Arena One: Slaverunners (8 page)

The bike feels heavier than it did, but it also feels more balanced. Within moments, I’m back up to 60 again, straight down the steep mountain road. This time, I won’t stop for anything.

*

I race down the winding country roads, twisting and turning, and as I turn a corner, a panoramic view of the valley opens up before me. I can see all the roads from here, and I see the two slaverunner cars in the distance. They are at least two miles ahead of us. They must have hit Route 23 to be gaining that kind of speed, which means they are off the mountain and on a wide, straight road. It burns me to think that Bree is in the back of one of those cars. I think of how frightened she must be. I wonder if they’re restraining her, if she’s in pain. The poor girl must be in hysterics. I pray she didn’t see Sasha die.

I gun the bike with newfound energy, twisting and turning way too sharply, and I look over and notice that Ben is gripping the edge of the sidecar, looking terrified, hanging on for his life. After several more hairpin turns, we get off the country road and go flying onto 23. Finally, we are on a normal highway, on flat land. Now, I can gun the bike for all it has.

And I do. I shift, and turn the grip, giving it as much gas as it can handle. I’ve never driven this bike—or anything—this fast in my life. I watch it pass 100, then 110, then 120…. There is still snow on the road, and it comes flying up into my face, bouncing off the visor; I feel the flakes brushing against the skin on my throat. I know I should slow down, but I don’t. I have to catch these guys.

130…140…. I can barely breathe we are going so fast, and I know that if for some reason I need to break, I won’t be able. We would spin and tumble so fast, there’s no way we would make it. But I have no choice. 150...160….

“SLOW DOWN!” Ben screams. “WE ARE GOING TO DIE!”

I’m feeling the same exact thing: we
are
going to die. In fact, I feel certain of it. But I no longer care. All these years of being cautious, of hiding from everyone, have finally gotten to me. Hiding is not in my nature; I prefer to confront things head on. I guess I’m like Dad in that way: I’d rather stand and fight. Now, finally, after all these years, I have a chance to fight. And knowing that Bree is up there, just ahead of us, so close, has done something to me: it’s made me mad. I just can’t bring myself to slow down. I see the vehicles now, and I’m encouraged. My speed is working and I’m definitely gaining ground. They’re less than a mile away, and for the first time, I really feel I’m going to catch them.

The highway curves, and I lose sight of them, but as I curve around, I see them again. But this time, they are not on the highway; they seem to have disappeared. I am confused, until I look up and see what has happened. And it makes me hit the brakes hard.

In the distance, a huge tree has been felled and lies across the highway, blocking it. Luckily, I still have time to brake. I see the slaverunners’ tracks, veering off the main road, and around the tree. As we come to a near stop before the tree, veering off the road, following the slaverunners’ tracks, I notice the bark is freshly cut. And I realize what happened: someone must have just felled it. A survivor, I am guessing, one of us. He must have seen what happened, seen the slaverunners, and he felled a tree to stop them. To help us.

The gesture surprises me, and warms my heart. I’d always suspected there was a silent network of us hiding out here in the mountains, watching each other’s backs. Now I know for sure. Nobody likes a slaverunner. And nobody wants to see it happen to them.

The slaverunners’ tracks are distinct, and I follow them as they turn along the shoulder and make a sharp turn back onto the highway. Soon I am back on 23, and I can see them clearly now, about half a mile up ahead. I have gained some distance. I gun it again, as fast as the bike can handle, but they are flooring it now, too. They must see me. An old, rusted sign reads “Cairo: 2.” We are close to the bridge. Just a few miles.

It is more built-up down here, and as we fly by I see the crumbling structures along the side of the road. Abandoned factories. Warehouses. Strip malls. Even houses. Everything is the same: burnt-out, looted, destroyed. There are even abandoned vehicles, just shells. It’s as if there is nothing left in the world that’s working.

On the horizon, I see their destination: the Rip van Winkle bridge. A small bridge, just two lanes wide, encased by steel beams, it spans the Hudson River, connecting the small town of Catskill on the west with the larger town of Hudson on the east. A little-know bridge, once used by locals, now only slaverunners use it. It suits their purposes perfectly, leading them right to Route 9, which takes them to the Taconic Parkway and then, after 90 miles or so, right into the heart of the city. It is their artery.

But I’ve lost too much time, and no matter how much gas I give it, I just can’t catch up. I won’t be able to beat them to the bridge. I am closing the gap, though, and if I gain enough speed, maybe I can overtake them before they cross the Hudson.

A former toll-keeper’s building sits at the base of the bridge, forcing vehicles to line up in a single lane and pass a toll booth. At one time there was a barricade that prevented cars from passing, but that has long since been rammed. The slaverunners fly through the narrow passageway, a sign hanging over them, rusted and dangling, that reads “E-Z PASS.”

I follow them through it and race onto the bridge, now lined with rusted streetlamps that haven’t worked in years, their metal twisted and crooked. As I gain speed, I notice one of the vehicles, in the distance, screech to a stop. I’m puzzled by this—I can’t understand what they’re doing. I suddenly see one of the slaverunners jump out of the car, plant something on the road, then jump back in his car and take off. This gains me precious time. I’m closing in on their car, a quarter mile away, and feel like I’m going to catch them. I still can’t understand why they stopped—or what they planted.

Suddenly, I realize—and I slam on the brakes.

“What are you doing?” Ben yells. “Why are you stopping!?”

But I ignore him as I slam harder on the brakes. I brake too hard, too fast. Our bike can’t gain traction in the snow, and we begin to spin and slide, around and around in big circles. If there were no railings, we’d slide right off the bridge and plunge to the icy river. Luckily, there are metal railings, and we slam into these hard instead.

We spin back towards the middle of the bridge. Slowly, we are braking, our speed reducing, and I only hope we can stop in time. Because now I realize—too late—what they’ve dropped on the road.

There is a huge explosion. Fire shoots into the sky as their bomb goes off.

A wave of heat comes right at us, and shrapnel goes flying everywhere. The explosion is intense, flames shooting everywhere, and the force of it hits us like a tornado, blowing us back. I can feel the heat, scorching my skin, even through the clothing. The heat and shrapnel engulf us. Hundreds of bits of shrapnel bounce off my helmet, the loud sound echoing in my head.

The bomb blew such a big hole that it cut the bridge in two, creating a ten yard gap between the sides. Now there is no way to cross it. And worse, we are still siding right to a hole that will send us plunging hundreds of feet below. It is lucky I slammed on the brakes when I did, and that the explosion is still fifty yards ahead. But our bike won’t stop sliding, bringing us right towards it.

Finally, our speed drops to thirty, then down to twenty, then ten…. But the bike won’t fully stop on this ice, and I can’t stop the sliding, right towards the center of the bridge—now just a gaping chasm.

I pull on the brakes as hard as I possibly can, trying everything. But I realize that none of that will do any good now, as we keep sliding, uncontrollably, to our deaths.

And the last thing I think, before we plunge, is that I hope Bree has a better death than I do.

Fifteen feet…ten…five…. The bike is slowing, but not enough, and we are just a few feet away from the edge. I brace myself for the fall, hardly conceiving that this is how I am going to die.

Then, the craziest thing happens: I heard a loud thump, and I am jolted forwards, as the bike slams into something and comes to a complete stop. A piece of metal, ripped in the explosion, juts up from the bridge, and has lodged itself in the spoke of our front wheel, stopping us.

I’m in a state of shock as I sit there, on the bike. I slowly look down and my heart drops as I realize that I’m dangling in the air, over the edge of the chasm. There is nothing under me at all. Hundreds of feet below I see the white ice of Hudson. I’m confused as to why I am not plunging.

I turn and see that the other half of my bike—the sidecar—is still lodged on the bridge. Ben, looking more dazed than I, still sits in it. He lost his helmet somewhere along the way, and his cheeks are covered in soot, charred form the explosion. He looks over at me, then down at the chasm, then back up at me in disbelief, as if amazed I’m still alive.

I realize that his weight, in the sidecar, is the only thing balancing me out, keeping me from falling. If I hadn’t have taken him, I’d be dead right now.

I need to do something before the entire bike tips over. Slowly, delicately, I pull my aching body off the bike, and climb over onto the sidecar, on top of Ben. I then climb over him, set my feet down on the pavement, and slowly pull back the bike.

Ben sees what I’m doing and gets out and pulls it, too. Together, we pull it back off the edge, and get the whole bike back onto safe ground.

He looks at me with his big blue eyes, and looks as if he’s just been through a war.

“How did you know it was a bomb?” he asks.

I shrug. Somehow, I just knew.

“If you didn’t slam on the brakes when you did, we’d be dead,” he says, grateful.

“If you weren’t sitting in the sidecar, I’d be dead,” I respond.

Touché. We each owe each other.

We both look down, at the chasm in the bridge. I look up, and in the distance, spot the slaverunners’ cars crossing the bridge and making it to the other side.

“Now what?” he asks.

I look everywhere, frantic, weighing our options. I look down at the river again. It is completely white, frozen with ice and snow. I look up and down the expanse of the river, looking for any other bridges, any other crossings. I see none.

At this moment, I realize what I must do. It is risky. In fact, it probably will mean our deaths. But I have to try. I vowed to myself. I will not give up. No matter what.

I jump back onto the bike. Ben follows, jumping into the sidecar. I put back on my helmet and gun it, back in the direction from which we came.

“Where are you going?” he calls out. “We’re going the wrong way!”

I ignore him, gunning it across the bridge, back to our side of the Hudson. As soon as I clear the bridge I make a left onto Spring Street, heading towards the town of Catskill.

I remember coming here as kid with Dad, and a road that led right to the river’s edge. We used to fish there, pull right up to it and never even have to leave our truck. I remember being amazed that we could drive right up to the water. And now, a plan formulates in my mind. A very, very risky plan.

We pass a small, abandoned church and cemetery on our right, and I see the gravestones sticking up out of the snow, so typical for a New England town. It amazes me that, with the whole world looted and destroyed, the cemeteries remain, seemingly untouched. It is as if the dead rule the earth.

The road comes to a tee, and I make a right on Bridge Street, and go down a steep hill. After a few blocks, I come to the ruins of a huge marble building, “Greene County Court House” still emblazoned across its portico, and make a left onto Main Street and speed down what was once the sleepy river town of Catskill. It is lined with stores on either side, burnt-out shells, crumbled buildings, broken windows, and abandoned vehicles. There’s not a soul in sight. I race down the center of Main Street, the electricity out, past stoplights that no longer work. Not that I’d stop if they did.

I pass the ruins of the Post Office on my left, and swerve around a pile of rubble in the street, ruins of a townhouse that must have collapsed at some point. The street continues downhill, twisting, and the road thins out. I pass the rusted hulls of boats, now beached on the land, their bodies destroyed. Behind them are the immense, rusted structures of what were once fuel depots, circular, rising a hundred feet high.

I make a left, towards the waterfront park, now covered in weeds. What’s left of a sign reads “Dutchman’s Landing.” The park juts out, right into the river, and the only thing separating the road from the water are a few boulders, with gaps in between them. I aim for one of those gaps, lower my visor, and gun the bike for all it’s worth. It’s now or never. I can already feel my heart racing.

Ben must realize what I’m doing. He sits bolt upright, gripping the sides of the bike in terror.

“STOP!” he screams. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?”

But there’s no stopping now. He enlisted for this ride, and there is no turning back. I’d offer to let him out, but there is no more time to lose; besides, if I stopped, I might not get up the nerve again to do what I’m about to do.

I check the speedometer: 60…70…80….

“YOU’RE GOING TO DRIVE US RIGHT INTO THE RIVER!” he screams.

“IT’S COVERED IN ICE!” I scream back.

“THE ICE WON’T HOLD!” he screams back.

90…100…110….

“WE’LL FIND OUT!” I respond.

He’s right. The ice might not hold. But I see no other way. I have to cross that river, and I have no other ideas.

120…130…140….

The river is coming up on us fast.

“LET ME OUT!” he screams, desperate.

But there is no time. He knew what the signed up for.

I gun it one last time.

And then our world turns white.

I drive the bike in the narrow gap between the rocks, and next thing I know, we go flying. For a second we are airborne, and I wonder if, when we hit the ice, it will hold—or whether we will crash right through it and plummet into the icy water, to a certain and brutal death.

A second later my entire body is jolted, as we hit something hard.

Ice.

We hit it at 140, faster than I can even imagine, and as it hits, I lose control. The tires can’t gain traction, and my driving becomes more like a controlled slide; I do my best to just steer the handlebars, which sway wildly. But, to my surprise and relief, at least the ice is holding. We go flying across the solid sheet of ice that is the Hudson River, veering left and right, but at least heading in the right direction. As we do, I pray to God that the ice holds.

Suddenly I hear the horrific noise behind me of cracking ice, even louder than the roar of my engine. I check back over my shoulder, and as I do, an enormous crack opens in the river, following the trail of our bike. The river opens up right behind us, revealing water. Our only saving grace is that we are going so fast, the cracking isn’t quite fast enough to catch us, always a foot behind. If our engine and tires can just hold, just for a few more seconds, maybe, just maybe, we can outrace it.

“HURRY!” screams Ben, eyes wide open with fear as he looks back over his shoulder.

I gun it as fast as I possibly can, just topping 150. We are thirty yards away from the opposite shore, and closing in.

Come on, come on
!
I think. All we need is a few more yards.

The next thing I know there is a tremendous crash, and my entire body is jerked front and back. I hear Ben groan out in pain. My whole world shakes and spins, and it is then I realize that we have arrived on the opposite shore. We slam into it doing 150, hitting the steep bank hard, which snaps our heads back on impact. But after a few vicious bumps, we clear the bank.

We made it. We are back on dry land.

Behind us, the river is now entirely split open, cracked in half, water spilling onto the ice. I don’t think we could have made it a second time.

There is no time to think about that now. I try to gain control of the bike again, to slow it down, as we are going faster than I would like. But the bike is still fighting me, its tires still trying to gain traction—and suddenly we drive over something incredibly hard and uneven, which sends my jaw smashing into my teeth. It feels like we drove over rocks.

I look down: train tracks. I’d forgotten. There are still old tracks here, right along the river, from when trains used to run. We hit them hard as we cross the river, and as we jump them, the metal shakes the bike so violently, I almost lose hold of the grips. Amazingly, the tires still hold, and we cross the tracks on a country road, running parallel to the river, and I am finally able to slow the bike, dropping down to 70. We pass the rusted hull of an old, huge train, lying on its side, burnt out, and I bang a sharp left on a country road with an old sign that reads “Greendale.” It is a narrow country lane with a sharp ascent uphill, away from the river.

We lose speed as we drive nearly straight up. I pray that the bike will make it in the snow and not slide back down. I gun it, as the speed drops. We are down to about 20 miles an hour, when finally, we clear the hilltop. We even out on level land, and I gain speed again as we fly down this narrow country road, taking us alternately through woods, then farmland, then woods again, then past an old, abandoned firehouse. It continues, dipping and rising, twisting and turning, taking us past abandoned country houses, past herds of deer and flocks of geese, even over a small country bridge spanning a creek.

Finally, it merges into another road, Church Road, aptly named, as we pass the remnants of a huge Methodist church on our left and adjoining graveyard—of course, still intact. I know there is only one way the slaverunners can go. If they want the Taconic, which they must, then there’s no way there without taking Route 9. They are heading North to South—and we are heading West to East. My plan is to cut them off. And now, finally,
I
have the advantage. I crossed the river about a mile further south than they. If I can just go fast enough, I can beat them to the punch. Finally, I am feeling optimistic. I can cut them off—and they will never expect it. I will hit them perpendicularly and maybe I can take them out.

I gun the bike again, pushing it past 140.

“WHERE ARE YOU GOING?” Ben yells out.

He still looks shell-shocked, but I have no time to explain: in the distance, I suddenly spot their cars. They are exactly where I thought they’d be. They don’t see me coming. They don’t see that I am lined up to smash right into them.

Their cars ride single file, one about twenty yards behind the other, and I realize I can’t take them both out. I am going to need to choose one. I decide to aim for the one in front: if I can run it off the road, perhaps it will cause the one behind it to slam on the brakes, or spin out and crash, too. It is a risky plan: the impact may very well kill us. But I don’t see any other way. I can’t exactly ask them to stop. I only pray that, if I am successful, Bree survives the crash.

I increase speed, closing in on them. I am a hundred yards away…then 50…then 30….

Finally, Ben realizes what I’m about to do.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?” he screams, and I can hear the fear in his voice. “YOU’RE GOING TO HIT THEM!”

Finally he gets it. That’s exactly what I’m hoping to do.

I rev it one last time, topping 150, and barely catch my breath as we go racing at top speed on the country road. Seconds later, we go flying onto Route 9—and smash directly into the first vehicle. It is a perfect hit.

The impact is tremendous. I feel the crash of metal on metal, feel my body jerking to a stop, then feel myself go flying off my bike and through the air. I see a world of stars, and as I’m flying, I realize that this is what it feels like to die.