Arena One: Slaverunners

But I can’t focus on this now. I continue to run, hobbling down the corridor, Ben beside me and Logan about ten feet in front. The steel corridors are dimly lit by sporadic emergency lights, and I follow Logan in the darkness, relying on his knowledge of this place. Luckily, there is still no one in sight. I assume they are all out looking for us.

Logan makes a right down another corridor, then a left. We follow, trusting he knows his way out of here. He is our lifeline now, and I’ll just have to put my trust in him. I have no choice.

After several more twists and turns, Logan finally comes to a stop before a door. I stop beside him, out of breath. He pushes it open, peeks out, then opens it all the way. He reaches back, grabs Ben by the shoulder and pulls him forward.

“There,” he says, pointing. “See it?”

I lean forward. In the distance, across the vast, open terminal, are train tracks.

“That train, the one beginning to move. It goes to the mines. It leaves once a day. If you want to go, now’s your chance. Catch it!”

Ben turns and looks at me one last time, eyes open wide with adrenaline. He surprises me by reaching out, grabbing my hand, and kissing the back of it. He holds it for another second and looks at me meaningfully, as if this might be the last time he sees me.

He then turns and sprints across the terminal, heading for the train.

Logan glances at me derisively, and I can feel his jealousy.

I don’t know what to think of the kiss myself. As I watch him run for the train, I can’t help but wonder again if this will be the last time I see him.

“This way!” Logan snaps, running down a different corridor.

But I sit there, frozen, watching Ben run.

Logan turns back to me, annoyed, impatient. “MOVE!” he whispers.

Ben runs across the entire open expanse of Penn Station, along the tracks, then jumps up onto the back of the slowly moving train. He holds tight onto the metal bars as the train disappears into a black tunnel. He’s made it.

“I’m leaving!” Logan says, then turns and sprints down another corridor.

I snap out of it, sprinting after him. I go as fast as my legs will take me, but Logan is already far ahead and he turns again, out of sight. My heart pounds as I wonder if I’ve lost him.

I turn down another corridor, run up a ramp, and finally spot him again. He stands along a wall, beside a glass door, waiting for me. Through it, I can see outside. Eighth Avenue. It is a world of white. There is a raging blizzard out there.

I run up to Logan and stand beside him, my back against the wall, struggling to catch my breath.

“See there?” he asks, pointing.

I follow his gaze, trying to see between the sheets of snow.

“Across the street,” he says, “in front of the old post office. Those buses parked out front.”

I strain to look and spot three large buses, covered in snow. They look like school buses, but are modified, with thick bars built on every side, like armored vehicles. Two of them are painted yellow, and one is black. Dozens of young girls chained to each other are being loaded onto them. My heart leaps as I spot Bree a couple hundred yards away in the chain gang, being herded onto one of the two yellow buses.

“There she is!” I scream. “That’s Bree!”

“Give it up,” he says. “Come with me. You’ll survive, at least.”

But I am filled with a new resolve, and I look at him with dead seriousness.

“It’s not about surviving,” I reply. “Don’t you realize that?”

Logan looks back into my eyes and I can see that, for the first time, he gets it. He really gets it. He sees that I’m determined, that nothing on earth is going to change my mind.

“Okay, then,” he says. “This is it. Once we burst out those doors, I’m heading uptown, for the boat. You’re on your own.”

He reaches down and places something heavy in my palm. A gun. I am surprised, and grateful.

I am about to say goodbye, but suddenly hear an engine, and look out and see clouds of black exhaust exiting the buses’ tailpipes. Before I know it, all three buses start to pull out in the thick snow.

“NO!” I scream. Before I even think it through, I kick open the door and burst outside. A wave of icy snow and wind hits me in the face, so cold and wet it takes my breath away.

I run out into the blinding blizzard, snow up to my knees. I run and run, heading across the white, open expanse towards the buses. Towards Bree.

I am too late. They have a good hundred yards on me, and are gaining speed in the snow. I sprint after them, my leg killing me, barely able to catch my breath, until I realize that Logan was right. It is useless. I watch the buses turn a corner, and they are soon out of sight. I can’t believe it. I just missed her.

I check back over my shoulder, and Logan is gone. My heart drops. He must have taken off already. Now I’m completely alone.

Desperate, I try to think quickly, to come up with an idea. I scan my surroundings, and see, in front of Penn Station, a row of Humvees. Slaverunners sit on the roofs and hoods. They are all huddled in their coats against the snow, their backs to me. None of them look in my direction. They are all fixated on watching the buses leave.

I need a vehicle. It is my only chance to catch those buses.

I sprint, hobbling, towards the Humvee in the rear, the only one with no slaverunner sitting on its roof. The Humvee is running, exhaust coming from its tailpipe, a slaverunner sitting in the driver’s seat, warming his hands.

I creep up to the driver’s side door and yank it open, holding out my gun.

This slaverunner wears no facemask, and I can see the shock in his face. He holds up his hands in fear, not wanting to be shot. I don’t give him time to react, to alert the others. Pointing my gun to his face, I reach in, grab him by the shirt, and pull him out. He falls hard to the snow.

I’m about to jump into the driver’s seat, when suddenly I feel a tremendous pain in the side of my head, the impact of something metal. Knocked over by the blow, I fall down to the snow.

Another slaverunner has snuck up on me and cracked me in the side of the head with his gun. I reach up, touch my head, and feel blood trickling onto my hand. It hurts like hell.

The slaverunner stands over me, and lowers his gun towards my face. He grins an evil grin, cocks the pin, and I know he’s about to fire. Suddenly, I realize I’m about to die.

A gunshot rings, and I brace myself.

Twenty Four

Blood splatters my face, the warmth of it sticking to my skin, and I wonder if I’m dead.

I slowly open my eyes, and then realize what has happened. I am not dead; I was not even fired upon. The slaverunner was shot from behind, in the back of the head, and his brains splattered all over me. Someone shot him. Someone saved me.

Logan stands behind him, his gun outstretched, still smoking. I can’t believe it. He’s come back for me.

Logan offers his hand. I take it. It’s huge and rough, and he pulls me to my feet in one swift motion.

“GET IN!” he screams.

I run to the passenger side and jump in. Logan jumps into the driver’s side, slams the door, and before I am barely in, he pulls out, gunning the Humvee. It slips and slides in the snow as we peel out.