by Morgan Rice
I try it. I raise my knees and clamp my feet into the twine, and am happily surprised to see that my boot catches. I straighten my legs and pull myself up a notch, and am amazed to see it works. I do it again and again, following Logan, and within a minute, the time it takes to reach the island, I’m at the top of the rope. As I reach the top, Logan is there, waiting, hand outstretched. I reach up and grab it, and he pulls me quickly and silently over the edge.
We both crouch down, hiding behind a metal container, and furtively survey the boat. Standing up front, their backs to us, are a group of guards, holding machineguns. They herd a dozen young girls, direct them down a long ramp lowered from the boat. The sight makes me burn with indignation, and makes me want to attack them right now. But I force myself to wait, to stay disciplined. It would give me temporary satisfaction, but then I would never get Bree.
The group starts to move, chains rattling, until they are all off the ramp and on the island. When the boat is emptied, Logan and I nod to each other and silently make our way off the barge, running alongside the edge. We hurry down the ramp, a good deal behind everybody else. Luckily, no one is looking back for us.
In moments, we are on land, and we hurry through the snow and take shelter behind a small structure, hiding out of sight as we watch where the girls are being taken. The slaverunners head towards a large, circular brick structure which looks like a cross between an amphitheater and a prison. There are iron bars all around its perimeter.
We run out, following their trail, hiding behind a tree every twenty yards, running from tree to tree, careful not to be seen. I reach down and feel for my gun, in case I need to use it, and see Logan do the same. They might notice us at any moment, and we have to be ready. It would be a mistake to fire-it would draw too much attention, too soon. But if I need to, I will.
They herd the slaves into the open doorway of the building, and then disappear in the blackness.
We both break into action, running inside after them.
It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. To my right, around the bend, a group of slaverunners leads the girls, while to my left, a single slaverunner heads solo down a corridor. Logan and I exchange a knowing glance, and both silently decide to go after the stray slaverunner.
We run silently down the corridor, just yards behind him, waiting for our chance. He reaches a large iron door, pulls out a set of keys, and begins to unlock it. The metal clangs, reverberating in the empty corridors. Before I can react, Logan pulls out a knife, charges the slaverunner, grabs him by the back of his head, and slices his throat in one quick motion. Blood spurts everywhere as he collapses, a lifeless heap on the ground below.
I grab his set of keys, still in the door, turn it, and pull back the heavy iron door. I hold it open and Logan runs in, and I follow.
We are in a cell block, long, narrow, semi-circular, filled with small cells. I run down it, looking left and right, scanning the faces of all the young girls. Their haunted, hollow faces stare back at me, hopeless, desperate. It looks like they’ve been here forever.
My heart is thumping. I look desperately for any sign of my sister. I feel she is close. As I run through, the girls go to their cell doors and stick their hands through. They must realize we’re not slaverunners.
“Please!” one cries. “Help me!”
“LET ME OUT OF HERE!” another cries.
Soon, a chorus of shouts and pleas rises up. It is drawing too much attention, and it worries me. I want to help each one of these girls, but there’s no way I can. Not now. I need to find Bree first.
“Bree!” I scream, desperate.
I increase my pace to a jog, running cell to cell.
“Bree? Can you hear me? It’S me! Brooke! Bree? Are you here!?”
As I race by a cell, a girl reaches out and grabs my arm, pulling me to her.
“I know where she is!” she says.
I stop and stare at her. Her face is as frantic as the others.
“Let me out of here, and I’ll tell you!” she says.
If I set her free, she might draw unwanted attention to us. Then again, she is my best bet.
I look at her cell number, then look down at the keys in my hand and find the number. I unlock it, and the girl comes running out.
“LET ME OUT, TOO!” another girl yells.
“Me too!”
All the girls start streaming.
I grab this girl by the shoulders.
“Where is she!?” I demand.
“She’s in the mansion. They took her this morning.”
“The mansion?” I ask.
“That’s where they take the new girls. To be broken in.”
“Broken in?” I ask, horrified.
“For sex,” she answers. “For the first time.”
My heart plummets at her words.
“Where?” I demand. “WHERE IS IT?”
“Follow me,” she says, and begins to run out.
I am about to follow her out, but suddenly I stop.
“Wait,” I say, grabbing her wrist.
I know I shouldn’t do this. I know I should just run out of here, focus on saving Bree. I know there’s no time, and I know that helping the others can only cause unwanted attention and screw up my plans.
But something inside me, a deep sense of indignation, stirs. I just can’t bring myself to leave them all here like this.
So, against my better judgment, I stop and turn back, running cell to cell. As I reach each one, I find the key and unlock it. One by one, I free all of the girls. They all come running out, hysterical, running every which way. The noise is deafening.
I run back to the first one I freed. Luckily, she is still waiting, with Logan.
She runs out and we follow her, racing down corridor after corridor. Moments later, we burst out into the blinding light of day.
As we run, I can hear the chorus of girls screaming behind us, bursting out to freedom. It will be only moments, I realize with apprehension, until all the soldiers catch onto us. I run faster.
The girl stops before us and points across the courtyard.
“There!” she says. “That building! The big old house. On the water. The Governor’s Mansion. That’s it! Good luck!” she cries, and turns and runs off in the other direction.
I sprint for the building, Logan right beside me.
We run across the massive field, thigh-deep in snow, on the lookout for slaverunners. Luckily, they aren’t on to us yet.
I feel the wind burning in my lungs. I think of Bree, being taken somewhere for sex, and I can’t possibly get there fast enough. I’m so close now. I can’t let her be hurt. Not now. Not after all this. Not when I’m only feet away.
I force myself forward, never stopping to catch a breath, even as the wind burns my lungs. I reach the front door and am not even cautious. I don’t stop to check, but just run into it and kick it open.
It bursts open and I continue running, right into the house. I don’t even know where I’m going, but I see a staircase and my instinct tells me to go upstairs. I run right for it, and I sense Logan right behind me.
As I reach the landing at the top of the steps, suddenly a slaverunner bursts out of a room, his mask off. He looks at me, eyes open wide in shock, and reaches for a gun.
I don’t hesitate. Mine is already out, and I raise it and shoot him point blank in the head. He goes down, the gunshot deafening in this contained area.
I continue to charge down the hallway and pick a random room. I kick the door open and am horrified to find a man inside, on a bed, having sex with a young girl, who is chained. It’s not Bree, but still, the site sickens me. The man-a slaverunner without his mask-jumps up, looking at me in fear, and scrambles for his gun-but I raise my gun and shoot him between the eyes. The little girl screams as his blood splats over her. At least he is dead.
I run back down the hall, kicking open doors as I go, room to room, each filled with another man having sex with a chained girl. I move
on, searching frantically for Bree.
I reach the end of the hall and there is one final door. I kick it open, Logan behind me, and charge inside. As I do, I freeze.
A four-poster bed dominates the room. On it lies a large, fat naked man, having sex with a young girl, chained to his bed. This man must be important, because beside him sits a slaverunner, standing guard.
I aim for the fat man, and as he turns I shoot him once in the stomach. He crashes to the ground, grunting, and I shoot him a second time-this time, in the head.
But I’m reckless. The guard aims his gun at me, and I can see out of the corner of my eye that he’s about to shoot. It was a stupid mistake: I should have taken him out first.
I hear a gunshot, and flinch.
Somehow, I am still alive. I look over and see that he is dead. Logan stands over him, gun drawn, and I realize the gunfire was Logan’s.
I look across the room and see, chained to the chairs, two young girls. They sit there, fully clothed, shaking with fear, clearly next in line to be brought to the bed. My heart soars, as I see that one of them is Bree.
Bree sits there, chained, terrified, eyes open wide. But she’s safe. Untouched. I made it just in time. A few more minutes and I’m sure she would have been at the mercy of that fat man.
“Brooke!” she screams, hysterical, and bursts into tears.
I run to her, kneeling down and hugging her. She hugs me back as best she can with the chains on, crying over my shoulder.
Logan appears and, having grabbed the key from the dead slaverunner’s belt, unlocks them both. Bree jumps into my arms, giving me a hug, her whole body shaking. She clings to me as if she’ll never let go.
I feel the tears pour down my cheeks as I hug her back. I can’t believe it: it’s really her.
“I told you I’d come back for you,” I say.
I want to hold her forever, but I know we haven’t time. Soon this place will be overrun.
I pull her back and take her hand. “Let’s go,” I say, preparing to run.
“Wait!” Bree yells, stopping.
I stop and turn.
“We have to bring Rose, too!” Bree says.
I look over and see the girl beside Bree looking up at us, so hopeless, so lost. It is odd, but she actually resembles Bree; with her long black hair and large brown eyes, the two of them could pass for sisters.
“Bree, I’m sorry, but we can’t. We don’t have time and-”
“Rose is my friend!” Bree yells. “We can’t just leave her. We can’t!”
I look at Rose, and my heart wells up at the sight. I look at Logan who looks back disapprovingly-but with a look that says it’s my call.
Bringing Rose will slow us down. And it will be another mouth to feed. But Bree, for the first time in her life, is insistent-and our standing here will only slow us down. Not to mention, Rose seems so sweet, and reminds me so much of Bree, and I can see how close they already are. And it is the right thing to do.
Against my better judgment, I say, “OK.”
The four of us burst out of the room, and as we do, we meet two guards, charging us, reaching for their guns. I react quickly, shooting one in the head, while Logan shoots the other. The girls scream at the gunshots.
I grab Bree’s hand and Logan grabs Rose’s and we sprint down the stairs, taking them two at a time. A moment later we burst out the house, into the blinding snow. I see guards charging us from across the yard, and only hope we can find a way off this island before we are completely overrun.
THIRTY-TWO
I look around frantically, trying to figure some way out of here. I scan for vehicles, but don’t see any. Then I turn around completely, and find myself scanning the water, the shoreline. And that’s when I see it: right behind the Governor’s mansion, tied up to a solitary pier is a small, luxury powerboat. I’m sure it is reserved for the privileged few who use this island as their plaything.
“There!” I say, pointing.
Logan turns and sees it, too, and a moment later, we sprint for the shoreline.
We run through the snow, down to the shore, right up to it. It is a beautiful, shining, motorboat, big enough to hold six people. It bobs wildly in the rough water and looks powerful, like a thing of luxury. I have a feeling that this boat was used by that fat, naked man having sex with those girls. All the more vindication.
It is bobbing so wildly, I don’t want to risk Bree and Rose trying to board themselves, so I lift Bree and place her into it, while Logan lifts Rose and places her in.
“Cut the rope!” Logan says, pointing.
I turn and see a thick rope tying it to a wooden pole, and run over to it, extract my knife and cut it. I run back to the boat and Logan is already standing inside, grasping the pier to keep it from floating away. He reaches out a hand and helps me down into it. I check over my shoulder and see a dozen slaverunners charging us. They are only twenty yards away, and closing in fast.
“I got them,” Logan says. “Take the wheel.”
I hurry over to the driver’s seat. Luckily, I’ve driven boats all my life. Logan shoves us off and takes a position at the back of the boat, kneeling and firing at the oncoming soldiers. They duck for cover, and it slows them down.
I jump into the driver’s seat and look down, and my heart drops to see there are no keys in the ignition. I check the dash, then check the front seats frantically, my heart pounding. What will we do if they aren’t here?
I look over my shoulder and see the slaverunners are closer now, barely ten yards away.
“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.
