Arena One: Slaverunners

Street and Fifth Avenue. I go flying over the hill, and for a moment my car is airborne. We land with a crash, and I momentarily lose control, as we slide into a statue, toppling it.

Before us is a huge circular fountain; I swerve out of the way at the last second, and chase him around the circle. He jumps up onto the sidewalk, and I follow him, and he heads right for a massive building. The Plaza Hotel. Its former façade, once immaculate, is now covered in grime and neglect. Its windows all smashed, it looks like a tenement.

He smashes into the rusted rods holding the awning, and as he does, it comes crashing down, bouncing off his hood. I swerve out of the way, then follow him as he makes a sharp left and cuts across Fifth Avenue, clearly trying to shake me. He races up a small stone staircase, and I follow, our car shuddering violently with each step. He heads for the huge glass box of what was once the Apple Store. Amazingly, its façade is still intact. It is, in fact, the only intact thing I’ve seen anywhere since the war began.

Not anymore. At the last second he swerves out of the way, and it is too late for me to turn. Our car smashes right into the façade of the Apple box. There’s a tremendous explosion of glass, and it rains down through the holes in our roof as I ride right through the Apple Store. I feel a little guilty to have destroyed the one thing left standing – but then again, I think of how much I paid for an iPad back in the day, and my guilt lessens.

I regain control as the slaverunner makes a left down Fifth Avenue. He’s got about thirty yards on me, but I won’t give up, like a dog chasing a bone. I just hope our gas lasts.

I am amazed at what Fifth Avenue has become. This famed avenue, once the beacon of prosperity and materialism, is now, like everything else, just an abandoned, dilapidated shell, its stores looted, its retail spaces destroyed. Huge weeds grow right down the middle of it, making it look like a marshland. Bergdorf’s flies by, on my right, its floors completely empty, no windows left, like a ghost house. I swerve around abandoned cars, and as we hit 57

Street, I spot what was once Tiffany’s. This place, once the hallmark of beauty, is now just another haunted mansion, like everything else. Not a single jewel remains in its empty windows.

I step on the gas and we cross 55

, then 54

, then 53

Streets… I pass a cathedral, Saint Patrick’s, on my left, its huge arched doors torn off long ago, now lying flat, face down, on its staircase. I can see right into its open structure, right to the stained glass on the other side.

I have taken my eyes off the road too long, and suddenly the slaverunner makes a sharp right onto 48

Street. I’m going too fast, and when I try to make the turn I skid out, doing a 360. Luckily I don’t hit anything.

I come back around and follow him, but his tricky move has gained him some distance. I follow him across 48

, heading west, crosstown, past what was once Rockefeller Center. I remember coming here with Dad, at Christmastime, remember thinking how magical it was. I can’t believe it now: everywhere is rubble, crumbling buildings. Rock Center has become a massive wasteland.

Again, I take my eyes off the road too long, and as I look back, I slam on the brakes, but there isn’t time. Right in front of me, lying on its side, is the huge Rockefeller Christmas tree. We are going to hit it. Right before we make impact, I can see some lights and ornaments still left on it. The tree is brown, and I wonder how long it’s been laying here.

I smash right into it, doing 120. I hit it with such force, the entire tree shifts on the snow, and I’m pushing it, dragging it along. Finally, I manage to swerve hard to the right, getting around the narrow tip of it. Thousands of pine needles sprinkle down through the gaping holes in our roof. A bunch more stick to the blood still matted to our windshield. I can’t imagine what our car looks like from the outside.

This slaverunner knows the city too well: his smart moves have gained him another advantage, and he is now out of sight. But I still see his tracks and up ahead, I see he’s made a left on Sixth Avenue. I follow him.

Sixth Avenue is another wasteland, it streets filled with abandoned tanks and Humvees, most upside down, all stripped of anything that might be useful, including the tires. I swerve in and out of these as I see the slaverunner up ahead. I wonder for the millionth time where he could be heading. Is he crisscrossing the city just to lose me? Does he have a destination in mind? I think hard, trying to remember where Arena One is located. But I have no idea. Up until today, I was never even sure it really existed.

He guns it down Sixth and so do I, finally gaining speed. As we cross 43

, on my left, I catch a glimpse of Bryant Park, and the rear of what was once the New York Public Library. My heart drops. I used to love going into that magnificent building. Now it is nothing but rubble.

The slaverunner makes a sharp right on 42

street, and this time I’m right behind him. We both skid, then straighten out. We race down 42

, heading west, and I wonder if he’s heading for the West Side Highway.

The street opens up, and we are in Times Square. He bursts into the square and I follow, entering the vast intersection. I remember coming here as a kid, being so overwhelmed by the size and scope of it, by all the people. I remember being dazzled by all the lights, the flashing billboards. Now, like everything else, it is a ruin. Of course, none of the lights work, and there is not a single person in sight. All the billboards that used to hang so proudly now either dangle precariously in the wind, or lie face down on the street below. Huge weeds cover the intersection. In its center, where there was once an army recruiting center, now, ironically, lie the shells of several tanks, all twisted and blown up. I wonder what battle took place here.

Suddenly, the slaverunner makes a sharp left, heading down Broadway. I follow, and as I do, I am shocked by what I see before me: an enormous cement wall, like a prison wall, rises high into the sky, topped with barbed wire. The wall stretches as far as I can see, blocking off Times Square from whatever lies south of it. As if trying to keep something out. There is an opening in the wall, and the slaverunners drive right through it; as they pass through, a massive iron gate suddenly bangs down behind them, shutting them off from me.

I slam on the brakes, screeching to a halt right before we smash into the gate. Beyond it, the slaverunners are taking off. It is too late. I have lost them.

I can’t believe it. I feel numb. I sit there, frozen, in the silence, our car stopped for the first time in hours, and feel my body trembling. I hadn’t foreseen this. I wonder why this wall is here, why they would wall off a part of Manhattan. What they would need protection from.

And then, a moment later, I have my answer.

An eerie noise rises up all around me, the sound of screeching metal, and the hair raises on the back my neck. People rise up from the earth, popping up from manholes in every direction. Biovictims. All throughout Times Square. They are emaciated, dressed in rags, and look desperate. The Crazies.

They really do exist.

They rise from the earth, all around us, and head right for us.

Twelve

Before I can even react, I sense movement high above, and look up. Standing up high, atop the wall, are several slaverunners, wearing their black facemasks, holding machine guns. They aim them down at us.

“DRIVE!” Ben screams, frantic.

I’m already stepping on the gas, tearing out of there, as the first gunshots ring out. A hail of fire pours down on the car, bouncing off the roof, off the metal, off the bulletproof glass. I only pray it doesn’t slip through the cracks.

Simultaneously, the Crazies rush us from all sides. One of them reaches back and throws a glass bottle with a burning rag on it. A Molotov cocktail lands right before our car and explodes, the flames rising before us. I swerve just in time, and the flames graze the side of our car.

Another comes running up and jumps on the windshield. He grabs on and won’t let go, his face snarling at me through the glass, inches away. I swerve again, scraping against a pole, knocking him off.

Several more jump on the hood and trunk, weighing us down. I floor it, trying to shake them as we continue west across 42

.

But three of them manage to hold onto our car. One of them is dragging on the cement, and another is crawling his way up the hood. He raises a crowbar and prepares to bring it down on the windshield.

I make a sharp left on Eighth Avenue, and that does it. The three of them go flying off the car and sliding across the snow on the ground.

It was a close call. Too close.

I race down Eighth Avenue, and as I do, spot another opening in the wall. Several slaverunner guards stand before it, and I realize they might not know I’m not one of theirs. After all, the Times Square entrance is an entire avenue away. If I drive right for it, confidently, maybe they’ll assume I’m one of theirs, and keep it open.

I aim right for it, going faster and faster, closing the distance. A hundred yards…fifty…thirty… I race right for the opening, and so far, it’s still open. There’s no stopping now. And if they bring it down, we’re dead.

I brace myself, and so does Ben. I’m almost expecting us to crash.

But a moment later, we are through. We made it. I exhale with relief.

We’re in. I’m doing 100 now as I race down Eighth Avenue, against the one way. I am about to make a left, to try to catch them on Broadway, when suddenly, Ben leans forward and points.

“There!” he screams.

I squint, trying to see what he’s pointing at. The windshield is still covered in blood and pine needles.