by Morgan Rice
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, about twenty yards between them, 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 my 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 fly off the bike and through the air. I see a world of stars, and as I’m soaring, I realize that this is what it feels like to die.
S E V E N
I fly 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 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. 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.
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 sits in a ditch on the side of the road, about fifty yards ahead of us. Ben is still in the sidecar; I can’t tell if he’s dead or alive. It seems I am the first one to regain consciousness. There appears to be no other signs of life.
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 start 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. Flames are 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, trapping him. He tries to help, too, and I yank, again and again, the flames growing higher. I am sweating, grunting, as I pull with all I have. Finally, I pry him loose.
And just as I do, suddenly, the bike explodes.
E I G H T
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, 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 see 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 Dad’s bike: it is now just a heap of useless, burning metal. 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 against it with 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, reach in, 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 take 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 they have such a big head start on us, I need to know for sure. 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. 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 into his cheek, letting him know I mean business. And I do. Every passing moment is precious, and I can feel Bree getting farther 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 take the gun out of his cheek, and loosen my grip. I know I should kill him, but can’t bring myself to. He answered my questions, and somehow I feel killing him now wouldn’t be fair. So instead, I will abandon him. 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. The slaverunner is reaching for his belt, moving faster than I thought he was capable. 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 underestimated 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.
N I N E
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 the young girl sitting behind the driver’s side, 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, I doubt 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, 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.
Ben is useless, still standing there staring, so I run around to his side of the car, open the passenger door and begin to yank out the body. It is heavy.
“Help me!” I snap. I am annoyed by his inaction—especially while the other slaverunners are getting away.
Finally, Ben hurries over and helps me. We drag out the dead slaverunner, the blood staining our clothes, walk a few feet, then throw it into the snow, which turns red. I reach down and quickly strip the corpse of its gun and ammo, realizing Ben is either too passive or isn’t thinking clearly.
“Take his clothes,” I say. “You’ll need them.”
I don’t waste any more time. I run back to the car, open the driver’s side door and jump in. I go to turn the keys, when I suddenly look down and check the ignition. They are missing.
My heart drops. I search the floor of the car frantically, then the seats, then the dashboard. Nothing. The keys must have fallen out in the crash.
I look outside and notice some unusual markings in the snow that might indicate a trail from the keys. I kneel down and comb frantically through it, searching. I feel more and more desperate. It is like finding a needle in a haystack.
But suddenly, a miracle happens: my hand strikes something small. I comb the snow more carefully, and am flooded with relief to see the keys.
I jump back in the car, turn the ignition, and the car roars to life. This vehicle is some kind of modified muscle car, something like an old Camaro, and the engine roars way too loud; I can already tell it will be a fast ride. I only hope it’s fast enough to catch the other one.
I am about to put it into gear and take off when I look over and see Ben, still standing there, staring down at the corpse. He still hasn’t stripped the corpse’s clothing, even though he is standing there, freezing. I guess seeing the death affected him more than it did me. I have lost all patience and consider just taking off; but it wouldn’t be fair to leave him here alone, especially since he—or his body weight, at least—saved me back there on the bridge.
“I’M LEAVING!” I shriek at him. “GET IN!”
That snaps him out of it. He comes running over, jumps in, and slams the door. Just as I am about to gun it, he turns and looks in the backseat.
“What about him?” he asks.
I follow his gaze and see, in the backseat, the catatonic boy, still sitting there and staring.
“You want out?” I ask the boy. “Now’s your chance.”
But he doesn’t respond. I don’t have the luxury of time to figure it out; there have been too many delays already. If he won’t decide, I’ll decide for him. Coming along with us might kill him—but leaving him here will definitely kill him. He’s coming with us.
I peel out, getting back onto the highway with a thud. I am pleased to see the car is still running, and is faster than I could imagine. I am also pleased to see it handles well on the snowy highway. I hit the clutch and give it gas and shift to second gear, then to third, then fourth…. I am grateful Dad taught me how to drive stick—another manly thing I probably never should have learned as a teenage girl, and another thing I resented at the time but am thankful for now. I watch the speedometer climb: 80…90…100…110…120…. I am unsure how hard to push it. I worry that if I go too fast I’ll lose control in the snow, especially since this highway hasn’t been maintained in years, and with the snow covering, I can’t even see the potholes. If we hit just one big hole or patch of ice, we could be off the road. I get it up just a bit more, to 130, and decide to hold it there.
I look over at Ben, who has just finished buckling his seatbelt and is now gripping the dash, his knuckles white, looking straight ahead at the road in fear.
“You killed him,” he says.
I can barely hea
r him over the roar of the engine, and I wonder if I just imagined it, or if it was my conscience speaking. But Ben turns to me and repeats it:
“You killed that man,” he says louder, as if amazed such a thing could happen.
I’m not sure how to respond.
“Yes I did,” I say finally, annoyed. I don’t need him reminding me of it. “Do you have a problem with that?”
Slowly, he shakes his head. “I’ve just never seen a man killed before.”
“I did what I had to do,” I snap back, defensive. “He was reaching for a gun.”
I give it more gas, hitting 135, and as we turn the bend, I am relieved to spot the other car on the horizon. I am catching up, speeding faster than they dare to. At this rate, in a few minutes I might just catch them. I am encouraged.
I am sure they spot us—I just hope they don’t realize it’s us. Maybe they think the other slaverunners got their car back on the road. I don’t think they saw our encounter.
I give it even more gas, hitting 140, and the distance starts to close.
“What are you going to do when you catch them?” Ben screams, panic in his voice.
That is exactly what I have been wondering. I don’t know yet. I just know I need to catch up to them.
“We can’t shoot at their car, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he says. “The bullet might kill my brother—or your sister.”
“I know,” I reply. “We’re not going to shoot. We’re going to run them off the road,” I say, suddenly deciding.
“That’s crazy!” he yells, gripping the dashboard tighter as we close the gap even more. Snow is bouncing off our windshield like crazy, and I feel like I’m in a videogame, going out of control. The Taconic twists, narrowing as we go.
“That could kill them!” he yells. “What good will that do? My brother will die in there!”
“My sister is in there, too!” I shout back. “You think I want her dead?”
“So then what are you thinking?” he screams.
“You have any other ideas!?” I shout back. “You expect me to just ask them to pull over?”
