Morgan Rice - Arena Two

I run to him, kneel down and grab him, draping one arm around his shoulder. Ben, to his credit, kneels down and props up Logan with his arm. The two of us pick him up, holding him. He is heavy, much heavier than I thought.

Ben reaches down, tears a strip off his shirt, and ties it around Logan’s wound, tight. The bleeding slows, but drenches the rag quickly.

“We have to get back to the boat,” I say. “Can you walk?”

Logan looks dazed, confused.

“I don’t know,” he says.

We prop him up, and he walks with us. He’s hobbling badly, and I can feel his weight on me. I look at the injury and see how deep the claws punctured, nearly all the way to the bone. Logan’s blood trails us on the snow.

Bree, right beside us, is crying.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I say back to her.

As we hurry back down the streets, I wonder what our next move should be. I have no idea. I know we have to get back to the boat, provide Logan some comfort. This town was a waste of time. And I feel that being out in the open is just too dangerous. Once we get back to the boat, somehow I’ll know what to do.

As we turn the corner and the river comes into view, suddenly, I freeze. I can’t believe what I see.

My mouth goes dry and heart drops into my throat. I’m too numb to move. To speak. I feel the world spinning out beneath me.

Because there, in the distance, on the water, I watch our boat being taken away. It is being tugged from shore by a large speedboat, all-black. They are not slaverunners – they look like some sort of pirates. They cut our anchor, and tied our boat to the back of theirs, and now they tug it away, at high speed. It is already halfway across the river, going God knows where. Our boat is gone.

We are stranded.

The four of us are still in a daze as we walk north, through the woods, alongside the Hudson. We walk beside the river, on snow-covered train tracks, and I watch the water as we go. A part of me refuses to believe our boat has been stolen.

But it’s been hours, and it’s starting to sink in that it’s gone for good. That we are stranded, on foot. And our boat, our only means of transportation, is gone.

After we discovered the boat was gone, we all spent time brushing the snow off the shells of vehicles that lined the streets, some of them on their side, twisted, burnt out. It was a desperate move, and a waste of time. Of course, none of them had any keys, and most of them didn’t even have engines – just gobs of metal, vestiges of cars. None of them remotely worked.

We knew we couldn’t stay in that town. We figured our safest shelter might be somewhere in the woods, close to the river. So we walked.

Now here we are, completely on our own. I can’t believe how stupid we were to leave the boat unguarded. But then again, who would’ve imagined that something like that would happen? We were too lax. We should have anticipated it.

But as I think about it, I realize that even if we did stay with the boat, there was probably not much we could have done. That was a large group of armed, professional pirates. Survivors. They probably would’ve just mowed us down with their guns. And with our boat basically out of fuel, it’s not like we could’ve taken it anywhere else. Maybe we got lucky that they took it while we were away. Maybe if we had put up a fight, we’d all be dead right now.

The grim reality of not having any transportation or shelter starts to sink in, to weigh heavily on all of us. We all walk slowly, our feet crunching in the snow, which is hardening. The temperature has dropped at least ten degrees and the wind has picked up; the snow is now freezing and turning to ice. A deep cold is starting to settle in my bones, to pierce right through me. I look at the others and see it is piercing through all of us. We are all huddled over, rubbing our hands, desperate for warmth.

Making matters worse – much worse – is Logan. He was hurt bad, and Ben and I have to help him walk, his arms slung over our shoulders. It is slowing us down, and I am very concerned for him. Up until now, he was always our backbone, our strength; now, he is a liability. I can’t help feeling that the odds are turning against us. The idea of reaching Canada at this point is almost laughable. We’d be lucky to make it the next mile.

We are getting farther and farther from any remnants of civilization, deep into the woods, and I’m starting to feel that our chances are grim. We’re nearly out of supplies, there is no sign of shelter, it’s getting dark out, colder, and soon we’ll have to stop for the night. Even Ben’s bow and arrow, left on the boat, is gone.

Hunger sets in, eating away at my stomach, stabbing me with sharp pains. I am feeling weaker with each step, especially with Logan’s weight pressing down on me.

As we continue down the train tracks, I look out at the river and see it has frozen over – one big sheet of ice. It is incredible. Even if we were in our boat now, we couldn’t get anywhere, anyway.

I can’t go on much longer, and I sense that Ben and Logan can’t, either. In the distance, I spot a particularly thick copse of trees, forming a wall from the elements. We head for them.

As we enter the patch of trees, I feel they provide some protection from the wind. I stop, and the others turn to me.

“I think we should rest here,” I say. “It’s almost dark.”

“Good idea,” Ben says, slowly removing Logan’s arm from around him.

Logan winces in pain as he does. I look down at his leg: it is already swollen. Luckily, it doesn’t look quite as infected as Rose’s had; maybe the cold weather has helped. But still, it is a very bad injury.

“Are you okay?” I ask Logan.

He nods quickly, wincing, and Ben and I lower him down to the ground. He sits heavily, his back against one of the thick trees, and breathes out sharply in pain as he does, his face bunching up into a million wrinkles. But he never cries, or complains. Not once. He is a real trooper.

“I’m starving,” Bree says.

I kick myself for leaving our food on the boat; the only thing I had thought to take with me was a single jar of half-eaten jam. I pull it out of my pocket now. It is raspberry, Bree’s favorite, and as I unscrew the lid, Penelope whines, too. I reach in, take a huge scoop out, and put it into Bree’s open palm. She eats slowly, savoring it, then reaches over and gives some to Penelope.

I hold the jar out to Ben, then to Logan, and they each tape take a finger-full, savoring it. Finally, I do the same, taking the last scoop of our last jar. It melts in my mouth, and is the best raspberry jam I’ve had in my life. I close my eyes, trying to savor every second of it. What I would give right now for a dozen jars like this.

I look at the empty jar longingly. We are out of food. It is going to be a long, hard night.

Hours have passed since we’ve curled up here. Night has fallen, and the four of us sit in the snow, our backs to the trees, freezing. We all huddle against the wind and the cold, which seems to get worse with every minute.

Thank God, after hours of effort, I was able to start a fire. I used the last of the matches that I salvaged from dad’s place, lit the last candle, and used the shelter from the wind, to light the kindling I’d found. I built a small pile, but even so, it took nearly all the matches to get something going.

Now there is a small fire before the four of us. We are all so cold, we literally hover over it, raising and rubbing our palms. Every passing gust of wind threatens to blow it out, and I get up every few minutes, and put more sticks on. The fire is fighting to stay alive. Just like the four of us.