by Morgan Rice
I open my eyes as a rough hand shoves my shoulder.
“LET’S GO!” comes an urgent whisper.
I open my eyes with a jolt, disoriented, unsure if I’m awake or asleep. I look all around, trying to get my bearings, and see grey, pre-dawn daylight filtering in through a window high up. Daybreak. I’ve fallen asleep sitting on the floor, my head resting on Ben’s shoulder, who still sits beside me, sleeping. Logan shoves him roughly, too.
I jump into action, scurrying to my feet. As I do, the pain in my calf is excruciating, exploding in my leg.
“We’re losing time!” Logan snaps. “Move! Both of you! I’m leaving. If you want to follow me out, now’s your chance!”
Logan hurries to the door and leans his ear against it. I feel a rush of adrenaline as I cross the room, Ben now awake and beside me, and take a position behind Logan. We listen. All seems quiet outside. There are no more footsteps, no shouts, jeers…nothing. I wonder how many hours have passed. It sounds like everyone has disappeared.
Logan seems satisfied, too. Holding his gun in one hand, he slowly reaches out with his free hand, unlocks the door, and checks to see if we’re ready. He then slowly pulls open the door.
Logan cautiously steps outside, rounds the corner sharply, ready to shoot.
He gestures for us to follow, and I come out and I see the corridors are empty.
“Move!” he whispers frantically.
He runs down the corridor and I run behind him for all I’m worth. Every step is a small explosion of pain in my calf. I can’t help looking down at it, and as I do, I wish I hadn’t: it’s now swelled up to the size of a baseball. It’s also bright red, and I worry it’s infected. All my other muscles ache, too, from my ribs to my shoulder to my face—but it’s my calf that concerns me most. The others are just injuries; but if my calf is infected, I’ll need medicine. And fast.
But I can’t focus on this now. I continue to run, hobbling down the corridor, Ben beside me and Logan about ten feet in front. The steel corridors are dimly lit by sporadic emergency lights, and I follow Logan in the darkness, relying on his knowledge of this place. Luckily, there is still no one in site: I assume they are all out looking for us.
Logan makes a right down another corridor, then a left. We follow, trusting he knows his way out of here. I realize my fate is in his hands. He is our lifeline now, and I’ll just have to put my trust in him. I have no choice.
After several more twists and turns, Logan finally comes to a stop before a door. I stop beside him, out of breath. He pushes it open, peeks out, then opens it all the way. He reaches back, grabs Ben by the shoulder and pulls him forward.
“There,” he says, pointing. “See it?”
I lean forward. In the distance, across the vast, open terminal, are train tracks.
“That train, the one beginning to move. It goes to the mines. It leaves once a day. If you want to go, now’s your chance. Catch it!”
Ben turns and looks at me one last time, eyes open wide with adrenaline. He surprises me by reaching out, grabbing my hand, and kissing the back of it. He holds it for another second and looks at me meaningfully, as if this might be the last time he sees me.
He then turns and sprints across the terminal, heading for the train.
Logan glances at me derisively, and I can feel his jealousy.
I don’t know what to think of the kiss myself. As I watch him run for the train, I can’t help but wonder if it will be the last time I see him.
“This way!” Logan snaps, as he starts running down a different corridor.
But I sit there, frozen, watching Ben run.
Logan turns back to me, annoyed, impatient. “MOVE!” he whispers.
I realize I’m frozen in place, watching Ben run. He runs across the entire open expanse of Penn Station, runs along the tracks, then jumps up onto the back of the slowly moving train. He holds tight onto the metal bars as it goes. He holds on tight as the train disappears, into a black tunnel. He’s made it.
“I’m leaving!” Logan says, then turns and sprints down another corridor.
I snap out of it, sprinting after him. I go as fast as my legs will take me, but Logan is already far ahead and he turns again, out of sight. My heart pounds as I wonder if I’ve lost him.
I turn down another corridor and run up a ramp, and finally, I spot him again. He stands along a wall, beside a glass door, waiting for me. Through it, I can see outside. Eighth Avenue. It is a world of white. I am shocked to see that there is a raging blizzard out there.
I run up to Logan and stand beside him, my back against the wall, struggling to catch my breath.
“See there?” he asks, pointing.
I follow his gaze, trying to see between the sheets of snow.
“Across the street,” he says, “in front of the old post office. Those buses parked out front.”
I strain to look, and spot three large buses, covered in snow. They look like school buses, but are modified, with thick bars built on every side, like armored vehicles. Two of them are painted yellow, and one is black. As I watch, I see dozens of young girls, chained to each other, being loaded onto them. My heart leaps, as I spot Bree. She’s a couple hundred yards away, in the chain gang, being loaded onto one of the two yellow buses.
“There she is!” I scream. “That’s Bree!”
“Give it up,” he says. “Come with me. You’ll survive, at least.”
But I am filled with a new resolve, and I look at him with dead seriousness.
“It’s not about surviving,” I reply. “Don’t you realize that?”
Logan looks back into my eyes and I can see that, for the first time, he gets it. He really gets it. He sees that I’m determined, that nothing on earth is going to change my mind.
“OK, then,” he says. “This is it. Once we burst out those doors, I’m heading uptown, for the boat. You’re on your own.”
He suddenly reaches down and places something heavy in palm. I look down and see it’s a gun. I am surprised, and grateful.
I am about to say goodbye, but suddenly hear an engine, and look out and see clouds of black exhaust exiting the buses’ tailpipes. Before I know it, all three buses start to pull out in the thick snow.
“NO!” I scream, and suddenly burst forward. Before I even think it through, I kick open the door and burst outside. A wave of icy snow and wind hits me in the face, so cold and wet that it takes my breath away.
I run out into the blinding blizzard, snow hitting my face, snow up to my knees. I run and run, heading across the white, open expanse towards the buses. Towards Bree.
I am too late. They have a good hundred yards on me, and are gaining speed in the snow. I sprint after them, my leg killing me, barely able to catch my breath, until I realize that Logan was right. It is useless. I watch the buses turn a corner, and they are soon out of sight. I can’t believe it. I just missed her.
I check back over my shoulder, and Logan is gone. My heart drops. He must have taken off already. Now I’m completely alone.
Desperate, I try to think quick, to come up with an idea. I scan my surroundings, and see, in front of Penn Station, a row of Humvees. Slaverunners sit on the roofs and hoods. They are all huddled in their coats against the snow, their backs to me. None of them look in my direction. They are all fixated on watching the buses leave.
I realize I need a vehicle. It is my only chance to catch those buses.
I sprint, hobbling, towards the Humvee in the rear, the only one with no slaverunner sitting on its roof. The Humvee is running, exhaust coming from its tailpipe, and I see a slaverunner sitting in the driver’s seat, warming his hands.
I creep up to the driver’s side door and yank it open, holding out my gun.
This slaverunner wears no facemask, and I can see the shock in his face. He holds up his hands in fear, not wanting to be shot. I don’t give him time to react, to alert the others. Pointing my gun to his face, I reach in, grab him by the shirt, and yank him out. He falls ha
rd to the snow.
I’m about to jump into the driver’s seat, when suddenly I feel a tremendous pain in the side of my head, the impact of something metal. Knocked over by the blow, I fall down to the snow.
I look up and see that another slaverunner has snuck up on me, has cracked me in the side of the head with his gun. I reach up and feel my head, and feel blood trickling onto my hand. It hurts like hell.
The slaverunner stands over me, and lowers his gun towards my face. He grins, an evil grin, cocks the pin, and I know he’s about to fire. Suddenly, I realize I’m about to die.
A gunshot rings, and I brace myself.
TWENTY-FOUR
I feel my face splatter in blood, the warmth of it sticking to my skin, and I wonder if I’m dead.
I slowly open my eyes, and then realize what has happened. I am not dead; I was not even fired upon. The slaverunner was shot from behind, in the back of the head, and his brains splattered all over me. Someone shot him. Someone saved me.
I look up to see Logan standing behind him, his gun outstretched, still smoking. I can’t believe it. He’s come back for me.
Logan reaches down and holds out a hand. I take it. It’s huge and rough, and he pulls me to my feet in one swift motion.
“GET IN!” he screams.
I run to the passenger side and jump in. Logan jumps into the driver’s side, slams the door, and while I am barely in, he pulls out, gunning the Humvee. It slips and slides in the snow as we peel out.
The other slaverunners notice; they scramble, jump off their hoods and take off after us. One of them charges on foot. Logan reaches out his window, aims, and shoots him in the head, killing him before he can fire. Another charges us, hand outstretched with his gun, aiming right at us. I reach out my window and fire. It is a direct hit in the head, and he goes down.
I aim for another one, but suddenly I go flying back, as the torque of the car sends me backwards. Logan is flooring it, and we are all over the place in the snow. We turn the corner and gain speed quickly on the three bulky buses. They are only a few hundred yards ahead of us.
Behind us, though, a half dozen Humvees are on our tail. They are gaining speed and I realize that they will soon overtake us. We are outmanned.
Logan shakes his head. “You couldn’t just come with me, could you?” he says in exasperation, as he puts it into fifth gear and floors it again. “You’re more stubborn than I am.”
We gain more speed as we follow the buses crosstown on 34th Street, heading east. We cross Seventh Avenue…then Sixth…then the buses make a sharp right on Fifth and we follow, only a hundred yards behind.
I check the rearview and see the Humvees right on us. One of the slaverunners reaches out his window and aims his gun, and next thing I know, bullets ricochet off our vehicle, echoing off the metal. I flinch, and am grateful it’s bulletproof.
Logan steps on it, and I watch the streets fly by: 32nd street…31st…30th…. I look up and am shocked to see an enormous wall right before us, blocking off Fifth Avenue. There is a narrow arched opening in the middle of it, the only way in or out.
Several guards open its huge metal bars, allowing the three buses to pass through, single file.
“We have to stop!” Logan screams. “Beyond those gates is the wasteland! It’s too dangerous!”
“NO!” I scream back. “You can’t stop! Go! GO!”
Logan shakes his head, sweating. But to his credit, he sticks to the course.
The gate closes. Logan doesn’t slow, though.
“Hold on!” he screams.
I brace myself for impact, and a moment later, there’s a tremendous crash of metal.
Our Humvee smashes into the iron gate, and the impact is tremendous. I brace myself, not thinking we’re going to make it.
But luckily, this Humvee is built like a tank: I can’t believe it, but as we make impact, the iron gate comes off and flying into the air. Our windshield is cracked and our hood is badly dented, but luckily, we are unhurt. We are gaining on the buses, now only fifty yards ahead.
I check the rearview, expecting to see the other Humvees behind us—and am shocked to see them all slam on their brakes before the open gate. None of them dares follow us. I can’t understand—it’s as if they’re afraid to pass through to this side of the wall.
“What are they doing?” I ask. “They’re stopping! They stopped following us!”
Logan doesn’t seem surprised—which I don’t understand either.
“Of course they stopped.”
“Why?”
“We crossed the wall. It’s the wasteland. They’re not that stupid.”
I look at him, still not understanding.
“They’re scared,” he says.
I don’t understand: how can a large group of armed warriors, in machinegun-mounted Humvees, be scared?
I look around us, take in our surroundings, and am suddenly more wary than I’ve ever been. A chill runs up my spine. What can be so dangerous about this place that a squadron of soldiers in Humvees are afraid to enter it?
As I lean forward and look closely, I suddenly spot movement. I look up high, and see faces of Biovictims, faces terribly scarred, sticking out of all the abandoned buildings. There are hundreds of them.
Suddenly, the manholes all around us begin to rise. Heads stick up out of the ground, and I am shocked to see dozens more Biovictims rise up from the ground. We pass an abandoned subway station, and dozens more come running up the stairs. They run right for us.
My heart starts to pound at the sight of these people. There are hundreds of them, charging from every direction. I feel like I’ve entered their territory, crossed a line into a place I’m not supposed to be. I realize I have to get to Bree as soon as possible, and get us the hell out of here.
A crazy jumps up and grabs onto my open window. He reaches a hand in and grabs at me. I lean back, then wind up and hit him in the face with the butt of the pistol. He falls, his body sliding in the snow.
The buses swerve erratically in front of us, and Logan swerves, following their path. The motion is making me nauseous.
“Why are you swerving like that?” I ask.
“Mined!” Logan yells back. “This entire goddamn wasteland is mined!”
As if to hammer home his point, suddenly there is a small explosion in the road before us, and one of the buses manages to swerve out of the way at the last second. My heart drops. How much worse can this place get?
“Catch up to her bus!” I scream over the roaring of the engine.
He floors it, and we close the gap. We’re maybe 30 yards away now, and I’m trying to formulate a plan. As we’re closing in, suddenly, a crazy rises from a manhole, raises an RPG to his shoulder, and fires.
The missile races across the air and hits one of the buses—the black one. It is a direct hit. The bus explodes right in front of us, bursting into flames, forcing us to swerve at the last second.
The bus skids and lands on its side, then bursts into a huge ball of flames. I think of all the girls I saw board it, and my heart sinks at the sight. Now there are only two buses left. I thank God Bree was on one of the yellow ones. Now time is even more of the essence.
“HURRY!” I yell. “DRIVE UP TO HER BUS!”
We are heading right for the Flatiron building. Fifth Avenue forks, and one of the yellow buses bears left, heading down Broadway, while the other bears right, staying on Fifth. I have no idea which one carries Bree. My heart pounds with anxiety. I have to choose.
“Which bus?” Logan screams, frantic.
I hesitate.
“WHICH BUS?” he screams again.
We are coming up on the intersection and I have to choose. I think hard, desperately trying to remember which one she boarded. But it is no use. My mind is a blur, and the two buses look identical to me. I just have to guess.
“Go right!” I scream.
As the last second, he swerves right. He guns it after one of the buses. I pray I have chosen the r
ight one.
Logan floors it, and manages to speed up to the bus. We are now just yards behind it, sucking in its exhaust. The back windows are grimy and I can’t really make out the faces inside, but I do see shapes, the bodies of all those young, chained girls. I pray that one of them is Bree.
“Now what?” Logan screams.
I am wondering the exact same thing.
“I can’t run them off the road!” Logan adds. “I might kill her!”
I think fast, trying to formulate a plan.
“Get closer,” I say. “Pull up beside it!”
He pulls up to the back, our bumpers nearly touching, and as he does, I lift myself out of the seat and begin to crawl out the open window, sitting on the ledge of the door. The wind is so strong, it nearly knocks me off.
“What are you doing!?” Logan screams, and I can hear his concern. But I ignore it. There’s no time for second-guessing now.
Snow and wind whip my face as Logan pulls up right beside the bus. I steady myself, waiting for the perfect moment. The back of the bus is now only a foot away, and there is a wide, flat ledge by its bumper. I brace myself, my heart pounding.
And then I leap.
My shoulder slams into the side of the bus as I land on the ledge. I reach out and grab the thick, metal bars, and I make it. The metal is freezing on my bare hands, but I hold on tight. The ground flies by beneath me in a blur. I can barely believe it. I made it.
The bus must be doing 80 in the snow, and it swerves erratically. I wrap one arm thoroughly around the bar, hugging it with all that I have, and just barely manage to hang on.
We hit a pothole and I slip, nearly losing my grip. One of my feet dips down and drags on the snow—it is my wounded leg, and I scream out in pain as it bumps along the ground. With a supreme effort, I slowly pull myself back up.
I try to open the back door, but my heart drops to discover that it is locked, with a padlock and chain. My hand shaking, I manage to remove my gun from my belt. I lean back and brace myself, and fire.
Sparks fly. The padlock breaks, and the chain clatters and falls to the ground.
I open one of the doors, and it pops open with tremendous force, flying against the wind, and nearly knocking me off. I pull myself through the open door and into the back of the bus.