I check over our shoulder: the crazies are 30 yards away.
“We have no choice!” I yell.
“I’m scared of heights,” he finally admits, looking very pale.
I reach over and take his hand, and step up on the ledge. He pauses for a second, fear his eyes, but then comes.
“Close your eyes!” I yell. “Trust me!”
And then, with the crazies only a few feet away, we jump.
TWENTY-EIGHT
As we plummet through the air, screaming, I hope my aim is accurate. We rush towards the ground so fast, I know that if we miss, we will surely die.
A moment later I am immersed in a cloud of snow, as I land dead center in the eight-foot snow bank, Logan right beside me, still holding my hand. I hit it with tremendous speed and sink down into it, all the way to the bottom, until my feet hit hard on the cement. Luckily, the snow is thick, and it cushions most of the impact of the fall. When I hit bottom, it only feels as if I’ve jumped from a few feet high.
I sit at the bottom, snow piled high above my head, in complete shock. I look up and several feet above me see sunlight poking through the snow. I sit there, frozen, afraid to move, to begin to claw my way out of the mountain of snow, to find out if anything is broken. I feel like I’m on the beach, buried under a pile of sand.
Slowly, I move a hand, then an arm, then a shoulder…. I begin to gradually pull myself out, free myself from the hole that I’m in. It is awkward, but I manage to claw my way up and out of the pile of snow. I stick my head out, like a gopher coming up from a hole in a lawn. I turn and see Logan doing the same.
I crane my neck and look up: all the way up there, still standing on the roof, looking down, is the mob of crazies. They are arguing amongst themselves, and it appears they aren’t willing to do the jump we just did. I don’t blame them: I look up at the height and marvel that I had the guts to take such a leap myself. I probably wouldn’t do it again if I stopped to think about it.
I stand, breaking free of the snow bank, and Logan does, too. I am completely covered in snow and reach up and brush it off. I take a few steps, testing myself, checking to see if anything is broken. My calf still hurts-worse than ever-but otherwise, remarkably, I think I survived relatively intact, with only a few more aches and bruises to show for it.
I look over at Logan, who’s walking, and am relieved to see he didn’t break anything, either. Just as importantly, I’m relieved to see we are now on this side of the wall. The desert. It might mean a slow death-but at least we’re safe for now.
I look down the desolate, abandoned University Place: all the stores are burnt out, some of them crumbled to the ground. There is no one and nothing here. As chaotic and violent as the wasteland was, the desert is quiet. Peaceful. Finally, for the first time in a while, I let my guard down.
But I know that I shouldn’t. If this part of the city really is radiated, then it holds more danger than all the other places combined. Every second here could contaminate us. And who knows who-or what-still survives in the zone. I’d hate to run into it.
“Let’s move,” Logan says, following the bus tracks, which go straight through the arch in the wall, and continue down University.
We walk at a quick pace down University, checking over our shoulders as we go. Now more than ever I wish I had a weapon. I see Logan checking his body habitually and can tell he wishes he had one, too. Our only hope now is just to follow these tracks, find Bree, and get out of here as soon as possible.
We pass 10th Street, then 9th, then 8th, and suddenly the sky opens up on our right. I look over and am shocked to see what was once Washington Square Park. I remember so many nights here, before the war, hanging out with friends, sitting around and watching the skateboarders do their tricks on the cement plaza. Now, as I look at it, I’m aghast: there is nothing left. The huge arch that marked its entrance is toppled, lies on the ground, crumbled, covered in snow. Even worse, where the park once was, there is now nothing but a vast crater, sinking hundreds of feet deep into the earth. It stretches as far as the eye can see. It is as if a whole section of the city has been scooped out.
Logan must see me staring.
“That’s where the bomb hit,” he explains. “The first to hit the city.”
I can’t believe it. It looks like the Grand Canyon. I can see the bomb’s rippling effect, radiating out, building facades melted away in every direction. Everything that I once knew is gone. It now looks more like the surface of Mars.
“Let’s go,” Logan says impatiently, and I realize that the sight disturbs him, too.
The bus tracks continue down University until it ends, then go left on West 4th. We follow them as they cut through the Village and turn right on Bowery. This avenue is wider, and it is desolate here, too. There is not a soul in sight.
I should feel more relaxed, yet oddly enough, I feel more on edge than ever. It is too ominous, too quiet. All I hear is the howling of the wind, the snow whipping into my face. I can’t help feeling that at any moment something might jump out at me.
But nothing does. Instead, we walk and walk, down block after block, always heading further downtown. I feel like we are crossing a vast desert, with no end in sight. And this, it turns out, is the real danger of this zone. The distance. The cold. The bus tracks never seem to end, and with each step, my leg gets worse, and I grow weaker.
Slowly, the late afternoon sky, heavy with storm clouds, grows darker. As we cross the huge street that I once knew as Houston, I wonder how much further I can go.
If Logan is right, if they are really taking her to the South Street Seaport, I know we still have a ways to go. I’m already feeling dizzy, delirious with hunger. My leg feels five times the size, and, ironically, this walking might be the worst trial of all.
Somehow I continue on, trekking further down Bowery. We hike in silence, hardly saying a word to each other. There is so much I want to say to him. I want to thank him for saving my life; he’s already saved me three times in a single day, and I’m starting to wonder if it’s a debt I can repay. I also want to thank him for giving up his boat, for coming with me. I think of how much he’s sacrificed for me, and it overwhelms me. I want to ask him why he did it.
I’m impressed by his fighting skills. Logan reminds me of what my Dad must have been like in battle-or, at least, my vision of him. I begin to wonder where Logan is from. If he is from here. If he has family here. Or family alive anywhere. I also want to ask him how he feels about me. Does he like me? Of course, I could never actually ask him. But still, I wonder. Does he have any feelings for me? Why didn’t he escape when he had the chance? Why did he risk his life to follow me? Thinking about it, I feel guilty. I have endangered him. He could be safe somewhere right now.
And most of all, despite myself, I want to know if he has a girlfriend. Or ever did. I immediately chide myself, feeling disloyal to Ben, who, after all, I just left. But these two guys-Logan and Ben-are so different from each other. They are like two different species. I reflect on the feelings I have for Ben, and I realize they are still there, and still genuine: there is something about him, a sensitivity, a vulnerability, that I really like. When I look into Ben’s large, suffering eyes, there is something I can relate to.
But when I look at Logan, I feel attracted to him in an entirely different way. Logan is big and strong and silent. He’s noble, a man of action, and he can clearly handle himself. He’s a bit of a mystery to me, and I wish I knew more. But I like that.
I find myself really liking certain things about Ben, and certain, different, things about Logan. Somehow my feelings for both seem to be able to co-exist inside, perhaps because they are so different that I don’t feel like they are competing with each other.
I allow myself to get lost in these thoughts as we trek on, directly into the blizzard. It takes my mind away from the pain, the hunger, the cold.
