Arena One: Slaverunners

But I am too numb. Right now, all I feel is that I did what I had to to defend myself. He was a slaverunner after all, and he came up here to hurt us. I realize I should feel more remorse – but I don’t. That frightens me. I can’t help but wonder if I’m more like Dad than I care to admit.

Ben is useless, still standing there staring, so I run around to his side of the car, open the passenger door and begin to yank out the body. It is heavy.

“Help me!” I snap. I am annoyed by his inaction – especially while the other slaverunners are getting away.

Finally, Ben hurries over and helps me. We drag out the dead slaverunner, the blood staining our clothes, walk a few feet, then throw it into the snow, which turns red. I reach down and quickly strip the corpse of its gun and ammo, realizing Ben is either too passive or isn’t thinking clearly.

“Take his clothes,” I say. “You’ll need them.”

I don’t waste any more time. I run back to the car, open the driver’s side door and jump in. I go to turn the keys, when I suddenly look down and check the ignition. They are missing.

My heart drops. I search the floor of the car frantically, then the seats, then the dashboard. Nothing. The keys must have fallen out in the crash.

I look outside and notice some unusual markings in the snow that might indicate a trail from the keys. I kneel down and comb frantically through it, searching. I feel more and more desperate. It is like finding a needle in a haystack.

But suddenly, a miracle happens: my hand strikes something small. I comb the snow more carefully, and am flooded with relief to see the keys.

I jump back in the car, turn the ignition, and the car roars to life. This vehicle is some kind of modified muscle car, something like an old Camaro, and the engine roars way too loud; I can already tell it will be a fast ride. I only hope it’s fast enough to catch the other one.

I am about to put it into gear and take off when I look over and see Ben, still standing there, staring down at the corpse. He still hasn’t stripped the corpse’s clothing, even though he is standing there, freezing. I guess seeing the death affected him more than it did me. I have lost all patience and consider just taking off; but it wouldn’t be fair to leave him here alone, especially since he – or his body weight, at least – saved me back there on the bridge.

“I’M LEAVING!” I shriek at him. “GET IN!”

That snaps him out of it. He comes running over, jumps in, and slams the door. Just as I am about to gun it, he turns and looks in the backseat.

“What about him?” he asks.

I follow his gaze and see, in the backseat, the catatonic boy, still sitting there and staring.

“You want out?” I ask the boy. “Now’s your chance.”

But he doesn’t respond. I don’t have the luxury of time to figure it out; there have been too many delays already. If he won’t decide, I’ll decide for him. Coming along with us might kill him – but leaving him here will definitely kill him. He’s coming with us.

I peel out, getting back onto the highway with a thud. I am pleased to see the car is still running, and is faster than I could imagine. I am also pleased to see it handles well on the snowy highway. I hit the clutch and give it gas and shift to second gear, then to third, then fourth… I am grateful Dad taught me how to drive stick – another manly thing I probably never should have learned as a teenage girl, and another thing I resented at the time but am thankful for now. I watch the speedometer climb: 80…90…100…110…120… I am unsure how hard to push it. I worry that if I go too fast I’ll lose control in the snow, especially since this highway hasn’t been maintained in years, and with the snow covering, I can’t even see the potholes. If we hit just one big hole or patch of ice, we could be off the road. I get it up just a bit more, to 130, and decide to hold it there.

I look over at Ben, who has just finished buckling his seatbelt and is now gripping the dash, his knuckles white, looking straight ahead at the road in fear.

“You killed him,” he says.

I can barely hear him over the roar of the engine, and I wonder if I just imagined it, or if it was my conscience speaking. But Ben turns to me and repeats it:

“You killed that man,” he says louder, as if amazed such a thing could happen.

I’m not sure how to respond.

“Yes I did,” I say finally, annoyed. I don’t need him reminding me of it. “Do you have a problem with that?”

Slowly, he shakes his head. “I’ve just never seen a man killed before.”

“I did what I had to do,” I snap back, defensive. “He was reaching for a gun.”

I give it more gas, hitting 135, and as we turn the bend, I am relieved to spot the other car on the horizon. I am catching up, speeding faster than they dare to. At this rate, in a few minutes I might just catch them. I am encouraged.

I am sure they spot us – I just hope they don’t realize it’s us. Maybe they think the other slaverunners got their car back on the road. I don’t think they saw our encounter.

I give it even more gas, hitting 140, and the distance starts to close.

“What are you going to do when you catch them?” Ben screams, panic in his voice.

That is exactly what I have been wondering. I don’t know yet. I just know I need to catch up to them.

“We can’t shoot at their car, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he says. “The bullet might kill my brother – or your sister.”

“I know,” I reply. “We’re not going to shoot. We’re going to run them off the road,” I say, suddenly deciding.

“That’s crazy!” he yells, gripping the dashboard tighter as we close the gap even more. Snow is bouncing off our windshield like crazy, and I feel like I’m in a videogame, going out of control. The Taconic twists, narrowing as we go.

“That could kill them!” he yells. “What good will that do? My brother will die in there!”

“My sister is in there, too!” I shout back. “You think I want her dead?”

“So then what are you thinking?” he screams.

“You have any other ideas!?” I shout back. “You expect me to just ask them to pull over?”

He is silent.

“We have to stop them,” I continue. “If they reach the city, we’ll never get them back. That’s a certain death. At least this gives them a chance.”

Just as I get ready to floor it one more time, the slaverunners surprise me by suddenly slowing down. In moments I am beside them. At first I can’t understand why they are doing this, and then I realize: they think we are their partners. They still don’t realize it’s us.

We pull up and just as I prepare to turn hard on the wheel, to smash into them, their tinted passenger-side window opens to reveal the grinning face of a slaverunner, his facemask raised; he still assumes I am one of his.

I lower my window, scowling back: I want him to have one good look at me before I send him to hell.

His smile drops and his expression morphs into one of shock. I still have the element of surprise, and am about to turn hard on the wheel when I catch a glimpse of Bree in the backseat. She is alive. She looks back at me, fear in her eyes.

Suddenly, we hit a pothole. The sound is deafening, and our car shakes as if a bomb has gone off. It jolts me so hard that my head slams into the metal ceiling, and my teeth smash into each other. I feel as if I’ve lost a filling. Our car swerves wildly, and it takes me several seconds to regain control and straighten it out. It was a close call. It was stupid of me: I never should have taken my eyes off the road. We’ve lost speed, and the other vehicle has sped up and is now a good fifty yards ahead of us. Worse, now they know we’re not one of theirs.

I floor it again: 130…140… I step on the gas until the pedal is touching the floor, but it won’t go any farther. The speedometer hits 150. I assume the car in front of me has the capacity to go as fast, but they, clearly, are being more sensible. The icy conditions on this road are risky at even 80 miles an hour, and they are not willing to take the extra risk. But I have nothing to lose. If I lose Bree, I have nothing left to live for anyway.

We are closing in on them again. They are thirty yards away…twenty.

Suddenly, their passenger window rolls down, and light reflects off of something shiny. I realize, too late, what it is: a gun.

I slam on the brakes, just as they fire several times. I duck as the bullets bounce off our hood and windshield, and the metallic sound of ricocheting bullets fills our ears. At first I think we’re finished, but then I realize the bullets haven’t penetrated: this car must be bulletproof.

“You’re going to get us killed!” Ben yells. “Stop this! There has to be another way!”