Морган Райс
Arena One: Slaverunners
Nineteen
He throws me and I fly through the air at full speed, not knowing I could move that fast, landing hard on the floor on the opposite side of the ring. I feel another rib crack, while my head smashes into the metal and another welt forms on my forehead. I wonder how much more abuse my body can take.
I sense him coming at me again, and this time, I am just too beat up to move. I lay there face-down, struggling to catch my breath. He takes his time. It is clear he will kill me when he reaches me. It is a death walk.
I’m too tired and weak and delirious to do anything more than accept my fate. I am destined to die. Here, in this place. At this moment. I’ve failed. I’ve let Bree down.
As I lay there, breathing hard, blood coming from my mouth, slowly, over the sound of the ringing in my ears, over the din of the crowd, there gradually comes another sound. It is a voice. The voice of my Dad. It is a stern voice. The voice he always used to chastise me. To force me to push myself. To be more than I could be.
Be tough, Marine! Stop feeling sorry for yourself! If you think you’re a failure, then you are! Be strong! BE STRONG!
His voice becomes deafening, drowning out everything. I look up, my vision blurry, and for a moment I swear I actually see Dad standing there, hands on his hips, scowling down. There is disapproval – even disgust – on his face. And that is what motivates me. That is what makes something snap inside.
I could never stand to have my father disapprove of me and would always do whatever it took just to silence him, just to prove him wrong. This time is no different. I feel a rush of adrenaline as I surge with anger, with the need to prove him wrong. I’m filled with a new fury, and it forces me to my hands and knees.
BE STRONG!
The brute takes three big steps, winding up to deliver a knockout kick to my face. If he connects, he will break every bone in my face.
But now I am ready. I surprise him by rolling out of the way at the last second, a split-second before the kick reaches me. He misses and instead kicks the metal fence with such force his foot lodges into the chain links.
I jump to my feet and in the same motion run across the ring and grab the mace. The brute yanks at his foot, trying to get it out of the cage – but he is stuck.
This time, I don’t wait. This time, I don’t hesitate. Finally, I have learned my lesson.
I charge across the ring, and with all I have, swing the mace, wind up the ball. I only have one shot at this, so I take aim for his huge, bald, muscular head.
I get closer to him. Ten feet…five.… I swing and let the ball go.
Suddenly, he frees his foot from the cage and wheels and faces me.
I’ve already set the chain in motion and the ball is already spinning, flying over my head, through the air. And just as he turns to face me, the ball swings around and lodges in his temple. Blood squirts out, and I let go of the shaft.
The crowd is stunned into silence.
The brute takes a step back, stumbles, then reaches up in shock, grabs the shaft, and yanks it out of his own head. As he does, brains and blood come out.
I stand there, horrified, frozen. I can’t fathom how someone could continue to function after a blow like that.
But then, after a moment, he drops the shaft, and buckles to his knees. He falls forward on his face. His hands lay limp at his side, and a second later, to my shock, I realize he is dead. I have killed him.
After a second of stunned silence, the crowd suddenly leaps to its feet. It roars and screams louder than ever before. And this time, they chant my name.
“BROOKE! BROOKE! BROOKE!”
I barely even hear it. Whatever strength was left in me suddenly disappears, and a moment later, the world spins, my knees go weak, and I collapse. The last thing I see is the floor racing up towards me, striking me in the face.
And then my world is blackness.
Twenty
I’m not sure if I’m dead or alive. My body aches more than I could imagine, and I wonder if this is what it’s like to be on the other side. Somehow, I feel as if I’m still alive: if I were dead, I am hoping it would not be this painful.
I peel open one eye and see I am lying, face down, on a metal floor, in a darkened room, lit by red emergency lights. I look up and struggle to make out the shape before me.
“Brooke?” a voice asks. It is a male voice, and I know I recognize it from somewhere, but can’t remember where.
“Brooke?” he asks again, softly.
I feel a hand on my shoulder, gently prodding me.
I manage to open my eye a bit more, and finally recognize the face: Ben. He leans over me, gently prodding me, trying to see if I’m alive.
“This is for you,” he says.
There is the sound of plastic scraping against the metal floor, and I am struck by the smell of food. But I’m too groggy to look at it, and I don’t really register what’s happening.
“I have to go now,” he says. “Please. I want you to have this.”
A second later comes the sound of a door opening, and light floods the room. There is the sound of marching boots, chains, handcuffs being released. Then footsteps recede and the door closes, and as it does, suddenly, I realize: they have just taken Ben away.
I want to raise my head, to open my eyes, to call out to him. To thank him. To warn him. To say goodbye.
But my head, too heavy, won’t lift, and my eyes begin to shut of their own accord. Moments later, I fall back into a heavy sleep.
* * *
I don’t know how much time has passed when I wake again. I feel the cold metal of the floor on the side of my face, and this time I am able to gradually lift my head, peel myself off. My head is splitting, and every ounce of my body is in pain.
As I sit up, I feel a sharp pain in my ribs, now on both sides. My face is swollen, welts and bruises all over it, and my shoulder is killing me. Worst of all, there’s an intense throbbing in my calf, an unbearable pain as I attempt to straighten my leg. At first, I don’t know what it’s from, and then I remember: the snakebite.
Propping myself with one hand, I manage to sit halfway up. I look around the darkened room for any sign of Ben. But he is gone. I am alone.
There sits a tray of food before me, untouched. His food. I reach out and touch it: it is cold. I feel bad that he left it; I’m sure he needed it at least as much as me. I realize what it took to sacrifice this meal. If this was his last meal, then they’ve taken him away to fight. My heart leaps at the realization. Surely that means he is already dead.
I look down again at the tray, and it feels like the food of a dead man. I can’t bring myself to touch it.
There is a sound of boots, and the metal door slams open. In march four slaverunners, who drag me to my feet and prod me out the room. The pain is indescribable as I stand and walk. My head is so heavy, and the room spins, and I don’t know if I’m going to make it without collapsing.
I am pushed and prodded down the corridor, and as I go, the sound of a distant crowd grows louder. My heart drops as I realize I’m being led back to the arena.
If they think I can fight again, it is a joke. I can barely walk. Anyone who squares off with me will have easy pickings. I don’t have any will left to fight – or any strength, even if I did. I’ve already given this arena everything I have.
I am shoved one last time as the tunnel to the arena opens up. The roar becomes deafening. I squint at the harsh light as I am led down the ramp, counting my final minutes.
The crowd jumps to its feet as they see me. They stomp violently. This time, instead of hisses and jeers, they seem to love me.
“BROOKE! BROOKE! BROOKE!”
It is a surreal feeling. I’ve achieved fame, but for actions I detest and in the last place on earth I’d ever want it.
I’m prodded again, all the way to ringside, back to the metal ladder. I look up and see the cage open, and climb and walk in helplessly.
As I enter, the crowd goes wild.
I am still half-asleep, and this is all so surreal, I can’t help wondering if I did this before or if it was all a dream. I look down and see the huge welt on my calf, and know that it was real. I can’t believe it. I am back here again. This time, for a certain death.
They weren’t kidding when they said no survivors. Now I know there will be no exceptions.
I stand in the empty ring and survey the stadium, wondering who my next opponent will be, where he will enter from. As I do, there suddenly comes a cheer from the far side of the stadium. The tunnel opens up, and in marches another contestant. I can’t see who it is, as he’s blocked by an entourage of slaverunners. The crowd goes crazy as he gets closer. But my view is so obscured, it’s not until he reaches the very edge of the ring, until he is climbing the ladder, until the cage opens, and he’s actually pushed inside, that I see who it is.
As I do, any ounce of fight that is left in me falls away.
I am horrified.
It can’t be.
Standing before me, staring back with equal shock, is Ben.
Twenty One
I stand there in shock, staring back at Ben, who looks like a deer in headlights. I don’t know how they could be so cruel. Of all the people they could pit me against, why did it have to be him?
The crowd seems to sense our connection – and they love it: they scream and holler as the cage slams shut with a bang. They place bets furiously, eager to see which one of us is willing to kill the other first.
Ben stands there looking so lost, so out of place. Our eyes lock, and we share a moment. His large blue eyes, so gentle, are tearing up. He looks like a lost little boy. I can already see that he would never lift a finger to harm me.
Before this moment, I was resigned to just go quietly to my grave. But now, seeing Ben here, caught in this same predicament, so helpless, my will to live returns. I have to find a way to get us out of here. I have to save us. If not for me, than for him.
I think quick, my heart racing a million miles an hour, as I try to concentrate, to drown out the deafening crowd.
The crowd bursts into boos and jeers, furious that neither of us are making a move to fight. Eventually their disappointment grows into a rage, and they start throwing things at the cage. Rotten tomatoes and all sorts of objects slam against the metal as the crowd hails things down on us.
I suddenly feel a sharp electric shock in my kidneys, and I wheel and see the cattle prod inserted through the chain-link. A slaverunner quickly retracts it as I try to snatch it away from him. They jab Ben at the same time. It is a dirty trick: they’re trying to force us into action, to stir us into a rage, to prod us closer to each other. The crowd roars its approval.
But we still stand there, staring at each other, neither of us willing to fight.
“You gave me your last meal,” I say to him, over the din of the crowd.
He nods back, slowly, too frozen with fear to speak.
Suddenly, something falls from the sky, lands before us. It is a weapon. A knife. I look down closely at it, and am horrified to see that it is my Dad’s knife, the Marine Corps logo emblazoned on its side.
The crowd cheers as the object lands, assuming this will cause us to fight.
Seeing Dad’s knife makes me think of Bree. And I realize, once again, that I have to survive. To save her. If she’s still alive.
Suddenly, the crowd quiets. I look around, trying to understand what’s happening. I haven’t heard it quiet before. I look up and see the leader is standing, high up on his podium. Everyone has gone silent with rapt attention.
“I am declaring a change to the rules of the arena!” he announces, his deep voice booming. He speaks slowly, deliberately, and the crowd hangs on his every word. This is clearly a man who is used to being listened to.
“For the first time ever, we will allow a survivor. Just one!” he announces. “The winner of this match will be granted clemency. As will their siblings. After this match, they will be free to go.”
The leader slowly sits back down, and as he does, the crowd bursts into an excited murmur. More bets are placed.
I look back down at the knife, and now I see that Ben glances at it, too.
A chance to survive. To be free. Not just for me – but for Bree. If I kill Ben, it will save her. It is my chance. It is my ticket out.
As I see Ben looking at the knife, I can see the same thoughts racing through his mind, too. It is a chance for him to save his little brother.
I lunge for it, and in a single motion, reach down and pick it up.
Getting it is easy. Ben never even makes a move for it.
But I’m cut from a different cloth than him. I need to do what I have to in order to survive. For Bree to survive.
So I lean back, take aim, and prepare to throw my Dad’s knife.
Do it, Brooke! Save your sister! You have a responsibility! DO IT!
I lean forward and launch it with all my might.
And that is the moment that changes everything.
Part IV
Twenty Two
I throw my Dad’s knife with everything I have, and in that moment, the crowd holds its breath, completely silent. The blade glimmers in the light as it goes flying end over end, through the air, racing. It is the strongest and most accurate throw I’ve ever made. I already know it will find its target. And that it will mean certain death.
In moments, I will be free.
A second later, the sound of metal meeting flesh punctures the air, and I see that it was, indeed, a perfect strike.
The entire crowd gasps, horrified.
For once in my life, I have ignored my father’s advice. I have not killed Ben.
I have killed their leader.
* * *
The knife lodges in the center of the leader’s forehead; I’d managed to throw it perfectly, just high enough to clear the fence, by a millimeter, and yet still maintain the perfect angle to hit him, thirty yards away. It hits him so hard, it pins his head to the chair. He sits there, eyes wide open, frozen in shock, dead.
There is stunned silence in the arena. For several seconds, the crowd is too shocked to even react. I can hear a pin drop.
And then, pandemonium. Thousands of people jump up from their seats and run in every direction. Some, terrified, flee for their lives; others see this as their chance to be set free, and run for the exits; some start fighting among themselves, while others start fighting with the slaverunners. It is as if a violent energy, long contained, has been set loose.
Slaverunners scurry in every direction, trying to maintain order.
I look to the cage door, wondering if we can escape that way, but already guards are fiddling with its lock, trying to unchain it so that they can come and get us.
I run to Ben, who still stands there, shocked, and grab him by the arm.
“FOLLOW ME!” I scream.
I take his hand as I run across the ring, jump up onto the cage and scale its wall. I climb straight up, relieved to see Ben beside me.
Just in time. The slaverunners burst open the metal gate and rush right for us.
But we are already at the top of the cage, fifteen feet high. I look over the edge and hesitate for a moment: it is a steep drop, and a hard landing. Ben hesitates, too.
But we have no choice. It’s now or never.
I jump.
I land hard on my feet, fifteen feet below on the concrete. My calf explodes in pain as I tumble to the ground. As I hit, rolling, my cracked ribs hurt just as much. The pain is excruciating, but at least I don’t feel as if I’ve broken anything else. I’ve made it.
I look over, hoping to see Ben beside me in the chaos, as the crowd scurries in every direction around me. But my heart drops to see he’s not there. He is still high on the cage wall, hesitating at the top. He’s afraid to jump.
The slaverunners are reaching up, beginning to climb, about to get him. He is terrified, frozen in inaction.
I scramble to my feet and yell up at him.
“BEN!” I scream. “JUMP! DO IT!”
I can hear the panic in my voice. There is no time. If he doesn’t jump now, I’ll have to leave without him.
Suddenly, thankfully, Ben plunges into the crowd. He hits the ground hard, tumbling. And then, after a moment, he gets up. He looks dazed, but as far as I can tell, unhurt. I grab his arm and we run.
It is such pandemonium no one even notices us. People are brawling with each other, fighting to get out. I manage to weave through the masses, hiding in anonymity. I check back and see the group of slaverunners behind us, on our trail.
I head toward one of the exit tunnels where hundreds are fleeing, and we blend in with the stampede, ducking and weaving through the people. Behind us, I sense the slaverunners parting ways through the crowd, coming after us. I don’t know how far we can make it. The thick crowd is barely moving.
I enter the blackness of one of the tunnels, and as I do, a hand grabs me hard around my mouth and yanks me backwards. Another hand clasps Ben by the mouth and drags him back, too.
We’ve been caught, pulled back into the blackness. I am being held tight in a recess in the wall, and my captor holds me in a strong, deadly grip. I’m unable to resist. As I stand there, I wonder if I’m about to die.
The group of slaverunners runs past us, down the tunnel, thinking they are following us. I can’t believe it: we’ve lost them.
Now I’m thankful for being pulled aside. And as the grip around my mouth loosens, I wonder why my captor just did us a favor. He releases his grip completely, and I look back over my shoulder to see a large soldier, dressed in black but not wearing a mask. He looks different than the others. He looks to be about 22, and his chiseled features are perfect, with a strong jawline and short, cropped brown hair. He towers over us, and stares down with green eyes that are a surprising contrast to his demeanor: they exude softness, and are starkly out of place here.
“Come with me,” he says urgently.
He turns and disappears into a side door, hidden in the wall. Ben and I exchange a glance, then instantly follow, ducking under the door and into the side chamber.
This man has just saved our lives. And I have no idea who he is.
* * *
The soldier closes and locks the door behind us. It is a small room, like a cell, with a tiny window at the top. No sunlight comes through, so I assume it’s still night. The room is also lit only by a small red emergency light. He turns to us and we all stand there, facing each other.
“Why did you save us?” I ask.
“You’re not saved yet,” he answers, coldly. “There are still thousands of those things out there, looking for you. You’ll have to sit tight, wait it out, until daylight. Then we can make a break for it. Our chances are slim. But we have no choice.”
“But why?” I press. “Why are you doing this?”
He walks away, checking the lock on the door again. Then, his back to us, he murmurs, “Because I want out of here, too.”
I stand quietly, Ben on one side of me and the soldier on the other. I listen to the stampede of footsteps just outside the door, racing down the hall. The screaming and hollering seem to go on forever, as the angry mob sounds as if it’s alternately looking for us and beating each other up. I’ve opened Pandora’s box: it’s total mayhem outside that door. I pray no one else thinks to check in the recess of the wall – or if they do, that the lock holds.
My fear springs to life, as I hear a jiggling on the doorknob. The soldier slowly reaches out his gun, aims it at the door, and leans back. He hold it steady, leveling it at the door.
I stand there, trembling, sweat pouring down my back even though it’s cold in here. Whoever is out there keeps fiddling with the knob. If it opens, we’re finished. We might kill the first one, but the gunshot would alert the others, and the entire mob would find us. I hold my breath for what seems like forever, and finally the fiddling stops. I hear him turn and run away.
I breathe a sigh of relief. It was probably just a passerby, looking for shelter.
Slowly, the soldier relaxes, too. He lowers and holsters his gun.
“Who are you?” I ask, speaking in hushed tones for fear of being heard.
“Name’s Logan,” he says, not offering his hand.
“I’m Brooke and this is – ” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“I know,” he says, curtly. “All contestants are announced.”
Of course.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” I press. “I didn’t ask your name. I asked who you are.”
He looks back at me coldly, defiant.
“I’m one of them,” he says reluctantly. “Or, at least, I used to be.”
“A slaverunner?” Ben asks, his voice rising in surprise and disgust.
Logan shakes his head.
“No. A gamekeeper. I stood guard in the arena. I never went on slaverunning missions.”
“But that still puts you on their side,” I snap, and can hear the judgment in my voice. I know I should give him a break – after all, he just saved our lives. But still, I think of those people who took Bree, and it’s hard to feel any sympathy.
He shrugs. “Like I said, not anymore.”
I glare back at him.
“You don’t understand,” he says, by way of explanation. “Here, there are no options. Either you join them or you die. It’s that simple. I had no choice.”
“I would have chosen to die,” I say, defiantly.
He looks at me and in the dim light I see the intensity in his green eyes. I can’t help noticing, despite myself, how gorgeous they are. There is a nobility to him, a chivalrous quality I’ve never seen.
“Would you?” he asks. He looks me over. “Maybe you would,” he says finally. “Maybe you’re a better person than I. But I did what I had to in order to survive.”
He paces, crossing to the far side of the room.
“But like I said, none of that matters now,” he continues. “The past is the past. I’m getting out.”
I realize how judgmental I’m being and I feel bad. Maybe he’s right. Maybe if I was still living here, in the city, I would have joined them, too. I don’t know what pressures he was under.
“So what now?” I say. “You’re leaving them? Defecting?”
“I’m escaping,” he says. “I’ve had enough. Watching you fight – it did something to me. You had such spirit. I knew this was my moment, that I had to leave, even if I die trying.”
I hear the sincerity in his voice and know he speaks the truth. I’m surprised to hear that I’ve inspired him. I wasn’t trying to inspire anyone – just to stay alive. And I am grateful for his help.
But based on the number of feet I hear charging outside the door, it sounds like a lost cause anyway. I don’t see how we can ever get out of here.
“I know where there’s a boat,” he continues, as if reading my mind. “It’s docked on the west side, at 42nd. It’s a small motor boat. They use it to patrol the Hudson. But the first patrol doesn’t leave until after dawn. If I get there at dawn, before them, I can steal it. Take it upriver.”
“To where?” I ask.
He looks back at me blankly.
“Where would you go?” I press.
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t care. Anywhere but here. As far as the river will take me, I guess.”
“You think you can survive the mountains?” Ben suddenly asks. I can hear an edge to his voice, something unfamiliar, something I haven’t heard before. If I didn’t know better, it sounds to me like possessiveness. Like jealousy.
Suddenly, my face flushes as I realize: Ben has feelings for me. He’s jealous of Logan.
Logan turns and stares Ben down coldly. “You managed to,” he says. “Why couldn’t I?”
“I’d hardly call what I did surviving,” Ben says. “It was more like a slow death.”
“It beats being here,” Logan says. “Besides, I’m not a defeatist. I’ll find a way to survive. I got weapons and ammo, and a few days’ food. That’s all I need. I’ll do whatever I have to.”
“I’m not a defeatist,” Ben retorts, annoyed.
Logan just shrugs.
“The boat’s meant for two,” he says, looking away from Ben, to me. It is clear from his gaze he only wants me to come. I wonder if he likes me, or if it’s just a guy thing, just plain old competition and jealousy for the sake of it. Logan must see the determination in my stare, because he adds, “But I guess, if it has to, it can hold three.”
He paces.
“I’ll help you guys escape. At dawn, you’ll follow me. We’ll take the boat up the Hudson. I’ll drop you back at your homes, wherever they are, then I’ll continue on my way.”
“I’m not going anywhere without Bree,” I say, firmly.
Logan turns and looks at me.
“Who’s Bree?” he asks.
“My sister.”
“And I’m not going without my brother,” Ben adds.
“We came down here for a reason,” I explain. “To rescue our siblings. And to bring them back. I’m not leaving without her.”
Logan shakes head, as if annoyed.
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he says. “I’m giving you a way out. A free ticket. Don’t you realize there’s no other way out of here? They’ll hunt you down before you go ten feet. And even if you find your sister – then what?”
I stand there and cross my arms, fuming. There’s no way I’ll let him talk me out of it.
“Besides, I hate to say this but…” he trails off, checking himself.
“But what?” I press.
He hesitates, as if debating whether to say anything. He takes a deep breath.
“There’s no way you’ll ever find them.”
I feel my heart drop at his words. I stare at him, wondering what he’s holding back.
“What aren’t you telling us?” I ask.
He shifts his eyes from mine to Ben’s to the floor, avoiding my gaze.
“What do you know?” I press. My heart is pounding – I am afraid he is going to tell me Bree is dead.
He hesitates, toeing the ground, looking down. Finally, he begins to talk.
“They were separated,” he begins. “They were too young. They always separate the older from the younger. The stronger from the weaker. The boys from the girls. The stronger, older ones are set aside for the arena. But the younger, weaker ones…” He trails off.
My heart pounds, as I wonder what he’s going to say.
“Well?” Ben prods.
“The young boys, they send to the mines.”
“The mines?” Ben asks, stepping forward in indignation.
“The coal mines. Crosstown. Beneath Grand Central. They put them on a train crosstown. Put them down in the shafts, far beneath the earth. They use the coal for fire. That’s where your brother is. That’s where that train was going. I’m sorry,” he says, and sounds genuine.
Ben suddenly marches for the door, his face red.
“Where are you going?” I ask, alarmed.
“To get my brother,” Ben snaps back, not even slowing.
Logan steps up and holds out an arm, blocking Ben’s way. Now that I look at them side by side, Logan towers over Ben, half a foot taller and twice as broad, with huge, muscular shoulders. Beside him, Ben seems tiny. They are starkly different-looking people, polar opposites: Logan is the all-American jock type, while Ben, thin and unshaven, with his longish hair and soulful eyes, is the sensitive, artist type. They couldn’t be more different. But they each share a strong will, a streak of defiance.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Logan says in his deep, authoritative voice.
Ben looks up at him, scowling.
“You walk out that door,” Logan continues, “and you give us away. Then we’ll all be dead.”
Ben’s shoulders relax and he relents.
“You want to find your brother,” Logan continues, “you can. But you need to wait till dawn, when we all bust out of here together. Just a few more hours. Then you can go to your death if you want.”
Ben slowly turns his back and resentfully crosses to our side of the room.
“What about Bree?” I say, my voice steely cold. I am afraid to ask it. But I need to know. “Where did they take her?”
Logan slowly shakes his head, avoiding my gaze.
“WHERE?” I press, stepping forward, my voice venomous. My heart is pounding with terror.
He clears his throat.
“The young girls,” he begins, “the ones who are too young for the arena…they ship them off to slavery,” he says. He looks up at me. “The sex trade.”
My heart rips in two. I want to run out the door, screaming, looking for her anywhere. But I know that would be futile. I need to know more. I feel my face redden, my entire body rise with heat, my fists clench with indignation.
“Where did they take her?” I press, my voice steely cold.
“They ship the sex slaves to Governors Island. They load them on buses and send them downtown. Then they put them on a boat. The next bus leaves at dawn. Your sister will be on it.”
“Where are these buses?” I demand.
“Across the street,” he says. “34th and 8th. They leave from the old post office.”
Without thinking I march for the door, feeling the horrific pain in my leg as I go. Again, Logan holds out his arm and stops me. It is strong and muscular, like a wall.
“You have to wait, too,” he says. “Until daybreak. It would do you no good to look for her now. She’s not on the bus yet. They keep them underground until loading time, in a cell somewhere. I don’t even know where. I promise you. At dawn, they’ll bring them up and load them. If you want to go after her, that’s when you can do it.”
I stare into his eyes, scrutinizing them, and see the sincerity. Slowly, I relent, breathing deep to control myself.
“But you need to know it’s a lost cause,” he says. “You’ll never bust her out. She’ll be chained to a group of slaves, who will be chained to an armored bus. The bus will be flanked by dozens of soldiers and vehicles. You won’t be able to get anywhere near it. You’ll just end up killing yourself. Not to mention,” he adds, “most of the buses don’t even make it through the wasteland.”
“The wasteland?” I press.
He clears his throat, reluctant.
“To reach the Seaport, the pier for Governors Island, the buses have to go downtown, have to leave the walled area. The wall starts at 23rd Street. South of that, it’s the wasteland. That’s where the Crazies live. Thousands of them. They attack every bus that goes through there. Most don’t even make it. That’s why they send lots of buses at once.”
My heart drops at his words.
“That’s why I’m telling you: leave with me in the morning. At least you’ll be safe. Your siblings are already a lost cause. At least you can survive.”
“I don’t care what the odds are,” I retort, my voice steely and determined. “I don’t care if I die trying. I’m going after my sister.”
“And I’m going after my brother,” Ben adds. I’m surprised by his determination, too.
Logan shakes his head.
“Suit yourself. You guys are on your own. I’m taking that boat at dawn and I’ll be long gone.”
“You’ll do what you have to do,” I say, with disgust. “Just like you always have.”
