happened, seen the slaverunners, and he felled a tree to stop them. To help us.
The gesture surprises me, and warms my heart. I’d always suspected there was a silent network of us hiding out here in the mountains, watching each other’s backs. Now I know for sure. Nobody likes a slaverunner. And nobody wants to see it happen to them.
The slaverunners’ tracks are distinct, and I follow them as they turn along the shoulder and make a sharp turn back onto the highway. Soon I am back on 23, and I can see them clearly now, about half a mile up ahead. I have gained some distance. I gun it again, as fast as the bike can handle, but they are flooring it now, too. They must see me. An old, rusted sign reads “Cairo: 2.” We are close to the bridge. Just a few miles.
It is more built-up down here, and as we fly by I see the crumbling structures along the side of the road. Abandoned factories. Warehouses. Strip malls. Even houses. Everything is the same: burnt-out, looted, destroyed. There are even abandoned vehicles, just shells. It’s as if there is nothing left in the world that’s working.
On the horizon, I see their destination: the Rip van Winkle bridge. A small bridge, just two lanes wide, encased by steel beams, it spans the Hudson River, connecting the small town of Catskill on the west with the larger town of Hudson on the east. A little-know bridge, once used by locals, now only slaverunners use it. It suits their purposes perfectly, leading them right to Route 9, which takes them to the Taconic Parkway and then, after 90 miles or so, right into the heart of the city. It is their artery.
But I’ve lost too much time, and no matter how much gas I give it, I just can’t catch up. I won’t be able to beat them to the bridge. I am closing the gap, though, and if I gain enough speed, maybe I can overtake them before they cross the Hudson.
A former toll-keeper’s building sits at the base of the bridge, forcing vehicles to line up in a single lane and pass a toll booth. At one time there was a barricade that prevented cars from passing, but that has long since been rammed. The slaverunners fly through the narrow passageway, a sign hanging over them, rusted and dangling, that reads “E-Z PASS.”
I follow them through it and race onto the bridge, now lined with rusted streetlamps that haven’t worked in years, their metal twisted and crooked. As I gain speed, I notice one of the vehicles, in the distance, screech to a stop. I’m puzzled by this-I can’t understand what they’re doing. I suddenly see one of the slaverunners jump out of the car, plant something on the road, then jump back in his car and take off. This gains me precious time. I’m closing in on their car, a quarter mile away, and feel like I’m going to catch them. I still can’t understand why they stopped-or what they planted.
Suddenly, I realize-and I slam on the brakes.
“What are you doing?” Ben yells. “Why are you stopping!?”
But I ignore him as I slam harder on the brakes. I brake too hard, too fast. Our bike can’t gain traction in the snow, and we begin to spin and slide, around and around in big circles. If there were no railings, we’d slide right off the bridge and plunge to the icy river. Luckily, there are metal railings, and we slam into these hard instead.
We spin back towards the middle of the bridge. Slowly, we are braking, our speed reducing, and I only hope we can stop in time. Because now I realize-too late-what they’ve dropped on the road.
There is a huge explosion. Fire shoots into the sky as their bomb goes off.
A wave of heat comes right at us, and shrapnel goes flying everywhere. The explosion is intense, flames shooting everywhere, and the force of it hits us like a tornado, blowing us back. I can feel the heat, scorching my skin, even through the clothing. The heat and shrapnel engulf us. Hundreds of bits of shrapnel bounce off my helmet, the loud sound echoing in my head.
The bomb blew such a big hole that it cut the bridge in two, creating a ten yard gap between the sides. Now there is no way to cross it. And worse, we are still siding right to a hole that will send us plunging hundreds of feet below. It is lucky I slammed on the brakes when I did, and that the explosion is still fifty yards ahead. But our bike won’t stop sliding, bringing us right towards it.
Finally, our speed drops to thirty, then down to twenty, then ten…. But the bike won’t fully stop on this ice, and I can’t stop the sliding, right towards the center of the bridge-now just a gaping chasm.
I pull on the brakes as hard as I possibly can, trying everything. But I realize that none of that will do any good now, as we keep sliding, uncontrollably, to our deaths.
And the last thing I think, before we plunge, is that I hope Bree has a better death than I do.
PART TWO
FIVE
Fifteen feet…ten…five…. The bike is slowing, but not enough, and we are just a few feet away from the edge. I brace myself for the fall, hardly conceiving that this is how I am going to die.
Then, the craziest thing happens: I heard a loud thump, and I am jolted forwards, as the bike slams into something and comes to a complete stop. A piece of metal, ripped in the explosion, juts up from the bridge, and has lodged itself in the spoke of our front wheel, stopping us.
I’m in a state of shock as I sit there, on the bike. I slowly look down and my heart drops as I realize that I’m dangling in the air, over the edge of the chasm. There is nothing under me at all. Hundreds of feet below I see the white ice of Hudson. I’m confused as to why I am not plunging.
I turn and see that the other half of my bike-the sidecar-is still lodged on the bridge. Ben, looking more dazed than I, still sits in it. He lost his helmet somewhere along the way, and his cheeks are covered in soot, charred form the explosion. He looks over at me, then down at the chasm, then back up at me in disbelief, as if amazed I’m still alive.
I realize that his weight, in the sidecar, is the only thing balancing me out, keeping me from falling. If I hadn’t have taken him, I’d be dead right now.
I need to do something before the entire bike tips over. Slowly, delicately, I pull my aching body off the bike, and climb over onto the sidecar, on top of Ben. I then climb over him, set my feet down on the pavement, and slowly pull back the bike.
Ben sees what I’m doing and gets out and pulls it, too. Together, we pull it back off the edge, and get the whole bike back onto safe ground.
He looks at me with his big blue eyes, and looks as if he’s just been through a war.
“How did you know it was a bomb?” he asks.
I shrug. Somehow, I just knew.
“If you didn’t slam on the brakes when you did, we’d be dead,” he says, grateful.
“If you weren’t sitting in the sidecar, I’d be dead,” I respond.
Touche. We each owe each other.
We both look down, at the chasm in the bridge. I look up, and in the distance, spot the slaverunners’ cars crossing the bridge and making it to the other side.
“Now what?” he asks.
I look everywhere, frantic, weighing our options. I look down at the river again. It is completely white, frozen with ice and snow. I look up and down the expanse of the river, looking for any other bridges, any other crossings. I see none.
At this moment, I realize what I must do. It is risky. In fact, it probably will mean our deaths. But I have to try. I vowed to myself. I will not give up. No matter what.
I jump back onto the bike. Ben follows, jumping into the sidecar. I put back on my helmet and gun it, back in the direction from which we came.
“Where are you going?” he calls out. “We’re going the wrong way!”
