Arena Two

Five

“BEN!” I scream, sitting up.

But it’s too late. A second later, they charge us.

One has overtaken Ben, tackling him, while the other two take a running jump right into our boat.

The boat rocks violently as they man our craft.

Logan wakes, but not in time. One of the men goes right for him, knife drawn, and is about to plunge it into his chest.

My reflexes kick in. I reach back, grab the knife from my waist, lean forward and throw it. The knife goes flying end over end.

It is a perfect strike. It lodges right into the man’s throat, a second before he stabs Logan. He collapses, lifeless, on top of him.

Logan sits up and throws the corpse off, and it lands in the water with a splash. Luckily, he has the presence of mind to remove my knife before he does.

Two more come charging my way. With the light picking up, I can see that they are not men: they are mutants. Half men, half I don’t know what. Radiated from the war. Crazies. This terrifies me: these types, unlike Rupert, are super strong, super vicious, and have nothing to lose.

One of them heads for Bree and Rose, and I can’t let him. I dive for him, tackling him to the ground.

We both go down hard, the boat rocking wildly. I see Logan out of the corner of my eye diving on top of the other, bumping him hard and splashing him overboard.

We have stopped two of them. But a third one races past us.

The one I tackle spins me around and pins me down. He is on top of me, and he is strong. He reaches back and punches me hard in the face, and I feel the sting on my cheek.

I think quick: I raise a knee hard and slam it right between his legs.

It is a perfect strike. He groans and slumps, and as he does, I reach back and elbow him hard across the face. There’s a cracking noise as I break cheekbone, and he collapses in the boat.

I hurl him overboard, into the water. It was a stupid move. I should’ve stripped him of his weapons first. The boat swings wildly as his body leaves.

I now turn to the last one, at the same time Logan does.

But neither of us are quick enough. He races past us, and for some reason, charges right for Bree.

Penelope leaps into the air and, snarling, digs her teeth into his wrist.

He shakes her like a ragdoll, trying to get her off. Penelope hangs on, but finally he gives her a violent shake and sends her flying across the boat.

Before I can reach him, he is about to descend on Bree. My heart stops as I realize I won’t make it in time.

Rose jumps up to save Bree and gets in the way of the man’s attack. He picks Rose up, leans over and sinks his teeth into her arm.

Rose lets out an unearthly shriek as he tears her flesh with his teeth. It is a sickening, awful site, one that will lodge in my mind forever.

The man leans back, about to bite her again – but now I catch him in time. I pull the spare knife from my pocket, reach back and prepare to throw it.

But before I do, Logan steps up, takes steady aim with his pistol, and fires.

Blood splatters everywhere as he shoots the man in the back of the head. He collapses down to the boat and Logan steps forward and hurls his corpse overboard.

I rush forward to Rose, hysterically shrieking, hardly knowing how to comfort her. I tear off a strip of my shirt and quickly wrap it around her profusely bleeding arm, trying to staunch the blood as best I can.

I detect motion out of the corner of my eye, and realize a crazy has Ben pinned down on the pier. He leans back, about to take a bite out of Ben’s throat. I turn and throw my knife. It flies end over end and lodges in the back of the man’s neck. His body goes still, as he slumps over to the ground.

Ben sits up, dazed.

“Back in the boat!” Logan yells. “NOW!”

I hear the anger in Logan’s voice, and I feel it, too. Ben was on guard and he fell asleep. He left us all open to attack.

Ben stumbles back into the boat and as he does, Logan reaches over with his knife and cuts the rope. As I take care of Rose, shrieking in my arms, Logan takes the wheel, starting up the boat and hitting the throttle.

We gun it out of the channel in the breaking dawn. He’s right to take off. Those gunshots might have alerted someone; who knows how much time we have now.

We tear out of the channel into the purple light of day, leaving several bodies floating behind us. Our place of shelter has quickly transformed into a place of horrors, and I hope I never see it again.

We race again down the center of the Hudson, the boat bobbing as Logan guns it. I am on guard, looking in every direction for any sign of slaverunners. If they are anywhere near us, there is nowhere left to hide: the sounds of the gunshots, of Rose’s shrieking, and of a roaring engine hardly make us inconspicuous.

I just pray that at some point during the night they circled back looking for us and are farther south than we are; if so, they are somewhere behind us. If not, we will run right into them.

If we are really lucky, they gave up and turned all the way back and headed back to Manhattan. But somehow I doubt that. We’ve never been that lucky.

Like those crazies. That was just a stroke of bad luck to park there. I’ve heard rumors of predatory gangs of crazies turned cannibals, who survive by eating others, but I never believed it. I still can hardly believe it’s true.

I hold Rose tight, blood seeping through her wound, onto my hand, rocking her, trying to console her. Her impromptu bandage is already red, so I tear a new piece off my shirt, my stomach exposed to the freezing cold, and replace her bandage. It is hardly hygienic, but is better than nothing, and I have to staunch the blood somehow. I wish I had medicine, antibiotics, or at least painkillers – anything I could give her. As I pull off the soaking bandage, I see the chunk of missing flesh on her arm, and I look away, trying not to think of the pain she must be going through. It is horrific.

Penelope sits on her lap, whining, looking up at her, clearly wanting to help, too. Bree looks traumatized once again, holding Rose’s hand, trying to quiet her cries. But she is inconsolable.

I wish desperately I had a tranquilizer – anything. And then, suddenly, I remember. That bottle of champagne, half drunk. I hurry to the front of the boat, grab it, and race back to her.

“Drink this,” I say.

Rose is hysterically crying, screaming in agony, and doesn’t even acknowledge me.

I hold it to her lips and make her drink. She nearly chokes on it, spilling some out, but drinks a little.

“Please, Rose, drink. It will help.”

I hold it again to her mouth, and in between her wails she takes a few more sips. I feel bad giving alcohol to a young child, but I’m hoping it will help numb her pain, and I don’t know what else to do.

“I found pills,” comes a voice.

I turn and see Ben, standing there, looking alert for the first time. The attack, what happened to Rose, must have snapped him out of it, maybe because he feels guilty for falling asleep on guard. He stands there, holding out a small container of pills.

I take it and examine it.

“I found it inside the cubby,” he says. “I don’t know what it is.”

I read the label: Ambien. Sleeping pills. The slaverunners must have stashed this to help them sleep. The irony of it: there they are, keeping others awake all night, and stashing sleeping pills for themselves. But for Rose, this is perfect, exactly what we need.

I don’t know how many to give her, but I need to calm her down. I hand her the champagne again, make sure she swallows it down, then give her two of them. I stash the rest in my pocket, so they won’t get lost, then keep a close watch on Rose.

Within minutes, the booze and pills begin to take effect. Slowly, her wails become cries, then these become muffled. After about twenty minutes, her eyes begin to slump, and she falls asleep in my arms.

I give it another ten minutes, to make sure she’s asleep, then look over at Bree.

“Can you hold her?” I ask.

Bree hurries over to my side, and slowly I get up and place Rose in her arms instead.

I stand, my legs cramped, and walk to the front of the boat, beside Logan. We continue to race upriver, the sky breaking, and as I look out at the water, I don’t like what I see.

Small chunks of ice are beginning to form in the Hudson in this freezing morning. I can hear them pinging off the boat. This is the last thing we need.

But it gives me an idea. I lean over the boat, water spraying me in the face, and put my hands in the freezing water. It is painful to the touch, but I force my hand all the way, trying to grab a small chunk of ice as we go. We are going too fast, though, and it’s hard to grab one. I keep missing by a few inches.

Finally, after a minute agony, I catch one. I lift my hand, shaking from the cold, rush over, and hand the ice to Bree.

She takes it, wide-eyed.

“Hold this,” I say.

I go back and take the other bandage, the bloody one, and wrap the ice in it. I hand it to Bree.

“Hold this against her wound.”

I am hoping it will help numb her pain, maybe stop the swelling.

I turn my attention back to the river and look around, on all sides, as the morning becomes increasingly bright. We are racing farther and farther north, and I’m relieved to see no signs of the slaverunners anywhere. I hear no engines and detect no movement on either side of the river. The silence is, in fact, ominous. Are they waiting for us?

I come up to the passenger seat, beside Logan, and glance down at the gas tank. Less than a quarter tank. It doesn’t bode well.

“Maybe they’re gone,” I venture. “Maybe they turned back, gave up the search.”

“Don’t count on it,” he says.

As if on cue, suddenly, I hear the roar of an engine. My heart stops. It is a sound I’d recognize anywhere in the world: their engine.

I turn to the back of the boat and look out at the horizon: sure enough, there, about a mile away, are the slaverunners. They are racing towards us. I watch them come, feeling helpless. We are nearly out of ammo, and they are well-equipped and well manned, with tons of weapons and ammunition. We don’t stand a chance if we fight them, and we don’t stand a chance of outrunning them: they are already closing in. We can’t try to hide again, either.

We have no choice but to confront them. And that would be a losing battle. It is like a death sentence racing towards us on the horizon.

“Maybe we should surrender!” Ben yells out, looking back, terrified.

“Never,” I say.

I can’t imagine becoming their prisoner again.

“If I go down, it’s as a dead man,” Logan echoes.

I try to think, pressing my mind for any solution.

“Can’t you go any faster!?” I press Logan, as I watch them close the gap.

“I’m going as fast as I can!” he shouts back, over the roar of the engine.

I don’t know what else to do. I feel so helpless. Rose is awake now, wailing again, and Penelope barks. I feel as if the whole world is closing in on me. If I don’t think quick, come up with some solution, we will all be dead in minutes.