Fifteen feet…ten…five…. The bike is slowing, but not enough, and we are just a few feet away from the edge. I brace myself for the fall, hardly conceiving that this is how I am going to die.
Then, the craziest thing happens: I hear a loud thump, and I am jolted forward as the bike slams into something and comes to a complete stop. A piece of metal, ripped in the explosion, juts up from the bridge, and has lodged itself in the spoke of our front wheel.
I’m in a state of shock as I sit there, on the bike. I slowly look down and my heart drops as I realize that I’m dangling in the air, over the edge of the chasm. There is nothing under me at all. Hundreds of feet below I see the white ice of Hudson. I’m confused as to why I am not plunging.
I turn and see that the other half of my bike—the sidecar—is still on the bridge. Ben, looking more dazed than I, still sits in it. He lost his helmet somewhere along the way, and his cheeks are covered in soot, charred form the explosion. He looks over at me, then down at the chasm, then back up at me in disbelief, as if amazed I’m still alive.
I realize that his weight, in the sidecar, is the only thing balancing me out, keeping me from falling. If I hadn’t have taken him, I’d be dead right now.
I need to do something before the entire motorcycle tips over. Slowly, delicately, I pull my aching body off the seat and climb over onto the sidecar, on top of Ben. I then climb over him, set my feet down on the pavement, and slowly pull on the bike.
Ben sees what I’m doing and gets out and helps. Together, we back it off the edge and get the whole bike back onto safe ground.
Ben looks at me with his big blue eyes, and looks as if he’s just been through a war.
“How did you know it was a bomb?” he asks.
I shrug. Somehow, I just knew.
“If you didn’t slam on the brakes when you did, we’d be dead,” he says, grateful.
“If you weren’t sitting in the sidecar, I’d be dead,” I respond.
Touché. We each owe each other.
We both look down at the chasm. I look up and in the distance spot the slaverunners’ cars making it to the other side of the river.
“Now what?” he asks.
I look everywhere, frantic, weighing our options. I look down at the river again. It is completely white, frozen with ice and snow. I look up and down the expanse of the river, looking for any other bridges, any other crossings. I see none.
At this moment, I realize what I must do. It is risky. In fact, it probably will mean our deaths. But I have to try. I vowed to myself. I will not give up. No matter what.
I jump back onto the bike. Ben follows, jumping into the sidecar. I put my helmet back on and open the throttle, heading back in the direction from which we came.
“Where are you going?” he calls out. “We’re going the wrong way!”
I ignore him, gunning it across the bridge, back to our side of the Hudson. As soon as I clear the bridge I make a left onto Spring Street, heading toward the town of Catskill.
I remember coming here as kid with Dad, and a road that led right to the river’s edge. We used to fish there, pull right up to it and never even have to leave our truck. I remember being amazed that we could drive right up to the water. And now, a plan formulates in my mind. A very, very risky plan.
We pass a small, abandoned church and cemetery on our right, the gravestones sticking up out of the snow, so typical for a New England town. It amazes me that, with the whole world looted and destroyed, the cemeteries remain, seemingly untouched. It is as if the dead rule the earth.
The road comes to a T; I make a right on Bridge Street and go down a steep hill. After a few blocks, I come to the ruins of a huge marble building, “Greene County Court House” still emblazoned across its portico, make a left onto Main Street, and speed down what was once the sleepy river town of Catskill. It is lined with stores on either side, burnt-out shells, crumbled buildings, broken windows, and abandoned vehicles. There’s not a soul in sight. I race down the center of Main Street, the electricity out, past stoplights that no longer work. Not that I’d stop if they did.
I pass the ruins of the post office on my left and swerve around a pile of rubble in the street, ruins of a townhouse that must have collapsed at some point. The street continues downhill, twisting, and the road thins out. I pass the rusted hulls of boats, now beached, their bodies destroyed. Behind them are the immense, corroded structures of what were once fuel depots, circular, rising a hundred feet high.
I make a left, toward the waterfront park, now covered in weeds. What’s left of a sign reads “Dutchman’s Landing.” The park juts out, right into the river, and the only thing separating the road from the water are a few boulders with gaps in between them. I aim for one of those gaps, lower my visor, and gun the bike for all its worth. It’s now or never. I can already feel my heart racing.
Ben must realize what I’m doing. He sits bolt upright, gripping the sides of the bike in terror.
“STOP!” he screams. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
But there’s no stopping now. He enlisted for this ride, and there is no turning back. I’d offer to let him out, but there is no more time to lose; besides, if I stopped, I might not get up the nerve again to do what I’m about to do.
I check the speedometer: 60…70…80….
“YOU’RE GOING TO DRIVE US RIGHT INTO THE RIVER!” he screams.
“IT’S COVERED IN ICE!” I scream back.
“THE ICE WON’T HOLD!” he screams back.
90…100…110….
“WE’LL FIND OUT!” I respond.
He’s right. The ice might not hold. But I see no other way. I have to cross that river, and I have no other ideas.
120…130…140….
The river is coming up on us fast.
“LET ME OUT!” he screams, desperate.
But there is no time. He knew what he signed up for.
I gun it one last time.
And then our world turns white.