Morgan Rice: Arena One: Slaverunners

My former building is now just a pile of rubble covered in snow. High weeds grow up between the rocks, and it looks like it collapsed long ago. I feel as if someone punched me in the gut. My home is gone. Mom is really gone.

“What’s wrong?” Logan asks.

I’ve stopped. I’m standing there, staring. I lower my head, grab his shoulder, and continue on.

“Nothing,” I respond.

We continue into the heart of the shopping district of the South Street Seaport. I remember sitting here, looking at the shining cobblestone, at all the expensive shops, feeling as if I were in the most pristine place in the world. A place impervious to change. Now I see nothing but devastation. There aren’t even any signs, any markers to indicate what it once was.

We turn left on Fulton and in the distance I spot the waterfront. It is twilight now, thick gray clouds gathering on the horizon, and I finally feel a surge of hope as I see the water, just blocks away. The bus tracks turn down this road, coming to an end at the pier. We have made it.

We walk faster and I feel a surge of adrenaline as I wonder if Bree could still be there, on the pier. I subconsciously check my belt for weapons before remembering I have none left. No matter. If she’s there, I will find a way to get her back.

We walk out onto the wooden pier of the Seaport, once teeming with tourists, now desolate. The tall, historic sailing ships are still there, bobbing in the water – but now they’re just rotting hulls. At the end of the pier I see the bus. I hurry towards it, my heart pounding, hoping Bree is somehow still on it.

But of course the bus has been unloaded long ago. I reach the side of the bus and find it empty. I check the snow and see the tracks where the girls were unloaded, led down a ramp to a boat. I look out at the water, and in the distance, I spot a large, rusted barge, maybe half a mile off, docked on Governor’s Island. A line of girls is being unloaded. Bree is among them. I can feel it.

I feel a surge of determination. But also of hopelessness. We have missed the boat. We’re too late.

“There’s another boat in the morning,” Logan says. “At dawn. There always is, once a day. We just need to wait it out. Find shelter for the night.”

“ If you make it through the night,” comes a strange voice from behind us.

We spin around.

Standing there, about ten feet away, is a group of about a dozen people, dressed in yellow military fatigues. In their center stands a person who looks like their leader. His face is melted, distorted, as are the faces of the others. He looks even worse than the Biovictims, if that’s possible. Maybe it’s from living in this radiated zone.

Somehow, they have managed to creep up on us. We are outnumbered, no match for the weapons in their belts, the guns in their hands. We have no chance.

“You’re in our territory now,” he continues. “Why shouldn’t we kill you ourselves?”

“Please,” I plead. “The slaverunners took my sister. I have to get her back.”

“We don’t like slaverunners any more than you do. They ride their buses through here like it’s their territory. IT’S MY TERRITORY!” he shrieks, his face distorted, his eyes bulging. “DO YOU HEAR ME? IT’S MINE!”

I flinch at the sound of his voice, so distorted with rage. I am delirious with exhaustion, with pain, and can hardly even stand.

He takes a step toward us, and I brace myself for an attack. But before I can even finish the thought, my world starts to spin. It spins, again and again, and before I know it, I am falling.

And then, everything is black.

I open my eyes with effort. I’m not sure if I’m dead or alive, but if I’m alive, I didn’t know life could feel this way: every muscle in my body is on fire. I am shaking and shivering and have never been so cold my life – yet at the same time I am also burning up, a cold sweat running down the back of my neck. My hair clings to the side of my face, and every joint in my body hurts more than I can describe. It is like the worst fever I’ve ever had – times a hundred.

The epicenter of pain is my calf: it throbs and feels like the size of a softball. The pain is so intense that I squint my eyes, clench my jaw, and pray silently that someone would just cut it off.

I look around and see I’m lying on a cement floor, on the upper story of an abandoned warehouse. The wall is lined with large factory windows, most of the glass panes shattered. Intermittent breezes of cold air rush in, along with gusts of snow, the flakes landing right in the room. Through the windows I can see the midnight sky, a full moon hanging low, amidst the clouds. It is the most beautiful moon I’ve ever seen, filling the warehouse with ambient light.

I feel a gentle hand on my shoulder.

I lift my chin and manage to turn it just a bit. There, kneeling by my side, is Logan. He smiles down. I can’t imagine how bad I must look, and I’m embarrassed for him to see me like this.

“You’re alive,” he says, and I can hear the relief in his voice.

I think back, trying hard to remember where I last was. I remember the Seaport…the pier… I feel another wave of pain run up my leg, and a part of me wishes that Logan would just let me die. He holds up a needle, prepping it.

“They gave us medicine,” he says. “They want you to live. They don’t like the slaverunners any more than we do.”

I try to register what he’s saying, but my mind is not working clearly, and I shiver so much, my teeth are chattering.

“It’s Penicillin. I don’t know if it will work – or if it’s even the real thing. But we have to try.”

He doesn’t have to tell me. I can feel the pain spreading and know there is no alternative.

He holds my hand, and I squeeze his. He then leans over and lowers the needle right to my calf. A second later, I feel the sharp sting of the needle entering my flesh. I breathe sharply and squeeze his hand harder.

As Logan pushes the needle in deeper, I feel the burning liquid enter. The pain is beyond what I can take, and despite myself, I hear my shriek echoing in the warehouse.

As Logan removes the needle, I feel another cold gust of wind and snow, cooling the sweat on my forehead. I try to breathe again. I want to look up at him, to thank him. But I can’t help it: my eyes, so heavy, close on themselves.

And a moment later, I am out again.

It is summer. I am thirteen years old, Bree is six, and we skip hand-in-hand through the lively streets of the Seaport. They are jam-packed with life, everyone out and about, and Bree and I run down the cobblestone streets, laughing at all the funny people.

Bree plays a sort of hopscotch game on the cracks, half-hopping and half-skipping every few steps, and I try to follow in her path. She laughs hysterically at this, and then laughs even harder as I chase her around and around a statue.

Behind us, smiling, hand-in-hand, are my parents. It is one the few times I can remember them being happy together. It is also one of the few times I can remember my father actually being around. They trail behind us, watching over us, and I’ve never felt so safe in my life. The world is perfect. We will always be as happy as this moment.

Bree finds a seesaw and she’s ecstatic, beelining for it and jumping on. She doesn’t hesitate, knowing I will jump on the other side and even her out. Of course I do. She is lighter than me, and I make sure not to jump too hard, so that she can balance with me.

I blink. Time has passed, I’m not sure how much. We’re now at a waterfront park somewhere. Our parents are gone, and we are alone. It is sunset.

“Push me harder, Brooke!” Bree squeals.