by Morgan Rice
*
I race down the winding country roads, twisting and turning, and as I turn a corner, a panoramic view of the valley opens up before me. I can see all the roads from here, and I see the two slaverunner cars in the distance. They are at least two miles ahead of us. They must have hit Route 23 to be gaining that kind of speed, which means they are off the mountain and on a wide, straight road. It burns me to think that Bree is in the back of one of those cars. I think of how frightened she must be. I wonder if they’re restraining her, if she’s in pain. The poor girl must be in hysterics. I pray she didn’t see Sasha die.
I gun the bike with newfound energy, twisting and turning way too sharply, and I look over and notice that Ben is gripping the edge of the sidecar, looking terrified, hanging on for his life. After several more hairpin turns, we get off the country road and go flying onto 23. Finally, we are on a normal highway, on flat land. Now, I can gun the bike for all it has.
And I do. I shift, and turn the grip, giving it as much gas as it can handle. I’ve never driven this bike—or anything—this fast in my life. I watch it pass 100, then 110, then 120…. There is still snow on the road, and it comes flying up into my face, bouncing off the visor; I feel the flakes brushing against the skin on my throat. I know I should slow down, but I don’t. I have to catch these guys.
130…140…. I can barely breathe we are going so fast, and I know that if for some reason I need to break, I won’t be able. We would spin and tumble so fast, there’s no way we would make it. But I have no choice. 150...160….
“SLOW DOWN!” Ben screams. “WE ARE GOING TO DIE!”
I’m feeling the same exact thing: we are going to die. In fact, I feel certain of it. But I no longer care. All these years of being cautious, of hiding from everyone, have finally gotten to me. Hiding is not in my nature; I prefer to confront things head on. I guess I’m like Dad in that way: I’d rather stand and fight. Now, finally, after all these years, I have a chance to fight. And knowing that Bree is up there, just ahead of us, so close, has done something to me: it’s made me mad. I just can’t bring myself to slow down. I see the vehicles now, and I’m encouraged. My speed is working and I’m definitely gaining ground. They’re less than a mile away, and for the first time, I really feel I’m going to catch them.
The highway curves, and I lose sight of them, but as I curve around, I see them again. But this time, they are not on the highway; they seem to have disappeared. I am confused, until I look up and see what has happened. And it makes me hit the brakes hard.
In the distance, a huge tree has been felled and lies across the highway, blocking it. Luckily, I still have time to brake. I see the slaverunners’ tracks, veering off the main road, and around the tree. As we come to a near stop before the tree, veering off the road, following the slaverunners’ tracks, I notice the bark is freshly cut. And I realize what happened: someone must have just felled it. A survivor, I am guessing, one of us. He must have seen what happened, seen the slaverunners, and he felled a tree to stop them. To help us.
The gesture surprises me, and warms my heart. I’d always suspected there was a silent network of us hiding out here in the mountains, watching each other’s backs. Now I know for sure. Nobody likes a slaverunner. And nobody wants to see it happen to them.
The slaverunners’ tracks are distinct, and I follow them as they turn along the shoulder and make a sharp turn back onto the highway. Soon I am back on 23, and I can see them clearly now, about half a mile up ahead. I have gained some distance. I gun it again, as fast as the bike can handle, but they are flooring it now, too. They must see me. An old, rusted sign reads “Cairo: 2.” We are close to the bridge. Just a few miles.
It is more built-up down here, and as we fly by I see the crumbling structures along the side of the road. Abandoned factories. Warehouses. Strip malls. Even houses. Everything is the same: burnt-out, looted, destroyed. There are even abandoned vehicles, just shells. It’s as if there is nothing left in the world that’s working.
On the horizon, I see their destination: the Rip van Winkle bridge. A small bridge, just two lanes wide, encased by steel beams, it spans the Hudson River, connecting the small town of Catskill on the west with the larger town of Hudson on the east. A little-know bridge, once used by locals, now only slaverunners use it. It suits their purposes perfectly, leading them right to Route 9, which takes them to the Taconic Parkway and then, after 90 miles or so, right into the heart of the city. It is their artery.
But I’ve lost too much time, and no matter how much gas I give it, I just can’t catch up. I won’t be able to beat them to the bridge. I am closing the gap, though, and if I gain enough speed, maybe I can overtake them before they cross the Hudson.
A former toll-keeper’s building sits at the base of the bridge, forcing vehicles to line up in a single lane and pass a toll booth. At one time there was a barricade that prevented cars from passing, but that has long since been rammed. The slaverunners fly through the narrow passageway, a sign hanging over them, rusted and dangling, that reads “E-Z PASS.”
I follow them through it and race onto the bridge, now lined with rusted streetlamps that haven’t worked in years, their metal twisted and crooked. As I gain speed, I notice one of the vehicles, in the distance, screech to a stop. I’m puzzled by this—I can’t understand what they’re doing. I suddenly see one of the slaverunners jump out of the car, plant something on the road, then jump back in his car and take off. This gains me precious time. I’m closing in on their car, a quarter mile away, and feel like I’m going to catch them. I still can’t understand why they stopped—or what they planted.
Suddenly, I realize—and I slam on the brakes.
“What are you doing?” Ben yells. “Why are you stopping!?”
But I ignore him as I slam harder on the brakes. I brake too hard, too fast. Our bike can’t gain traction in the snow, and we begin to spin and slide, around and around in big circles. If there were no railings, we’d slide right off the bridge and plunge to the icy river. Luckily, there are metal railings, and we slam into these hard instead.
We spin back towards the middle of the bridge. Slowly, we are braking, our speed reducing, and I only hope we can stop in time. Because now I realize—too late—what they’ve dropped on the road.
There is a huge explosion. Fire shoots into the sky as their bomb goes off.
A wave of heat comes right at us, and shrapnel goes flying everywhere. The explosion is intense, flames shooting everywhere, and the force of it hits us like a tornado, blowing us back. I can feel the heat, scorching my skin, even through the clothing. The heat and shrapnel engulf us. Hundreds of bits of shrapnel bounce off my helmet, the loud sound echoing in my head.
The bomb blew such a big hole that it cut the bridge in two, creating a ten yard gap between the sides. Now there is no way to cross it. And worse, we are still siding right to a hole that will send us plunging hundreds of feet below. It is lucky I slammed on the brakes when I did, and that the explosion is still fifty yards ahead. But our bike won’t stop sliding, bringing us right towards it.
Finally, our speed drops to thirty, then down to twenty, then ten…. But the bike won’t fully stop on this ice, and I can’t stop the sliding, right towards the center of the bridge—now just a gaping chasm.
I pull on the brakes as hard as I possibly can, trying everything. But I realize that none of that will do any good now, as we keep sliding, uncontrollably, to our deaths.
And the last thing I think, before we plunge, is that I hope Bree has a better death than I do.
P A R T I I
F I V E