ELEVEN
I brace myself as we head for the descending gate. It’s too late to turn back now, and too late to slam on the brakes. From the looks of those heavy, reinforced iron bars, with spikes at the end, I don’t see how we can possibly drive through it. I figure our only chance is to outrace it, to go fast enough to slip through before it completely descends. So I floor it, the car roaring and shaking. As we get within feet of it, the guards jump out of the way, and I brace myself for impact.
There is the awful noise of metal smashing into metal, along with the noise of broken glass. It is deafening, as if a bomb has exploded right beside my ear. It sounds like one of those huge car wrecking machines, crunching a car until it’s flat.
Our car jerks violently on the impact, and for a moment, I feel as if I’m going to die. Shattered glass goes flying everywhere, and I do the best I can to hold it steady, while raising a hand to my eyes. And then, a second later, it’s over. To my shock, we are still driving, flying over the bridge, into Manhattan.
I try to figure out what happened. I look up at our roof, and check back over my shoulder, and realize we outraced the bars-though they managed to lower just enough to slice open our roof. Our roof is now perforated, sliced into bits. It looks as if it’s been put through a bread slicer. It sliced the top of our windshield, too, cracking it badly enough that my vision is impaired. I can still drive, but it’s not easy.
Bits of shattered glass are everywhere, as are bits of torn metal. Freezing air rushes in and I can feel snowflakes landing on my head.
I look over and see that Ben is shaken, but unhurt. I saw him duck at the last second, just like I did, and that probably saved his life. I check over my shoulder and see the group of guards scrambling to rally and come after us; but the iron gate is all the way down, and they don’t seem able to get it up again. We are going so fast, we have a big lead on them anyway. Hopefully by the time they get their act together we’ll be far gone.
I turn back to the road ahead and in the distance, maybe a quarter-mile ahead, I see the other slaverunners, speeding through Manhattan. I realize that we have passed the point of no return. I can hardly conceive that we are now on the island of Manhattan, have actually crossed the bridge-probably the only bridge still working in or out of here. I realize now there is no way back.
Up to this point, I had envisioned rescuing Bree and bringing her home. But now, I’m not so sure. I’m still determined to rescue her-but I’m not sure how to get us out of here. My feeling of dread is deepening. I am increasingly feeling this is a mission of no return. A suicide mission. But Bree is all that matters. If I have to go down trying, I will.
I floor the gas again, bringing it up past 140. But the slaverunners floor it, too, still intent on evading us. They have a good head start, and unless something goes wrong, catching up to them won’t be easy. I wonder what their destination is. Manhattan is vast, and they could be going anywhere. I feel like Hansel and Gretel heading into the woods.
The slaverunners make a sharp right onto a wide boulevard, and I look up and see a rusted sign which reads “125th Street.” I follow them, and realize they’re heading west, crosstown. As we go, I look around and see that 125th is like a postcard for the apocalypse: everywhere are abandoned, burnt-out cars, parked crookedly in the middle of the street. Everything has been stripped down and salvaged. The buildings have all been looted, the retail spaces smashed, leaving nothing but piles of glass on the sidewalks. Most buildings are just shells, burnt-out from the bomb-dropping campaigns. Others have collapsed. As I drive, I have to swerve around random piles of rubble. Needless to say, there are no signs of life.
The slaverunners make a sharp left, and as I follow them, a sign, upside down, reads “Malcolm X Boulevard.” It is another wide street, and we head south, right through the heart of Harlem. Downtown. I wonder where they are heading. We turn so fast that our tires screech, burning rubber, the sound louder than ever now that our roof is open to the elements. There is still snow on the streets, and our car slides a good ten feet until it straightens out again. I take the turn faster than the slaverunners, and gain a few seconds’ time.
Malcolm X Boulevard is as bad as 125th: everywhere is destruction. Yet this has something else, too: abandoned military tanks and vehicles. I spot a Humvee, turned on its side, just a shell now, and I wonder what battles took place here. A huge, bronze statue lies on its side, in the middle of the road. I swerve around it, then around a tank, driving on the sidewalk, taking out a mailbox with a huge crash. The box goes flying over our roof, and Ben ducks.
I swerve back onto the road and gun it. I’m getting closer. They are now only a hundred yards ahead of us. They swerve, too, avoiding rubble, potholes, shells of cars. They have to slow each time, but all I have to do is follow their tracks, so I can maintain speed. I’m gaining on them, and am starting to feel confident I can catch them.
“Take out their tires!” I yell to Ben, over the roar of the engine. I take the extra handgun from my waist, reach over and cram it into Ben’s ribs, keeping my eyes on the road all the while.
Ben holds up the gun, examining it, and it’s clear that he’s never used one before. I can feel his anxiety.
“Aim low!” I say. “Make sure you don’t hit the gas tank!”
“I’m not a good shot!” Ben says. “I might hit my brother. Or your sister!” he screams back.
“Just aim low!” I scream. “We have to try. We have to stop them!”
Ben swallows hard as he reaches over and opens his window. A tremendous noise and cold air races into the car as Ben leans out the window and holds out the gun.
We are closing in on them, and Ben is just beginning to take aim-when suddenly we hit a tremendous pothole. Both of us jump, and my head slams into the ceiling. I look over and see the gun go flying from Ben’s hand, out the window-and then hear it clattering as it lands on the pavement behind us. My heart drops. I can’t believe he has dropped the gun. I am furious.
“You just lost our gun!” I scream.
“I’m sorry!” he yells back. “You hit that pothole! Why didn’t you watch the road?”
“Why didn’t you hold it with both hands!?” I scream back. “You’ve just lost our one chance!”
“You can stop and go back for it,” he says.
“There’s no time!” I snap.
My face reddens. I’m starting to feel that Ben is completely useless, and regret taking him it all. I force myself to think of how he helped me with his mechanical skills, fixing the car, and of how he saved me with his body weight, back on the motorcycle, on the bridge. But it is hard to remember. Now, I’m just furious. I wonder if I can trust him with anything.
I reach into my holster, pull out my gun, and stick it into his ribs.
“This one’s mine,” I say. “You drop it, I’m kicking
Ben holds it tight, with both hands, as he leans out the window again. He takes aim.
But at just that moment a park appears before us, and the slaverunners disappear right into it.
I can’t believe it. Central Park lies right in front of us, marked by a huge, felled tree blocking its path. The slaverunners swerve around it and enter the park, and at the last second, I do, too. Ben leans back into the car, his chance lost-but at least he still holds the gun.
Central Park is nothing like what I remember. Covered in waist high weeds that emerge from the snow, it has been left to grow wild these past years, and now looks like a forest. Trees have fallen sporadically in all different places. Benches are empty. Statues are smashed or toppled, leaning on their sides. There are also signs of battle: tanks and Humvees, burnt out, upside down, lie throughout the park. All of this is blanketed by snow, giving it the feel of a surreal winter wonderland.
I try to take my eyes off it all, and focus instead on the slaverunners before me. They must know where they’re going, as they stay on a twisting and turning service road which cuts through the park. I follow them closely as they zigzag their way through. On our right, near 110th street, we pass the remnants of a vast, empty pool. Soon after we pass the remains of a skating rink, now just an empty shell, its small outbuilding smashed and looted.
They make a sharp turn onto a narrow road, really just a trail. But I am right behind them as we go into the heart of a thick forest, narrowly missing trees, dipping and rising up and down hills. I had never realized that Central Park could be so primitive: with no sight of the skyline, I feel like I could be in a forest anywhere.
