump out, when I realize we have lost too much time. There is only one way we’re going to catch them: I have to keep driving, right into Penn Station. It’s a steep decline, down narrow, stone steps, to the entrance. It’s not a staircase meant for cars, and I wonder if our car can handle it. It’s going to be painful. I brace myself.
“HOLD ON!” I scream.
I make a sharp left and floor it, gaining speed. I’m up past 140. Ben clutches the dash, as he realizes what I’m doing. “SLOW DOWN!” he screams.
But it’s too late now. We are airborne, flying over the ledge, then driving straight down the stone steps. My body is so jolted, the tires bouncing with every step, that I am unable to control the car. We fly faster and faster, carried by our own momentum, and I brace myself as we crash right through the doors of Penn Station. The door goes flying off its hinges, and the next thing I know, we are inside.
We gain traction and I finally get control back of the car, as we drive on dry ground for the first time. We drive down another flight of steps, screeching through. There is a tremendous slam, as we hit the ground floor.
We are in the huge Amtrak console, and I’m driving across the cavernous room, tires screeching as I try to even out the car. Up ahead are dozens of slaverunners, milling about. They turn and look at me with shock, clearly unable to comprehend how a car got down here. I don’t want to give them time to gather themselves. I aim right for them, like bowling pins.
They try to run out of the way, but I speed up and smash into several of them. They hit our car with a thud, bodies twisting, and go flying over the hood.
I keep driving, and in the distance, I see the slaverunner who kidnapped my sister. I spot Ben’s brother, being loaded onto a train. I assume Bree is already on it.
“That’s my brother!” Ben screams.
The train door closes and I gun our car one last time, for all it’s worth, aiming right for the slaverunner who stole her. He stands there like a deer in the headlights, having just shoved Ben’s brother onto the train. He stares right at me as I close in.
I smash into him, sandwiching him against the train and cutting him in half. We hit the train doing 80, and my head slams into the dash. I feel the whiplash, as we grind to a halt.
My head is spinning, my ears ringing. Faintly, I can hear the sound of other slaverunners rallying, chasing after me. The train is still moving—our car didn’t even slow it. Ben is sitting there, unconscious. I wonder if he’s dead.
It takes a superhuman effort, but somehow I peel myself out of the car.
The train is gaining speed now, and I have to run to catch up to it. I run alongside the train and finally leap, gaining a foothold on the ledge and grabbing onto a metal bar. I stick my head in a window, looking for any sign of Bree. I scramble along its outside, looking window to window, making my way towards a train door to let myself in.
The train is going so fast, I can feel the wind in my hair, as I desperately try to reach the door. I look over and my heart drops to see that we are about to enter a tunnel. There is no room. If I don’t get in soon, I will smash into the wall.
Finally, I reach over and grab the door handle. Just as I’m about to open it, suddenly, I feel a tremendous pain smashing into the side of my head.
I go flying through the air, and a moment later land hard on my back, on the cement floor. It is a ten foot drop, and the wind is knocked out of me as I lay there, on my back, watching the train speed away. I realize that someone must have punched me, knocked me off the train.
I look up and see the face of a vicious slaverunner standing over me, scowling down. Several more slaverunners hurry over, too. They’re closing in around me. I realize I’m finished.
But it doesn’t matter: the train is speeding away, and my sister is on it.
My life is already over.
PART THREE
THIRTEEN
I wake to blackness. I am so disoriented, so achy, at first I wonder if I am dead or alive. I lie on a cold, metal floor, twisted in an unnatural position, my face against the floor. I turn, slowly reach
out, place my palms against the floor, and try to push myself up.
Every movement hurts. There doesn’t seem to be any part of me that is spared from pain. As I slowly sit upright, my head is splitting. I feel dizzy, nauseous, weak, and hungry all at the same time. I realize I haven’t eaten in at least a day. My throat is parched, and I’m dying of thirst. I feel like I’ve been put through a blender.
I sit there, my head spinning, and finally I realize that I’m not dead. Somehow, I am still alive.
I look around the room, trying to get my bearings, wondering where I am. It is black in here, and the only light filters in through a narrow slit underneath a door, somewhere on the far side of the room. It is not enough to show me anything.
Gradually, I rise to one knee, holding my head, trying to alleviate the pain. Just this small gesture makes my world spin. I wonder if I’ve been drugged, or if I’m just this dizzy from the endless string of injuries I sustained in the last 24 hours.
With a supreme effort, I force myself to my feet. Big mistake. All at once, I feel pain from at least a dozen different areas: the wound in my arm; my cracked ribs; my forehead, from where it smashed against the dash; and from the side of my face. I reach up and feel a big welt; that must be where the slaverunner punched me when I was clinging to the train.
I try to remember…. Penn Station…running over slaverunners…smashing into the train…running for the train…jumping onto it…and then being hit…. I think back, and realize that Ben didn’t accompany me. I remember seeing him sitting in the car, unconscious. Suddenly, I wonder if he survived the crash at all.
“Ben?” I call out tentatively, into the darkness.
I wait, hoping for a response, hoping maybe he is in here with me. I squint into the blackness, but am unable to see anything. There is nothing but silence. My sense of dread deepens.
I wonder again if Bree was on that train, and where it was going. I recall seeing Ben’s brother on it, but I can’t remember actually seeing Bree. I am surprised that any train still works these days. Could they be transporting them to Arena One?
None of that matters now. Who knows how many hours I’ve been out, how much time I’ve lost. Who knows where the train was heading, or how many hundreds of miles it has already gained. There is no way I can catch up to them—assuming I can even escape from here. Which I doubt. I feel a sense of anguish and despair as I realize that it was all for nothing. Now, it is just a matter of awaiting my punishment, my certain death, my retribution from the slaverunners. They will probably torture me, then kill me. I just pray it’s over quick.
I wonder if there is any possible way I can escape from here. I begin to take a few tentative steps in the blackness, holding my hands out in front of me. Each step is agony, my body so weary, heavy with aches and pains. It is cold in here, too, and I am trembling; I haven’t been able to get warm for days, and I feel like I’m running a fever. Even if by some chance I can find a way to escape, I doubt I’m in shape to get very far.
I feel a wall and run my hands along it as I move about the room, making my way towards the door. Suddenly, I hear a noise from outside. This is followed by the sound of footsteps, several pair of combat boots marching along steel floors. They echo ominously in the darkness as they get closer.
There is a rattling of keys, and the door to my cell is pushed open. Light floods the interior, and I raise my hands to my eyes, blinded.
My eyes haven’t adjusted yet, but I see enough to make out silhouettes of several figures in the entrance. They are tall and muscular, and looked to be dressed in slaverunner uniforms, with their black face masks.
I slowly lower my hands as my eyes adjust. There are five of them. The one standing in the center silently holds out a pair of open handcuffs. He doesn’t speak or move, and from his gesture, it seems clear I’m supposed to walk over and allow him to cuff me. It seems they are waiting to take me somewhere.
I quickly survey my cell, now that it is flooded with light, and see it is a simple room, ten by ten feet, with steel floors and walls, and nothing in it to speak of. And no way to escape. I slowly run my hands along my waist and feel that my weapon belt has been stripped and taken away. I’m defenseless. It would be no use in trying to fight these soldiers, who are well-armed.
I don’t see what I have to lose by allowing them to cuff me. It’s not like I have a choice. Either way, this will be my ticket out of here. And if it’s a ticket to my death, at least I’ll get it over with.
I walk slowly to them and turn around. I feel the cold, metal cuffs clamp down on my wrists, way too tightly. Then I am grabbed from behind, by my shirt, and given a shove out into the corridor.
I stumble down the corridor, the slaverunners right behind me, their boots echoing like a group of Gestapos. The halls are sporadically lit by dim emergency lights, every twenty feet or so, and each offers just enough light to see by. It is a long, sterile, hallway, with metal floors and walls. I am shoved again, and increase my pace. Each step is agony, as my body protests, but the more I walk, the more the stiffness begins to loosen.
The hall ends and I’ve no choice but to turn right, and as I do, I can see it opens in the distance. I’m shoved again as I am marched down this new hall, and next thing I know, I am standing in a vast and open room.
I am surprised to see that the room is filled with hundreds of slaverunners. They are lined up in neat rows along the walls, forming a semi-circle, dressed in their black uniforms and facemasks. We must still be underground somewhere, as I spot no windows or natural light, the gloomy room lit only by torches placed along the walls. They crackle in the silence.
In the center of the room, on the far side, is what I can only describe as a throne—an enormous chair built atop a makeshift wooden platform. On this chair sits a single man, clearly their leader. He looks young, maybe in his 30s, yet has an odd shock of white hair, sticking straight up and extending out in every direction, like a mad scientist. He wears an elaborate uniform made of green velvet, with military buttons all along it, and high collars framing his neck. He has large, grey, lifeless eyes, which bulge open and stare back at me. He looks like a maniac.
The rows of slaverunners part ways, and I’m shoved from behind. I stumble forward, towards the center of the room, and am guided to stand before their leader.
I stand about ten yards away, looking up at him, the slaverunners standing guard behind me. I can’t help wondering if they’re going to execute me on the spot. After all, I’ve killed many of theirs. I scan the room for any sign of Bree, or Ben, or his brother. There is no one. I am alone.
I wait patiently in the tense silence, as the leader looks me up and down. There is nothing I can do but wait. Apparently, my fate is now in the hands of this man.
He looks at me as if I were a thing of prey, and then, after what feels like forever, he surprises me by slowly breaking into a smile. It is more of a sneer, marred by the huge scar running along his cheek. He begins to laugh, deeper and deeper. It is the coldest sound I’ve ever heard, and echoes in the dim room. He stares down at me with glistening eyes.
“So, you are the one,” he says finally. He voice is unnaturally gravelly and deep, as if it belongs to a hundred-year-old man.
I stare back, not knowing how to respond.
“You are the one that has wreaked such havoc among my men. You are the one that managed to chase us all the way into the city. Into MY city. New York is mine now. Did you know that?” he asks, his voice suddenly becoming sharp with fury, as his eyes bulge. He clutches the arms of the chair and I can see his arms trembling. He looks like he’s just escaped from a mental hospital.
Again, I don’t know how to respond, so I remain silent.
He slowly shakes his head.
“A few others once tried—but no one has ever managed to cross into my city before. Or come all the way down to my home. You knew it would mean certain death. And yet still, you came.” He looks me up and down.
“I like you,” he concludes
.
As he stares at me, summing me up, I feel more and more uncomfortable, bracing myself for whatever is to come.
“And look at you,” he continues. “Just a girl. A stupid, young girl. Not even big, or strong. With hardly any weapons to speak of. How can it be that you killed so many of my men?”
He shakes his head.
“It is because you have heart. That is what is valuable in this world. Yes, that is what is valuable.” He suddenly laughs. “Of course, you did not succeed, though. How could you? This is MY city!” he suddenly shrieks, his body shaking.
He sits there, trembling, for what feels like forever. My sense of apprehension deepens; clearly, my fate is the hands of a maniac.
Finally, he clears his throat.
“Your spirit is strong. Almost like mine. I admire it. It is enough to make me want to kill you quickly, instead of slowly.”
I swallow hard, not liking the sound of this.
“Yes,” he continues, staring. “I can see it in your eyes. A warrior’s spirit. Yes, you are just like me.”
I don’t know what he sees in me, but I pray that I am nothing like this man.
“It is rare to find someone like you. Few have managed to survive out there, all these years. Few have such spirit…. So, instead of executing you now, as you deserve, I am going to reward you. I am going to offer you a great gift. The gift of free will. A choice.
“You can join us. Become one of us. A slaverunner. You will have every luxury you can imagine—more food than you can dream of. You will lead a division of slaverunners. You know your territory well. Those mountains. I can use you, yes. You will lead expeditions, capture all remaining survivors. You will help grow our army. And in return, you will live. And live in luxury.”
He stops, staring me down, as if waiting for a response.
Of course, the thought of this makes me sick. A slaverunner. I can’t think of anything I’d despise more. I open my mouth to respond, but at first my throat is so parched, nothing comes out. I clear my throat.
