Arena Two (5 page)

“
Move slowly,” Logan cautions, still suspicious.

The man reaches out gingerly and hands out the weapon.

“
Brooke, you get it,” Logan says.

I step forward, grab the bow and arrows, and throw them in the back of the truck.

“
See,” the man says, breaking into a smile. “I’m no threat. I just want to join you. Please. You can’t leave me here to die.”

Slowly, Logan relaxes his guard and lowers his gun just a bit. But he still keeps an eye trained on the man.

“
Sorry,” Logan says. “We can’t have another mouth to feed.”

“
Wait!” I yell at Logan. “You’re not the only one here. You don’t make all the decisions.” I turn to the man. “What’s your name?” I ask. “Where are you from?”

He looks at me desperately.

“
My name is Rupert,” he says. “I’ve survived up here for two years. I’ve seen you and your sister before. When the slaverunners took her, I tried to help. I’m the one that chopped down that tree!”

My heart breaks as he says this. He’s the one that tried to help us. I can’t just leave him here. It’s not right.

“
We have to take him,” I say to Logan. “We can find room for one more.”

“
You don’t know him,” Logan replies. “Besides, we don’t have the food.”

“
I can hunt,” the man says. “I’ve got the bow and arrow.”

“
Much good it’s doing you up here,” Logan says.

“
Please,” Rupert says. “I can help. Please. I don’t want any of your food.”

“
We’re taking him,” I say to Logan.

“
No we’re not,” he says back. “You don’t know this man. You don’t know anything about him.”

“
I barely know anything about
you
,” I say to Logan, my anger hardening. I hate how he can be so cynical, so guarded. “You’re not the only one who has the right to live.”

“
If you take him, you jeopardize all of us,” he says. “Not just you. Your sister, too.”

“
There are three of us here last I checked,” comes Bree’s voice.

I turn and see she’s jumped out of the truck and stands behind us.

“
And that means we’re a democracy. And my vote counts. And I vote we take him. We can’t just leave him here to die.”

Logan shakes his head, looking disgusted. Without another word, his jaw hardening, he turns and jumps back into the truck.

The man looks at me with a huge smile, his face crumpling in a thousand wrinkles.

“
Thank you,” he whispers. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“
Just move, before he changes his mind,” I say as we turn back to the truck.

As Rupert approaches the door, Logan says, “You’re not sitting upfront. Get in the back of the pickup.”

Before I can argue, Rupert happily jumps into the back of pickup. Bree jumps in, as do I, and we take off.

It is a nerve-racking remainder of the ride back to the river. As we go, the skies darkening, I constantly watching the sunset, bleeding red through the clouds. It’s getting colder out by the second, and the snow is hardening even as we drive, turning to ice in some places, and making driving more precarious. The gas gauge is dropping, flashing red, and though we only have a mile or so to go, I feel as if we’re fighting for every inch. I also feel how on-edge Logan is about our new passenger. It is just one more unknown. One more mouth to feed.

I silently will the truck to keep going, the sky to stay light, the snow not to harden as I step on the gas. Just when I think we’ll never get there, we round the bend, and I see our turnoff. I turn hard onto the narrow country lane, sloping down towards the river, willing the truck to make it. The boat, I know, is only a couple hundred yards away.

We round another bend, and as we do, my heart floods with relief as I see the boat. It is still there, bobbing in the water, and I see Ben standing there, looking nervous, watching the horizon for our approach.

“
Our boat!” Bree yells excitedly.

This road is even more bumpy as we accelerate downhill. But we’re going to make it. My heart floods with relief.

Yet as I’m watching the horizon, in the distance I spot something that makes my heart drop. I can’t believe it. Logan must see it at the same time.

“
Goddamit,” he whispers.

In the distance, on the Hudson, is a slaverunner boat—a large, sleek, black motorboat, racing towards us. It is twice the size of ours, and I’m sure, much better equipped. Making matters worse, I spot another boat behind that, even farther back.

Logan was right. They were much closer than I’d thought.

I slam on the brakes and we skid to a stop about ten yards from the shoreline. I throw it into park, open the door, and jump out, getting ready to race for the boat.

Suddenly, something is very wrong. I feel my breathing cut off as I feel an arm wrap tight around my throat; then I feel myself being dragged backwards. I am losing air, seeing stars, and I don’t understand what’s happening. Have the slaverunners ambushed us?

“
Don’t move,” hisses a voice in my ear.

I feel something sharp and cold against my throat, and realize it’s a knife.

It is then that I realize what has happened: Rupert. The stranger. He has ambushed me.

“
LOWER YOUR WEAPON!” Rupert screams. “NOW!”

Logan stands a few feet away, pistol raised, aiming it right past my head. He holds it in place, and I can see him deliberating whether to take a head shot on this man. I see he wants to, but he’s worried about hitting me.

I realize now how stupid I was to pick up this person. Logan had been right all along. I should have listened. Rupert was just using us all along, wanting to take our boat and food and supplies and have it all to himself. He is completely desperate. I realize in a flash that he will surely kill me. I have no doubt about it.

“
Take the shot!” I scream out to Logan. “Do it!”

I trust Logan—I know he is a great shot. But Rupert holds me tight, and I see Logan wavering, unsure. It is in that moment that I see in Logan’s eyes how scared he is of losing me. He does care, after all. He really does.

Slowly, Logan holds out his gun with an open palm, then gently places it down in the snow. My heart sinks.

“
Let her go!” he commands.

“
The food!” Rupert yells back, his breath hot in my ears. “Those sacks! Bring them to me! Now!”

Logan slowly walks to the back of the truck, reaches in, takes out the four heavy sacks, and walks towards the man.

“
Place them on the ground!” Rupert yells. “Slowly!”

Slowly, Logan places them down the ground.

In the distance, I hear the whine of the slaverunners’ engines, getting closer. I can’t believe it, how stupid I was. Everything is falling apart, right before my eyes.

Bree gets out of the truck.

“
Let my sister go!” she screams at him.

That is when I see the future unraveling before my eyes. I see what will happen. Rupert will slice my throat, then take Logan’s gun and kill him and Bree. Then Ben and Rose. He will take our food and our boat and be gone.

His killing me is one thing. But his harming Bree is another matter. That is something I cannot allow.

Suddenly, I snap. Images of my dad flash through my mind, of his toughness, of the hand-to-hand combat moves he drilled into me. Pressure points. Strikes. Locks. How to get out of almost anything. How to bring a man to his knees with a single finger. And how to get a knife off your throat.

I summon some ancient reflex, and let my body take over. I raise my inner elbow up six inches, and bring it straight back, aiming for his solar plexus.

I make sharp impact, right where I wanted to. His knife digs into my throat a bit more, scratching it, and it hurts.

But the same time, I hear him gasp, and realize my strike worked.

I take a step forward, pull his arm away from my throat, and do a back kick, hitting him hard between the legs.

He stumbles back a few feet, and collapses in the snow.

I breathe deep, gasping, my throat killing me. Logan dives for his gun.

I turn and see Rupert hit the ground running, racing for our boat. He takes three big steps and leaps right to the center of it. In the same motion, he reaches over and cuts the line holding the boat to shore. It all happens in the blink of an eye; I can’t believe how quickly he moves.

Ben stands there, dazed and confused, not knowing how to react. Rupert, on the other hand, doesn’t hesitate: he leaps towards Ben and punches him hard across the face with his free hand.

Ben stumbles and is knocked over, and before he can get up, Rupert grabs him from behind in a chokehold, and holds the knife to his throat.

He turns and faces us, using Ben as a human shield. Inside the boat, Rose is cowering and screaming, and Penelope barks like crazy.

“
You shoot me and you take him out, too!” Rupert screams.

Logan has his gun back, and he stands there, taking aim. But it is not an easy shot. The boat drifts farther from shore, a good fifteen yards away, bobbing wildly in the rough tide. Logan has about a two inch radius to take him out without killing Ben. Logan hesitates, and I can see he doesn’t want to risk killing Ben, not even for our own survival. It is a redeeming quality.

“
The keys!” Rupert yells at Ben.

Ben, to his credit, has at least done something right: he must have hid the keys somewhere when he saw Rupert coming. Smart move.

In the distance, I suddenly see the slaverunners come into view, as the whine of their engines grows louder. I feel a deepening sense of dread, of helplessness. I don’t know what to do. Our boat is too far from shore to get to it now—and even if we could, Rupert might kill Ben in the process.

Penelope barks and jumps out of Rose’s hands, race across the boat, and dig her teeth into Rupert’s calf.

He screams and momentarily lets go of Ben.

A gunshot rings out. Logan found his chance, and wasted no time.

It is a clean shot, right between the eyes. Rupert stares back at us for a moment as the bullet enters his brain, wide-eyed. Then he slumps back, on the edge of the boat, as if sitting down, and falls over backwards, landing in the water with a splash.

It is over.

“
Get our boat back to shore!” Logan screams to Ben. “NOW!”

Ben, still dazed, jumps into action. He fishes the keys out of his pocket, starts the boat, and steers it back toward shore. I grab two sacks of food and Logan grabs the others, and we throw them in the boat as it touches shore. I grab Bree and hoist her into the boat, then run back to the truck. Logan grabs my sacks of salvaged supplies, and I grab Sasha. Then, remembering, I run back to the truck and grab Rupert’s bow and arrows. The last one in, I jump from the shore into the boat, as it starts to drift away. Logan takes over the wheel, hits the throttle and guns it, steering us out of the small channel.

We race towards the entrance to the Hudson, a few hundred yards ahead of us. On the horizon, the slaverunners’ boat—sleek, black, menacing—races towards us, maybe half a mile away. It’s going to be tight. It looks like we’ll barely get out of the channel in time, and barely have a chance to make a run for it. They’ll be right behind us.

We burst out into the Hudson just as it’s getting dark and as we do, the slaverunners come into full view. They are barely a hundred yards behind us, and closing in fast. Behind them, on the horizon, I also spot the other boat, though that is still a good mile away.

I’m sure that if we had more time, Logan would say
I told you so
. And he would be right.

Just as I’m thinking these thoughts, suddenly, gunshots ring out. Bullets whiz by us, one impacting the side of our boat, shattering wood. Rose and Bree scream out.

“
Get down!” I scream.

I lunge to Bree and Rose, grab them and throw them down to the ground. Logan, to his credit, doesn’t flinch, and continues to drive the boat. He swerves a little but doesn’t lose control. He crouches down low as he steers, trying to avoid bullets as he also tries to avoid the large chunks of ice beginning to form.

I take a knee in the back of the boat, raising my head only as high as I need to, and take aim, military style, with my handgun. I aim for the driver, and fire several shots.

They all miss, but I do manage to get their boat to swerve.

“
Take the wheel!” Logan yells to Ben.

Ben, to his credit, doesn’t hesitate. He hurries forward and takes the wheel; the boat swerves as he does.

Logan then hurries to my side, taking a knee beside me.

He fires and his bullets just miss, grazing off their boat. They return fire, and a bullet misses my head by inches. They’re closing in fast.

Another bullet shatters a large chunk of wood off the back of our boat.

“
They’re going for our gas tank!” Logan screams out. “Go for theirs!”

“
Where is it?” I scream out over the roar of the engine and flying bullets.

“
In the back of their boat, on the left side!” he yells.

“
I can’t get a clean shot at it,” I say. “Not while they’re facing us.”

Suddenly, I have an idea.

“
Ben!” I scream out. “You need to make them turn. We need a clean shot at the gas tank!”

Ben doesn’t hesitate; I’ve barely finished speaking the words when he turns hard on the wheel, the force of it throwing me sideways in the boat.

The slaverunners turn, too, trying to follow us. And that exposes the side of their boat.

I take a knee, as does Logan, and we fire several times.

At first, our barrage of fire misses.