Arena One: Slaverunners (9 page)

I go flying 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, there 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. It feels like 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.

It looks like 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 still sits in the sidecar; I can’t tell if he’s dead or alive. It seems I am the first one to regain consciousness. There seems to be no other signs of life from anyone.

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 prepare 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. I look behind him and see flames 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, and it’s not easy. He tries to help, too, and I yank, again and again, the flames growing higher. I am sweating, grunting, as I yank with all I have. Finally, I pry him loose.

And just as I do, suddenly, the bike explodes.

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; it looks like 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 can see the 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 my Dad’s bike: now it is just a heap of useless metal, on fire. It will clearly never run again. 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 it for 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 and reach in and 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 grab 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 I need to know for sure. They have such a big head start on us, that I need to know. 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 up close. 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 tight against his cheek, letting him know I mean business. And I do. Every passing moment is precious, and I can feel Bree getting further 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 pull the gun back, and loosen my grip. I know that I should kill him, but a part of me can’t bring myself to. He answered my questions, and somehow I feel killing him now wouldn’t be fair. So instead, I decide I will abandon him here. 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. I suddenly stop and see the slaverunner is reaching for his belt. He is moving faster than I thought he was capable of. 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.

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 that the young girl sitting behind the driver’s side is 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, who knows if 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. He looks to me like he’s 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 side 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 it out, the blood staining our clothes, walk it 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 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 our 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 check the floor of the car frantically, then the seats, then the dash. Nothing. The keys must have fallen out in the crash.

I look outside, at the snow, and notice some unusual markings that might indicate a trail from the keys. I get down, kneeling in the snow, 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 it’s 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 for a moment I debate just taking off; but then I realize that 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 keeps staring straight ahead, not responding. 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 because, with the snow covering, I can’t even see the potholes. If we hit just one big hole, or one 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 and see he 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 hear 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 and looks at 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 suddenly screams, and I can hear the 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 one of those videogames 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 pull up and ask them to pull over?”

He is silent.

“We
have
to stop them,” I continue. “If they reach the city, we’ll never get them back. That’s a certain death. At least this gives them a chance.”

Just as I get ready to floor it one more time, suddenly, the slaverunners surprise me, and slow down. They slow so much that in moments I pull up beside them. At first I can’t understand why they are doing this, and then I realize: they think we are their partners. They still don’t realize it’s us.

We pull up, and just as I prepare to turn hard on the wheel, to smash into them, their tinted passenger-side window lowers. The grinning face of a slaverunner appears, his facemask raised; he still assumes I am one of his.

I lower my window, scowling back: I want him to have one good look at me before I send him to hell.

His smile suddenly drops, as his expression morphs into one of shock. I still have the element of surprise, and am about to turn hard on the wheel, when suddenly, I am distracted: as I look over, I catch a glimpse of Bree in the backseat. She is alive. She looks back at me, and I can see the fear in her eyes.

Suddenly, we hit a pothole. The sound is deafening, and our car shakes as if a bomb has gone off. It jolts me so hard that my head slams into the metal ceiling, and my teeth smash into each other. I feel as if I’ve lost a filling. Our car swerves wildly, and it takes me several seconds to regain control and straighten it out. It was a close call. It was stupid of me: I never should have taken my eyes off the road. We’ve lost speed, and the other vehicle has sped up, and is now a good fifty yards ahead of us. Worse, now they know we’re not one of theirs.

I floor it again: 130…140…. I step on the gas until the pedal is touching the floor, but it won’t go any further. The speedometer hits 150. I assume the car in front of me has the capacity to go as fast, but they, clearly, are being more sensible. The icy conditions on this road are risky at even 80 miles an hour, and they are not willing to take the extra risk. But I have nothing to lose. If I lose Bree, I have nothing left to live for anyway.

We are closing in on them again. They are thirty yards away…twenty.

Suddenly, their passenger window rolls down, and light reflects off of something shiny. I realize, too late, what it is: a gun.

I slam on the brakes, just as they fire several times. I duck as the bullets bounce off our hood and windshield, and the metallic sound of ricocheting bullets fills our ears. At first I think we’re finished, but then I realize the bullets haven’t penetrated: this car must be bulletproof.

“You’re going to get us killed!” Ben yells. “Stop this! There has to be another way!”

“There’s no other way!” I scream back, more to assure myself than him.

I have crossed some sort of line inside, and I absolutely refuse to back down.

“There is no other way,” I repeat quietly to myself, my eyes locked on the road.

I step on it one more time, swerving to the side, then floor it, coming up alongside them. With one strong pull on the wheel, I smash into them hard, just as the slaverunner is reaching out with his gun again. My front fender hits their rear wheel. Their car swerves wildly, and so does mine. For a moment, we are both all over the road. They smash into a metal railing, then bounce back and smash into me. I smash into the metal railing on my side.

The highway opens up and the railings disappear, and there is flat farmland on either side of us. It is perfect. I know I can take them out now. I floor it one more time, preparing to swerve again. I have them perfectly in my sights, and reach up to turn the wheel.

Suddenly, there is a gleam of metal as the slaverunner reaches out again, gun in hand.

“WATCH OUT!” Ben yells.

But it is too late. Gunshots ring out, and before I can swerve, the bullets rip into our front tires. I lose complete control of the car. Ben screams, as we go flying across the road. So, despite myself, do I.

My universe is upside down, as the car tumbles, and we spin again and again.

My head smashes against the metal roof. I feel the sharp tug of the seatbelt digging into my chest, and the world is just a blur through the windshield. There is the sound of metal crunching in my ears, so loud, I can hardly think.

The last thing I remember is wishing my Dad were here to see me now, to see how close I had come. I wonder if he would be proud.

And then, after one final crash, my world goes black.