by Morgan Rice
*
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.
I gun the throttle and we take off, flying upriver. As we do, shots are fired out again, just grazing our boat, and sinking into the water in small splashes. Logan takes a knee and fires back.
Luckily, they are no match for our speed: within moments we’re far from shore, in the middle of the river, out of firing range. I keep heading north, upriver, back in the direction of home.
Now, finally, there is nothing left to stop us.
Now, we are free.