Morgan Rice: 5 Beginnings (Turned, Arena one, A Quest of Heroes, Rise of the Dragons, and Slave, Warrior, Queen)

by Morgan Rice

  I slam on the brakes, and luckily I’m only doing 50 when I do. We slip and slide for about 20 yards, and finally, we come to a stop.

  Just in time. The highway abruptly ends in a huge crater, plunging deep into the earth. If I hadn’t stopped, we would surely be dead right now.

  I look down, over the edge of the precipice. It is a massive crater, probably a hundred yards in diameter. It looks like a huge bomb had been dropped on this highway at some point during the war.

  I turn the wheel and follow the slaverunners’ tracks, which take me though a snowy field, then onto winding local roads. After several minutes, it leads us back onto the highway. I pick up speed again, this time bringing it up to 130.

  I drive and drive and drive, and feel like I’m driving to the end of the earth. I probably cover another 40 miles and I begin to wonder how much farther this highway can go. The snowy sky begins to grow darker, and soon it will be nightfall. I feel the need to push and get the car up to 140. I know it’s risky, but I need to catch up to them.

  As we go, we pass some of the old signs for the major arteries, still hanging, rusting away: the Sawmill Parkway; the Major Deegan; 287; the Sprain…. The Taconic forks, and I merge onto the Sprain Parkway, then the Bronx River Parkway, following the slaverunners’ tracks. We are getting closer to the city now, open sky gradually replaced by tall, crumbling buildings. We are in the Bronx.

  I feel the need to catch them and push the car up to 150. It becomes so loud I can barely hear.

  As we round another bend, my heart leaps: there, in the distance, I see them, a mile ahead.

  “That’s them!” Ben screams.

  But as we close the gap, I see where they’re headed. A crooked sign reads “Willis Avenue Bridge.” It is a small bridge, encased in metal beams, barely wide enough for two lanes. At its entrance sit several Humvees, slaverunners sitting on the hoods, machine guns mounted and aimed towards the road. More Humvees sit on the far side of the bridge.

  I gun it, pushing the gas pedal as far as it will go, and we top 150. The world flies by in a blur. But we are not catching up: the slaverunners are speeding up, too.

  “We can’t follow them in!” Ben yells. “We’ll never make it!”

  But we have no choice. They have at least a hundred yards on us, and the bridge is maybe a hundred yards away. We’re not going to beat them there. I am doing all I can, and our car is shaking from the speed. There’s no way around it: we’re going to have to enter the city.

  As we approach the bridge, I wonder if the guards realize we aren’t one of theirs. I only hope we can get through fast enough, before they catch on and fire at us.

  The slaverunner car flies between the guards, racing over the bridge. We follow, fifty yards behind, and as we do, the guards still don’t realize. Soon, we are thirty yards away…then 20…then 10….

  As we race onto the entrance, we are close enough that I can see the horrified expressions on the guards’ faces. Now, they realize.

  I look up, and the guards raise their machine guns our way.

  A second later, shots ring out.

  We are covered in automatic machine gun fire, bouncing off the hood and windshield, bullets spraying everywhere. I duck.

  Worse, something starts to fall, impeding our way, and I see it is a spiked iron gate. It is being lowered on the bridge, to block our entrance to Manhattan.

  We’re going too fast, and I can’t possibly stop in time. The gate is falling too fast, and I realize, too late, that in just a few moments, we will smash into it, and it will tear our car to pieces.

  I prepare for impact.

  E L E V E N

  I brace myself as we head for the descending gate. It’s too late to turn back now, and too late to slam on the brakes. From the looks of those heavy, reinforced iron bars, with spikes at the end, I don’t see how we can possibly drive through it. I figure our only chance is to outrace it, to go fast enough to slip through before it completely descends. So I floor it, the car roaring and shaking. As we get within feet of it, the guards jump out of the way, and I brace myself for impact.

  There is the awful noise of metal smashing into metal, along with the noise of broken glass. It is deafening, as if a bomb has exploded right beside my ear. It sounds like one of those huge car-wrecking machines, crunching a car until it’s flat.

  Our car jerks violently on the impact, and for a moment, I feel as if I’m going to die. Shattered glass flies everywhere, and I do the best I can to hold the wheel steady while raising a hand to my eyes. And then, a second later, it’s over. To my shock, we are still driving, flying over the bridge, into Manhattan.

  I try to figure out what happened. I look up at our roof, and check back over my shoulder, and realize we outraced the bars—though they managed to lower just enough to perforate our roof, shearing it into bits. It looks as if it’s been put through a bread slicer. It took out the top of our windshield, too, cracking it badly enough that my view is impaired. I can still drive, but it’s not easy.

  Bits of shattered glass are everywhere, as are bits of torn metal. Freezing air rushes in and snowflakes land on my head.

  I look over and see that Ben is shaken, but unhurt. I saw him duck at the last second, just like I did, and that probably saved his life. I check over my shoulder and see the group of guards scrambling to rally and come after us; but the iron gate is all the way down, and they don’t seem able to lift it up again. We are going so fast, we have a big lead on them anyway. Hopefully by the time they get their act together we’ll be far gone.

  I turn back to the road ahead and in the distance, maybe a quarter-mile ahead, I see the other slaverunners, speeding through Manhattan. We have passed the point of no return. I can hardly conceive that we are now on the island of Manhattan, have actually crossed the bridge—probably the only bridge still working in or out of here. There is no way back.

  Up to this point, I had envisioned rescuing Bree and bringing her home. But now, I’m not so sure. I’m still determined to rescue her—but I’m not sure how to get us out of here. My feeling of dread is deepening. I am increasingly feeling this is a mission of no return. A suicide mission. But Bree is all that matters. If I have to go down trying, I will.

  I floor the gas again, bringing it up past 140. But the slaverunners floor it too, still intent on evading us. They have a good head start, and unless something goes wrong, catching up to them won’t be easy. I wonder what their destination is. Manhattan is vast, and they could be going anywhere. I feel like Hansel and Gretel heading into the woods.

  The slaverunners make a sharp right onto a wide boulevard, and I look up and see a rusted sign which reads “125th Street.” I follow them, and realize they’re heading west, crosstown. As we go, I look around and see that 125th is like a postcard for the apocalypse: everywhere are abandoned, burnt-out cars, parked crookedly in the middle of the street. Everything has been stripped down and salvaged. The buildings have all been looted and the retail spaces smashed, leaving nothing but piles of glass on the sidewalks. Most buildings are just shells, burnt-out from the bomb-dropping campaigns. Others have collapsed. As I drive, I have to swerve around random piles of rubble. Needless to say, there are no signs of life.

  The slaverunners make a sharp left, and as I follow them, a sign, upside down, reads “Malcolm X Boulevard.” It is another wide street, and we head south, right through the heart of Harlem. Downtown. I wonder where they are heading. We turn so fast our tires screech, burning rubber, the sound louder than ever now that our roof is open to the elements. There is still snow on the streets, and our car slides a good ten feet before it straightens out again. I take the turn faster than the slaverunners and gain a few seconds’ time.

  Malcolm X Boulevard is as bad as 125th: everywhere is destruction. Yet this has something else, too: abandoned military tanks and vehicles. I spot a Humvee, turned on its side, just a shell now, and I wonder what battles took place here. A huge, bronze statue lies on its side, in the middle of the
road. I swerve around it, then around a tank, driving on the sidewalk, taking out a mailbox with a huge crash. The box goes flying over our roof, and Ben ducks.

  I swerve back onto the road and gun it. I’m getting closer. They are now only a hundred yards ahead of us. They swerve, too, avoiding rubble, potholes, shells of cars. They have to slow each time, but all I have to do is follow their tracks, so I can maintain speed. I’m gaining on them, and am starting to feel confident I can catch them.

  “Take out their tires!” I yell to Ben, over the roar of the engine. I take the extra handgun from my waist, reach over and cram it into Ben’s ribs, keeping my eyes on the road all the while.

  Ben holds up the gun, examining it, and it’s clear that he’s never used one before. I can feel his anxiety.

  “Aim low!” I say. “Make sure you don’t hit the gas tank!”

  “I’m not a good shot!” Ben says. “I might hit my brother. Or your sister!” he screams back.

  “Just aim low!” I scream. “We have to try. We have to stop them!”

  Ben swallows hard as he reaches over and opens his window. A tremendous noise and cold air race into the car as Ben leans out the window and holds out the gun.

  We are closing in on them, and Ben is just beginning to take aim—when suddenly we hit an enormous pothole. Both of us jump, and my head slams into the ceiling. I look over and see the gun go flying from Ben’s hand, out the window—and then hear it clattering as it lands on the pavement behind us. My heart drops. I can’t believe he has dropped the gun. I am furious.

  “You just lost our gun!” I scream.

  “I’m sorry!” he yells back. “You hit that pothole! Why didn’t you watch the road?”

  “Why didn’t you hold it with both hands?” I scream back. “You’ve just lost our one chance!”

  “You can stop and go back for it,” he says.

  “There’s no time!” I snap.

  My face reddens. I’m starting to feel that Ben is completely useless, and regret taking him it all. I force myself to think of how he fixed the car, how he saved me with his body weight, back on the bridge. But it is hard to remember. Now, I’m just furious. I wonder if I can trust him with anything.

  I reach into my holster, pull out my gun, and stick it into his ribs.

  “This one’s mine,” I say. “You drop it, I’m kicking you out.”

  Ben holds it tight, with both hands, as he leans out the window again. He takes aim.

  But at just that moment a park appears, and the slaverunners disappear right into it.

  I can’t believe it. Central Park lies right in front of us, marked by a huge, felled tree blocking its path. The slaverunners swerve around it and enter the park, and at the last second, I do, too. Ben leans back into the car, his chance lost—but at least he still holds the gun.

  Central Park is nothing like what I remember. Covered in waist-high weeds that emerge from the snow, it has been left to grow wild these past years, and now looks like a forest. Trees have fallen sporadically in all different places. Benches are empty. Statues are smashed or toppled, leaning on their sides. There are also signs of battle: tanks and Humvees, burnt-out, upside down, lie throughout the park. All of this is blanketed by snow, giving it the feel of a surreal winter wonderland.

  I try to take my eyes off it all, and focus instead on the slaverunners before me. They must know where they’re going, as they stay on a twisting and turning service road which cuts through the park. I follow them closely as they zigzag their way through. On our right, near 110th street, we pass the remnants of a vast, empty pool. Soon after, we pass the remains of a skating rink, now just an empty shell, its small outbuilding smashed and looted.

  They make a sharp turn onto a narrow road, really just a trail. But I am right behind them as we go into the heart of a thick forest, narrowly missing trees, dipping and rising up and down hills. I had never realized that Central Park could be so primitive. With no sight of the skyline, I feel like I could be in a forest anywhere.

  Our car slips and slides in the snowy dirt trails, but I am able to stay with them. Soon we reach a large hilltop, and the park opens up, all laid out before us. We fly over the hilltop, airborne for a few seconds until we land with a crash. They race downhill, and I am right behind them, closing the gap.

  We race through what were once massive ball fields. One after the other, we drive right down the center of the fields. The bases are no longer there—or if they are, they are hidden in the snow, but I can still spot what remains of the rusted, chain-link fencing that once marked their dugouts. It is a field of white, and our car slips and slides as we follow them. We are definitely closing in, now just 30 yards away. I wonder if their engine was affected, or if they are slowing on purpose. Either way, now is our chance.

  “What are you waiting for!?” I scream to Ben. “Shoot!”

  Ben opens his window and leans out, clutching the pistol with both hands and taking aim.

  Suddenly, the slaverunners jerk hard to the left, making a sharp turn. And then I realize, too late, why they slowed: right before me is a pond, barely frozen. Their slowing had been a trap; they had been hoping I’d drive right into the water.

  I tug the wheel hard, and we just manage to miss plunging into the water. But the turn was too sharp and too fast, and our car spins out in the field of snow, spinning in large circles again and again. I feel dizzy as the world spins around and around in a blur, and I pray we don’t crash into anything.

  Luckily, we don’t. There are no structures anywhere around us—if there were, we surely would have crashed. Instead, after a few more 360s, we finally stop spinning. I sit there for a moment, the car stopped, breathing hard. It was a close call.

  These slaverunners are smarter than I thought. It was a bold move, and they must know this terrain well. They know exactly where they’re going. I’m guessing no one else has ever managed to follow them as far as we have. I look over and see that Ben has managed to hold onto the gun this time; another lucky break. I shake out the cobwebs, put it back in gear, and floor it.

  Suddenly, there is a loud beeping noise, and I look down to see a red light flashing on the dash: GAS LOW.

  My heart drops. Not now. Not after all we’ve been through. Not when we’re this close.

  Please God, just give us enough gas to catch them.

  The beeping continues incessantly, loud in my ear, like a death knell. I’ve lost sight of the slaverunners and have to resort to following their tracks. I drive up a hill and come to an intersection, vehicle tracks crisscrossing in every direction. I’m not sure which way to fork, and it feels like it might be another trap. I decide to stay the course, straight ahead, but even as I do, I have a sinking feeling that these tracks are old and Bree’s captors might’ve turned off somewhere.

  Suddenly, the sky opens up, and I find myself driving on a narrow lane, beside what was once the Central Park Reservoir, looking like a huge crater in the Earth, now empty of water and lined with snow. Huge weeds grow up from the bottom. This lane is narrow and barely fits the width of my car, with a steep drop-off down the hill on my left. To my right is an even steeper drop-off to the bottom of the reservoir. One wrong move in either direction and we are toast. I wonder why the slaverunners would choose such a perilous route, but still see no sign of them.

  Suddenly, there is a crash, and my head snaps forward. At first I’m confused, and then I realize: we’ve been hit from behind.

  I look in the rearview and see they’re right behind us, sadistic smiles on both of their faces. Their facemasks are lifted, and I can see that they’re both Biovictims, with grotesque, unnatural faces, misshapen, and huge buck teeth. I can see the sadism, the joy they take as they speed up and ram us again from behind. My neck snaps forward on the impact. They are much smarter than I thought: somehow, they managed to get behind us, and now they have the advantage. I had not expected this. I have no room to maneuver, and I can’t slam on the brakes.

  They smash into us
again, this time angling the car as they do, and our car slips to the side. We smash into the steel railing of the reservoir, then slide over the other way and almost fall off the cliff. They’ve got us in a bad position. If they smash us again like that, we will roll downhill and be finished.

  I step on the gas; the only way to survive is to outrun them. But they are going just as fast, and they hit us again. This time, we smash into the metal divider and slide farther, about to go over the cliff. Luckily, we crash into a tree and it saves us, keeps us on the road.

  I’m feeling increasingly desperate. I look over, and see that Ben seems stunned, too, looking more pale than before. Suddenly, I have an idea.

  “Shoot them!” I scream.

  He immediately opens his window and leans out with the gun.

  “I can’t hit their tires from here!” he screams over the wind. “They’re too close! The angle is too steep!”

  “Aim for the windshield!” I scream back. “Don’t kill the driver. Take out the passenger!”

  I can see in my rearview that they copy our idea: the passenger is lowering his window, taking out his gun, too. I only pray that Ben hits them first, that he’s not afraid to fire. Suddenly, several shots ring out, deafening even above the noise.

  I flinch, half-expecting to feel a bullet hit me in the head.

  But I am surprised to realize that it is Ben who has fired. I check the rearview, and can’t believe what I see: Ben’s aim was perfect. He hit the passenger’s side of the windshield several times—so many times, in the same spot, that he seems to have actually punctured the bulletproof glass. I see the red splattering the inside of the windshield, and that can only mean one thing. Blood.

  I can’t believe it: Ben has managed to shoot the passenger. Ben. The boy who just minutes ago was traumatized to see a dead body. I can’t believe he actually hit him, and at this speed.

  It works. Their car suddenly slows down dramatically, and I use the opportunity to floor it.

  Moments later, we are out of the reservoir, and back into open fields. Now, the game has changed: they have a man down, and we have caught up to them. Now, finally, we have the advantage. If only the “low gas” gauge would stop beeping, I would actually feel optimistic.