I brace myself as we head for the descending gate. It’s too late to turn back now, and too late to slam on the brakes. From the looks of those heavy, reinforced iron bars, with spikes at the end, I don’t see how we can possibly drive through it. I figure our only chance is to outrace it, to go fast enough to slip through before it completely descends. So I floor it, the car roaring and shaking. As we get within feet of it, the guards jump out of the way, and I brace myself for impact.
There is the awful noise of metal smashing into metal, along with the noise of broken glass. It is deafening, as if a bomb has exploded right beside my ear. It sounds like one of those huge car-wrecking machines, crunching a car until it’s flat.
Our car jerks violently on the impact, and for a moment, I feel as if I’m going to die. Shattered glass flies everywhere, and I do the best I can to hold the wheel steady while raising a hand to my eyes. And then, a second later, it’s over. To my shock, we are still driving, flying over the bridge, into Manhattan.
I try to figure out what happened. I look up at our roof, and check back over my shoulder, and realize we outraced the bars—though they managed to lower just enough to perforate our roof, shearing it into bits. It looks as if it’s been put through a bread slicer. It took out the top of our windshield, too, cracking it badly enough that my view is impaired. I can still drive, but it’s not easy.
Bits of shattered glass are everywhere, as are bits of torn metal. Freezing air rushes in and snowflakes land on my head.
I look over and see that Ben is shaken, but unhurt. I saw him duck at the last second, just like I did, and that probably saved his life. I check over my shoulder and see the group of guards scrambling to rally and come after us; but the iron gate is all the way down, and they don’t seem able to lift it up again. We are going so fast, we have a big lead on them anyway. Hopefully by the time they get their act together we’ll be far gone.
I turn back to the road ahead and in the distance, maybe a quarter-mile ahead, I see the other slaverunners, speeding through Manhattan. We have passed the point of no return. I can hardly conceive that we are now on the island of Manhattan, have actually crossed the bridge—probably the only bridge still working in or out of here. There is no way back.
Up to this point, I had envisioned rescuing Bree and bringing her home. But now, I’m not so sure. I’m still determined to rescue her—but I’m not sure how to get us out of here. My feeling of dread is deepening. I am increasingly feeling this is a mission of no return. A suicide mission. But Bree is all that matters. If I have to go down trying, I will.
I floor the gas again, bringing it up past 140. But the slaverunners floor it too, still intent on evading us. They have a good head start, and unless something goes wrong, catching up to them won’t be easy. I wonder what their destination is. Manhattan is vast, and they could be going anywhere. I feel like Hansel and Gretel heading into the woods.
The slaverunners make a sharp right onto a wide boulevard, and I look up and see a rusted sign which reads “125th Street.” I follow them, and realize they’re heading west, crosstown. As we go, I look around and see that 125th is like a postcard for the apocalypse: everywhere are abandoned, burnt-out cars, parked crookedly in the middle of the street. Everything has been stripped down and salvaged. The buildings have all been looted and the retail spaces smashed, leaving nothing but piles of glass on the sidewalks. Most buildings are just shells, burnt-out from the bomb-dropping campaigns. Others have collapsed. As I drive, I have to swerve around random piles of rubble. Needless to say, there are no signs of life.
The slaverunners make a sharp left, and as I follow them, a sign, upside down, reads “Malcolm X Boulevard.” It is another wide street, and we head south, right through the heart of Harlem. Downtown. I wonder where they are heading. We turn so fast our tires screech, burning rubber, the sound louder than ever now that our roof is open to the elements. There is still snow on the streets, and our car slides a good ten feet before it straightens out again. I take the turn faster than the slaverunners and gain a few seconds’ time.
Malcolm X Boulevard is as bad as 125th: everywhere is destruction. Yet this has something else, too: abandoned military tanks and vehicles. I spot a Humvee, turned on its side, just a shell now, and I wonder what battles took place here. A huge, bronze statue lies on its side, in the middle of the road. I swerve around it, then around a tank, driving on the sidewalk, taking out a mailbox with a huge crash. The box goes flying over our roof, and Ben ducks.
I swerve back onto the road and gun it. I’m getting closer. They are now only a hundred yards ahead of us. They swerve, too, avoiding rubble, potholes, shells of cars. They have to slow each time, but all I have to do is follow their tracks, so I can maintain speed. I’m gaining on them, and am starting to feel confident I can catch them.
“Take out their tires!” I yell to Ben, over the roar of the engine. I take the extra handgun from my waist, reach over and cram it into Ben’s ribs, keeping my eyes on the road all the while.
Ben holds up the gun, examining it, and it’s clear that he’s never used one before. I can feel his anxiety.
“Aim low!” I say. “Make sure you don’t hit the gas tank!”
“I’m not a good shot!” Ben says. “I might hit my brother. Or your sister!” he screams back.
“Just aim low!” I scream. “We have to try. We have to stop them!”
Ben swallows hard as he reaches over and opens his window. A tremendous noise and cold air race into the car as Ben leans out the window and holds out the gun.
We are closing in on them, and Ben is just beginning to take aim—when suddenly we hit an enormous pothole. Both of us jump, and my head slams into the ceiling. I look over and see the gun go flying from Ben’s hand, out the window—and then hear it clattering as it lands on the pavement behind us. My heart drops. I can’t believe he has dropped the gun. I am furious.
“You just lost our gun!” I scream.
“I’m sorry!” he yells back. “You hit that pothole! Why didn’t you watch the road?”
“Why didn’t you hold it with both hands?” I scream back. “You’ve just lost our one chance!”
“You can stop and go back for it,” he says.
“There’s no time!” I snap.
My face reddens. I’m starting to feel that Ben is completely useless, and regret taking him it all. I force myself to think of how he fixed the car, how he saved me with his body weight, back on the bridge. But it is hard to remember. Now, I’m just furious. I wonder if I can trust him with anything.
I reach into my holster, pull out my gun, and stick it into his ribs.
“This one’s mine,” I say. “You drop it, I’m kicking you out.”
Ben holds it tight, with both hands, as he leans out the window again. He takes aim.
But at just that moment a park appears, and the slaverunners disappear right into it.
I can’t believe it. Central Park lies right in front of us, marked by a huge, felled tree blocking its path. The slaverunners swerve around it and enter the park, and at the last second, I do, too. Ben leans back into the car, his chance lost—but at least he still holds the gun.
Central Park is nothing like what I remember. Covered in waist-high weeds that emerge from the snow, it has been left to grow wild these past years, and now looks like a forest. Trees have fallen sporadically in all different places. Benches are empty. Statues are smashed or toppled, leaning on their sides. There are also signs of battle: tanks and Humvees, burnt-out, upside down, lie throughout the park. All of this is blanketed by snow, giving it the feel of a surreal winter wonderland.
I try to take my eyes off it all, and focus instead on the slaverunners before me. They must know where they’re going, as they stay on a twisting and turning service road which cuts through the park. I follow them closely as they zigzag their way through. On our right, near 110th street, we pass the remnants of a vast, empty pool. Soon after, we pass the remains of a skating rink, now just an empty shell, its small outbuilding smashed and looted.
They make a sharp turn onto a narrow road, really just a trail. But I am right behind them as we go into the heart of a thick forest, narrowly missing trees, dipping and rising up and down hills. I had never realized that Central Park could be so primitive. With no sight of the skyline, I feel like I could be in a forest anywhere.
Our car slips and slides in the snowy dirt trails, but I am able to stay with them. Soon we reach a large hilltop, and the park opens up, all laid out before us. We fly over the hilltop, airborne for a few seconds until we land with a crash. They race downhill, and I am right behind them, closing the gap.
We race through what were once massive ball fields. One after the other, we drive right down the center of the fields. The bases are no longer there—or if they are, they are hidden in the snow, but I can still spot what remains of the rusted, chain-link fencing that once marked their dugouts. It is a field of white, and our car slips and slides as we follow them. We are definitely closing in, now just 30 yards away. I wonder if their engine was affected, or if they are slowing on purpose. Either way, now is our chance.
“What are you waiting for!?” I scream to Ben. “Shoot!”
Ben opens his window and leans out, clutching the pistol with both hands and taking aim.
Suddenly, the slaverunners jerk hard to the left, making a sharp turn. And then I realize, too late, why they slowed: right before me is a pond, barely frozen. Their slowing had been a trap; they had been hoping I’d drive right into the water.
I tug the wheel hard, and we just manage to miss plunging into the water. But the turn was too sharp and too fast, and our car spins out in the field of snow, spinning in large circles again and again. I feel dizzy as the world spins around and around in a blur, and I pray we don’t crash into anything.
Luckily, we don’t. There are no structures anywhere around us—if there were, we surely would have crashed. Instead, after a few more 360s, we finally stop spinning. I sit there for a moment, the car stopped, breathing hard. It was a close call.
These slaverunners are smarter than I thought. It was a bold move, and they must know this terrain well. They know exactly where they’re going. I’m guessing no one else has ever managed to follow them as far as we have. I look over and see that Ben has managed to hold onto the gun this time; another lucky break. I shake out the cobwebs, put it back in gear, and floor it.
Suddenly, there is a loud beeping noise, and I look down to see a red light flashing on the dash: GAS LOW.
My heart drops. Not now. Not after all we’ve been through. Not when we’re this close.
Please God, just give us enough gas to catch them.
The beeping continues incessantly, loud in my ear, like a death knell. I’ve lost sight of the slaverunners and have to resort to following their tracks. I drive up a hill and come to an intersection, vehicle tracks crisscrossing in every direction. I’m not sure which way to fork, and it feels like it might be another trap. I decide to stay the course, straight ahead, but even as I do, I have a sinking feeling that these tracks are old and Bree’s captors might’ve turned off somewhere.
Suddenly, the sky opens up, and I find myself driving on a narrow lane, beside what was once the Central Park Reservoir, looking like a huge crater in the Earth, now empty of water and lined with snow. Huge weeds grow up from the bottom. This lane is narrow and barely fits the width of my car, with a steep drop-off down the hill on my left. To my right is an even steeper drop-off to the bottom of the reservoir. One wrong move in either direction and we are toast. I wonder why the slaverunners would choose such a perilous route, but still see no sign of them.
Suddenly, there is a crash, and my head snaps forward. At first I’m confused, and then I realize: we’ve been hit from behind.
I look in the rearview and see they’re right behind us, sadistic smiles on both of their faces. Their facemasks are lifted, and I can see that they’re both Biovictims, with grotesque, unnatural faces, misshapen, and huge buck teeth. I can see the sadism, the joy they take as they speed up and ram us again from behind. My neck snaps forward on the impact. They are much smarter than I thought: somehow, they managed to get behind us, and now they have the advantage. I had not expected this. I have no room to maneuver, and I can’t slam on the brakes.
They smash into us again, this time angling the car as they do, and our car slips to the side. We smash into the steel railing of the reservoir, then slide over the other way and almost fall off the cliff. They’ve got us in a bad position. If they smash us again like that, we will roll downhill and be finished.
I step on the gas; the only way to survive is to outrun them. But they are going just as fast, and they hit us again. This time, we smash into the metal divider and slide farther, about to go over the cliff. Luckily, we crash into a tree and it saves us, keeps us on the road.
I’m feeling increasingly desperate. I look over, and see that Ben seems stunned, too, looking more pale than before. Suddenly, I have an idea.
“Shoot them!” I scream.
He immediately opens his window and leans out with the gun.
“I can’t hit their tires from here!” he screams over the wind. “They’re too close! The angle is too steep!”
“Aim for the windshield!” I scream back. “Don’t kill the driver. Take out the passenger!”
I can see in my rearview that they copy our idea: the passenger is lowering his window, taking out his gun, too. I only pray that Ben hits them first, that he’s not afraid to fire. Suddenly, several shots ring out, deafening even above the noise.
I flinch, half-expecting to feel a bullet hit me in the head.
But I am surprised to realize that it is Ben who has fired. I check the rearview, and can’t believe what I see: Ben’s aim was perfect. He hit the passenger’s side of the windshield several times—so many times, in the same spot, that he seems to have actually punctured the bulletproof glass. I see the red splattering the inside of the windshield, and that can only mean one thing. Blood.
I can’t believe it: Ben has managed to shoot the passenger. Ben. The boy who just minutes ago was traumatized to see a dead body. I can’t believe he actually hit him, and at this speed.
It works. Their car suddenly slows down dramatically, and I use the opportunity to floor it.
Moments later, we are out of the reservoir, and back into open fields. Now, the game has changed: they have a man down, and we have caught up to them. Now, finally, we have the advantage. If only the “low gas” gauge would stop beeping, I would actually feel optimistic.
Their car comes flying out behind us, and I slow, pull up beside them, and spot a worried look on the driver’s face. That is the confirmation I need: I am relieved to know that the passenger was hit and not Bree. I catch a glimpse of Bree, alive, in the backseat, and my heart soars with hope. For the first time, I feel I can really do this. I can get her back.
We’re now racing side-by-side, in the open field, and I pull hard on the wheel and smash into them. Their car flies across the field, swerving wildly. But it doesn’t stop. And without missing a beat, their driver comes right back at me, smashing into us. Now we go swerving wildly. This guy just won’t quit.
“Shoot!” I scream again to Ben. “Take out the driver!”
I realize their car will crash, but we have no choice. And if it has to crash anywhere, this open field, surrounded by trees, is the best place.
Ben immediately lowers his window and takes aim, more confident this time. We’re driving alongside him, perfectly lined up, and we have a direct line of fire to the driver. This is our moment.
“SHOOT!” I scream again.
Ben pulls the trigger, and suddenly, I hear a sound that makes my stomach drop.
The click of an empty gun. Ben pulls the trigger again and again, but it is nothing but clicks. He used all of our ammo back at the reservoir.
I spot an evil, victorious smile on the slaverunner’s face, as he swerves right into us. He smashes us hard, and we careen across the snowy field, onto a grassy hill. Suddenly, I see a wall of glass. Too late.
I brace myself as we crash into the wall, glass shattering like a bomb all around us, raining down shards through the holes in the roof. It takes a moment until I realize where we are: the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The Egyptian Wing.
I look over and can tell that nothing is left in the museum, looted long ago—nothing except for that huge pyramid, still in the room. I finally manage to swerve away, and stop driving through glass. The other slaverunner gained some distance, and is now about 50 yards ahead, to my right, and once again, I step on it.
I follow him as he races south through the park, up and down rolling hills. I worriedly check the gas gauge, which won’t stop beeping. We pass the remnants of an amphitheater, beside a pond, in the shadow of the Belvedere Castle, now sitting as a ruin atop the hill. The theater is covered in snow and weeds, its bleachers rusted.
We race across what was once the Great Lawn, and I mimic his path in the snow, weaving, avoiding holes. I feel so bad for Bree as I consider 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, keeping 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 Bree doesn’t get hurt.
Their car is okay. After a couple of spins, it regains traction, and they begin speeding again. But now I have narrowed 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 took my eyes off the road. I look back just in time, and find myself freezing up: a huge animal is 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, it makes sense: 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 slaverunners’ tracks. They lead 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, the park is coming to an end. He turns hard to the left, 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 façade, 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 shuddering violently with each step. He heads for the huge glass box of what was once the Apple Store. Amazingly, its façade 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 façade 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 as the slaverunner 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 lasts.
I am amazed at what Fifth Avenue 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, making it look 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, past what was once Rockefeller Center. I remember coming here with Dad, at Christmastime, 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 bangs down behind them, shutting them off from me.
I slam on the brakes, screeching to a halt right before we smash into the gate. Beyond it, the slaverunners are 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. 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.
They rise from the earth, all around us, and head right for us.