the Belvedere Castle, now sitting as a ruin atop the hill. The theater is now just covered in snow and weeds, its bleachers rusted.
We race across what was once the Great Lawn, and I follow his tracks in the snow, weaving, avoiding holes. I feel so bad for Bree as I think of what she must be going through. I only pray this hasn’t traumatized her too much. I pray that some part of our Dad is with her, keeps her strong and tough through all of this.
Suddenly, I have a lucky break: up ahead, they hit a huge pothole. His car shakes, then swerves violently, and he loses control, doing a wide 360. I find myself flinching with them, hoping that Bree doesn’t get hurt.
Their car is OK. After a couple of spins, it regains traction, and they begin speeding again. But now I have closed the gap, and am closing in fast. In just a few more seconds, I’ll be right behind him.
But I’ve been staring at his vehicle, and stupidly, I take my eyes off the road. I look back just in time, and find myself freezing up: there is a huge animal right in front of us.
I swerve, but too late. It hits us square against the windshield, splattering, and tumbles over the roof. There are blood stains all over the glass, and I run the wipers, grateful they still work. The thick blood smears, and I can barely see.
I check the rearview, wondering what the hell it was, and see a huge, dead ostrich behind us. I am bewildered. But I have no time to process this, because suddenly, I am amazed to see a lion in front of us.
I swerve hard, barely missing it. I do a double take, and am shocked to see it’s real. It is lean and looks malnourished. I am even more baffled. Then, finally, I spot the source of it: there, on my left, is the Central Park zoo, its gates and doors and windows all wide open. Milling nearby are a few animals, and lying in the snow are the dead carcasses of several more, their bodies long ago picked clean.
I step on the gas, trying not to look, as I follow the slaverunner’s tracks. They lead us up a small hill, then down a steep hill, right into a crater. I realize this was once a skating rink. A large sign hangs crookedly, its letters worn away, and reads “Trump.”
In the distance, I finally see that the park is coming to an end. He turns hard to the left, and I follow him, and we both race up a hill. Moments later, we both burst out of Central Park-at the same time, side by side-exiting on 59th Street and Fifth Avenue. I go flying over the hill, and for a moment my car is airborne. We land with a crash, and I momentarily lose control, as we slide into a statue, toppling it.
Before us is a huge circular fountain; I swerve out of the way at the last second, and chase him around the circle. He jumps up onto the sidewalk, and I follow him, and he heads right for a massive building. The Plaza Hotel. Its former facade, once immaculate, is now covered in grime and neglect. Its windows all smashed, it looks like a tenement.
He smashes into the rusted rods holding the awning, and as he does, it comes crashing down, bouncing off his hood. I swerve out of the way, then follow him as he makes a sharp left and cuts across Fifth Avenue, clearly trying to shake me. He races up a small stone staircase, and I follow, our car shaking violently with each step. I look up and see that he heads for the huge, glass box of what was once the Apple Store. Amazingly, its facade is still intact. It is, in fact, the only intact thing I’ve seen anywhere since the war began.
Not anymore. At the last second he swerves out of the way, and it is too late for me to turn. Our car smashes right into the facade of the Apple box. There’s a tremendous explosion of glass, and it rains down through the holes in our roof as I ride right through the Apple Store. I feel a little guilty to have destroyed the one thing left standing-but then again, I think of how much I paid for an iPad back in the day, and my guilt lessens.
I regain control and follow him as he makes a left down Fifth Avenue. He’s got about thirty yards on me, but I won’t give up, like a dog chasing a bone. I just hope our gas holds.
As I drive down Fifth Avenue, I am amazed at what it has become. This famed avenue, once the beacon of prosperity and materialism, is now, like everything else, just an abandoned, dilapidated, shell, its stores looted, its retail spaces destroyed. Huge weeds grow right down the middle of it, and it looks like a marshland. Bergdorf’s flies by, on my right, its floors completely empty, no windows left, like a ghost house. I swerve around abandoned cars, and as we hit 57th Street, I spot what was once Tiffany’s. This place, once the hallmark of beauty, is now just another haunted mansion, like everything else. Not a single jewel remains in its empty windows.
I step on the gas and we cross 55th, then 54th, then 53rd Streets…. I pass a cathedral, Saint Patrick’s, on my left, its huge arched doors torn off long ago, now lying flat, face down, on its staircase. I can see right into its open structure, right to the stained glass on the other side.
I have taken my eyes off the road too long, and suddenly the slaverunner makes a sharp right onto 48th Street. I’m going too fast, and when I try to make the turn I skid out, doing a 360. Luckily I don’t hit anything.
I come back around and follow him, but his tricky move has gained him some distance. I follow him across 48th, heading west, crosstown, and I find myself what was once Rockefeller Center. I remember coming here with Dad, at Christmas time, remember thinking how magical it was. I can’t believe it now: everywhere is rubble, crumbling buildings. Rock Center has become a massive wasteland.
Again, I take my eyes off the road too long, and as I look back, I slam on the brakes, but there isn’t time. Right in front of me, lying on its side, is the huge Rockefeller Christmas tree. We are going to hit it. Right before we make impact, I can see some lights and ornaments still left on it. The tree is brown, and I wonder how long it’s been laying here.
I smash right into it, doing 120. I hit it with such force, the entire tree shifts on the snow, and I’m pushing it, dragging it along. Finally, I manage to swerve hard to the right, getting around the narrow tip of it. Thousands of pine needles sprinkle down through the gaping holes in our roof. A bunch more stick to the blood still matted to our windshield. I can’t imagine what our car looks like from the outside.
This slaverunner knows the city too well: his smart moves have gained him another advantage, and he is now out of sight. But I still see his tracks and up ahead, I see he’s made a left on Sixth Avenue. I follow him.
Sixth Avenue is another wasteland, it streets filled with abandoned tanks and Humvees, most upside down, all stripped of anything that might be useful, including the tires. I swerve in and out of these as I see the slaverunner up ahead. I wonder for the millionth time where he could be heading. Is he crisscrossing the city just to lose me? Does he have a destination in mind? I think hard, trying to remember where Arena One is located. But I have no idea. Up until today, I was never even sure it really existed.
He guns it down Sixth and so do I, finally gaining speed. As we cross 43rd, on my left, I catch a glimpse of Bryant Park, and the rear of what was once the New York Public Library. My heart drops. I used to love going into that magnificent building. Now, it is nothing but rubble.
The slaverunner makes a sharp right on 42nd street, and this time I’m right behind him. We both skid, then straighten out. We race down 42nd, heading West, and I wonder if he’s heading for the West Side highway.
The street opens up, and we are in Times Square. He bursts into the square and I follow, entering the vast intersection. I remember coming here as a kid, being so overwhelmed by the size and scope of it, by all the people. I remember being dazzled by all the lights, the flashing billboards. Now, like everything else, it is a ruin. Of course, none of the lights work, and there is not a single person in sight. All the billboards that used to hang so proudly now either dangle precariously in the wind, or lie face down on the street below. Huge weeds cover the intersection. In its center, where there was once an army recruiting center, now, ironically, lie the shells of several tanks, all twisted and blown up. I wonder what battle took place here.
Suddenly, the slaverunner makes a sharp left, heading down Broadway. I follow, and as I do, I am shocked by what I see before me: an enormous cement wall, like a prison wall, rises high into the sky, topped with barbed wire. The wall stretches as far as I can see, blocking off Times Square from whatever lies south of it. As if trying to keep something out. There is an opening in the wall, and the slaverunners drive right through it; as they pass through, a massive iron gate suddenly slams down behind them, shutting them off from me.
I slam on the brakes, screeching the car to a halt right before we smash into it. In the distance, I see the slaverunners taking off. It is too late. I have lost them.
I can’t believe it. I feel numb. I sit there, frozen, in the silence, our car stopped for the first time in hours, and feel my body trembling. I hadn’t foreseen this. I wonder why this wall is here, why they would wall off a part of Manhattan. What they would need protection from.
And then, a moment later, I have my answer.
An eerie noise rises up all around me, the sound of screeching metal, and the hair raises on the back my neck. I turn and see people rise up from the earth, popping up from manholes in every direction. Biovictims. All throughout Times Square. They are emaciated, dressed in rags, and look desperate. The Crazies.
They really do exist.
