Arena One: Slaverunners

by Morgan Rice

  “DRIVE!” Logan screams, over the sound of his gunfire.

  I get an idea and check the glove compartment, hoping. My heart soars to find them there. I insert them in the ignition, turn the keys, and it roars to life. Black exhaust comes gushing out, and the gas gauge pops all the way. A full tank.

  I hit the throttle and am jerked backwards as the boat takes off. I can hear the bodies falling behind me, and I look back to see that Bree, Rose and Logan were all knocked over by the torque, too. I guess I gunned it too hard—luckily, they didn’t fall overboard.

  We are also lucky because the slaverunners are at the shore’s edge, just ten feet away. I pulled out just in time. They fire back at us, and because everyone hit the deck, their bullets whiz over our heads. One of the bullets grazes the wood paneling, and another takes out my side view mirror.

  “STAY DOWN!” Logan screams to the girls.

  He takes a knee at the rear, pops up, and fires back. In the rearview I see him take out several of them.

  I keep gunning it, pushing the engine with all it has, and within moments, we’re far away from the island. Fifty yards, then a hundred, then two hundred…. Soon, we are safely out of range of their bullets. The slaverunners stand on shore helplessly, now just dots on the horizon, watching us tear away.

  I can’t believe it. We are free.

  *

  As we pull away, deeper and deeper into the river, I know I should stay in the middle, far from either shore, and head upriver, getting as far from the city as I can. But something inside stops me. Thoughts of Ben come rushing back, and I can’t let him go so easily. What if somehow he’s made it down to the Seaport? What if he was late?

  I just can’t let it go. If by some chance he is there, I can’t just abandon him. I have to see. I have to know.

  So instead of turning upriver, I point the boat straight for the opposite shore—back towards the Seaport. Within moments the Manhattan shoreline rushes at us, getting closer and closer. My heart pounds at the potential danger that could be waiting—any number of armed slaverunners waiting on shore to fire on us.

  Logan realizes I’m going the wrong way, and suddenly comes running up beside me, frantic.

  “Where are you going!?” he screams. “You’re heading back to the city!”

  “I have to see something,” I say, “before we go.”

  “See what!?”

  “Ben,” I answer. “He might be there.”

  Logan scowls.

  “That’s crazy!” he says. “You’re bringing us right back into the hornet’s nest. You’re endangering us all! He had his chance. He wasn’t there!”

  “I have to check,” I yell back. I am determined, and nothing will stop me. I realize that, in some ways, I’m just like my Mom.

  Logan turns and sulks away, and I can feel how disapproving he is. I don’t blame him. But I have to do this. I know that if it was Ben, he’d come back and check for me, too.

  Within moments the Seaport comes into view. We get closer, 300 yards…200…and then, as we reach a hundred yards out, I could swear I spot someone, standing alone on the end of the pier. He’s looking out at the water, and my heart leaps.

  It is Ben.

  I can hardly believe it. He’s really there. He’s alive. He stands there, in the snow, up to his thighs, shivering. My heart drops to realize that Ben is alone. That can only mean one thing: his brother didn’t make it.

  We are close now, maybe twenty yards out, close enough that I can see the lines of sorrow etched into Ben’s face. In the distance, I see a caravan of slaverunner vehicles racing through the snow, heading right for the pier. There isn’t much time.

  I slow the boat and pull up to the pier; Ben, waiting, runs to the edge. We idle, rocking wildly in the waves, and I suddenly wonder how Ben will get in. It is a good ten foot drop from the pier. Ben looks down, fear in his eyes, and he must be thinking the same thing, trying to figure out how to jump.

  “Don’t jump!” Logan screams. “It might destroy the boat!”

  Ben stops and looks at him, frozen in fear.

  “Get on your hands and knees, turn around, and crawl down backwards,” Logan commands. “Inch your way down. Grab onto the edge of the pier and dangle off it with your hands. I’ll catch you.”

  Ben does as he’s told and slowly slips and slides over the edge, until he’s hanging by his hands. Logan, to his credit, reaches up and grabs him, lowering him into the boat. Just in time: the slaverunners are hardly fifty yards away, and closing in fast.

  “MOVE!” Logan screams.

  I gun the throttle and we take off, flying upriver. As we do, shots are fired out again, just grazing our boat, and sinking into the water in small splashes. Logan takes a knee and fires back.

  Luckily, they are no match for our speed: within moments we’re far from shore, in the middle of the river, out of firing range. I keep heading north, upriver, back in the direction of home.

  Now, finally, there is nothing left to stop us.

  Now, we are free.

  *

  We race up the East River and as we go, it is extraordinary to see the wreckage of the bridges up close. We race past the remains of the Brooklyn Bridge, its rusted metal sticking out of the water like a prehistoric thing. It towers above us, several stories high, like a skyscraper sticking out of the water. I feel dwarfed as we drive under it, and can’t help wondering if any of this will ever be rebuilt.

  Nearby is the wreckage of the bomber plane sticking out of the water, and I swerve to keep a good distance from that, too. I don’t know what sort of metal might be protruding from these freezing waters, and I don’t want to test it.

  We soon pass the remnants of the Manhattan Bridge, then the Williamsburg Bridge. I hit the throttle, wanting to get us past all these horrific sights as soon as possible.

  We soon race by what was once Roosevelt Island, its thin strip of land now a wasteland, like everything else. I fork left and find the 59th Street Bridge has been destroyed, too—along with the tram that used to connect the island to Manhattan. The tram, rusted and demolished, bobs in the river like a huge buoy. I have to be careful to avoid it as the waterway narrows.

  I continue racing upriver, further and further, passing nothing but destruction, until finally, I fork left into the waterway of the Harlem River. This waterway is much more narrow, with land only fifty yards on either side of us. I feel much more on edge as we traverse it. I scan the shores, on the lookout for an ambush.

  But I see nothing. Maybe I’m just being paranoid. If the slaverunners are going to mobilize after us—and I’m sure they are—we probably have at least an hour jump on them. Especially given all the snow. And by then, I’m hoping we’ll be too far up the Hudson for them to catch us.

  The Harlem River snakes through between Manhattan and the Bronx, and finally dumps us out onto the vast, wide-open expanse of the Hudson River. The Hudson, by contrast, is as wide as ten football fields, and I feel like we have just entered an ocean. Finally, I feel at ease again. Finally, we are back on the river that I remember. The river that leads us home.

  I turn right and point us north, and we race back in the direction of home, towards the Catskills. In just two hours, we will be there.

  Not that I plan on returning home. I don’t. Going back now would be foolish: the slaverunners know where we live, and it is surely the first place they will look for us. I want to stop at home, to bury Sasha, to say my goodbyes. But I won’t be staying. Our destination will have to be much further north. As far as we can get.

  I think of the stone cottage I’d found, all the way up the mountain, and I feel a pang, as I feel how badly I wanted to live there. I know that one day it might make a great home for us. But that day is not now. It’s too close to where we used to live, too dangerous right now. We have to let things cool down. Maybe, one day, we can come back. Besides, there are five of us now. Five mouths to feed. We need to find a place that can sustain us all.

  As we head further
upriver, I finally begin to relax, to unwind. I feel the tension slowly leaving my neck, my shoulders. I breathe deeply for the first time. I can’t believe we actually made. It is more than I can even process. I feel the aches and pains and bruises all over my body, but none of that matters now. I’m just happy that Bree is safe. That we’re together.

  I take a moment to look around, to take stock and survey the others in the boat. I have been so focused on just getting us away from the city that I haven’t even stopped to consider everyone else. I look over at Logan, sitting there, content, in the passenger seat beside me. I turn and see that the others are sitting in the rows behind me. Each person looks out at the water, each in his or her own direction, each lost in his or her own world.

  I reach over and tap Logan on the shoulder. He turns towards me.

  “Mind taking the wheel?” I ask.

  He rises from his seat quickly, happy to accommodate me, and grabs the wheel as we switch places.

  I climb over to the back of the boat. I’m dying to talk to Bree, and I’m also dying to talk to Ben, to find out what happened with his brother. As I head back, I see Ben sitting there in what looks like a catatonic state, staring out at the river. He looks as if he’s aged ten years overnight, and I can see the grief etched into his face. I can only imagine what hell he’s been through, the guilt he must have of not saving his brother. If it were me, I don’t know if I’d be able to handle it. I admire him for even being here.

  I want to talk to him, but I need to see Bree first. I climb over to the back row and sit beside her, and her eyes light up at the sight of me. She gives me a big hug, and we embrace for a long time. She holds me tight, clearly not wanting to let go.

  After several seconds, I finally pry her off. Tears roll down her cheeks.

  “I was so scared,” she says.

  “I know, sweetheart,” I answer. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Are we going home now?” she asks, hope in her eyes.

  Home. What a funny word. I don’t know what that means anymore. I once thought it meant Manhattan; then I thought it meant the mountains. Now I know it’s neither of those places. Home is going to have to be a new place. Some place that we haven’t even been yet.

  “We’re going to find a new home, Bree,” I say. “An even better one.”

  “Can Rose come, too?” she asks.

  I look over and see Rose, sitting beside her, look up at me hopefully. They are already two peas in a pod.

  “Of course,” I say. “She’s part of the family now.”

  I smile at Rose, and she surprises me by leaning over and giving me a hug. She clings to me, just like Bree, and I suddenly wonder where she came from, where her family us, where they captured her. I realize the hell that she must have gone through, too, and it hits home that we saved her, too. I think of an old saying: when you save a person’s life, that person becomes your responsibility for life. I can’t help feeling that somehow it’s true, that I’m now responsible for Rose, too. In my mind, her and Bree are inextricably linked.

  “Thank you,” Rose whispers over my shoulder, into my ear.

  I kiss her on the forehead, and she slowly pulls away. She reminds me of Bree in so many ways, it’s scary.

  “What about Sasha?” Bree asks. “Can she come?”

  It is the question I’ve been dreading. I take a deep breath, trying to think of the best way to phrase it. I have to tell her the truth; after all she’s been through, Bree deserves it.

  “I’m so sorry, Bree,” I say, looking down. “Sasha didn’t make it.”

  Fresh tears rush to Bree’s eyes, and she starts crying again, hysterical. Rose leans over and hugs her.

  But after several seconds, to my surprise, Bree leans back, brushes away her tears, and looks back at me, red-eyed.

  “I knew it,” she says. “I had a dream. She was visiting me. Somehow, I already knew she was dead.”

  “This might cheer you up,” suddenly comes a voice.

  I turn and see Ben standing there. To my surprise, there is a slight smile on his face.

  I look down and see that he is holding something. Something small, wrapped in a blanket. He’s holding it out towards Bree.

  Suddenly, a small dog pops its head out from the blanket. I can’t believe it. It is a small Chihuahua, missing one eye. It shakes and trembles, looking terrified.

  “OH MY GOD!” Bree and Rose both scream out at once, eyes open wide in surprise.

  Bree grabs it and holds it tight, cradling it, and Rose leans in and pets it, too. They both lean down, and it leans up and licks their faces. They scream out in delight.

  “I found it in the boat,” Ben says. “I almost sat on it. I guess someone left it. Or maybe it crawled its way on.”

  I’m shocked. I hadn’t seen the dog, and now that I think of it, I realize I didn’t spend any time examining the boat at all. Suddenly I look around, wondering what else could be here.

  I spot all the side compartments and hurry to each one, opening them one after the other. I am surprised and delighted as I begin to discover all sorts of surprises. I open a sealed crate and am breathless to see its contents: it is packed with chocolate bars, candy, cookies, crackers and delicacies of all types.

  I reach down and grab a huge bag filled with chocolate-covered jelly rings. I hold open the bag for Bree, Rose, Ben and Logan, and they each, wide-eyed, reach in and grab a handful. I then grab a handful myself and stuff my mouth, chewing one after the other.

  It is ecstasy, by far the greatest thing I’ve ever tasted. I feel the sugar rush race through my body, and feel like I’ve gone to heaven. I look over and see the others wolfing them down, too, eyes closed, chewing slowly, savoring each bite. All of us, ravished.

  I reach back into the crate and discover bags of gummy bears and twizzlers. I am amazed. I never thought I’d see these again. These are like gold, and I know I should ration them.

  But after what we’ve all been through, now is not the time to ration anything—and for once, I let my emotions overcome my rational side. I throw the small bags to everyone in the boat, distributing them equally, and each person catches them in the air with a cry of joy and surprise. As Logan catches his, taking his hand off the wheel, the boat swerves a bit, then quickly straightens out.

  I tear open my bag of gummy bears and finish the whole thing in just a few seconds, shoveling them into my mouth. Then I turn to the twizzlers. I try to take my time with these, forcing myself to chew each one slowly. I’ve barely eaten in days, and it is a shock to my stomach. It screams out in pain, and I force myself to slow down.

  I spot a small fridge in the back of the boat, and hurry over and open it. I can’t believe it. It is stocked with everything from juice to champagne. The inequality of it all infuriates me: here we are, starving to death, while these fat slaverunners have been guzzling champagne. At least now it’s time for revenge.

  I grab a bottle of champagne, twist off the wire, and pop the cork. It goes flying through the air, overboard, and into the river. Everyone turns at the sound and sees me standing there, holding the bottle as foam sprays out the top and over my hand. It is icy cold, but I don’t care. I put it to my lips, and take a swig. It goes right to my head.

  I know I shouldn’t, but after everything they’ve been through, I offer it to Bree and Rose; they each take a small sip, giggling. I then reach over and hand it to Ben, and he takes several swigs without stopping. He hands it back to me, but still won’t look at me. He keeps his eyes fixed somewhere on the water. I wonder if he is ashamed to look at me, ashamed for having not saved his brother.

  I study him as he looks out over the water. His eyes are red, and I can see he’s been crying. He reaches up and rubs one of them, wiping away a tear. I can hardly imagine what he’s been through.

  “Do you want to talk about?” I ask.

  He shakes his head no.

  I understand. If it were me, I wouldn’t want talk about it either. He looks like he wants space, and I don’
t want to press him.

  When he’s ready, I think to myself.

  I climb back to the front of the boat, sit in the passenger seat, and pass the bottle over to Logan. He takes a twizzler out of his mouth, grabs the bottle, takes a long swig, then hands it back to me, never taking his eyes off the water. He then inserts another twizzler into his mouth, chewing slowly.

  I sit there in the plush leather passenger seat and lean back. We drive for a few minutes in silence, the only sound that of the whining engine. Finally, Logan turns to me.

  “So, where to?” he asks.

  I stare out at the water, thinking. I think about what Logan said before, about that perfect town, somewhere in Canada. And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel hope. I wonder if maybe he’s right, if maybe there could be some place left in the world that isn’t ruined. I wonder if maybe it’s good to dream.

  I turn to him.

  “I’m thinking Canada,” I say.

  He looks at me and his eyes open wide in surprise. He must realize what I’m really saying: Maybe you are right.

  Slowly, he breaks into a smile, and I can’t help smiling back.

  He reaches down and leans on the throttle, and I feel the boat accelerate just a bit.

  “Canada it is,” he says.

  I lean further back, starting to relax for the first time. For some reason, I think of Dad. I wonder if he’s up there, looking down on us. If he is, would he be proud? I feel that he would. I can almost hear his voice: Brooke, you’re in charge now. Do whatever you have to to keep them alive. Don’t rest on your heels, soldier.

  It will be a long road ahead of us, I realize that. Soon, we’ll run out of fuel. Then out of food. It will get dark, colder. The Hudson will turn to ice, and we’ll have to find shelter. The slaverunners will be after us, and if we don’t keep moving, they’ll find us.

  But I also realize I can worry about all of this later. For once in my life, I can just sit back and enjoy right now. The present moment. For the first time in my life, I finally realize that that is what really matters. Not later today. But right now.

  I lean back in the plush leather seat and take another swig of champagne, and it goes right to my head. I haven’t had a decent meal in days, and I know I shouldn’t drink. But right now, I don’t care. We’re cruising up the Hudson, it’s a sunny, beautiful morning, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, everything is good in the world. I look over and, surprisingly, see a patch of bright purple flowers, somehow surviving, sticking up in the snow. They are the most beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen, glowing in the sunlight. I wonder how they can even be real.