drops as I hear silence. The car is dead. I try the ignition again and again. But nothing. Nothing at all. It seems the accident destroyed the car somehow. A hopeless feeling sets in. Was this all for nothing?
“Pop the hood,” Ben says.
I pull the lever and Ben hurries around to the front, and I get out and join him. I stand over him as he reaches in and starts fiddling with several wires, knobs and switches. I am surprised by his dexterity.
“Are you a mechanic?” I ask.
“Not really,” he answers. “My Dad is. He taught me a lot, back when we had cars.”
He holds two wires together, and there is a spark. “Try it now,” he says.
I hurry back in and turn the ignition, hoping, praying. This time, the car roars to life.
Ben slams closed the hood, and I see a proud smile on his face, which is already swelling up from the broken nose. He hurries back and opens his door and is about to get back in, when suddenly he freezes, staring into the backseat.
I follow his gaze, and I remember. The boy in the back.
“What should we do with him?” Ben asks.
There’s no more time to waste. I get out, reach in and yank him out, trying not to look. I drag him several feet, in the snow, over to a large tree, and lay him down beneath it. I look at him for just a moment, then turn and run back to the car.
Ben still stands there.
“That’s it?” he asks, sounding disappointed.
“What do you expect?” I snap. “A funeral service?”
“It just seems…a bit callous,” he says. “He died because of us.”
“We don’t have time for this,” I say, at my wit’s end. “We’re all going to die anyway!”
I jump back into the running car, my thoughts fixed on Bree, on how far the other slaverunners have gone. While Ben is still closing his door, I peel out.
Our car goes flying across the snowy field, up a steep bank and with a bang, back onto the highway. We skid, then catch traction. We are rolling again.
I step on the gas, and we start to gain real speed. I am amazed: this car is invincible. It feels as good as new.
In no time, we are doing over 100. This time, I’m a bit more cautious, shell-shocked from the accident. I bring it up to 110, but don’t press it past that. I can’t risk wiping out again.
I figure they’re probably at least ten minutes ahead of us, and we might not be able to catch them. But anything can happen. All I need is for them to hit one bad pothole, for just one mishap to happen to them…. If not, I’ll just have to follow their tracks, and hope I can find them.
“We have to find them before they reach the city,” Ben says, as if reading my mind. He has an annoying habit of doing that, I notice. “If they get there before us, we’ll never find them again.”
“I know,” I respond.
“And if we enter the city, we’ll never make it out. You know that, don’t you?”
The very same thought has been going through my mind. He’s right. From everything I’ve heard, the city is a deathtrap, filled with predators. We’re hardly equipped to fight our way out.
I step on it, giving it a bit more gas. The engine roars, and we are now cruising at 120. The snow hasn’t slowed, and bounces off the windshield. I think of the dead boy in the backseat, see his face, his unblinking eyes; I remember how close we came to death, and a part of me wants to slow down. But I have no choice.
As we drive, time feels like it’s crawling, going forever. We must drive twenty miles, then thirty, then forty… on and on, forever into the snow. I’m gripping the steering wheel with both hands, leaning forward, watching the road more carefully than I have in my life. I’m swerving to avoid potholes left and right, like a videogame. Which is hard to do in this speed, and in this snow. Still, I manage to miss nearly all of them. Once or twice I don’t, though, and we pay the price dearly, my head slamming into the roof, and my teeth smashing into each other. But no matter what, I keep going.
As we round the bend, I spot something in the distance that worries me: the tracks of the slaverunner’s car seem to veer off the road, into a field. It doesn’t make any sense, and I wonder if I am seeing things correctly, especially in this blizzard.
But as we get closer, the more certain I become. I slow dramatically.
“What are you doing?” Ben asks.
My sixth sense tells me to slow down, and as we get close, I’m glad I do.
I slam on the brakes, and luckily I’m only doing 50 when I do. We slip and slide for about 20 yards, and finally, we come to a stop.
Just in time. The highway comes to an abrupt stop. It ends in a huge crater, plunging deep into the earth. If I hadn’t stopped, we would surely be dead right now.
I look down, over the edge of the precipice. It is a massive crater, probably a hundred yards in diameter. It looks like a huge bomb had been dropped on this highway at some point during the war.
I turn the wheel and follow the slaverunner’s tracks, which take me though a snowy field, then onto winding local roads. After several minutes, it leads us back onto the highway. I pick up speed again, this time bringing it up to 130.
I drive and drive and drive, and feel like I’m driving to the end of the earth. I probably cover another 40 miles and I begin to wonder how much further this highway can go. The snowy sky begins to grow darker, and soon it will be nightfall. I feel the need to push, and get the car up to 140. I know it’s risky, but I need to catch up to them.
As we go, we pass some of the old signs for the major arteries, still hanging, rusting away: the Sawmill Parkway; the Major Deegan; 287; the Sprain…. The Taconic forks, and I merge onto the Sprain Parkway, then the Bronx River Parkway, following the slaverunner’s tracks. We are getting closer to the city now, open sky gradually replaced by tall, crumbling buildings. We are in the Bronx.
I feel the need to catch them and push the car up to 150. It becomes so loud that I can barely hear.
As we round another bend, my heart leaps: there, in the distance, I see them, a mile ahead.
“That’s them!” Ben screams.
But as we close the gap, I suddenly see what they’re going for. A crooked sign reads “Willis Avenue Bridge.” It is a small bridge, encased in metal beams, barely wide enough for two lanes. At its entrance sit several Humvees, slaverunners sitting on the hoods, machine guns mounted and aimed towards the road. More Humvees sit on the far side of the bridge.
I gun it, pushing the gas pedal as far as it will go, and we top 150. The world flies by in a blur. But we are not catching up: the slaverunners are speeding up, too.
“We can’t follow them in!” Ben yells. “We’ll never make it!”
But we have no choice. They’ve got at least a hundred yards on us, and the bridge is maybe a hundred yards away. We’re not going to beat them there. I am doing all I can, and our car is already shaking from the speed. There’s no way around it: we’re going to have to enter the city.
As we approach the bridge, I wonder if the guards realize we aren’t one of theirs. I only hope we can get through fast enough, before they catch on and fire on us.
The slaverunner car flies between the guards, racing over the bridge. We follow, fifty years behind, and as we do, the guards still don’t realize. Soon, we are thirty yards away…then 20…then 10….
As we race onto the entrance, we are close enough that I can see the horrified expressions on the guards’ faces. Now, they realize.
I look up, and the guards raise their machineguns our way.
A second later, shots ring out.
We are covered in automatic machine gun fire, bouncing off the hood and windshield, bullets spraying everywhere. I duck.
Worse, something starts to fall, impeding our way, and I see it is a spiked iron gate. It is being lowered on the bridge, to block our entrance to Manhattan.
We’re going too fast, and I can’t possibly stop in time. The gate is falling too fast, and I realize, too late, that in just a few moments, we will smash into it, and it will tear our car to pieces.
I prepare for impact.
