Arena One: Slaverunners

“I’ll take a boat,” I answer, prepared. “I know someone who will take us. He’s got a speedboat and he’ll take us up the Hudson.”

“And how can you afford that?” she asked me coldly.

I hesitated, feeling guilty. “I traded my gold watch.”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “You mean Dad’s gold watch,” she snapped.

“He gave it to me,” I corrected. “And I’m sure he’d want to see me put it to good use.”

She looked away from me in disgust, staring back out the window.

“Don’t you get it?” I continued. “In a few more weeks, this city will be destroyed. It’s not safe here anymore. This is our last chance to get out.”

“And how’s your father going to feel when he comes home and finds us all gone? When he discovers that we have all abandoned him?”

I stared at Mom, incredulous. She was really lost in her fantasy.

“He left us,” I spat. “He volunteered for this stupid war. No one asked him to go. He’s not coming back. And this is exactly what he’d want us to do. He’d want us to survive. Not sit around some stupid apartment waiting to die.”

Mom slowly turned and looked at me with her cold, steely-gray eyes. She had that awful determination, the same awful determination I have. Sometimes I hate myself for being so much like her. I could see in her eyes, at that moment, that she would never, ever, give in. She had gotten it into her head that waiting was the loyal thing to do. And once she got something into her head, there was no changing it.

But in my view, her loyalty was misplaced. She owed it to us. To her children. Not to a man who was more devoted to fighting than to his family.

“If you want to leave your father, go ahead. I’m not going. When your plans fall through and you don’t make it upriver, you can come back. I’ll be here.”

I didn’t wait a second longer. I grabbed Bree by the hand, turned and strutted with her to the door. Bree was crying, and I knew I had to get out of there quick. I stopped one last time before the door.

“You’re making a mistake,” I called out.

But she didn’t even bother to turn, to say goodbye. And I knew she never would.

I opened the door, then slammed it behind me.

And that was the last I ever saw Mom alive again.

Thirty

I wake to blinding sunlight. It is as if the world is alive again. Sunlight streams in through the windows all around me, brighter than I’ve ever seen, bouncing off of everything. The wind has stopped. The storm is over. Snow melts off the window ledge, the sound of dripping water echoing all around me. There is a cracking noise, and a huge icicle crashes down onto the floor.

I look around, disoriented, and realize I’m still lying in the same place as last night, Logan’s coat still draped over me. I feel completely rejuvenated.

Suddenly, I remember, and sit up with a shock. Dawn. We had to get up at dawn. The sight of the bright morning light terrifies me, as I look over and see Logan lying there, right beside me, eyes closed. He is fast asleep. My heart stops. We have overslept.

I scramble to my feet, feeling energetic for the first time, and roughly shake his shoulder.

“LOGAN!” I say urgently.

Immediately, his eyes open and he jumps to his feet. He looks around, alert.

“It’s morning!” I plead. “The boat. We’re going to miss it!”

His eyes open wide in surprise as he realizes.

We both jump into action, sprinting for the door. My leg still hurts, but I am pleasantly surprised to find I can actually run on it. I race down the metal staircase, footsteps echoing, right behind Logan. I grip the rusted metal railing, careful to pass over steps that are rotting away.

We reach the ground floor and burst out of the building, into the blinding light of snow. It is a winter wonderland. I wade into the snow up to my thighs, which slows my running, each step a struggle. But I follow Logan’s tracks, and he plows through, making it easier.

The water is up ahead and we are only a block away. To my great relief I see the barge docked at the pier, and can barely see its loading ramp being lifted, as the last of a group of chained girls is led on board. The boat is about to leave.

I run harder, trudging through the snow as fast as I can go. As we reach the pier, still about a hundred yards away from the boat, the ramp is removed. I hear the roar of an engine, and a huge cloud of black exhaust billows from the back of the barge. My heart is pounding.

As we near the end of the pier, I suddenly think of Ben, of our promise to each other – to meet at the pier at dawn. As I run, I scan left and right, looking for any sign of him. But there is nothing. My heart sinks, as I realize that can only mean one thing: he didn’t make it.

We close in on the barge, hardly thirty yards away, when suddenly it begins to move. My heart starts to pound. We’re so close. Not now. Not now!

We are only twenty yards away, but the boat has departed from the pier. It is already about ten feet out into the water.

I increase my speed and am now running beside Logan, fighting my way through the thick snow. The barge is now a good fifteen feet off shore, and moving fast. Too far to jump.

But I continue to sprint, right up to the very edge, and as I do, I suddenly spot thick ropes, dangling from the boat to the pier, slowly dragging off the edge.

The ropes stretch behind it, like a long tail.

“THE ROPES!” I scream.

Logan apparently has the same idea. Neither of us slows – instead, we keep sprinting, and as I reach the end, without thinking, I aim for a rope and leap.

I go flying through the air, hoping, praying. If I miss, it would be a long fall, at least thirty feet, and I would land in icy cold water, with no way back up. The water is so cold and the tides so strong, I’m sure I would die within seconds of impact.

As I reach for the thick, knotted rope, I wonder if this could be my last moment on earth.

Thirty One

My heart leaps in my throat as I reach out for the thick, knotted twine. I catch hold of it in the air, clutching onto it for life. Like a pendulum, I swing on it, racing through the air at full speed towards the immense hull of the rusted barge. The metal flies at me, and I brace myself for impact.

It is excruciatingly painful as I collide at full speed, the metal slamming into the side of my head, ribs, and shoulder. The pain and shock of impact is almost enough to make me drop the rope. I slip a few feet, but somehow manage to hang on.

I wrap my feet around the rope before I slip all the way down to the water. I cling to it, dangling there, as the barge continues to move, gaining speed. Logan has managed to catch his and hang on, too. He dangles a few feet away.

I look down at the rough waters a few feet below me, churning white as the barge cuts a path across the river. Those are big currents below, especially for a river, strong enough to lift this huge barge up and down.

To my right, the Statue of Liberty towers over us. Amazingly, it has survived intact. Seeing it, I feel inspired, feel as if maybe I can make it, too.

Luckily, Governors Island is close, barely a minute’s ride. I remember taking ferry rides there with Bree on hot summer days, and how amazed we were that it was so close. Now, I’m so grateful it is: if it were any farther, I don’t know if I’d be able to hang on. The wet rope digs into my freezing hands, making every second a struggle. I wonder how I will get out of this mess. There is no ladder on the side of the boat, and once we reach the island, there will be no way for me to get out except to drop down off the rope, into the water. Which would surely make me freeze to death.

I detect movement and look over and see that Logan is slowly climbing his way up the rope. He has devised an ingenious method of lifting his knees, clamping the insoles of his feet tightly against the thick rope, then using his legs to pull himself up.

I try it. I raise my knees and clamp my feet into the twine, and am happily surprised to see that my boot catches. I straighten my legs and pull myself up a notch. It works. I do it again and again, following Logan, and within a minute, the time it takes to reach the island, I’m at the top of the rope. Logan is there, waiting, hand outstretched. I reach up and grab it, and he pulls me quickly and silently over the edge.

We both crouch down behind a metal container and furtively survey the boat. Standing up front, their backs to us, are a group of guards holding machine guns. They herd a dozen young girls, directing them down a long ramp lowered from the boat. The sight makes me burn with indignation, and makes me want to attack them right now. But I force myself to wait, to stay disciplined. It would give me temporary satisfaction, but then I would never get Bree.

The group starts to move, chains rattling, until they are all off the ramp and on the island. When the boat is emptied, Logan and I nod to each other and silently make our way off the barge, running alongside the edge. We hurry down the ramp, a good deal behind everybody else. Luckily, no one is looking back for us.

In moments we are on land. We hurry through the snow and take shelter behind a small structure, hiding out of sight to watch where the girls are taken. The slaverunners head toward a large, circular brick structure which looks like a cross between an amphitheater and a prison. There are iron bars all around its perimeter.

We follow their trail, hiding behind a tree every twenty yards, running from tree to tree, careful not to be seen. I reach down and feel for my gun, in case I need to use it. Logan does the same. They might notice us at any moment, and we have to be ready. It would be a mistake to fire – it would draw too much attention, too soon. But if I need to, I will.

They herd the girls into the open doorway of the building and then disappear in the blackness.

We both break into action, running inside after them.

My eyes take a moment to adjust to the darkness. To my right, around the bend, a group of slaverunners leads the girls, while to my left, a single slaverunner heads solo down a corridor. Logan and I exchange a knowing glance, and both wordlessly decide to go after the stray slaverunner.

We run silently down the corridor, just yards behind him, waiting for our chance. He reaches a large iron door, pulls out a set of keys, and begins to unlock it. The metal clangs, reverberating in the empty corridors. Before I can react, Logan pulls out a knife, charges the slaverunner, grabs him by the back of his head, and slices his throat in one quick motion. Blood spurts everywhere as he collapses, a lifeless heap on the ground below.

I grab his set of keys, still in the lock, turn it, and pull back the heavy iron door. I hold it open and Logan runs in, and I follow.

We are in a cell block, long, narrow, semi-circular, filled with small cells. I run down it, looking left and right, scanning the haunted, hollow faces of the young girls. They stare back at me, hopeless, desperate. It looks like they’ve been here forever.

My heart is thumping. I look desperately for any sign of my sister. I feel she is close. As I run through, the girls go to their cell doors and stick their hands through. They must realize we’re not slaverunners.

“PLEASE!” one cries. “Help me!”

“LET ME OUT OF HERE!” another cries.

Soon, a chorus of shouts and pleas rises up. It is drawing too much attention, and it worries me. I want to help each one of these girls, but there’s no way I can. Not now. I need to find Bree first.

“BREE!” I scream, desperate.

I increase my pace to a jog, running cell to cell.

“BREE? CAN YOU HEAR ME? IT’S ME! BROOKE! BREE? ARE YOU HERE!?”

As I race by a cell, a girl reaches out and grabs my arm, pulling me to her.

“I know where she is!” she says.

I stop and stare at her. Her face is as frantic as the others.

“Let me out of here, and I’ll tell you!” she says.

If I set her free, she might draw unwanted attention to us. Then again, she is my best bet.

I look at her cell number, then look down at the keys in my hand and find the number. I unlock it, and the girl comes running out.

“LET ME OUT, TOO!” another girl yells.

“ME TOO!”

All the girls start screaming.

I grab this girl by the shoulders.

“Where is she!?” I demand.

“She’s in the mansion. They took her this morning.”

“The mansion?” I ask.

“That’s where they take the new girls. To be broken in.”

“Broken in?” I ask, horrified.

“For sex,” she answers. “For the first time.”

My heart plummets at her words.

“Where?” I demand. “WHERE IS IT?”

“Follow me,” she says, and begins to run.

I am about to follow her out, but suddenly I stop.

“Wait,” I say, grabbing her wrist.

I know I shouldn’t do this. I know I should just run out of here, focus on saving Bree. I know there’s no time, and I know that helping the others can only cause unwanted attention and screw up my plans.

But something inside me, a deep sense of indignation, stirs. I just can’t bring myself to leave them all here like this.

So, against my better judgment, I stop and turn back, running cell to cell. As I reach each one, I find the key and unlock it. One by one, I free all of the girls. They all come running out, hysterical, running every which way. The noise is deafening.

I run back to the first one I freed. Luckily, she is still waiting with Logan.

She runs and we follow her, racing down corridor after corridor. Moments later, we burst out into the blinding light of day.

As we run, I can hear the chorus of girls screaming behind us, bursting out to freedom. It won’t be long until all the soldiers catch onto us. I run faster.

The girl stops and points across the courtyard.

“There!” she says. “That building! The big old house. On the water. The Governor’s Mansion. That’s it! Good luck!” she cries, and turns and runs off in the other direction.

I sprint for the building, Logan right beside me.

We run across the massive field, thigh-deep in snow, on the lookout for slaverunners. Luckily, they aren’t on to us yet.

The cold air burns my lungs. I think of Bree, being taken somewhere for sex, and I can’t possibly get there fast enough. I’m so close now. I can’t let her be hurt. Not now. Not after all this. Not when I’m only feet away.

I force myself forward, never stopping to catch a breath. I reach the front door and am not even cautious. I don’t stop to check, but just run into it and kick it open.

It bursts open and I continue running, right into the house. I don’t even know where I’m going, but I see a staircase and my instinct tells me to go up. I run right for it, sensing Logan right behind me.

As I reach the landing at the top of the steps, a slaverunner bursts out of a room, his mask off. He looks at me, eyes open wide in shock, and reaches for a gun.

I don’t hesitate. Mine is already drawn. I shoot him point blank in the head. He goes down, the gunshot deafening in this contained area.

I continue to charge down the hallway and pick a random room. I kick the door open and am horrified to find a man on top of a young girl, who is chained to a bed. It’s not Bree, but still, the sight sickens me. The man – a slaverunner without his mask – jumps up, looks at me in fear, and scrambles for his gun. I shoot him between the eyes. The little girl screams as his blood splats over her. At least he is dead.

I run back down the hall, kicking open doors as I go from room to room, each one containing another man having sex with a chained girl. I move on, searching frantically for Bree.

I reach the end of the hall and there is one final door. I kick it open, Logan behind me, and charge inside. I freeze.

A four-poster bed dominates the room. On it lies a large, fat, naked man having sex with a young girl, tied to his bed with rope. I can see that the girl is unconscious, and wonder if she’s been drugged. This man must be important, because beside him sits a slaverunner, standing guard.

I aim for the fat man, and as he turns I shoot him once in the stomach. He crashes to the ground, grunting, and I shoot him a second time – this time, in the head.

But I’m reckless. The guard aims his gun at me, and I can see out of the corner of my eye that he’s about to shoot. It was a stupid mistake. I should have taken him out first.

I hear a gunshot and flinch.

I am still alive. The guard is dead. Logan stands over him, gun drawn.

Across the room sit two young girls, both chained to their chairs. They sit fully clothed, shaking with fear, clearly next in line to be brought to the bed. My heart soars. One of them is Bree.

Bree sits there, chained, terrified, eyes open wide. But she’s safe. Untouched. I made it just in time. A few more minutes and I’m sure she would have been at the mercy of that fat man.

“Brooke!” she screams, hysterical, and bursts into tears.

I run to her, kneeling down and hugging her. She hugs me back as best she can with the chains on, crying over my shoulder.

Logan appears and, having grabbed the key from the dead slaverunner’s belt, unlocks them both. Bree jumps into my arms, giving me a hug, her whole body shaking. She clings to me as if she’ll never let go.

I feel the tears pour down my cheeks as I hug her back. I can’t believe it: it’s really her.

“I told you I’d come back for you,” I say.

I want to hold her forever, but I know we haven’t time. Soon this place will be overrun.

I pull her back and take her hand. “Let’s go,” I say, preparing to run.

“Wait!” Bree yells, stopping.

I stop and turn.

“We have to bring Rose, too!” Bree says.

The girl beside Bree looks up at us, so hopeless, so lost. It is odd, but she actually resembles Bree; with her long black hair and large brown eyes, the two of them could pass for sisters.

“Bree, I’m sorry, but we can’t. We don’t have time and – ”

“Rose is my friend!” Bree yells. “We can’t just leave her. We can’t!”

I look at Rose, and my heart wells up at the sight. I look at Logan who looks back disapprovingly – but with a look that says it’s my call.

Bringing Rose will slow us down. And it will be another mouth to feed. But Bree, for the first time in her life, is insistent – and standing here will only slow us down. Not to mention, Rose seems so sweet, and reminds me so much of Bree, and I can see how close they already are. And it is the right thing to do.

Against my better judgment, I say, “Okay.”

I run over to the unconscious girl, still tied to the bed, and use my knife to cut all four pieces of rope. Her hands and feet relax, plop down on the bed. She is still unconscious, and I can’t tell if she’s sick, drugged or dead. But I can’t deal with that now. At least now, she’s free.

The four of us burst out of the room, only to meet two guards charging us, reaching for their guns. I react quickly, shooting one in the head, while Logan shoots the other. The girls scream at the gunshots.

I grab Bree’s hand and Logan grabs Rose’s and we sprint down the stairs, taking them two at a time. A moment later we burst out of the house, into the blinding snow. Guards charge us from across the yard, and I only hope we can find a way off this island before we are completely overrun.

Thirty Two

I look around frantically, trying to figure some way out of here. I scan for vehicles, but don’t see any. Then I turn around completely, and find myself scanning the water, the shoreline. And that’s when I see it: right behind the Governor’s mansion, tied up to a solitary pier is a small, luxury powerboat. I’m sure it is reserved for the privileged few who use this island as their playground.

“There!” I say, pointing.

Logan sees it, too, and we sprint for the shoreline.

We run right up to the beautiful, shining motorboat, big enough to hold six people. It bobs wildly in the rough water and looks powerful, like a thing of luxury. I have a feeling that this boat was used by that fat, naked man. All the more vindication.

It is bobbing so wildly, I don’t want to risk Bree and Rose trying to board themselves, so I lift Bree in, while Logan takes care of Rose.

“Cut the rope!” Logan says, pointing.

A thick rope tethers the boat to a wooden pole, so I run over to it, extract my knife, and cut it. I run back to the boat where Logan is already standing inside, grasping the pier to keep it from floating away. He reaches out a hand and helps me down into it. I check over my shoulder and see a dozen slaverunners charging us. They are only twenty yards away, and closing in fast.

“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.