buses turn a corner, and they are soon out of sight. I can’t believe it. I just missed her.
I check back over my shoulder, and Logan is gone. My heart drops. He must have taken off already. Now I’m completely alone.
Desperate, I try to think quick, to come up with an idea. I scan my surroundings, and see, in front of Penn Station, a row of Humvees. Slaverunners sit on the roofs and hoods. They are all huddled in their coats against the snow, their backs to me. None of them look in my direction. They are all fixated on watching the buses leave.
I realize I need a vehicle. It is my only chance to catch those buses.
I sprint, hobbling, towards the Humvee in the rear, the only one with no slaverunner sitting on its roof. The Humvee is running, exhaust coming from its tailpipe, and I see a slaverunner sitting in the driver’s seat, warming his hands.
I creep up to the driver’s side door and yank it open, holding out my gun.
This slaverunner wears no facemask, and I can see the shock in his face. He holds up his hands in fear, not wanting to be shot. I don’t give him time to react, to alert the others. Pointing my gun to his face, I reach in, grab him by the shirt, and yank him out. He falls hard to the snow.
I’m about to jump into the driver’s seat, when suddenly I feel a tremendous pain in the side of my head, the impact of something metal. Knocked over by the blow, I fall down to the snow.
I look up and see that another slaverunner has snuck up on me, has cracked me in the side of the head with his gun. I reach up and feel my head, and feel blood trickling onto my hand. It hurts like hell.
The slaverunner stands over me, and lowers his gun towards my face. He grins, an evil grin, cocks the pin, and I know he’s about to fire. Suddenly, I realize I’m about to die.
A gunshot rings, and I brace myself.
TWENTY-FOUR
I feel my face splatter in blood, the warmth of it sticking to my skin, and I wonder if I’m dead.
I slowly open my eyes, and then realize what has happened. I am not dead; I was not even fired upon. The slaverunner was shot from behind, in the back of the head, and his brains splattered all over me. Someone shot him. Someone saved me.
I look up to see Logan standing behind him, his gun outstretched, still smoking. I can’t believe it. He’s come back for me.
Logan reaches down and holds out a hand. I take it. It’s huge and rough, and he pulls me to my feet in one swift motion.
“GET IN!” he screams.
I run to the passenger side and jump in. Logan jumps into the driver’s side, slams the door, and while I am barely in, he pulls out, gunning the Humvee. It slips and slides in the snow as we peel out.
The other slaverunners notice; they scramble, jump off their hoods and take off after us. One of them charges on foot. Logan reaches out his window, aims, and shoots him in the head, killing him before he can fire. Another charges us, hand outstretched with his gun, aiming right at us. I reach out my window and fire. It is a direct hit in the head, and he goes down.
I aim for another one, but suddenly I go flying back, as the torque of the car sends me backwards. Logan is flooring it, and we are all over the place in the snow. We turn the corner and gain speed quickly on the three bulky buses. They are only a few hundred yards ahead of us.
Behind us, though, a half dozen Humvees are on our tail. They are gaining speed and I realize that they will soon overtake us. We are outmanned.
Logan shakes his head. “You couldn’t just come with me, could you?” he says in exasperation, as he puts it into fifth gear and floors it again. “You’re more stubborn than I am.”
We gain more speed as we follow the buses crosstown on 34th Street, heading east. We cross Seventh Avenue…then Sixth…then the buses make a sharp right on Fifth and we follow, only a hundred yards behind.
I check the rearview and see the Humvees right on us. One of the slaverunners reaches out his window and aims his gun, and next thing I know, bullets ricochet off our vehicle, echoing off the metal. I flinch, and am grateful it’s bulletproof.
Logan steps on it, and I watch the streets fly by: 32nd street…31st…30th…. I look up and am shocked to see an enormous wall right before us, blocking off Fifth Avenue. There is a narrow arched opening in the middle of it, the only way in or out.
Several guards open its huge metal bars, allowing the three buses to pass through, single file.
“We have to stop!” Logan screams. “Beyond those gates is the wasteland! It’s too dangerous!”
“NO!” I scream back. “You can’t stop! Go! GO!”
Logan shakes his head, sweating. But to his credit, he sticks to the course.
The gate closes. Logan doesn’t slow, though.
“Hold on!” he screams.
I brace myself for impact, and a moment later, there’s a tremendous crash of metal.
Our Humvee smashes into the iron gate, and the impact is tremendous. I brace myself, not thinking we’re going to make it.
But luckily, this Humvee is built like a tank: I can’t believe it, but as we make impact, the iron gate comes off and flying into the air. Our windshield is cracked and our hood is badly dented, but luckily, we are unhurt. We are gaining on the buses, now only fifty yards ahead.
I check the rearview, expecting to see the other Humvees behind us-and am shocked to see them all slam on their brakes before the open gate. None of them dares follow us. I can’t understand-it’s as if they’re afraid to pass through to this side of the wall.
“What are they doing?” I ask. “They’re stopping! They stopped following us!”
Logan doesn’t seem surprised-which I don’t understand either.
“Of course they stopped.”
“Why?”
“We crossed the wall. It’s the wasteland. They’re not that stupid.”
I look at him, still not understanding.
“They’re scared,” he says.
I don’t understand: how can a large group of armed warriors, in machinegun-mounted Humvees, be scared?
I look around us, take in our surroundings, and am suddenly more wary than I’ve ever been. A chill runs up my spine. What can be so dangerous about this place that a squadron of soldiers in Humvees are afraid to enter it?
As I lean forward and look closely, I suddenly spot movement. I look up high, and see faces of Biovictims, faces terribly scarred, sticking out of all the abandoned buildings. There are hundreds of them.
Suddenly, the manholes all around us begin to rise. Heads stick up out of the ground, and I am shocked to see dozens more Biovictims rise up from the ground. We pass an abandoned subway station, and dozens more come running up the stairs. They run right for us.
My heart starts to pound at the sight of these people. There are hundreds of them, charging from every direction. I feel like I’ve entered their territory, crossed a line into a place I’m not supposed to be. I realize I have to get to Bree as soon as possible, and get us the hell out of here.
A crazy jumps up and grabs onto my open window. He reaches a hand in and grabs at me. I lean back, then wind up and hit him in the face with the butt of the pistol. He falls, his body sliding in the snow.
The buses swerve erratically in front of us, and Logan swerves, following their path. The motion is making me nauseous.
“Why are you swerving like that?” I ask.
“Mined!” Logan yells back. “This entire goddamn wasteland is mined!”
As if to hammer home his point, suddenly there is a small explosion in the road before us, and one of the buses manages to swerve out of the way at the last second. My heart drops. How much worse can this place get?
