Arena One: Slaverunners

by Morgan Rice

  We manage to rock it, and then, using our momentum, push it again and again. It takes all that I have, and I can feel myself slipping in the snow, feel the pain tearing through my bicep, through my ribs.

  The car rocks in bigger and bigger swings, and just as I wonder if I can go on, we give it one final heave. I reach up, above my head, pushing and pushing it, walking forward in the snow as I do.

  It is just enough. The car reaches a tipping point, on its side, then suddenly lands with a crash on all four wheels. A huge cloud of snow rises up. I stand there catching my breath, as does Ben.

  I survey the damage. It is extensive. The hood and roof and trunk look as if they’ve been worked over by a sledgehammer. But amazingly, the bones of it are still in shape. However, there is one glaring problem. One of the tires—the one that was shot out—is in such bad shape that there’s no way we can drive on it.

  “Maybe there’s a spare,” Ben says, reading my mind. I look over and he’s already hurrying over to the trunk. I’m impressed.

  I hurry over to it, too. He pushes the button several times, but it doesn’t open.

  “Look out,” I say, and as he steps back I raise my knee and kick down hard with my heel. The trunk pops open.

  I look down and am relieved to see a spare tire sitting there. Ben reaches in and grabs it, and I pull back the lining, and beneath it, find a jack and wrench. I grab it and follow Ben, who carries the spare to the front. Without missing a beat, Ben takes the jack, jams it under the chassis, then takes the wrench and starts cranking it up. I’m impressed by how comfortable he is with the tools, and how quickly he gets the car jacked up. He removes all the bolts and pulls off the useless tire and chucks it into the snow.

  He puts in the new tire, and I hold it steady as he puts the bolts back in, one by one. He tightens them and lowers the car, and as we step back and look, it’s like having a brand-new tire. Ben has surprised me with his mechanical skills; I never would have expected that from him.

  I waste no time opening the driver’s side door, jumping back in the car, and turning the keys. But my heart drops as I hear silence. The car is dead. I try the ignition again and again. But nothing. Nothing at all. It seems the accident destroyed the car somehow. A hopeless feeling sets in. Was this all for nothing?

  “Pop the hood,” Ben says.

  I pull the lever and Ben hurries around to the front, and I get out and join him. I stand over him as he reaches in and starts fiddling with several wires, knobs and switches. I am surprised by his dexterity.

  “Are you a mechanic?” I ask.

  “Not really,” he answers. “My Dad is. He taught me a lot, back when we had cars.”

  He holds two wires together, and there is a spark. “Try it now,” he says.

  I hurry back in and turn the ignition, hoping, praying. This time, the car roars to life.

  Ben slams closed the hood, and I see a proud smile on his face, which is already swelling up from the broken nose. He hurries back and opens his door and is about to get back in, when suddenly he freezes, staring into the backseat.

  I follow his gaze, and I remember. The boy in the back.

  “What should we do with him?” Ben asks.

  There’s no more time to waste. I get out, reach in and yank him out, trying not to look. I drag him several feet, in the snow, over to a large tree, and lay him down beneath it. I look at him for just a moment, then turn and run back to the car.

  Ben still stands there.

  “That’s it?” he asks, sounding disappointed.

  “What do you expect?” I snap. “A funeral service?”

  “It just seems…a bit callous,” he says. “He died because of us.”

  “We don’t have time for this,” I say, at my wit’s end. “We’re all going to die anyway!”

  I jump back into the running car, my thoughts fixed on Bree, on how far the other slaverunners have gone. While Ben is still closing his door, I peel out.

  Our car goes flying across the snowy field, up a steep bank and with a bang, back onto the highway. We skid, then catch traction. We are rolling again.

  I step on the gas, and we start to gain real speed. I am amazed: this car is invincible. It feels as good as new.

  In no time, we are doing over 100. This time, I’m a bit more cautious, shell-shocked from the accident. I bring it up to 110, but don’t press it past that. I can’t risk wiping out again.

  I figure they’re probably at least ten minutes ahead of us, and we might not be able to catch them. But anything can happen. All I need is for them to hit one bad pothole, for just one mishap to happen to them…. If not, I’ll just have to follow their tracks, and hope I can find them.

  “We have to find them before they reach the city,” Ben says, as if reading my mind. He has an annoying habit of doing that, I notice. “If they get there before us, we’ll never find them again.”

  “I know,” I respond.

  “And if we enter the city, we’ll never make it out. You know that, don’t you?”

  The very same thought has been going through my mind. He’s right. From everything I’ve heard, the city is a deathtrap, filled with predators. We’re hardly equipped to fight our way out.

  I step on it, giving it a bit more gas. The engine roars, and we are now cruising at 120. The snow hasn’t slowed, and bounces off the windshield. I think of the dead boy in the backseat, see his face, his unblinking eyes; I remember how close we came to death, and a part of me wants to slow down. But I have no choice.

  As we drive, time feels like it’s crawling, going forever. We must drive twenty miles, then thirty, then forty…on and on, forever into the snow. I’m gripping the steering wheel with both hands, leaning forward, watching the road more carefully than I have in my life. I’m swerving to avoid potholes left and right, like a videogame. Which is hard to do in this speed, and in this snow. Still, I manage to miss nearly all of them. Once or twice I don’t, though, and we pay the price dearly, my head slamming into the roof, and my teeth smashing into each other. But no matter what, I keep going.

  As we round the bend, I spot something in the distance that worries me: the tracks of the slaverunner’s car seem to veer off the road, into a field. It doesn’t make any sense, and I wonder if I am seeing things correctly, especially in this blizzard.

  But as we get closer, the more certain I become. I slow dramatically.

  “What are you doing?” Ben asks.

  My sixth sense tells me to slow down, and as we get close, I’m glad I do.

  I slam on the brakes, and luckily I’m only doing 50 when I do. We slip and slide for about 20 yards, and finally, we come to a stop.

  Just in time. The highway comes to an abrupt stop. It ends in a huge crater, plunging deep into the earth. If I hadn’t stopped, we would surely be dead right now.

  I look down, over the edge of the precipice. It is a massive crater, probably a hundred yards in diameter. It looks like a huge bomb had been dropped on this highway at some point during the war.

  I turn the wheel and follow the slaverunner’s tracks, which take me though a snowy field, then onto winding local roads. After several minutes, it leads us back onto the highway. I pick up speed again, this time bringing it up to 130.

  I drive and drive and drive, and feel like I’m driving to the end of the earth. I probably cover another 40 miles and I begin to wonder how much further this highway can go. The snowy sky begins to grow darker, and soon it will be nightfall. I feel the need to push, and get the car up to 140. I know it’s risky, but I need to catch up to them.

  As we go, we pass some of the old signs for the major arteries, still hanging, rusting away: the Sawmill Parkway; the Major Deegan; 287; the Sprain…. The Taconic forks, and I merge onto the Sprain Parkway, then the Bronx River Parkway, following the slaverunner’s tracks. We are getting closer to the city now, open sky gradually replaced by tall, crumbling buildings. We are in the Bronx.

  I feel the need to catch them and push the car up
to 150. It becomes so loud that I can barely hear.

  As we round another bend, my heart leaps: there, in the distance, I see them, a mile ahead.

  “That’s them!” Ben screams.

  But as we close the gap, I suddenly see what they’re going for. A crooked sign reads “Willis Avenue Bridge.” It is a small bridge, encased in metal beams, barely wide enough for two lanes. At its entrance sit several Humvees, slaverunners sitting on the hoods, machine guns mounted and aimed towards the road. More Humvees sit on the far side of the bridge.

  I gun it, pushing the gas pedal as far as it will go, and we top 150. The world flies by in a blur. But we are not catching up: the slaverunners are speeding up, too.

  “We can’t follow them in!” Ben yells. “We’ll never make it!”

  But we have no choice. They’ve got at least a hundred yards on us, and the bridge is maybe a hundred yards away. We’re not going to beat them there. I am doing all I can, and our car is already shaking from the speed. There’s no way around it: we’re going to have to enter the city.

  As we approach the bridge, I wonder if the guards realize we aren’t one of theirs. I only hope we can get through fast enough, before they catch on and fire on us.

  The slaverunner car flies between the guards, racing over the bridge. We follow, fifty years behind, and as we do, the guards still don’t realize. Soon, we are thirty yards away…then 20…then 10….

  As we race onto the entrance, we are close enough that I can see the horrified expressions on the guards’ faces. Now, they realize.

  I look up, and the guards raise their machineguns our way.

  A second later, shots ring out.

  We are covered in automatic machine gun fire, bouncing off the hood and windshield, bullets spraying everywhere. I duck.

  Worse, something starts to fall, impeding our way, and I see it is a spiked iron gate. It is being lowered on the bridge, to block our entrance to Manhattan.

  We’re going too fast, and I can’t possibly stop in time. The gate is falling too fast, and I realize, too late, that in just a few moments, we will smash into it, and it will tear our car to pieces.

  I prepare for impact.

  ELEVEN

  I brace myself as we head for the descending gate. It’s too late to turn back now, and too late to slam on the brakes. From the looks of those heavy, reinforced iron bars, with spikes at the end, I don’t see how we can possibly drive through it. I figure our only chance is to outrace it, to go fast enough to slip through before it completely descends. So I floor it, the car roaring and shaking. As we get within feet of it, the guards jump out of the way, and I brace myself for impact.

  There is the awful noise of metal smashing into metal, along with the noise of broken glass. It is deafening, as if a bomb has exploded right beside my ear. It sounds like one of those huge car wrecking machines, crunching a car until it’s flat.

  Our car jerks violently on the impact, and for a moment, I feel as if I’m going to die. Shattered glass goes flying everywhere, and I do the best I can to hold it steady, while raising a hand to my eyes. And then, a second later, it’s over. To my shock, we are still driving, flying over the bridge, into Manhattan.

  I try to figure out what happened. I look up at our roof, and check back over my shoulder, and realize we outraced the bars—though they managed to lower just enough to slice open our roof. Our roof is now perforated, sliced into bits. It looks as if it’s been put through a bread slicer. It sliced the top of our windshield, too, cracking it badly enough that my vision is impaired. I can still drive, but it’s not easy.

  Bits of shattered glass are everywhere, as are bits of torn metal. Freezing air rushes in and I can feel snowflakes landing on my head.

  I look over and see that Ben is shaken, but unhurt. I saw him duck at the last second, just like I did, and that probably saved his life. I check over my shoulder and see the group of guards scrambling to rally and come after us; but the iron gate is all the way down, and they don’t seem able to get it up again. We are going so fast, we have a big lead on them anyway. Hopefully by the time they get their act together we’ll be far gone.

  I turn back to the road ahead and in the distance, maybe a quarter-mile ahead, I see the other slaverunners, speeding through Manhattan. I realize that we have passed the point of no return. I can hardly conceive that we are now on the island of Manhattan, have actually crossed the bridge—probably the only bridge still working in or out of here. I realize now there is no way back.

  Up to this point, I had envisioned rescuing Bree and bringing her home. But now, I’m not so sure. I’m still determined to rescue her—but I’m not sure how to get us out of here. My feeling of dread is deepening. I am increasingly feeling this is a mission of no return. A suicide mission. But Bree is all that matters. If I have to go down trying, I will.

  I floor the gas again, bringing it up past 140. But the slaverunners floor it, too, still intent on evading us. They have a good head start, and unless something goes wrong, catching up to them won’t be easy. I wonder what their destination is. Manhattan is vast, and they could be going anywhere. I feel like Hansel and Gretel heading into the woods.

  The slaverunners make a sharp right onto a wide boulevard, and I look up and see a rusted sign which reads “125th Street.” I follow them, and realize they’re heading west, crosstown. As we go, I look around and see that 125th is like a postcard for the apocalypse: everywhere are abandoned, burnt-out cars, parked crookedly in the middle of the street. Everything has been stripped down and salvaged. The buildings have all been looted, the retail spaces smashed, leaving nothing but piles of glass on the sidewalks. Most buildings are just shells, burnt-out from the bomb-dropping campaigns. Others have collapsed. As I drive, I have to swerve around random piles of rubble. Needless to say, there are no signs of life.

  The slaverunners make a sharp left, and as I follow them, a sign, upside down, reads “Malcolm X Boulevard.” It is another wide street, and we head south, right through the heart of Harlem. Downtown. I wonder where they are heading. We turn so fast that our tires screech, burning rubber, the sound louder than ever now that our roof is open to the elements. There is still snow on the streets, and our car slides a good ten feet until it straightens out again. I take the turn faster than the slaverunners, and gain a few seconds’ time.

  Malcolm X Boulevard is as bad as 125th: everywhere is destruction. Yet this has something else, too: abandoned military tanks and vehicles. I spot a Humvee, turned on its side, just a shell now, and I wonder what battles took place here. A huge, bronze statue lies on its side, in the middle of the road. I swerve around it, then around a tank, driving on the sidewalk, taking out a mailbox with a huge crash. The box goes flying over our roof, and Ben ducks.

  I swerve back onto the road and gun it. I’m getting closer. They are now only a hundred yards ahead of us. They swerve, too, avoiding rubble, potholes, shells of cars. They have to slow each time, but all I have to do is follow their tracks, so I can maintain speed. I’m gaining on them, and am starting to feel confident I can catch them.

  “Take out their tires!” I yell to Ben, over the roar of the engine. I take the extra handgun from my waist, reach over and cram it into Ben’s ribs, keeping my eyes on the road all the while.

  Ben holds up the gun, examining it, and it’s clear that he’s never used one before. I can feel his anxiety.

  “Aim low!” I say. “Make sure you don’t hit the gas tank!”

  “I’m not a good shot!” Ben says. “I might hit my brother. Or your sister!” he screams back.

  “Just aim low!” I scream. “We have to try. We have to stop them!”

  Ben swallows hard as he reaches over and opens his window. A tremendous noise and cold air races into the car as Ben leans out the window and holds out the gun.

  We are closing in on them, and Ben is just beginning to take aim—when suddenly we hit a tremendous pothole. Both of us jump, and my head slams into the ceiling. I look over and
see the gun go flying from Ben’s hand, out the window—and then hear it clattering as it lands on the pavement behind us. My heart drops. I can’t believe he has dropped the gun. I am furious.

  “You just lost our gun!” I scream.

  “I’m sorry!” he yells back. “You hit that pothole! Why didn’t you watch the road?”

  “Why didn’t you hold it with both hands!?” I scream back. “You’ve just lost our one chance!”

  “You can stop and go back for it,” he says.

  “There’s no time!” I snap.

  My face reddens. I’m starting to feel that Ben is completely useless, and regret taking him it all. I force myself to think of how he helped me with his mechanical skills, fixing the car, and of how he saved me with his body weight, back on the motorcycle, on the bridge. But it is hard to remember. Now, I’m just furious. I wonder if I can trust him with anything.

  I reach into my holster, pull out my gun, and stick it into his ribs.

  “This one’s mine,” I say. “You drop it, I’m kicking you out.”

  Ben holds it tight, with both hands, as he leans out the window again. He takes aim.

  But at just that moment a park appears before us, and the slaverunners disappear right into it.

  I can’t believe it. Central Park lies right in front of us, marked by a huge, felled tree blocking its path. The slaverunners swerve around it and enter the park, and at the last second, I do, too. Ben leans back into the car, his chance lost—but at least he still holds the gun.

  Central Park is nothing like what I remember. Covered in waist high weeds that emerge from the snow, it has been left to grow wild these past years, and now looks like a forest. Trees have fallen sporadically in all different places. Benches are empty. Statues are smashed or toppled, leaning on their sides. There are also signs of battle: tanks and Humvees, burnt out, upside down, lie throughout the park. All of this is blanketed by snow, giving it the feel of a surreal winter wonderland.

  I try to take my eyes off it all, and focus instead on the slaverunners before me. They must know where they’re going, as they stay on a twisting and turning service road which cuts through the park. I follow them closely as they zigzag their way through. On our right, near 110th street, we pass the remnants of a vast, empty pool. Soon after we pass the remains of a skating rink, now just an empty shell, its small outbuilding smashed and looted.