Arena One: Slaverunners

determined to beat them to it.

I’m getting used to the bike and gaining good speed, good enough that the whine of their engines is becoming louder. Encouraged, I gun the motorcycle faster than I should: I glance down and see I am doing 60. I know it’s reckless, since these hairpin turns force me to slow down to about 10 miles an hour if I want any chance of not wiping out in the snow. So I accelerate, and then decelerate, turn after turn. I finally gain enough ground that I can actually see, about a mile in the distance, the bumper of one of their cars, just disappearing around a bend. I am encouraged. I’m going to catch these guys-or die trying.

I take another turn, slowing down to about 10 and getting ready to speed up again, when suddenly, I almost run into a person, standing there in the road, right in front of me. He appears out of nowhere, and it’s too late for me to even react.

I’m about to hit him, and I have no choice but to slam on the brakes. Luckily I’m not going fast, but my bike still slides in the snow, unable to gain traction. I do a 360, spinning twice, and finally come to a stop as my bike slams against the granite face of the mountainside.

I’m lucky. If I had spun the other way, I would have spun right off the cliff.

It all happened so fast, I am in shock. I sit there on the bike, gripping the bars, and turn and look up the road. My first instinct is that the man is a slaverunner, placed in the road to derail me. In one quick move, I kill the ignition and draw the gun, aiming it right at the man, who is still standing there, about twenty feet from me. I release the safety and pull back the pin, like Dad taught me so many times in the firing range. I am it right for his heart, instead of his head, so if I miss, I’ll still hit him somewhere.

My hands are shaking, even with the gloves on, and I realize how nervous I am to pull the trigger. I’ve never killed anyone before.

The man suddenly raises his hands, high into the air, and takes a step towards me.

“Don’t shoot!” he yells.

“Stay where you are!” I yell back, still not quite prepared to kill him.

He stops in his tracks, obedient.

“I’m not one of them!” he yells. “I’m a survivor. Like you. They took my brother!”

I wonder if it’s a trap. But then I raise my visor and look him up and down, see his worn jeans, filled with holes, just like mine, see that he’s only wearing one sock. I look closer and see that he has no gloves, and that his hands are blue; he has no coat either and wears only a worn, grey thermal shirt, with holes in it. Most of all, I see that his face is emaciated, more hollowed-out than mine, and I notice the dark circles under his eyes. He hasn’t shaved in a long time, either. I also can’t help noticing how strikingly attractive he is, despite all of this. He looks to be about my age, maybe 17, with a big shock of light brown hair, and large, light blue eyes.

He’s obviously telling the truth. He’s not a slaverunner. He’s a survivor. Like me.

“My name is Ben!” he yells out.

Slowly, I lower the pistol, relaxing just a bit, but still feeling on edge, annoyed that he stopped me, and feeling an urgency to continue on. Ben has lost me valuable time, and almost made me wipe out.

“You almost killed me!” I scream back. “What were you doing standing in the road like that?”

I turn the ignition and kickstart the bike, ready to leave.

But Ben takes several steps towards me, waving his hands frantically.

“Wait!” he screams. “Don’t go! Please! Take me with you! They have my brother! I need to get him back. I heard your engine and I thought you were one of them, so I blocked the road. I didn’t realize you were a survivor. Please! Let me come with you!”

For a moment, I feel sympathy for him, but my survival instinct kicks in, and I am unsure. On the one hand, having him might be helpful, given there is strength in numbers; on the other hand, I don’t know this person at all, and I don’t know his personality. Will he fold in a fight? Does he even know how to fight? And if I let him ride in the sidecar, it will waste more fuel, and slow me down. I pause, deliberating, then finally decide against it.

“Sorry,” I say, closing my visor, and preparing to pull out. “You’ll only slow me down.”

I begin to rev the bike, when he screams out again.

“You owe me!”

I stop for a second, confused by his words. Owe him? For what?

“That day, when you first arrived,” he continues. “With your little sister. I left you a deer. That was a week’s worth of food. I gave it to you. And I never asked for a thing back.”

His words hit me hard. I remember that day like it was yesterday, and how much that meant to us. I’d never imagined I’d run into the person who left it. He must have been here, all this time, so close-hiding in the mountains, just like us. Surviving. Keeping to himself. With his little brother.

I do feel indebted to him. And I reconsider. I don’t like owing people. Maybe, after all, it is better to have strength in numbers. And I know how he feels: his brother was taken, just like my sister. Maybe he is motivated. Maybe, together, we can do more damage.

“Please,” he pleads. “I need to save my brother.”

“Get in,” I say, gesturing to the sidecar.

He jumps in without hesitating.

“There’s a spare helmet inside.”

A second later, he is sitting and fumbling with my old helmet. I don’t wait a second longer. I tear out of their fast.

The bike feels heavier than it did, but it also feels more balanced. Within moments, I’m back up to 60 again, straight down the steep mountain road. This time, I won’t stop for anything.

I race down the winding country roads, twisting and turning, and as I turn a corner, a panoramic view of the valley opens up before me. I can see all the roads from here, and I see the two slaverunner cars in the distance. They are at least two miles ahead of us. They must have hit Route 23 to be gaining that kind of speed, which means they are off the mountain and on a wide, straight road. It burns me to think that Bree is in the back of one of those cars. I think of how frightened she must be. I wonder if they’re restraining her, if she’s in pain. The poor girl must be in hysterics. I pray she didn’t see Sasha die.

I gun the bike with newfound energy, twisting and turning way too sharply, and I look over and notice that Ben is gripping the edge of the sidecar, looking terrified, hanging on for his life. After several more hairpin turns, we get off the country road and go flying onto 23. Finally, we are on a normal highway, on flat land. Now, I can gun the bike for all it has.

And I do. I shift, and turn the grip, giving it as much gas as it can handle. I’ve never driven this bike-or anything-this fast in my life. I watch it pass 100, then 110, then 120…. There is still snow on the road, and it comes flying up into my face, bouncing off the visor; I feel the flakes brushing against the skin on my throat. I know I should slow down, but I don’t. I have to catch these guys.

130…140…. I can barely breathe we are going so fast, and I know that if for some reason I need to break, I won’t be able. We would spin and tumble so fast, there’s no way we would make it. But I have no choice. 150… 160….

“SLOW DOWN!” Ben screams. “WE ARE GOING TO DIE!”

I’m feeling the same exact thing: we are going to die. In fact, I feel certain of it. But I no longer care. All these years of being cautious, of hiding from everyone, have finally gotten to me. Hiding is not in my nature; I prefer to confront things head on. I guess I’m like Dad in that way: I’d rather stand and fight. Now, finally, after all these years, I have a chance to fight. And knowing that Bree is up there, just ahead of us, so close, has done something to me: it’s made me mad. I just can’t bring myself to slow down. I see the vehicles now, and I’m encouraged. My speed is working and I’m definitely gaining ground. They’re less than a mile away, and for the first time, I really feel I’m going to catch them.

The highway curves, and I lose sight of them, but as I curve around, I see them again. But this time, they are not on the highway; they seem to have disappeared. I am confused, until I look up and see what has happened. And it makes me hit the brakes hard.

In the distance, a huge tree has been felled and lies across the highway, blocking it. Luckily, I still have time to brake. I see the slaverunners’ tracks, veering off the main road, and around the tree. As we come to a near stop before the tree, veering off the road, following the slaverunners’ tracks, I notice the bark is freshly cut. And I realize what happened: someone must have just felled it. A survivor, I am guessing, one of us. He must have seen what