Morgan Rice - Arena Two

Within minutes, the snow becomes blinding, whipping into our faces, whiting out the sky. It becomes hard to even see.

Logan slows even more, and I wonder if we are out of gas. I hurry over and stand beside him and glance at the gauge: less than an eighth of a tank, but not redlining yet. I don’t understand why he’s slowing, until I look up ahead and see it for myself: there, before us, sits an island in the middle of the Hudson. It’s not huge but it’s not tiny either: maybe a half mile long and half as wide. It’s long and narrow, ringed by a sandy shore, and covered in thick trees, many of which are pine, covered in snow. I see Logan staring and I know what he’s thinking. He turns and looks at me.

“We’re nearly out of gas,” he says. “And riding in this storm is asking for trouble. The ice is getting thicker and the river is hardening. We continue like this, we might sink her. And it will be dark soon. We can push it, or we can park on this island, wait it out here until the river thaws and the storm passes.” He studies the skies. “If we push it, we might find ourselves out of gas and with no shelter. We know what happened last time we parked on the shoreline. Being on an island might be safer.”

“I agree,” I say. “It’s safer.”

He sighs.

“Not that I want to park,” he continues. “I don’t. We need to keep moving. We need to put as much distance between us and them as we can. We need to head north, and find fuel. But we have to ride out this storm. And I think an island is a safer place to do it. Maybe we stay a few hours. Maybe even overnight. Let it pass, then keep going. Who knows: maybe we’ll even find something on it, maybe some hunting, or something to salvage.”

“For once, I think we agree,” I say, and can’t help smiling.

Logan tries to suppress a smile, but I see it.

“Let’s circle it,” I say. “Make sure there’s nothing hostile and find the best spot to dock.”

“Agreed,” he says.

Logan turns the boat, taking us around the perimeter of the island. It has a shallow shore, maybe ten feet deep, waves lapping lightly against it. Bordering the sand are thick trees, providing a nice shelter in every direction. As we come around the other side, I watch the trees closely, looking for any signs of movement. I see none. But then again, this island is deceptively big, and the trees are thick: there could be anything in there. I doubt, though, that there are any people. I don’t see any evidence of it: no boats, no footprints. Maybe there could be animals in there. Maybe deer, or fox, or something else. My mouth waters at the thought.

We circle around the other side, nearly finishing our loop, when I spot a perfect place to dock the boat: an outcropping of rock juts out into the water, along which we could tie the boat and have it protected from the elements on two sides. Even better, the rock continues onto the land, morphing into a small mountain, inside of which is a large opening for a cave. It couldn’t be more perfect: we can take shelter in that cave to wait out the wind and the storm – all while keeping an eye on our boat.

I reach out and point at it.

“I’m on it,” Logan says. “One step ahead of you.”

He cuts the engine as we get closer and we drift for the rock, out boat turned sideways. I grab the rope, head to the bow and jump off as we reach the shore. I land up to my ankles in the icy water, and it stings as it cuts through my leather boots. But I’m happy to be back on land, and I waste no time in grabbing the boat and yanking it up on the sand. Logan jumps out and helps, and together, we manage to yank it up a good five feet onto the sand. I tie the rope securely around the anchor hole in the front of the boat, then hand it to Logan, who finds a notch in the rock around which to wrap it. He tries it several times: it’s secure. Our boat’s not going anywhere.

The lack of movement finally snaps Ben out of it, and he lifts up his head and looks around for the first time. He looks at me, bleary-eyed.

“Where are we?” he asks.

“Our new home,” Logan says.

“Until the storm passes,” I add.

For a moment I wonder if Ben is going to argue, to voice a different opinion, maybe be mad at us for deciding without him. But he just gets up meekly out of the boat. His spirit is broken, and he barely seems to know where he is.

I jump back in the boat, hurry over to Bree and Rose. They are fast asleep and I gently wake Bree. As her eyes open, she immediately looks not at me, but at Rose, fear and worry etched into her face.

I examine Rose myself, and am equally afraid. She does not look good. She’s paler than I’ve seen her, and while I know she’s asleep, I can’t help feeling that her face looks like that of a dying person. I look down at her arm, at her bandage, and already see large blotches of red forming on either side of the bite. It is infected – and spreading fast.

I swallow hard, my mouth dry, knowing this is not good. I feel so helpless. I wish there was something I could do, somewhere I could take her. But there’s nothing. Champagne and sleeping pills are, pathetically, all I have to offer her.

I reach down and pick Rose up in my arms. Penelope refuses to leave her lap, so I hold the two of them, carry them like a baby. Rose is limp and asleep. Thank God for that. I hope she’s not feeling any pain right now.

Bree gets up and walks beside me. I hand Rose to Logan, then jump down and grab Bree, carrying her off the boat. The snow falls harder all around us. I watch Logan carry Rose into the cave and take Bree’s hand and follow.

“Grab the other sacks, will you?” I say to Ben. I don’t want him to be completely useless, if nothing else than for his own sake.

Ben does as he’s told, reaching into the boat and grabbing the packs of food and supplies. I turn with Bree and walk across the soft sand, towards the cave.

“Will Rose be okay?” Bree asks. “Where are we?”

“We’re on a small island,” I say. “We’re going to stay here until the storm passes.”

“Until Rose gets better?” she asks.

I swallow hard, not knowing how to answer. I wish I knew myself.

“I’m going to do everything I can for her,” I say. “I promise.”

We reach the mouth of the cave and I am relieved to see it will be the perfect shelter for us. About 15 feet high and 30 feet deep, with a 10 foot ceiling, it is not so deep where I can’t see where it ends. I can see there are no animals – or people – hiding inside. And as I walk in, it already feels several degrees warmer in here – maybe because of the shelter from the wind. I look down and see the dirt floors are dry, too, the snow stopping a few feet from the entrance.

I feel we can build a fire here. We are protected from the wind, and protected from the eyes of anyone who might be watching. It’s the perfect place for us all to rest and recover and get our bearings.

Logan places Rose down gently on the earthen floor; he takes off his jacket and delicately rests it beneath her head. Watching him, it surprises me. I had no idea he could be so gentle.

Penelope stands on Rose’s chest, on all fours, shaking. She curls up in a ball, lying down and pressing her chin on Rose’s chest, looking up at her with sad eyes, refusing to leave her side.

“The infection is bad,” Logan says softly as he hurries over to me. “She needs medicine.”

“I know,” I say. “What do you propose we do?”

He shakes his head grimly. “I don’t know,” he finally answers.

Ben enters with all the bags of food and supplies, and sets them down inside the cave. Logan turns away from him with a look of disgust, still pissed at him for falling asleep on guard.

At least here, in this cave, we will be safer. There won’t be as much of a need to stand guard. There is practically no way anyone could ambush us here without approaching by boat. And that would make noise. The way I see it, if this island is truly deserted, then we have no worries. I turn to Logan.