by Morgan Rice
Their car comes flying out behind us, and I slow, pull up beside them, and spot a worried look on the driver’s face. That is the confirmation I need: I am relieved to know that the passenger was hit and not Bree. I catch a glimpse of Bree, alive, in the backseat, and my heart soars with hope. For the first time, I feel I can really do this. I can get her back.
We’re now racing side-by-side, in the open field, and I pull hard on the wheel and smash into them. Their car flies across the field, swerving wildly. But it doesn’t stop. And without missing a beat, their driver comes right back at me, smashing into us. Now we go swerving wildly. This guy just won’t quit.
“Shoot!” I scream again to Ben. “Take out the driver!”
I realize their car will crash, but we have no choice. And if it has to crash anywhere, this open field, surrounded by trees, is the best place.
Ben immediately lowers his window and takes aim, more confident this time. We’re driving alongside him, perfectly lined up, and we have a direct line of fire to the driver. This is our moment.
“SHOOT!” I scream again.
Ben pulls the trigger, and suddenly, I hear a sound that makes my stomach drop.
The click of an empty gun. Ben pulls the trigger again and again, but it is nothing but clicks. He used all of our ammo back at the reservoir.
I spot an evil, victorious smile on the slaverunner’s face, as he swerves right into us. He smashes us hard, and we careen across the snowy field, onto a grassy hill. Suddenly, I see a wall of glass. Too late.
I brace myself as we crash into the wall, glass shattering like a bomb all around us, raining down shards through the holes in the roof. It takes a moment until I realize where we are: the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The Egyptian Wing.
I look over and can tell that nothing is left in the museum, looted long ago—nothing except for that huge pyramid, still in the room. I finally manage to swerve away, and stop driving through glass. The other slaverunner gained some distance, and is now about 50 yards ahead, to my right, and once again, I step on it.
I follow him as he races south through the park, up and down rolling hills. I worriedly check the gas gauge, which won’t stop beeping. We pass the remnants of an amphitheater, beside a pond, in the shadow of the Belvedere Castle, now sitting as a ruin atop the hill. The theater is covered in snow and weeds, its bleachers rusted.
We race across what was once the Great Lawn, and I mimic his path in the snow, weaving, avoiding holes. I feel so bad for Bree as I consider what she must be going through. I only pray this hasn’t traumatized her too much. I pray that some part of our Dad is with her, keeping her strong and tough through all of this.
Suddenly, I have a lucky break: up ahead, they hit a huge pothole. His car shakes, then swerves violently, and he loses control, doing a wide 360. I find myself flinching with them, hoping Bree doesn’t get hurt.
Their car is okay. After a couple of spins, it regains traction, and they begin speeding again. But now I have narrowed the gap, and am closing in fast. In just a few more seconds, I’ll be right behind him.
But I’ve been staring at his vehicle, and stupidly took my eyes off the road. I look back just in time, and find myself freezing up: a huge animal is right in front of us.
I swerve, but too late. It hits us square against the windshield, splattering, and tumbles over the roof. There are blood stains all over the glass, and I run the wipers, grateful they still work. The thick blood smears, and I can barely see.
I check the rearview, wondering what the hell it was, and see a huge, dead ostrich behind us. I am bewildered. But I have no time to process this, because suddenly, I am amazed to see a lion in front of us.
I swerve hard, barely missing it. I do a double take, and am shocked to see it’s real. It is lean and looks malnourished. I am even more baffled. Then, finally, it makes sense: there, on my left, is the Central Park zoo, its gates and doors and windows all wide open. Milling nearby are a few animals, and lying in the snow are the dead carcasses of several more, their bodies long ago picked clean.
I step on the gas, trying not to look, as I follow the slaverunners’ tracks. They lead up a small hill, then down a steep hill, right into a crater. I realize this was once a skating rink. A large sign hangs crookedly, its letters worn away, and reads “Trump.”
In the distance, the park is coming to an end. He turns hard to the left, I follow him, and we both race up a hill. Moments later, we both burst out of Central Park—at the same time, side by side—exiting on 59th Street and Fifth Avenue. I go flying over the hill, and for a moment my car is airborne. We land with a crash, and I momentarily lose control, as we slide into a statue, toppling it.
Before us is a huge circular fountain; I swerve out of the way at the last second, and chase him around the circle. He jumps up onto the sidewalk, and I follow him, and he heads right for a massive building. The Plaza Hotel. Its former façade, once immaculate, is now covered in grime and neglect. Its windows all smashed, it looks like a tenement.
He smashes into the rusted rods holding the awning, and as he does, it comes crashing down, bouncing off his hood. I swerve out of the way, then follow him as he makes a sharp left and cuts across Fifth Avenue, clearly trying to shake me. He races up a small stone staircase, and I follow, our car shuddering violently with each step. He heads for the huge glass box of what was once the Apple Store. Amazingly, its façade is still intact. It is, in fact, the only intact thing I’ve seen anywhere since the war began.
Not anymore. At the last second he swerves out of the way, and it is too late for me to turn. Our car smashes right into the façade of the Apple box. There’s a tremendous explosion of glass, and it rains down through the holes in our roof as I ride right through the Apple Store. I feel a little guilty to have destroyed the one thing left standing—but then again, I think of how much I paid for an iPad back in the day, and my guilt lessens.
I regain control as the slaverunner makes a left down Fifth Avenue. He’s got about thirty yards on me, but I won’t give up, like a dog chasing a bone. I just hope our gas lasts.
I am amazed at what Fifth Avenue has become. This famed avenue, once the beacon of prosperity and materialism, is now, like everything else, just an abandoned, dilapidated shell, its stores looted, its retail spaces destroyed. Huge weeds grow right down the middle of it, making it look like a marshland. Bergdorf’s flies by, on my right, its floors completely empty, no windows left, like a ghost house. I swerve around abandoned cars, and as we hit 57th Street, I spot what was once Tiffany’s. This place, once the hallmark of beauty, is now just another haunted mansion, like everything else. Not a single jewel remains in its empty windows.
I step on the gas and we cross 55th, then 54th, then 53rd Streets…. I pass a cathedral, Saint Patrick’s, on my left, its huge arched doors torn off long ago, now lying flat, face down, on its staircase. I can see right into its open structure, right to the stained glass on the other side.
I have taken my eyes off the road too long, and suddenly the slaverunner makes a sharp right onto 48th Street. I’m going too fast, and when I try to make the turn I skid out, doing a 360. Luckily I don’t hit anything.
I come back around and follow him, but his tricky move has gained him some distance. I follow him across 48th, heading west, crosstown, past what was once Rockefeller Center. I remember coming here with Dad, at Christmastime, remember thinking how magical it was. I can’t believe it now: everywhere is rubble, crumbling buildings. Rock Center has become a massive wasteland.
Again, I take my eyes off the road too long, and as I look back, I slam on the brakes, but there isn’t time. Right in front of me, lying on its side, is the huge Rockefeller Christmas tree. We are going to hit it. Right before we make impact, I can see some lights and ornaments still left on it. The tree is brown, and I wonder how long it’s been laying here.
I smash right into it, doing 120. I hit it with such force, the entire tree shifts on the snow, and I’m pushing it, dragging it
along. Finally, I manage to swerve hard to the right, getting around the narrow tip of it. Thousands of pine needles sprinkle down through the gaping holes in our roof. A bunch more stick to the blood still matted to our windshield. I can’t imagine what our car looks like from the outside.
This slaverunner knows the city too well: his smart moves have gained him another advantage, and he is now out of sight. But I still see his tracks and up ahead, I see he’s made a left on Sixth Avenue. I follow him.
Sixth Avenue is another wasteland, it streets filled with abandoned tanks and Humvees, most upside down, all stripped of anything that might be useful, including the tires. I swerve in and out of these as I see the slaverunner up ahead. I wonder for the millionth time where he could be heading. Is he crisscrossing the city just to lose me? Does he have a destination in mind? I think hard, trying to remember where Arena One is located. But I have no idea. Up until today, I was never even sure it really existed.
He guns it down Sixth and so do I, finally gaining speed. As we cross 43rd, on my left, I catch a glimpse of Bryant Park, and the rear of what was once the New York Public Library. My heart drops. I used to love going into that magnificent building. Now it is nothing but rubble.
The slaverunner makes a sharp right on 42nd street, and this time I’m right behind him. We both skid, then straighten out. We race down 42nd, heading west, and I wonder if he’s heading for the West Side Highway.
The street opens up, and we are in Times Square. He bursts into the square and I follow, entering the vast intersection. I remember coming here as a kid, being so overwhelmed by the size and scope of it, by all the people. I remember being dazzled by all the lights, the flashing billboards. Now, like everything else, it is a ruin. Of course, none of the lights work, and there is not a single person in sight. All the billboards that used to hang so proudly now either dangle precariously in the wind, or lie face down on the street below. Huge weeds cover the intersection. In its center, where there was once an army recruiting center, now, ironically, lie the shells of several tanks, all twisted and blown up. I wonder what battle took place here.
Suddenly, the slaverunner makes a sharp left, heading down Broadway. I follow, and as I do, I am shocked by what I see before me: an enormous cement wall, like a prison wall, rises high into the sky, topped with barbed wire. The wall stretches as far as I can see, blocking off Times Square from whatever lies south of it. As if trying to keep something out. There is an opening in the wall, and the slaverunners drive right through it; as they pass through, a massive iron gate suddenly bangs down behind them, shutting them off from me.
I slam on the brakes, screeching to a halt right before we smash into the gate. Beyond it, the slaverunners are taking off. It is too late. I have lost them.
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. 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.
T W E L V E
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 facemasks, holding machine guns. They aim them down at 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 it doesn’t slip through 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, knocking him off.
Several more jump on the hood and trunk, weighing us down. I floor it, trying to shake them as we 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. He raises a crowbar and prepares to bring it down on the windshield.
I make a 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. 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, parked out front, 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 ours 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. They fly off their 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, 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, a tremendous pain smashes the side of my head.
I fly through the air, landing 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, watching the train speed away. Someone must have punched me, knocked me off the train.
