the scars, and were rumored to be more sadistic and aggressive than others. We call them the Crazies.
I have to be extra careful with this one. I tighten my grip on the gun.
“Where are they taking her?” I demand, through gritted teeth.
He looks back blankly, as if trying to comprehend. I feel certain, though, that he understands.
I shove the barrel tight against his cheek, letting him know I mean business. And I do. Every passing moment is precious, and I can feel Bree getting further away from me.
“I said, where are they taking her?”
Finally, his eyes open in what seems to be fear. I think he gets the message.
“The arena,” he finally says, his voice raspy.
My heart flutters, my worst fears confirmed.
“Which one?” I snap.
I pray he does not say
He pauses, and I can see he is debating whether or not to tell me. I jab the pistol tighter against his cheekbone.
“Tell me now or you’re wasted!” I yell, surprising myself with the anger in my voice.
Finally, after a long pause, he answers: “Arena One.”
My heart pounds, my worst fears confirmed. Arena One. Manhattan. It is rumored to be the worst of them all. That can only mean one thing: a certain death for Bree.
I feel a fresh rage towards this man, this bottom feeder, this slaverunner, the lowest rung of society, who has come up here to kidnap my sister, and God knows who else, to feed the machine, just so that others can watch helpless people kill each other. All this senseless death, just for their own entertainment. It is enough to make me want to kill him on the spot.
But I pull the gun back, and loosen my grip. I know that I should kill him, but a part of me can’t bring myself to. He answered my questions, and somehow I feel killing him now wouldn’t be fair. So instead, I decide I will abandon him here. I will kick him out of the car and leave him here, which will mean a slow death by starvation. There is no way a slaverunner can survive alone in nature. They are city dwellers-not survivors like us.
I lean back to tell Ben to yank this slaverunner out of the car, when suddenly, I detect motion out of the corner of my eye. I suddenly stop and see the slaverunner is reaching for his belt. He is moving faster than I thought he was capable of. He has tricked me: he is actually in fairly good shape.
He pulls out a gun faster than I could have ever thought possible. Before I can even register what’s happening, he is already raising it in my direction. Stupidly, I’ve underestimated him.
Some instinct in me takes over, perhaps some instinct inherited from Dad, and without even thinking clearly, I raise my gun, and right before he shoots, I fire.
NINE
The gunshot is deafening, and a moment later, the car is splattered in blood. I am so overcome by adrenaline, I don’t even know who fired first.
I am shocked as I look down and realize that I shot him in the head.
A screaming erupts. I look to the back seat and see that the young girl sitting behind the driver’s side is shrieking. She suddenly leans forward, pulls herself out from the back, jumps out, and hits the snow running.
For a moment, I debate whether to chase her down-she is clearly in shock, and in her state, who knows if she even knows where she’s going. In this weather, and in this remote location, I doubt she can survive long.
But I think of Bree, and have to stay focused. She is what matters most now. I can’t afford to waste time tracking this girl down. I turn and watch her run, and it feels odd to think of her as being so much younger than I am. In truth, she is probably close to my age.
I check the reaction of the captured boy in the backseat, maybe twelve. But he just sits there, staring, frozen. He looks to me like he’s in a catatonic state. He’s not even blinking. I wonder if he’s had some kind of psychotic break. I stand and look over at Ben, who still stands there, staring down at the dead corpse. He doesn’t say a word.
The gravity of what I have done suddenly hits me: I have just killed a man. Never in my life did I think I would. I have always felt bad even killing an animal, and I realize I should feel awful.
But I am too numb. Right now, all I feel is that I did what I had to to defend myself. He was a slaverunner after all, and he came up here to hurt us. I realize I should feel more remorse-but I don’t. That frightens me. I can’t help but wonder if I’m more like Dad than I care to admit.
Ben is useless, still standing there, staring, so I run around to his side of the car, open the passenger side door and begin to yank out the body. It is heavy.
“Help me!” I snap. I am annoyed by his inaction-especially while the other slaverunners are getting away.
Finally, Ben hurries over and helps me. We drag it out, the blood staining our clothes, walk it a few feet, then throw it into the snow, which turns red. I reach down and quickly strip the corpse of its gun and ammo, realizing Ben is too passive, or isn’t thinking clearly.
“Take his clothes,” I say. “You’ll need them.”
I don’t waste any more time. I run back to our car, open the driver’s side door and jump in. I go to turn the keys, when I suddenly look down and check the ignition. They are missing.
My heart drops. I check the floor of the car frantically, then the seats, then the dash. Nothing. The keys must have fallen out in the crash.
I look outside, at the snow, and notice some unusual markings that might indicate a trail from the keys. I get down, kneeling in the snow, and comb frantically through it, searching. I feel more and more desperate. It is like finding a needle in a haystack.
But suddenly, a miracle happens: my hand strikes something small. I comb the snow more carefully, and am flooded with relief to see it’s the keys.
I jump back in the car, turn the ignition, and the car roars to life. This vehicle is some kind of modified muscle car, something like an old Camaro, and the engine roars way too loud; I can already tell it will be a fast ride. I only hope it’s fast enough to catch the other one.
I am about to put it into gear and take off when I look over and see Ben, still standing there, staring down at the corpse. He still hasn’t stripped the corpse’s clothing, even though he is standing there, freezing. I guess seeing the death affected him more than it did me. I have lost all patience and for a moment I debate just taking off; but then I realize that it wouldn’t be fair to leave him here alone, especially since he-or his body weight, at least-saved me back there on the bridge.
“I’M LEAVING!” I shriek at him. “GET IN!”
That snaps him out of it. He comes running over, jumps in and slams the door. Just as I am about to gun it, he turns and looks in the backseat.
“What about him?” he asks.
I follow his gaze and see, in the backseat, the catatonic boy, still sitting there and staring.
“You want out?” I ask the boy. “Now’s your chance.”
But he keeps staring straight ahead, not responding. I don’t have the luxury of time to figure it out; there have been too many delays already. If he won’t decide, I’ll decide for him. Coming along with us might kill him-but leaving him here will definitely kill him. He’s coming with us.
I peel out, getting back onto the highway with a thud. I am pleased to see the car is still running, and is faster than I could imagine. I am also pleased to see it handles well on the snowy highway. I hit the clutch and give it gas and shift to second gear, then to third, then fourth…. I am grateful Dad taught me how to drive stick-another manly thing I probably never should have learned as a teenage girl, and another thing I resented at the time but am thankful for now. I watch the speedometer climb: 80…90…100…110…120…. I am unsure how hard to push it. I worry that if I go too fast I’ll lose control in the snow, especially since this highway hasn’t been maintained in years-and because, with the snow covering, I can’t even see the potholes. If we hit just one big hole, or one patch of ice, we could be off the road. I get it up just a bit more, to 130, and decide to hold it there.
