Morgan Rice: Arena One: Slaverunners

“I got them,” Logan says. “Take the wheel.”

I hurry over to the driver’s seat. Luckily, I’ve driven boats all my life. Logan shoves us off and takes a position at the back of the boat, kneeling and firing at the oncoming soldiers. They duck for cover, and it slows them down.

I look down, and my heart drops to see there are no keys in the ignition. I check the dash, then check the front seats frantically, my heart pounding. What will we do if they aren’t here?

I look over my shoulder and see the slaverunners are closer now, barely ten yards away.

“DRIVE!” Logan screams, over the sound of his gunfire.

I get an idea and check the glove compartment, hoping. My heart soars to find them. I insert the key into the ignition, turn it, and the engine roars to life. Black exhaust comes billowing out, and the gas gauge pops all the way. A full tank.

I hit the throttle and am jerked backwards as the boat takes off. I can hear the bodies falling behind me, and I look back to find that Bree, Rose and Logan were all knocked over by the torque, too. I guess I gunned it too hard – luckily, no one fell overboard.

We are also lucky because the slaverunners are at the shore’s edge, just ten feet away. I pulled out just in time. They fire back at us, and because everyone hit the deck, their bullets whiz over our heads. One of the bullets grazes the wood paneling, and another takes out my side view mirror.

“STAY DOWN!” Logan screams to the girls.

He takes a knee at the rear, pops up, and fires back. In the rearview I see him take out several of them.

I keep gunning it, pushing the engine with all it has, and within moments, we’re far away from the island. Fifty yards, then a hundred, then two hundred… Soon, we are safely out of range of their bullets. The slaverunners stand on shore helplessly, now just dots on the horizon, watching us tear away.

I can’t believe it. We are free.

As we pull away, deeper and deeper into the river, I know I should stay in the middle of the waterway, far from either shore, and head upriver, getting as far from the city as I can. But something inside stops me. Thoughts of Ben come rushing back, and I can’t let him go so easily. What if somehow he’s made it down to the Seaport? What if he was late?

I just can’t let it go. If by some chance he is there, I can’t just abandon him. I have to see. I have to know.

So instead of turning upriver, I point the boat straight for the opposite shore – back towards the Seaport. Within moments the Manhattan shoreline rushes at us, getting closer and closer. My heart pounds at the potential danger that could be waiting – any number of armed slaverunners waiting on shore to fire on us.

Logan realizes I’m going the wrong way, and suddenly comes running up beside me, frantic.

“Where are you going!?” he screams. “You’re heading back to the city!”

“I have to see something,” I say, “before we go.”

“See what!?”

“Ben,” I answer. “He might be there.”

Logan scowls.

“That’s crazy!” he says. “You’re bringing us right back into the hornet’s nest. You’re endangering us all! He had his chance. He wasn’t there!”

“I have to check,” I yell back. I am determined, and nothing will stop me. I realize that, in some ways, I’m just like my Mom.

Logan turns and sulks away, and I can feel how disapproving he is. I don’t blame him. But I have to do this. I know that if it was Ben, he’d come back and check for me, too.

Within moments the Seaport comes into view. We get closer, 300 yards…200…and then, as we reach a hundred yards out, I swear I spot someone, standing alone on the end of the pier. He’s looking out at the water, and my heart leaps.

It is Ben.

I can hardly believe it. He’s really there. He’s alive. He stands there, in the snow, up to his thighs, shivering. My heart drops to realize he is alone. That can only mean one thing: his brother didn’t make it.

We are close now, maybe twenty yards out, close enough that I can see the lines of sorrow etched into Ben’s face. In the distance, I see a caravan of slaverunner vehicles racing through the snow, heading right for the pier. There isn’t much time.

I slow the boat and pull up to the pier; Ben, waiting, runs to the edge. We idle, rocking wildly in the waves, and I suddenly wonder how Ben will get in. It is a good ten foot drop from the pier. Ben looks down, fear in his eyes, and he must be thinking the same thing, trying to figure out how to jump.

“Don’t jump!” Logan screams. “It might destroy the boat!”

Ben stops and looks at him, frozen in fear.

“Get on your hands and knees, turn around, and crawl down backwards,” Logan commands. “Inch your way down. Grab onto the edge of the pier and dangle off it with your hands. I’ll catch you.”

Ben does as he’s told and slowly slips and slides over the edge, until he’s hanging by his hands. Logan, to his credit, reaches up and grabs him, lowers him into the boat. Just in time: the slaverunners are hardly fifty yards away, and closing in fast.

“MOVE!” Logan screams.

I gun the throttle and we take off, flying upriver. As we do, shots are fired out again, just grazing our boat, and sinking into the water in small splashes. Logan takes a knee and fires back.

Luckily, they are no match for our speed: within moments we’re far from shore, in the middle of the river, out of firing range. I keep heading north, upriver, back in the direction of home.

Now, finally, there is nothing left to stop us.

Now, we are free.

We race up the East River and as we go, it is extraordinary to see the wreckage of the bridges up close. We race past the remains of the Brooklyn Bridge, its rusted metal sticking out of the water like a prehistoric thing. It towers above us, several stories high, like a skyscraper rising out of the water. I feel dwarfed as we drive under it, and can’t help wondering if any of this will ever be rebuilt.

Nearby is the wreckage of the bomber plane sticking out of the water, and I swerve to keep a good distance from that, too. I don’t know what sort of metal might be protruding from these freezing waters, and I don’t want to test it.

We soon pass the remnants of the Manhattan Bridge, then the Williamsburg Bridge. I hit the throttle, wanting to get us past all these horrific sights as soon as possible.

We soon race by what was once Roosevelt Island, its thin strip of land now a wasteland, like everything else. I fork left and find the 59 thStreet Bridge has been destroyed, too – along with the tram that used to connect the island to Manhattan. The tram, rusted and demolished, bobs in the river like a huge buoy. I have to be careful to avoid it as the waterway narrows.

I continue racing upriver, farther and farther, passing nothing but destruction, until finally, I fork left into the waterway of the Harlem River. This is much more narrow, with land only fifty yards on either side of us. I feel much more on edge as we traverse it. I scan the shores, on the lookout for an ambush.

But I see nothing. Maybe I’m just being paranoid. If the slaverunners are going to mobilize after us – and I’m sure they are – we probably have at least an hour jump on them. Especially given all the snow. And by then, I’m hoping we’ll be too far up the Hudson for them to catch us.

The Harlem River snakes between Manhattan and the Bronx, and finally dumps us out onto the vast, wide-open expanse of the Hudson River. The Hudson, by contrast, is as wide as ten football fields, and I feel like we have just entered an ocean. Finally, I feel at ease again. Finally, we are back on the river that I remember. The river that leads us home.