Arena One: Slaverunners

“Now what?” Logan screams.

I am wondering the exact same thing.

“I can’t run them off the road!” Logan adds. “I might kill her!”

I think fast, trying to formulate a plan.

“Get closer,” I say. “Pull up beside it!”

He pulls up to the back, our bumpers nearly touching, and as he does, I lift myself out of the seat and crawl out the open window to sit on the door ledge. The wind is so strong it nearly knocks me off.

“What are you doing!?” Logan screams in concern. But I ignore it. There’s no time for second-guessing.

Snow and wind whip my face as Logan pulls up right beside the bus. I steady myself, waiting for the perfect moment. The back of the bus is now only a foot away, and there is a wide, flat ledge by its bumper. I brace myself, my heart pounding.

And then I leap.

My shoulder slams into the side of the bus as I land on the ledge. I reach out and grab the thick, metal bars. The metal freezes my bare hands, but I hold on tight. The ground flies by beneath me in a blur. I can barely believe it. I made it.

The bus must be doing 80 in the snow, and it swerves erratically. I wrap one arm thoroughly around the bar, hugging it with all I have, just barely managing to hang on.

We hit a pothole and I slip, nearly losing my grip. One of my feet dips down and drags on the snow – it is my wounded leg, and I scream out in pain as it bumps along the ground. With supreme effort, I slowly pull myself back up.

I try to open the back door, but my heart drops to discover it is locked with a padlock and chain. My hand shaking, I manage to remove my gun from my belt. I lean back, brace myself, and fire.

Sparks fly. The padlock breaks, and the chain clatters and falls to the ground.

I try the door and it pops open with tremendous force, flying against the wind, nearly knocking me off. I pull myself through the opening and into the back of the bus.

I now stand inside, in the aisle of the school bus. I quickly hurry down it, looking back and forth frantically as I go. There are dozens of young girls in here, chained to each other and to their seats. They all look up at me, terrified. I scan each row quickly, from left to right, looking for any sign of my sister.

“BREE!” I yell out, desperate.

As the girls catch on to my presence and realize I might be a key to their salvation, they start crying, hysterical.

“HELP ME!” one of them screams.

“PLEASE, GET ME OUT OF HERE!” another screams.

The driver catches on to my presence; I look up and catch him starting at me in the rearview. He suddenly swerves the bus hard. As he does, I fly across the aisle and bang my head on the metal casing of the ceiling.

I regain my balance, but then he swerves in the other direction, and I fly across the other side of the bus.

My head is pounding, but I steady myself, this time clutching the seats as I pull myself carefully forward, going row to row. I look each way for Bree, and there are only a few rows left.

“BREE!” I scream out, wondering why she’s not raising her head.

I check the next two rows, then the next two, then the next two… Finally, I reach the last row, and my heart drops.

There’s no sign of her.

The realization hits me like a hammer: I chose the wrong bus.

Suddenly, I glimpse motion out the window and hear an explosion. I turn to see our Humvee, Logan inside, flying up in the air as it hits a mine. It lands on its side, skidding through the snow. Then it stops.

My heart drops. Logan must be dead.

Twenty Five

I take my eyes off the driver for too long, and it is a stupid mistake.

He pulls out a handgun and aims it right at me. He smiles a cruel smile. He has me.

He cocks back the trigger and is about to fire. I brace myself. There is nowhere to go. I’m dead.

Over the driver’s shoulder, a Crazy jumps out of a manhole, aims an RPG, and fires. The missile sails through the air, coming right for us.

An explosion rocks our world. The noise is deafening, and I am thrown up into the air, smashing my head, as I feel the tremendous impact of the heat. Then my world turns sideways, as the bus crashes onto its side and skids.

Because I’m the only one standing, the only one not buckled or chained down, I’m the only one who goes flying across the bus. I go through an open window, propelled out of the bus just as it explodes, and the shockwave sends me even farther. I continue soaring through the air and land twenty yards away, face-first in a mound of snow.

Flames rip through the air, searing my back, but I roll in the snow and put them out. I feel the tremendous heat of the waves of fire behind me.

The entire bus is up in flames, on its side, in the snow. The flames must rise twenty feet high. It is an inferno. My heart drops as I realize that no one could possibly survive that. I think of all those innocent little girls, and I feel sick.

I lay there in the snow bank, trying to catch my breath from the smoke. My head spins, and I hurt more than ever. It is an effort to sit up. I turn and set my sights on our Humvee. It sits there in the distance, at the base of the Flatiron building, on its side, like a dead beast, two of its tires blown off.

Logan. I wonder if he is alive.

I claw myself to my feet with my last ounce of strength, and manage to hobble his way. He is a good fifty yards away, and it feels like I am crossing a desert to reach him.

As I get close, another manhole opens up, and a crazy suddenly sprints right for me, holding out a knife. I reach down and raise my gun, take aim and shoot him in the head. He lands on his back, dead. I take his knife and put it in my belt.

I check over my shoulder as I run, and several hundred yards back I spot a group of Crazies charging right towards me. There must be at least fifty of them. And all around them I see more manholes open up, more Crazies crawling up from the ground, running out of the subway stations, scurrying up from the steps. I wonder if they live in the subway tunnels. I wonder if any subways are even still running.

But there is no time to think about that now. I race for the Humvee and as I reach it, I find it’s destroyed, useless. I climb up on it and open the driver’s side door. I brace myself as I look in, praying I don’t see Logan dead.

Luckily, I don’t. He is still sitting in the driver’s seat, buckled and unconscious. Blood is splattered on the windshield and he’s bleeding from his forehead, but at least he’s breathing. He’s alive. Thank God he’s alive.

I hear a distant noise, and turn to see the Crazies getting closer. I need to get Logan out of here – and fast.

I reach in, grab his shirt, and begin to yank him up. But he is heavier than I can manage.

“LOGAN!” I scream.

I pull harder, shaking him, afraid the Humvee will blow any minute. Slowly, he begins to wake. He blinks and looks around.

“You okay?” I ask.