Arena Two

“DON’T STOP!” Logan commands. “Keep driving!” He’s using his toughest military voice.

But I can’t listen. There is a man there, standing out there, helpless, wearing just tattered jeans and a sleeveless vest in the freezing cold. He has a long black beard, wild hair, and large, black crazed eyes. He’s so thin, he looks like he hasn’t eaten in days. He has a bow and arrow strapped to his chest. He’s a human, a survivor, just like us, that much is obvious.

He waves his arms frantically, and I can’t run him over. I can’t bear leaving him, either.

We come to an abrupt stop, just feet away from the man. He stands there, wide-eyed, as if he didn’t expect us to really stop.

Logan wastes no time jumping out, both hands on his pistol, aiming it at the man’s head.

“STEP BACK!” he screams.

I jump out, too.

The man slowly raises his arms, looking dazed as he takes several steps back.

“Don’t shoot!” the man pleads. “Please! I’m just like you! I need help. Please. You can’t leave me here to die. I’m starving. I haven’t eaten in days. Let me come with you. Please. Please!”

His voice is cracking, and I see the anguish on his face. I know how he feels. Not long ago, I was just like him, scrounging to get by with every meal here in the mountains. I am hardly much better now.

“Here, take this!” the man says, taking off his bow and quiver of arrows. “It’s yours! I mean no harm!”

“Move slowly,” Logan cautions, still suspicious.

The man reaches out gingerly and hands out the weapon.

“Brooke, you get it,” Logan says.

I step forward, grab the bow and arrows, and throw them in the back of the truck.

“See,” the man says, breaking into a smile. “I’m no threat. I just want to join you. Please. You can’t leave me here to die.”

Slowly, Logan relaxes his guard and lowers his gun just a bit. But he still keeps an eye trained on the man.

“Sorry,” Logan says. “We can’t have another mouth to feed.”

“Wait!” I yell at Logan. “You’re not the only one here. You don’t make all the decisions.” I turn to the man. “What’s your name?” I ask. “Where are you from?”

He looks at me desperately.

“My name is Rupert,” he says. “I’ve survived up here for two years. I’ve seen you and your sister before. When the slaverunners took her, I tried to help. I’m the one that chopped down that tree!”

My heart breaks as he says this. He’s the one that tried to help us. I can’t just leave him here. It’s not right.

“We have to take him,” I say to Logan. “We can find room for one more.”

“You don’t know him,” Logan replies. “Besides, we don’t have the food.”

“I can hunt,” the man says. “I’ve got the bow and arrow.”

“Much good it’s doing you up here,” Logan says.

“Please,” Rupert says. “I can help. Please. I don’t want any of your food.”

“We’re taking him,” I say to Logan.

“No we’re not,” he says back. “You don’t know this man. You don’t know anything about him.”

“I barely know anything about you,” I say to Logan, my anger hardening. I hate how he can be so cynical, so guarded. “You’re not the only one who has the right to live.”

“If you take him, you jeopardize all of us,” he says. “Not just you. Your sister, too.”

“There are three of us here last I checked,” comes Bree’s voice.

I turn and see she’s jumped out of the truck and stands behind us.

“And that means we’re a democracy. And my vote counts. And I vote we take him. We can’t just leave him here to die.”

Logan shakes his head, looking disgusted. Without another word, his jaw hardening, he turns and jumps back into the truck.

The man looks at me with a huge smile, his face crumpling in a thousand wrinkles.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Just move, before he changes his mind,” I say as we turn back to the truck.

As Rupert approaches the door, Logan says, “You’re not sitting upfront. Get in the back of the pickup.”

Before I can argue, Rupert happily jumps into the back of pickup. Bree jumps in, as do I, and we take off.

It is a nerve-racking remainder of the ride back to the river. As we go, the skies darkening, I constantly watching the sunset, bleeding red through the clouds. It’s getting colder out by the second, and the snow is hardening even as we drive, turning to ice in some places, and making driving more precarious. The gas gauge is dropping, flashing red, and though we only have a mile or so to go, I feel as if we’re fighting for every inch. I also feel how on-edge Logan is about our new passenger. It is just one more unknown. One more mouth to feed.

I silently will the truck to keep going, the sky to stay light, the snow not to harden as I step on the gas. Just when I think we’ll never get there, we round the bend, and I see our turnoff. I turn hard onto the narrow country lane, sloping down towards the river, willing the truck to make it. The boat, I know, is only a couple hundred yards away.

We round another bend, and as we do, my heart floods with relief as I see the boat. It is still there, bobbing in the water, and I see Ben standing there, looking nervous, watching the horizon for our approach.

“Our boat!” Bree yells excitedly.

This road is even more bumpy as we accelerate downhill. But we’re going to make it. My heart floods with relief.

Yet as I’m watching the horizon, in the distance I spot something that makes my heart drop. I can’t believe it. Logan must see it at the same time.

“Goddamit,” he whispers.

In the distance, on the Hudson, is a slaverunner boat – a large, sleek, black motorboat, racing towards us. It is twice the size of ours, and I’m sure, much better equipped. Making matters worse, I spot another boat behind that, even farther back.

Logan was right. They were much closer than I’d thought.

I slam on the brakes and we skid to a stop about ten yards from the shoreline. I throw it into park, open the door, and jump out, getting ready to race for the boat.

Suddenly, something is very wrong. I feel my breathing cut off as I feel an arm wrap tight around my throat; then I feel myself being dragged backwards. I am losing air, seeing stars, and I don’t understand what’s happening. Have the slaverunners ambushed us?

“Don’t move,” hisses a voice in my ear.

I feel something sharp and cold against my throat, and realize it’s a knife.

It is then that I realize what has happened: Rupert. The stranger. He has ambushed me.

Three

“LOWER YOUR WEAPON!” Rupert screams. “NOW!”

Logan stands a few feet away, pistol raised, aiming it right past my head. He holds it in place, and I can see him deliberating whether to take a head shot on this man. I see he wants to, but he’s worried about hitting me.

I realize now how stupid I was to pick up this person. Logan had been right all along. I should have listened. Rupert was just using us all along, wanting to take our boat and food and supplies and have it all to himself. He is completely desperate. I realize in a flash that he will surely kill me. I have no doubt about it.

“Take the shot!” I scream out to Logan. “Do it!”

I trust Logan – I know he is a great shot. But Rupert holds me tight, and I see Logan wavering, unsure. It is in that moment that I see in Logan’s eyes how scared he is of losing me. He does care, after all. He really does.

Slowly, Logan holds out his gun with an open palm, then gently places it down in the snow. My heart sinks.

“Let her go!” he commands.

“The food!” Rupert yells back, his breath hot in my ears. “Those sacks! Bring them to me! Now!”

Logan slowly walks to the back of the truck, reaches in, takes out the four heavy sacks, and walks towards the man.

“Place them on the ground!” Rupert yells. “Slowly!”

Slowly, Logan places them down the ground.

In the distance, I hear the whine of the slaverunners’ engines, getting closer. I can’t believe it, how stupid I was. Everything is falling apart, right before my eyes.

Bree gets out of the truck.

“Let my sister go!” she screams at him.

That is when I see the future unraveling before my eyes. I see what will happen. Rupert will slice my throat, then take Logan’s gun and kill him and Bree. Then Ben and Rose. He will take our food and our boat and be gone.

His killing me is one thing. But his harming Bree is another matter. That is something I cannot allow.

Suddenly, I snap. Images of my dad flash through my mind, of his toughness, of the hand-to-hand combat moves he drilled into me. Pressure points. Strikes. Locks. How to get out of almost anything. How to bring a man to his knees with a single finger. And how to get a knife off your throat.

I summon some ancient reflex, and let my body take over. I raise my inner elbow up six inches, and bring it straight back, aiming for his solar plexus.

I make sharp impact, right where I wanted to. His knife digs into my throat a bit more, scratching it, and it hurts.

But the same time, I hear him gasp, and realize my strike worked.

I take a step forward, pull his arm away from my throat, and do a back kick, hitting him hard between the legs.

He stumbles back a few feet, and collapses in the snow.

I breathe deep, gasping, my throat killing me. Logan dives for his gun.

I turn and see Rupert hit the ground running, racing for our boat. He takes three big steps and leaps right to the center of it. In the same motion, he reaches over and cuts the line holding the boat to shore. It all happens in the blink of an eye; I can’t believe how quickly he moves.

Ben stands there, dazed and confused, not knowing how to react. Rupert, on the other hand, doesn’t hesitate: he leaps towards Ben and punches him hard across the face with his free hand.

Ben stumbles and is knocked over, and before he can get up, Rupert grabs him from behind in a chokehold, and holds the knife to his throat.

He turns and faces us, using Ben as a human shield. Inside the boat, Rose is cowering and screaming, and Penelope barks like crazy.

“You shoot me and you take him out, too!” Rupert screams.

Logan has his gun back, and he stands there, taking aim. But it is not an easy shot. The boat drifts farther from shore, a good fifteen yards away, bobbing wildly in the rough tide. Logan has about a two inch radius to take him out without killing Ben. Logan hesitates, and I can see he doesn’t want to risk killing Ben, not even for our own survival. It is a redeeming quality.

“The keys!” Rupert yells at Ben.

Ben, to his credit, has at least done something right: he must have hid the keys somewhere when he saw Rupert coming. Smart move.

In the distance, I suddenly see the slaverunners come into view, as the whine of their engines grows louder. I feel a deepening sense of dread, of helplessness. I don’t know what to do. Our boat is too far from shore to get to it now – and even if we could, Rupert might kill Ben in the process.

Penelope barks and jumps out of Rose’s hands, race across the boat, and dig her teeth into Rupert’s calf.

He screams and momentarily lets go of Ben.

A gunshot rings out. Logan found his chance, and wasted no time.

It is a clean shot, right between the eyes. Rupert stares back at us for a moment as the bullet enters his brain, wide-eyed. Then he slumps back, on the edge of the boat, as if sitting down, and falls over backwards, landing in the water with a splash.

It is over.

“Get our boat back to shore!” Logan screams to Ben. “NOW!”

Ben, still dazed, jumps into action. He fishes the keys out of his pocket, starts the boat, and steers it back toward shore. I grab two sacks of food and Logan grabs the others, and we throw them in the boat as it touches shore. I grab Bree and hoist her into the boat, then run back to the truck. Logan grabs my sacks of salvaged supplies, and I grab Sasha. Then, remembering, I run back to the truck and grab Rupert’s bow and arrows. The last one in, I jump from the shore into the boat, as it starts to drift away. Logan takes over the wheel, hits the throttle and guns it, steering us out of the small channel.

We race towards the entrance to the Hudson, a few hundred yards ahead of us. On the horizon, the slaverunners’ boat – sleek, black, menacing – races towards us, maybe half a mile away. It’s going to be tight. It looks like we’ll barely get out of the channel in time, and barely have a chance to make a run for it. They’ll be right behind us.

We burst out into the Hudson just as it’s getting dark and as we do, the slaverunners come into full view. They are barely a hundred yards behind us, and closing in fast. Behind them, on the horizon, I also spot the other boat, though that is still a good mile away.

I’m sure that if we had more time, Logan would say I told you so. And he would be right.

Just as I’m thinking these thoughts, suddenly, gunshots ring out. Bullets whiz by us, one impacting the side of our boat, shattering wood. Rose and Bree scream out.

“Get down!” I scream.

I lunge to Bree and Rose, grab them and throw them down to the ground. Logan, to his credit, doesn’t flinch, and continues to drive the boat. He swerves a little but doesn’t lose control. He crouches down low as he steers, trying to avoid bullets as he also tries to avoid the large chunks of ice beginning to form.

I take a knee in the back of the boat, raising my head only as high as I need to, and take aim, military style, with my handgun. I aim for the driver, and fire several shots.

They all miss, but I do manage to get their boat to swerve.

“Take the wheel!” Logan yells to Ben.

Ben, to his credit, doesn’t hesitate. He hurries forward and takes the wheel; the boat swerves as he does.

Logan then hurries to my side, taking a knee beside me.

He fires and his bullets just miss, grazing off their boat. They return fire, and a bullet misses my head by inches. They’re closing in fast.

Another bullet shatters a large chunk of wood off the back of our boat.

“They’re going for our gas tank!” Logan screams out. “Go for theirs!”

“Where is it?” I scream out over the roar of the engine and flying bullets.

“In the back of their boat, on the left side!” he yells.

“I can’t get a clean shot at it,” I say. “Not while they’re facing us.”

Suddenly, I have an idea.

“Ben!” I scream out. “You need to make them turn. We need a clean shot at the gas tank!”

Ben doesn’t hesitate; I’ve barely finished speaking the words when he turns hard on the wheel, the force of it throwing me sideways in the boat.

The slaverunners turn, too, trying to follow us. And that exposes the side of their boat.

I take a knee, as does Logan, and we fire several times.

At first, our barrage of fire misses.

Come on. Come on!

I think of my dad. I steady my wrist, breathe deep, and take one more shot.

To my surprise, I land a direct hit.

The slaverunners’ boat suddenly explodes. The half dozen slaverunners on it burst into flames, shrieking as the boat speeds out of control. Seconds later, it smashes head on into the shoreline.

Another huge explosion. Their boat sinks quickly, and if anyone survived, they are surely drowning in the Hudson.

Ben turns us back upriver, keeping us going straight; slowly, I rise and take a deep breath. I can hardly believe it. We killed them.

“Nice shot,” Logan says.

But it’s not time to rest on our laurels. On the horizon, closing in, is another boat. I doubt we’ll be so lucky a second time.

“I’m out of ammo,” I say.

“I’m almost out, too,” Logan says.

“We can’t confront the next boat,” I say. “And we’re not fast enough to outrun them.”

“What do you suggest?” he asks.

“We have to hide.”

I turn to Ben.

“Find us shelter. Do it now. We have to hide this boat. NOW!”

Ben guns it and I run up to the front, standing beside him, scanning the river for any possible hiding spot. Maybe, if we’re lucky, they’ll zoom right past us.

Then again, maybe not.

Four

We all scan the horizon desperately, and finally, on the right, we spot a narrow inlet. It leads into the rusted shell of an old boat terminal.

“There, on the right!” I say to Ben.

“What if they see us?” he asks. “There’s no way out. We’ll be stuck. They’ll kill us.”

“That’s a chance we have to take,” I say.

Ben picks up speed, making a sharp turn into the narrow inlet. We race past the rusted gates, the narrow entryway of an old, rusted warehouse. As we pass through he cuts the engine, then turns to the left, hiding us behind the shoreline, as we bob in the water. I watch the wake we left in the moonlight, and pray it calms enough for the slaverunners to miss our trail.

We all sit anxiously in the silence, bobbing in the water, watching, waiting. The roar of the slaverunners’ engine grows louder, and I hold my breath.

Please, God. Let them pass us by.

The seconds seem to last hours.

Finally, their boat whizzes past us, not slowing for a second.

I hold my breath for ten more seconds as their engine noise grows faint, praying that they don’t come back our way.

They don’t. It worked.

* * *

Nearly an hour has passed since we pulled in here, all of us huddled together, shell-shocked, in our boat. We barely move for fear of being detected. But I haven’t heard a sound since, and haven’t detected any activity since their boat passed us. I wonder where they went. Are they still racing up the Hudson, heading north in the blackness, still thinking we’re just around the bend? Or have they wised up and are they circling back, combing the shores, looking for us? I can’t help but feel that it will only be a matter of time until they come back our way.

But as I stretch out on the boat, I think we are all starting to feel a little bit more relaxed, a little bit less cautious. We are well hidden here, inside this rusted structure, and even if they circle back, I don’t see how the slaverunners could possibly spot us.

My legs and feet are cramped from sitting, it’s gotten much colder out, and I’m freezing. I can see by Bree and Rose’s chattering teeth that they’re freezing, too. I wish I had blankets or clothes to give them, or warmth of some sort. I wish we could build a fire – not just for warmth, but also to be able to see each other, to take comfort in each other’s faces. But I know that’s out of the question. It would be far too risky.

I see Ben sitting there, huddle over, shaking, and remember the pants I salvaged. I stand, the boat rocking as I do, and take a few steps over to my sack and reach in and pull them out. I toss them to Ben.

They land on his chest and he looks over at me, confused.

“They should fit,” I say. “Try them on.”

He’s wearing tattered jeans, covered in holes, way too thin, and dampened with water. Slowly, he bends over and pries off his boots, then slides the leather pants on over his jeans. They look funny on him, the military pants of the slaverunner – but as I suspected, they are a perfect fit. He zips them up wordlessly as he leans back, and I can see the gratitude in his eyes.

I feel Logan looking over at me, and I feel as if he’s jealous of my friendship with Ben. He’s been like that ever since he saw Ben kiss me back at Penn Station. It’s awkward, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I like them both, in different ways. I’ve never met two more opposite people – yet somehow, they remind me of each other.

I go over to Bree, still shivering, huddled together with Rose, Penelope in her lap, and I sit beside her, drape an arm over her and kiss her forehead. She leans her head into my shoulder.

“It’s okay Bree,” I say.

“I’m hungry,” she says in a soft voice.

“Me too,” Rose echoes.

Penelope whimpers softly, and I can tell she is hungry, too. She is smarter than any dog I’ve ever met. And brave, despite her quivering. I can’t believe she bit Rupert when she did; if it weren’t for her, maybe we all wouldn’t be here. I lean over and stroke her head, and she licks my hand back.

Now that they mention food, I realize it’s a good idea. I’ve been trying to avoid my hunger pangs for way too long.

“You’re right,” I say. “Let’s eat.”

They both look at me with eyes wide open in hope and expectation. I stand, cross the boat, and reach into one of the sacks. I take out two large mason jars of raspberry jam and hand one to Bree, unscrewing it for her.

“You guys share this jar,” I say to them. “The three of us will share the other.”

I open the other jar and pass it to Logan, and he reaches in with his finger, takes a large amount, and puts it in his mouth. He breathes deeply with satisfaction – he must have been starving.

I hand it out to Ben, who takes one, too, then I reach in and scoop a fingerful and place it on my tongue. I get a sugar rush as the raspberry fills my senses, and it is quite possibly the best thing I’ve ever tasted. I know this is not a meal, but it feels like one.

I seem to be the keeper of food, so I head back to the bags and take out what’s left of our cookies and hand one to each person, including myself. I look over and see Bree and Rose happily eating the jam; with every other fingerful, they give Penelope one. She licks their fingers like crazy, whining as she does. The poor thing must be as hungry as we are.

“They’ll be back, you know,” comes the ominous voice beside me.

I turn and see Logan sitting back, cleaning out his gun, looking at me.

“You know that, right?” he presses. “We’re sitting ducks here.”

“What do you propose?” I ask.

He shrugs and looks away, disappointed.

“We never should’ve stopped. We should’ve kept going, like I said.”

“Well, it’s too late now,” I shoot back, irritated. “Stop complaining.”

I’m getting tired of his gloom and doom at every turn, getting tired of our power struggle. I resent having him around, as much as I appreciate him at the same time.

“None of our options are good,” he says. “If we head upriver tonight, we might run into them. Might ruin the boat. Maybe hit floating ice, maybe something else. Worse, they’d probably catch us. If we leave in the morning, they can see us in the light. We’d be able to navigate, but they might be waiting.”

“So let’s leave in the morning,” I say. “At the crack of dawn. We’ll head north and hope they circled back and went south.”

“And what if they didn’t?” he asks.

“You got any better ideas? We have to head away from the city, not towards it. Besides, Canada’s North, isn’t it?”

He turns and looks away, and sighs.

“We could stay put,” he says. “Wait it out a few days. Make sure they pass us first.”

“In this weather? If we don’t get shelter, we’ll freeze to death. And we’ll be out of food by then. We can’t stay here. We have to keep moving.”

“Oh, now you want to keep moving,” he says.

I glare back at him – he is really beginning to get on my nerves.

“Fine,” he says. “Let’s leave at dawn. In the meantime, if we’re going to stay the night here, we need to stand guard. In shifts. I’ll go first, then you, then Ben. You guys sleep now. None of us have slept, and we all need to. Deal?” he asks, looking back and forth from me to Ben.

“Deal,” I say. He’s right.

Ben doesn’t respond, still looking out into space, lost in his own world.

“Hey,” Logan says roughly, leaning back and kicking his foot, “I’m talking to you. Deal?”

Ben slowly turns and looks at him, still looking out of it, then nods. But I can’t tell if he’s really heard him. I feel so bad for Ben; it’s like he’s not really here. Clearly, he’s consumed by grief and guilt for his brother. I can’t even imagine what he’s going through.

“Good,” Logan says. He checks his ammo, cocks his gun, then jumps off the boat, onto the dock beside us. The boat rocks, but doesn’t drift away. Logan stands on the dry dock, surveying our surroundings. He takes a seat on a wooden post and stares into the blackness, his gun rested on his lap.

I settle in beside Bree, wrapping my arm around her. Rose leans in, too, and I wrap my arm around them both.

“You guys get some rest. We’ll have a long day ahead of us tomorrow,” I say, secretly wondering if this will be our last night on earth. Wondering if there will even be a tomorrow.

“Not until I take care of Sasha,” Bree says.

Sasha. I almost forgot.