into them.
Their cars ride single file, one about twenty yards behind the other, and I realize I can’t take them both out. I am going to need to choose one. I decide to aim for the one in front: if I can run it off the road, perhaps it will cause the one behind it to slam on the brakes, or spin out and crash, too. It is a risky plan: the impact may very well kill us. But I don’t see any other way. I can’t exactly ask them to stop. I only pray that, if I am successful, Bree survives the crash.
I increase speed, closing in on them. I am a hundred yards away…then 50…then 30….
Finally, Ben realizes what I’m about to do.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?” he screams, and I can hear the fear in his voice. “YOU’RE GOING TO HIT THEM!”
Finally he gets it. That’s exactly what I’m hoping to do.
I rev it one last time, topping 150, and barely catch my breath as we go racing at top speed on the country road. Seconds later, we go flying onto Route 9-and smash directly into the first vehicle. It is a perfect hit.
The impact is tremendous. I feel the crash of metal on metal, feel my body jerking to a stop, then feel myself go flying off my bike and through the air. I see a world of stars, and as I’m flying, I realize that this is what it feels like to die.
SEVEN
I go flying through the air, head over heels, and finally feel myself land in the snow, the impact crushing my ribs and knocking the wind out of me. I go tumbling, again and again. I roll and roll, unable to stop, bumped and bruised in every direction. The helmet is still fastened to my head, and I am grateful for it as I feel my head crack against rocks in the ground. Behind me, there is the loud sound of crashing metal.
I lay there, frozen, wondering what I have done. For a moment, I am unable to move. But then I think of Bree, and force myself to. Gradually, I move my leg, then raise an arm, testing it. As I do, I feel excruciating pain on my right, in my ribs, enough to take my breath away. It feels like I’ve cracked one of them. With a supreme effort, I am able to turn over to my side. I lift my visor, look over and take in the scene.
It looks like I hit the first car with such force that I knocked it on its side; it lays there, its wheels spinning. The other vehicle has spun out, but is still upright; it sits in a ditch on the side of the road, about fifty yards ahead of us. Ben still sits in the sidecar; I can’t tell if he’s dead or alive. It seems I am the first one to regain consciousness. There seems to be no other signs of life from anyone.
I don’t waste any time. I feel more achy than ever-as if I’ve just been run over by a Mack Truck-but I think again of Bree, and somehow summon the energy to move. I have the advantage now, while everyone else is recovering.
Limping, feeling a throbbing pain in my ribs, I hobble over to the car on its side. I pray that Bree is in there, that she’s unhurt, and that I can get her out of here somehow. I reach down and take out the gun as I approach, holding it cautiously in front of me.
I look in and see that both slaverunners are slumped in their seats, covered in blood. One’s eyes are open, clearly dead. The other appears to be dead, too. I quickly check the backseats, hoping to see Bree.
But she’s not there. Instead, I find two other teenagers-a boy and a girl. They sit there, frozen with fear. I can’t believe it. I hit the wrong car.
I immediately look over to the car on the horizon, the one in the ditch, and as I do, it suddenly revs its engine and its wheels spin. It is trying to get out. I prepare to sprint towards it, to reach it before it pulls out. My heart thumps in my throat, knowing Bree is right there, barely fifty yards away.
Just as I’m about to burst into action, I suddenly hear a voice.
“HELP ME!”
I look over and see Ben, sitting in the sidecar, trying to get out. I look behind him and see flames spreading on the bike, behind the gas tank. My bike is on fire. And Ben is stuck. I stand there, torn, looking back and forth between Ben and the car that holds my sister. I need to go and rescue her. But at the same time, I can’t let him die. Not like this.
Furious, I run to him. I grab him, feeling the heat from the flames behind him, and yank on him, trying to get him out. But the metal of the sidecar has bent in on his legs, and it’s not easy. He tries to help, too, and I yank, again and again, the flames growing higher. I am sweating, grunting, as I yank with all I have. Finally, I pry him loose.
And just as I do, suddenly, the bike explodes.
EIGHT
The explosion sends us both flying back through the air, and I land hard on my back in the snow. For the third time this morning, the wind is knocked out of me.
I look up at the sky, seeing stars, trying to clear my head. I can still feel the heat on my face from the force of the flames, and my ears ring from the noise.
As I struggle to my knees, I feel a searing pain in my right arm. I look over and see that a small piece of shrapnel is sticking through the edge of my bicep, maybe two inches long; it looks like a piece of twisted metal. It hurts like crazy.
I reach over and, without thinking, in one quick motion grab the end of it, grit my teeth and yank. For a moment, I am in the worst pain of my life, as the metal goes completely through my arm and out the other side. Blood rushes down my arm and into the snow, staining my coat.
I quickly take off one sleeve of the coat and can see the blood on my shirt. I tear off a piece of the sleeve with my teeth and take a strip of cloth and tie it tight over the wound, then put my coat back on. I hope it will staunch the flow of blood. I manage to sit up, and as I look over, I see what was once my Dad’s bike: now it is just a heap of useless metal, on fire. It will clearly never run again. Now we’re stuck.
I look over at Ben. He looks dazed, too, on his hands and knees, breathing hard, his cheeks black with soot. But at least he is alive.
I hear the roar of an engine, and look over and see that in the distance, the other car has caught traction. It is already taking off down the highway, gaining speed, with my sister inside. I am furious at Ben for making me lose her. I have to catch them.
I turn to the slaverunner car before me, still on its side, and wonder if it runs. I run over to it, determined to try.
I push it for all I have, trying to get it back on all four tires. But it’s too heavy, barely rocking.
“Help me!” I yell to Ben.
He gets up and hurries to my side, limping. He takes position beside me, and together, we push with all we have. The car is heavier than I imagine, weighed down by all its iron bars. It rocks more and more, and finally, after one big heave, we get it back onto all four tires. It lands in the snow with a crash.
I waste no time. I open the driver’s side door and reach in and grab the dead driver with both hands by the shirt and yank him out of the seat. His torso is covered in blood, and my hands turn red as I throw him into the snow.
I lean in and examine the slaverunner in the passenger seat. His face is covered in blood, too, but I am not certain he is dead. In fact, as I look closer, I detect some signs of movement. Then he shifts in his seat. He’s alive.
I lean across the car and grab him by his shirt, tight in a fist. I hold my gun to his head and shake him roughly. Finally, his eyes bat open. He blinks, disoriented.
I assume the other slaverunners are heading to Arena One. But I need to know for sure. They have such a big head start on us, that I need to know. I lean in close.
He turns and looks at me, and for a moment, I am stunned: half his face is melted away. It is an old wound, not from the accident, which means he must be a Biovictim. I’ve heard rumors of these people, but I’ve never seen one up close. When the nuclear payloads were dropped in the cities, those few who survived a direct attack carried
