Arena Two. Morgan Rice
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“Are you coming?” I ask. I hope he says yes. I’m annoyed at Logan for staying here, for letting me down, and I could really use the backup.
But Ben, still clearly in shock, just stares back. He looks at me as if he doesn’t comprehend. I wonder if he’s fully registering all that’s happening around him.
“Are you coming?” I ask more forcefully. I don’t have the patience for this.
Slowly, he shakes his head, withdrawing. He’s really out of it, and I try to forgive him – but it’s hard.
I turn to leave the boat, and jump onto shore. It feels good to have my feet on dry land.
“Wait!”
I turn and see Logan get up from the driver seat.
“I knew some crap like this would happen,” he says.
He walks across the boat, gathering his stuff.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“What do you think?” he asks. “I’m not letting you two go alone.”
My heart swells with relief. If it were just me I wouldn’t care as much – but I am thrilled to have another set of eyes to watch Bree.
He jumps off the boat, and onto shore.
“I’m telling you right now, this is a stupid idea,” he says, as he lands besides me. “We should keep moving. It will be night soon. The Hudson can freeze. We could get stuck here. Not to mention the slaverunners. You’ve got 90 minutes, understand? 30 minutes in, 30 there, and 30 back. No exceptions, for any reason. Otherwise, I’m leaving without you.”
I look back at him, impressed and grateful.
“Deal,” I say.
I think of the sacrifice he just made, and I am beginning to feel something else. Behind all his posturing, I am beginning to feel that Logan really likes me. And he’s not as selfish as I thought.
As we turn to go, there’s another shuffling on the boat.
“Wait!” Ben cries out.
I turn and look.
“You guys can’t leave me here alone with Rose. What if someone comes? What am I supposed to do?
“Watch the boat,” Logan says, turning again to leave.
“I don’t know how to drive it!” Ben yells out. “I don’t have any weapons!”
Logan turns again, annoyed, reaches down, takes one of the guns off a strap from his thigh, and chucks it to him. It hits him hard in the chest, and he fumbles with it.
“Maybe you’ll learn how to use it,” Logan sneers, as he turns away again.
I get a good look at Ben, who stands there, looking so helpless and afraid, holding a gun he barely seems to know how to use. He seems absolutely terrified.
I want to comfort him. To tell him everything will be OK, that we’ll be back soon. But as I turn away and look up at the vast mountain range before us, for the first time, I am not so sure that we will.
Two
We walk quickly through the snow and I look anxiously at the darkening sky, feeling the pressure of time. I glance back over my shoulder, see my footprints in the snow, and beyond them, standing there in the rocking boat, Ben and Rose, watching us wide-eyed. Rose clutches Penelope, equally afraid. Penelope barks. I feel bad leaving the three of them there, but I know our mission is necessary. I know we can salvage supplies and food that will help, and I feel we have a comfortable jump on the slaverunners.
I hurry to the rusted shed, covered in snow, and yank open its crooked door, praying that the truck I hid inside ages ago is still there. It was an old rusted pickup, on its last legs, more scrap than car, with only about an eighth tank of fuel left in it. I stumbled across it one day, in a ditch off Route 23, and hid it here, carefully down by the river, in case I ever needed it. I remember being amazed when it actually turned over.
The shed door opens with a creak, and there it is, as well hidden as it was on the day I stashed it, still covered with the hay. My heart swells with relief. I step forward and pull the hay back, my hands cold as I touch the freezing metal. I go to the back of the shed and pull open the double barn doors, and light comes flooding in.
“Nice wheels,” Logan says, walking up behind me, surveying it. “You sure it runs?”
“No,” I say. “But my dad’s house is a good twenty miles away, and we can’t exactly hike.”
I can tell from his tone that he really doesn’t want to be on this mission, that he wants to be back in the boat, moving upriver.
I jump into the driver seat and search the floor for the key. I finally feel it, hidden deep. I put it in the ignition, take a deep breath and close my eyes.
Please, god. Please.
At first nothing happens. My heart drops.
But I turn again and again, twist it farther to the right, and slowly, it begins to catch. At first it is a quiet sound, like a dying cat. But I hold it, twist again and again, and eventually, it turns over more.
Come on, come on.
It finally catches, rumbling and groaning to life. It clutters and gasps, clearly on its last legs. At least it’s running.
I can’t help smiling, flooding with relief. It works. It really works. We’re going to be able to make it to my house, bury my dog, get food. I feel as if Sasha’s looking down, helping us. Maybe my dad, too.
The passenger door opens and in jumps Bree, bristling with excitement, scooting over in the one vinyl seat, right next to me, as Logan jumps in beside her, slamming the door, looking straight ahead.
“What you waiting for?” he says. “Clock’s ticking.”
“You don’t need to tell me twice,” I say, equally short with him.
I put it into gear and floor it, reversing out of the shed and into the snow and afternoon sky. At first the wheels catch in the snow, but I give it more gas, and we sputter forward.
We drive, swerving on the bald tires, across a field, bumpy, getting jolted every which way. But we continue forward, and that’s all I care about.
Soon, we are on a small country road. I am so thankful the snow was melting most of the day – otherwise, we’d never make it.
We start picking up good speed. The truck surprises me, calming down as it warms up. We hit almost 40 as we ride Route 23 heading west. I keep pushing it, until we hit a pothole, and I regret it. We all groan, as we slam our heads. I slow down. The potholes are nearly impossible to see in the snow, and I forgot how bad these roads have become.
It’s eerie being back on this road, heading back to what was once home. I am retracing the road I took when chasing the slaverunners, and memories come flooding back. I remember racing down here on a motorcycle, thinking I was going to die, and I try to put it out of my mind.
As we go, we come across the huge tree felled in the road, now covered in snow. I recognize it as the tree that had been felled on my way out, the one downed to block the path of the slaverunners, by some unknown survivalist out there who was looking after us. I can’t help but wonder if there are other people out there now, surviving, maybe even watching us. I look from side to side, combing the woods. But I see no signs.
We are making good time and to my relief, nothing is going wrong. I don’t trust it. It is almost as if it is too easy. I glance at the gas gage and see we haven’t used much. But I don’t know how accurate it is, and for a moment I wonder if there’ll be enough gas to get us there and back. I wonder if it was a stupid idea to try this.
We finally turn off the main road, onto the narrow, winding country road that will bring us up the mountain, to dad’s house. I’m more on edge now, as we twist and turn of the mountain, the cliffs dropping off steeply to my right. I look