by Morgan Rice
I kneel in the place I was before, hiding behind a tree, watching the plateau, holding the knife in my hand, waiting. Praying. All I hear is the sound of the wind.
I run through in my head what I will do if I see it: I will slowly stand, take aim, and throw the knife. I first think I will aim for its eye, but then decide to aim for its throat: if I miss by a few inches, then there will still be a chance of hitting it somewhere. If my hands aren’t too frozen, and if I’m accurate, I figure that maybe, just maybe, I can wound it. But I realize those are all big “ifs.”
Minutes pass. It feels like ten, twenty, thirty…. The wind dies, then reappears in gusts, and as it does, I feel the fine flakes of snow being blown off the trees and into my face. As more time passes, I grow colder, more numb, and I begin to wonder if this is a bad idea. I get another sharp hunger pain, though, and know that I have to try. I will need all the protein I can get to make this move happen—especially if I’m going to push that motorcycle uphill.
But after nearly an hour of waiting, I am utterly frozen. I debate whether to just give it up and head back down the mountain. Maybe, instead, I should try to fish again.
I decide to get up and walk around, to circulate my limbs and keep my hands nimble; if I had to use them now, they’d probably be useless. As I rise to my feet my knees and back ache from stiffness. I begin to walk in the snow, starting with small steps. I lift and bend my knees, twist my back left and right. I stick the knife back in my belt, then rub my hands over each other, blowing on them again and again, trying to restore the feeling.
Suddenly, I freeze. In the distance, a twig snaps, and I sense motion.
I turn slowly. There, over the hilltop, a deer comes into view. It steps slowly, tentatively, in the snow, gently lifting its hooves and placing them down. It lowers its head, chews on a leaf, then slowly takes another step forward.
My heart pounds with excitement. It is exactly what I’d been praying for. I rarely feel that Dad is with me, but today, I do. I can hear his voice in my head now: Steady. Breathe slowly. Don’t let it know you’re here. Focus. If I can bring down this animal, it will be food—real food—for Bree and Sasha and I for at least a week. We need this.
It takes a few more steps into the clearing and I get a better view of it: a large deer, it stands maybe thirty yards away. I’d feel a lot more confident if it were standing ten yards away, or even twenty. I don’t know if I can hit it at this distance. If it were warmer out, and if it wasn’t moving, then yes. But my hands are numb, the deer is moving, and there are so many trees in the way. I just don’t know. I do know that if I miss it, it will never come back here again.
I wait, studying it, afraid to spook it. I will for it to come closer. But it doesn’t seem to want to.
I debate what to do. I can charge it, getting as close as I can, then throw. But I realize that would be stupid: after just one yard, it would surely bolt. I wonder if I should try to creep up on it. But I doubt that will work, either. The slightest noise, and it will be gone.
So I stand there, debating. I take one small step forward, positioning myself to throw the knife, in case I need to. And that one small step is my mistake.
A twig snaps beneath my feet, and the deer immediately lifts its head and turns to me. We lock eyes. I know that it sees me, and that it’s about to bolt. My heart pounds, as I know this is my only chance. My mind freezes up.
Then I burst into action. I reach down, grab the knife, take a big step forward, and drawing on all my skills, I reach back and throw it, aiming for its throat.
Dad’s heavy Marine Corps knife tumbles end over end through the air, and I pray it doesn’t hit a tree first. As I watch it tumbling, reflecting light, it is a thing of beauty. In that same moment, I see the deer turn and begin to run.
It is too far away for me to see exactly what happens, but a moment later, I could swear I hear the sound of the knife entering flesh. The deer takes off, though, and I can’t tell if it’s wounded.
I take off after it. I reach the spot where it was, and am surprised to see bright red blood in the snow. My heart flutters, encouraged.
I follow the trail of blood, running and running, jumping over rocks, and after about fifty yards, I find it: there it is, collapsed in the snow, lying on its side, legs twitching. I see the knife lodged in its throat. Exactly in the spot I was aiming for.
The deer is still alive, and I don’t know how to put it out of its misery. I can feel its suffering, and I feel terrible. I want to give it a quick and painless death, but don’t know how.
I kneel and extract the knife, then lean over, and in one swift motion, slice it deeply across the throat, hoping that will work. Moments later, blood comes rushing out, and within about ten more seconds, finally, the deer’s legs stop moving. Its eyes stop fluttering, too, and finally, I know it’s dead.
I stand over, staring down, holding the knife in my hand, and feel overwhelmed with guilt. I feel barbaric, having killed such a beautiful, defenseless creature. In this moment, it’s hard for me to think of how badly we needed this food, of how lucky I was to catch it at all. All I can think of is that, just a few minutes before, it was breathing, alive like me. And now, it’s dead. I look down at it, lying so perfectly still in the snow, and despite myself, I feel ashamed.
That is the moment when I first hear it. I dismiss it at first, assume I must be hearing things, because it is just not possible. But after a few moments, it rises a tiny bit louder, more distinct, and I know it’s real. My heart starts pounding like crazy, as I recognize the noise. It is a noise I’ve heard up here only once before. It is the whine of an engine. A car engine.
I stand there in astonishment, too frozen to even move. The engine grows louder, more distinct, and I know a car engine up here can only mean one thing. Slaverunners. No one else would dare drive this high up, or have any reason to.
I break into a sprint, leaving the deer, charging through the woods, past the cottage, down the hill. I can’t go fast enough. I think of Bree, sitting there, alone in the house, as the engines grow louder and louder. I try to increase my speed, running straight down the snowy slope, tripping as I go, my heart pounding in my throat.
I run so fast that I fall, face-first, scraping my knee and elbow, and getting the wind knocked out of me. I struggle back to my feet, noticing the blood on my knee and arm, but not caring. I force myself back into a jog, then into a sprint.
Slipping and sliding, I finally reach a plateau, and from here, I can see all the way down the mountain to our house. My heart leaps into my throat: I see distinctive car tracks in the snow, leading right to our house. Our front door is open. And most ominous of all, I don’t hear Sasha barking.
I run, further and further down, and as I do, I get a good look at the two vehicles parked outside our house: slaverunner cars. All black, built low to the ground, they look like muscle cars on steroids, with enormous tires and bars on all the windows. Emblazoned on their hoods is the emblem of Arena One, obvious even from here—a diamond with a jackal in its center. They are here to feed the arena.
I sprint further down the hill. I need to get lighter. I reach into my pockets, pull out the jars of jam and throw them to the ground. I hear the glass smash behind me, but I don’t care. Nothing else matters now.
I am barely a hundred yards away when I see the vehicles start up, begin to leave my house. They head back down the winding country road. I want to break into tears as I realize what has happened.
Thirty seconds later I reach the house, and run past it, right to the road, hoping to catch them. I already knowing the house is empty.
I’m too late. The car tracks tell the story. As I look down the mountain, I can see them, already a half-mile away, and gaining speed. There’s no way I can ever catch them on foot.
I run back to the house, just in case, by some remote chance, Bree has managed to hide, or they left her. I burst through the open front door, and as I do, I am horrified by the sight before me: blood is everyw
here. On the ground lies a dead slaverunner, dressed in his all-black uniform, blood pouring from his throat. Beside him lies Sasha, on her side, dead. Blood pours out her side from what looks like a bullet wound. Her teeth are still embedded in the corpse’s throat. It becomes clear what happened: Sasha must have tried to protect Bree, lunging at the man as he entered the house and lodging her teeth in his throat. The others must have shot her. But still, she did not let go.
I run through the house, room to room, screaming Bree’s name, hearing the desperation in my own voice. It is no longer I voice I recognize: it is the voice of a crazy person.
But every door is wide open, and everything is empty.
The slaverunners have taken my sister.
FOUR
I stand there, in the living room of my Dad’s house, in shock. On the one hand, I’ve always feared that this day would come; yet now that it has, I can hardly believe it. I am overcome with guilt. Did last night’s fire tip us off? Did they see the smoke? Why couldn’t I have been more cautious?
I also hate myself for leaving Bree alone this morning—especially after we’d both had such bad dreams. I see her face, crying, pleading with me not to leave. Why didn’t I listen to her? Trust my own instinct? Looking back, I can’t help feeling that Dad really did warn me. Why didn’t I listen? None of that matters now, and I only pause for a moment. I am in action mode, and in no way prepared to give up and let her go. I am already running through the house, preparing to not lose any precious time in chasing down the slaverunners and rescuing Bree.
I run over to the corpse of the slaverunner and examine him quickly: he is dressed in their signature all-black, military uniform, with black combat boots, black military fatigues, and a long-sleeved black shirt covered by a tightly-fitting black bomber coat. He still wears a black face mask with the insignia of Arena One—the hallmark of a slaverunner—and also wears a small black helmet. Little good that did him: Sasha still managed to lodge her teeth into his throat. I glance over at Sasha and choke up at the sight. I’m so grateful to her for putting up such a fight. I feel guilty for leaving her alone, too. I glance at her corpse, and vow to myself that after I get Bree back, I will return and give her a proper burial.
I quickly strip the slaverunner’s corpse for valuables. I begin by taking his weapons belt and clipping it around my own waist, fastening it tight. It contains a holster and a handgun, and I pull it out and check it quickly: filled with ammo, it appears to be in perfect working order. This is like gold—and now it is mine. Also on the belt are several backup clips of ammo.
I remove his helmet and see his face: I’m surprised to see he is much younger than I’d thought. He can’t be older than 18. Not all slaverunners are merciless bounty hunters; some of them are pressed into service, at the mercy of the Arena makers, who are the real power-holders. Still, I don’t feel any sympathy for him. After all, pressed into service or not, he’d come up here to take my sister’s life—and mine, too.
I want to just run out and chase them down, but I discipline myself to stop and salvage what I can first. I know that I will need it out there, and that another minute or two spent here can end up making the difference. So I reach down and try his helmet on and am relieved to see that it fits. Its black visor will come in handy in blocking out the blinding light off the snow. I raid his clothing next, which I desperately need. I strip his gloves, made of an ultra-light, padded material, and am relieved to see they fit my hands perfectly. My friends always teased me about my big hands and feet and I always felt embarrassed by it—but now, for once, I am glad. I strip his jacket next and am relieved to see that it fits too, just a tad too big. I look down and see how small his frame is, and realize I am lucky. We are nearly the same size. The jacket is thick and padded, lined with some sort of down material. I have never worn anything as warm and luxurious in my life, and I am so grateful. Now, finally, I can brave the cold.
I look down and know I should strip his shirt, too—but I just can’t bring myself to wear it. Somehow, it’s too personal.
I hold my feet up to his, and am thrilled to see we are the same size. I waste no time stripping my old, worn boots, a size too small, then stripping his and putting them on my feet. I stand. They are a perfect fit, and feel amazing. Black combat boots with steel-tip toes, the inside lined with fur, they climb all the way up my shin. They are a thousand times warmer—and more comfortable—than my current boots.
Wearing my new boots, coat, gloves, and with his weapons belt snug around me, gun and ammo inside, I feel like a new person, ready for battle. I glance down at Sasha’s corpse and then look over and, nearby, see Bree’s new teddy bear, on the floor and covered in blood. I fight back tears. A part of me wants to spit in this slaverunner’s face before I walk out the door, but I simply turn and run out the house.
I moved quickly, managing to strip him and dress myself in under a minute, and now I race out of the house at breakneck speed, making up for lost time. As I burst out the front door, I can still hear the distant whine of their engines. They can’t have more than a mile on me, and I’m determined to close that gap. All I need is a small stroke of luck—for them to get stuck in just one snow bank, to hit one bad turn—and maybe, just maybe, I can catch them. And with this gun and ammo, I might even be able to give them a run for their money. If not, I will go down fighting. There is absolutely no way that I’m ever coming back here without Bree by my side.
I run up the hill, into the woods, as fast as I can, racing for my Dad’s motorcycle. I glance over and see that the garage doors were blown open, and realize the slaverunners must have searched it for a vehicle. I am so grateful I had the foresight to hide the bike long ago.
I scramble up the hill in the melting snow, and hurry to the bushes concealing the bike. The new gloves, thickly padded, come in handy: I am able to grab hold of thorny branches and tear them out of my way. Within moments, I clear a path, and see the bike. I am relieved to find it’s still there, and well-sheltered from the elements. Without wasting a beat, I tighten my new helmet, grab the key from its hiding place in the spoke, and jump onto the bike. I turn the ignition, and kickstart it.
The engine turns over, but doesn’t catch. My heart plummets. I haven’t started it in years. Could it be dead? I try to start it, kicking and revving it again and again. It makes noise, louder and louder, but still nothing. I feel more and more frantic. If I can’t get this started, I have no chance of catching them. Bree will be gone to me forever.
“Come on, COME ON!” I scream, my entire body shaking.
I kick it again and again. Each time it makes more and more noise, and I feel like I’m getting closer.
I raise my head back to the sky.
“DAD!” I scream. “PLEASE!”
I kick it again, and this time, it catches. I am flooded with relief. I rev it several times, louder and louder, and small black clouds of exhaust exit the tailpipe.
Now, at least, I have a fighting chance.
*
I turn the heavy handlebars and walk the bike back a few feet; it is almost more weight than I can manage. I turn the handlebars again and give it just a little bit of gas, and the bike starts rolling down the steep mountain, still covered in snow and branches.
The paved road is about fifty yards ahead of me, and going down the mountain, through these woods, is treacherous. The bike slips and slides, and even when I hit the brakes, I can’t really control it. It is more of a controlled slide. I slide by trees, barely missing them, and get jolted as the bike falls into large holes in the dirt, then bumps hard over rocks. I pray that I don’t blow a tire.
After about thirty seconds of the roughest, bumpiest ride I can imagine, finally, the bike clears the dirt and lands onto the paved road with a bang. I turn and give it gas, and it is responsive: it flies down the steep, paved mountain road. Now, I am rolling.
I gain some real speed, the engine roaring, wind racing over my helmet. It is freezing, colder than ever, and I am grateful I st
ripped the gloves and coat. I don’t what I would have done without them.
Still, I can’t go too fast. This mountain road twists sharply and there is no shoulder; one turn too sharp and I will plummet, dropping hundreds of feet straight down the cliff. I go as fast as I can, yet slow before each turn.
It feels great to be driving again; I had forgotten what real freedom felt like. My new coat flaps like crazy in the wind. I lower the black visor, and the bright white of the snowy landscape changes to a subdued gray.
If I have one advantage over the slaverunners, it is that I know these roads better than anyone. I’ve been coming up here since I was a kid, and I know where the road bends, how steep it is, and shortcuts that they could never possibly know. They’re in my territory now. And even though I’m probably a mile or more behind them, I feel optimistic I can find a way to catch them. This bike, as old as it is, must be at least as fast as their muscle cars.
I also feel confident I know where they’re going. If you want back on the highway—which they surely do—then there’s only one way out of these mountains, and that’s Route 23, heading east. And if they’re heading for the city, then there’s no other way but to cross the Hudson via the Rip Van Winkle Bridge. It’s their only way out. And I’m determined to beat them to it.