I throw my Dad’s knife with everything I have, and in that moment, the crowd holds its breath, completely silent. The blade glimmers in the light as it goes flying end over end, through the air, racing. It is the strongest and most accurate throw I’ve ever made. I already know it will find its target. And that it will mean certain death.
In moments, I will be free.
A second later, the sound of metal meeting flesh punctures the air, and I see that it was, indeed, a perfect strike.
The entire crowd gasps, horrified.
For once in my life, I have ignored my father’s advice. I have not killed Ben.
I have killed their leader.
*
The knife lodges in the center of the leader’s forehead; I’d managed to throw it perfectly, just high enough to clear the fence, by a millimeter, and yet still maintain the perfect angle to hit him, thirty yards away. It hits him so hard, it pins his head to the chair. He sits there, eyes wide open, frozen in shock, dead.
There is stunned silence in the arena. For several seconds, the crowd is too shocked to even react. I can hear a pin drop.
And then, pandemonium. Thousands of people jump up from their seats and run in every direction. Some, terrified, flee for their lives; others see this as their chance to be set free, and run for the exits; some start fighting among themselves, while others start fighting with the slaverunners. It is as if a violent energy, long contained, has been set loose.
Slaverunners scurry in every direction, trying to maintain order.
I look to the cage door, wondering if we can escape that way, but already guards are fiddling with its lock, trying to unchain it so that they can come and get us.
I run to Ben, who still stands there, shocked, and grab him by the arm.
“FOLLOW ME!” I scream.
I take his hand as I run across the ring, jump up onto the cage and scale its wall. I climb straight up, relieved to see Ben beside me.
Just in time. The slaverunners burst open the metal gate and rush right for us.
But we are already at the top of the cage, fifteen feet high. I look over the edge and hesitate for a moment: it is a steep drop, and a hard landing. Ben hesitates, too.
But we have no choice. It’s now or never.
I jump.
I land hard on my feet, fifteen feet below on the concrete. My calf explodes in pain as I tumble to the ground. As I hit, rolling, my cracked ribs hurt just as much. The pain is excruciating, but at least I don’t feel as if I’ve broken anything else. I’ve made it.
I look over, hoping to see Ben beside me in the chaos, as the crowd scurries in every direction around me. But my heart drops to see he’s not there. He is still high on the cage wall, hesitating at the top. He’s afraid to jump.
The slaverunners are reaching up, beginning to climb, about to get him. He is terrified, frozen in inaction.
I scramble to my feet and yell up at him.
“BEN!” I scream. “JUMP! DO IT!”
I can hear the panic in my voice. There is no time. If he doesn’t jump now, I’ll have to leave without him.
Suddenly, thankfully, Ben plunges into the crowd. He hits the ground hard, tumbling. And then, after a moment, he gets up. He looks dazed, but as far as I can tell, unhurt. I grab his arm and we run.
It is such pandemonium no one even notices us. People are brawling with each other, fighting to get out. I manage to weave through the masses, hiding in anonymity. I check back and see the group of slaverunners behind us, on our trail.
I head toward one of the exit tunnels where hundreds are fleeing, and we blend in with the stampede, ducking and weaving through the people. Behind us, I sense the slaverunners parting ways through the crowd, coming after us. I don’t know how far we can make it. The thick crowd is barely moving.
I enter the blackness of one of the tunnels, and as I do, a hand grabs me hard around my mouth and yanks me backwards. Another hand clasps Ben by the mouth and drags him back, too.
We’ve been caught, pulled back into the blackness. I am being held tight in a recess in the wall, and my captor holds me in a strong, deadly grip. I’m unable to resist. As I stand there, I wonder if I’m about to die.
The group of slaverunners runs past us, down the tunnel, thinking they are following us. I can’t believe it: we’ve lost them.
Now I’m thankful for being pulled aside. And as the grip around my mouth loosens, I wonder why my captor just did us a favor. He releases his grip completely, and I look back over my shoulder to see a large soldier, dressed in black but not wearing a mask. He looks different than the others. He looks to be about 22, and his chiseled features are perfect, with a strong jawline and short, cropped brown hair. He towers over us, and stares down with green eyes that are a surprising contrast to his demeanor: they exude softness, and are starkly out of place here.
“Come with me,” he says urgently.
He turns and disappears into a side door, hidden in the wall. Ben and I exchange a glance, then instantly follow, ducking under the door and into the side chamber.
This man has just saved our lives. And I have no idea who he is.
*
The soldier closes and locks the door behind us. It is a small room, like a cell, with a tiny window at the top. No sunlight comes through, so I assume it’s still night. The room is also lit only by a small red emergency light. He turns to us and we all stand there, facing each other.
“Why did you save us?” I ask.
“You’re not saved yet,” he answers, coldly. “There are still thousands of those things out there, looking for you. You’ll have to sit tight, wait it out, until daylight. Then we can make a break for it. Our chances are slim. But we have no choice.”
“But why?” I press. “Why are you doing this?”
He walks away, checking the lock on the door again. Then, his back to us, he murmurs, “Because I want out of here, too.”
I stand quietly, Ben on one side of me and the soldier on the other. I listen to the stampede of footsteps just outside the door, racing down the hall. The screaming and hollering seem to go on forever, as the angry mob sounds as if it’s alternately looking for us and beating each other up. I’ve opened Pandora’s box: it’s total mayhem outside that door. I pray no one else thinks to check in the recess of the wall—or if they do, that the lock holds.
My fear springs to life, as I hear a jiggling on the doorknob. The soldier slowly reaches out his gun, aims it at the door, and leans back. He hold it steady, leveling it at the door.
I stand there, trembling, sweat pouring down my back even though it’s cold in here. Whoever is out there keeps fiddling with the knob. If it opens, we’re finished. We might kill the first one, but the gunshot would alert the others, and the entire mob would find us. I hold my breath for what seems like forever, and finally the fiddling stops. I hear him turn and run away.
I breathe a sigh of relief. It was probably just a passerby, looking for shelter.
Slowly, the soldier relaxes, too. He lowers and holsters his gun.
“Who are you?” I ask, speaking in hushed tones for fear of being heard.
“Name’s Logan,” he says, not offering his hand.
“I’m Brooke and this is—” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“I know,” he says, curtly. “All contestants are announced.”
Of course.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” I press. “I didn’t ask your name. I asked who you are.”
He looks back at me coldly, defiant.
“I’m one of them,” he says reluctantly. “Or, at least, I used to be.”
“A slaverunner?” Ben asks, his voice rising in surprise and disgust.
Logan shakes his head.
“No. A gamekeeper. I stood guard in the arena. I never went on slaverunning missions.”
“But that still puts you on their side,” I snap, and can hear the judgment in my voice. I know I should give him a break—after all, he just saved our lives. But still, I think of those people who took Bree, and it’s hard to feel any sympathy.
He shrugs. “Like I said, not anymore.”
I glare back at him.
“You don’t understand,” he says, by way of explanation. “Here, there are no options. Either you join them or you die. It’s that simple. I had no choice.”
“I would have chosen to die,” I say, defiantly.
He looks at me and in the dim light I see the intensity in his green eyes. I can’t help noticing, despite myself, how gorgeous they are. There is a nobility to him, a chivalrous quality I’ve never seen.
“Would you?” he asks. He looks me over. “Maybe you would,” he says finally. “Maybe you’re a better person than I. But I did what I had to in order to survive.”
He paces, crossing to the far side of the room.
“But like I said, none of that matters now,” he continues. “The past is the past. I’m getting out.”
I realize how judgmental I’m being and I feel bad. Maybe he’s right. Maybe if I was still living here, in the city, I would have joined them, too. I don’t know what pressures he was under.
“So what now?” I say. “You’re leaving them? Defecting?”
“I’m escaping,” he says. “I’ve had enough. Watching you fight—it did something to me. You had such spirit. I knew this was my moment, that I had to leave, even if I die trying.”
I hear the sincerity in his voice and know he speaks the truth. I’m surprised to hear that I’ve inspired him. I wasn’t trying to inspire anyone—just to stay alive. And I am grateful for his help.
But based on the number of feet I hear charging outside the door, it sounds like a lost cause anyway. I don’t see how we can ever get out of here.
“I know where there’s a boat,” he continues, as if reading my mind. “It’s docked on the west side, at 42nd. It’s a small motor boat. They use it to patrol the Hudson. But the first patrol doesn’t leave until after dawn. If I get there at dawn, before them, I can steal it. Take it upriver.”
“To where?” I ask.
He looks back at me blankly.
“Where would you go?” I press.
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t care. Anywhere but here. As far as the river will take me, I guess.”
“You think you can survive the mountains?” Ben suddenly asks. I can hear an edge to his voice, something unfamiliar, something I haven’t heard before. If I didn’t know better, it sounds to me like possessiveness. Like jealousy.
Suddenly, my face flushes as I realize: Ben has feelings for me. He’s jealous of Logan.
Logan turns and stares Ben down coldly. “You managed to,” he says. “Why couldn’t I?”
“I’d hardly call what I did surviving,” Ben says. “It was more like a slow death.”
“It beats being here,” Logan says. “Besides, I’m not a defeatist. I’ll find a way to survive. I got weapons and ammo, and a few days’ food. That’s all I need. I’ll do whatever I have to.”
“I’m not a defeatist,” Ben retorts, annoyed.
Logan just shrugs.
“The boat’s meant for two,” he says, looking away from Ben, to me. It is clear from his gaze he only wants me to come. I wonder if he likes me, or if it’s just a guy thing, just plain old competition and jealousy for the sake of it. Logan must see the determination in my stare, because he adds, “But I guess, if it has to, it can hold three.”
He paces.
“I’ll help you guys escape. At dawn, you’ll follow me. We’ll take the boat up the Hudson. I’ll drop you back at your homes, wherever they are, then I’ll continue on my way.”
“I’m not going anywhere without Bree,” I say, firmly.
Logan turns and looks at me.
“Who’s Bree?” he asks.
“My sister.”
“And I’m not going without my brother,” Ben adds.
“We came down here for a reason,” I explain. “To rescue our siblings. And to bring them back. I’m not leaving without her.”
Logan shakes head, as if annoyed.
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he says. “I’m giving you a way out. A free ticket. Don’t you realize there’s no other way out of here? They’ll hunt you down before you go ten feet. And even if you find your sister—then what?”
I stand there and cross my arms, fuming. There’s no way I’ll let him talk me out of it.
“Besides, I hate to say this but…” he trails off, checking himself.
“But what?” I press.
He hesitates, as if debating whether to say anything. He takes a deep breath.
“There’s no way you’ll ever find them.”
I feel my heart drop at his words. I stare at him, wondering what he’s holding back.
“What aren’t you telling us?” I ask.
He shifts his eyes from mine to Ben’s to the floor, avoiding my gaze.
“What do you know?” I press. My heart is pounding—I am afraid he is going to tell me Bree is dead.
He hesitates, toeing the ground, looking down. Finally, he begins to talk.
“They were separated,” he begins. “They were too young. They always separate the older from the younger. The stronger from the weaker. The boys from the girls. The stronger, older ones are set aside for the arena. But the younger, weaker ones…” He trails off.
My heart pounds, as I wonder what he’s going to say.
“Well?” Ben prods.
“The young boys, they send to the mines.”
“The mines?” Ben asks, stepping forward in indignation.
“The coal mines. Crosstown. Beneath Grand Central. They put them on a train crosstown. Put them down in the shafts, far beneath the earth. They use the coal for fire. That’s where your brother is. That’s where that train was going. I’m sorry,” he says, and sounds genuine.
Ben suddenly marches for the door, his face red.
“Where are you going?” I ask, alarmed.
“To get my brother,” Ben snaps back, not even slowing.
Logan steps up and holds out an arm, blocking Ben’s way. Now that I look at them side by side, Logan towers over Ben, half a foot taller and twice as broad, with huge, muscular shoulders. Beside him, Ben seems tiny. They are starkly different-looking people, polar opposites: Logan is the all-American jock type, while Ben, thin and unshaven, with his longish hair and soulful eyes, is the sensitive, artist type. They couldn’t be more different. But they each share a strong will, a streak of defiance.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Logan says in his deep, authoritative voice.
Ben looks up at him, scowling.
“You walk out that door,” Logan continues, “and you give us away. Then we’ll all be dead.”
Ben’s shoulders relax and he relents.
“You want to find your brother,” Logan continues, “you can. But you need to wait till dawn, when we all bust out of here together. Just a few more hours. Then you can go to your death if you want.”
Ben slowly turns his back and resentfully crosses to our side of the room.
“What about Bree?” I say, my voice steely cold. I am afraid to ask it. But I need to know. “Where did they take her?”
Logan slowly shakes his head, avoiding my gaze.
“WHERE?” I press, stepping forward, my voice venomous. My heart is pounding with terror.
He clears his throat.
“The young girls,” he begins, “the ones who are too young for the arena…they ship them off to slavery,” he says. He looks up at me. “The sex trade.”
My heart rips in two. I want to run out the door, screaming, looking for her anywhere. But I know that would be futile. I need to know more. I feel my face redden, my entire body rise with heat, my fists clench with indignation.
“Where did they take her?” I press, my voice steely cold.
“They ship the sex slaves to Governors Island. They load them on buses and send them downtown. Then they put them on a boat. The next bus leaves at dawn. Your sister will be on it.”
“Where are these buses?” I demand.
“Across the street,” he says. “34th and 8th. They leave from the old post office.”
Without thinking I march for the door, feeling the horrific pain in my leg as I go. Again, Logan holds out his arm and stops me. It is strong and muscular, like a wall.
“You have to wait, too,” he says. “Until daybreak. It would do you no good to look for her now. She’s not on the bus yet. They keep them underground until loading time, in a cell somewhere. I don’t even know where. I promise you. At dawn, they’ll bring them up and load them. If you want to go after her, that’s when you can do it.”
I stare into his eyes, scrutinizing them, and see the sincerity. Slowly, I relent, breathing deep to control myself.
“But you need to know it’s a lost cause,” he says. “You’ll never bust her out. She’ll be chained to a group of slaves, who will be chained to an armored bus. The bus will be flanked by dozens of soldiers and vehicles. You won’t be able to get anywhere near it. You’ll just end up killing yourself. Not to mention,” he adds, “most of the buses don’t even make it through the wasteland.”
“The wasteland?” I press.
He clears his throat, reluctant.
“To reach the Seaport, the pier for Governors Island, the buses have to go downtown, have to leave the walled area. The wall starts at 23rd Street. South of that, it’s the wasteland. That’s where the Crazies live. Thousands of them. They attack every bus that goes through there. Most don’t even make it. That’s why they send lots of buses at once.”
My heart drops at his words.
“That’s why I’m telling you: leave with me in the morning. At least you’ll be safe. Your siblings are already a lost cause. At least you can survive.”
“I don’t care what the odds are,” I retort, my voice steely and determined. “I don’t care if I die trying. I’m going after my sister.”
“And I’m going after my brother,” Ben adds. I’m surprised by his determination, too.
Logan shakes his head.
“Suit yourself. You guys are on your own. I’m taking that boat at dawn and I’ll be long gone.”
“You’ll do what you have to do,” I say, with disgust. “Just like you always have.”
He sneers back at me, and I can see I’ve really hurt him. He turns away abruptly, crosses to the far side of the room, leans against the wall, and sits, sulking. He checks and cleans his pistol, not looking at me again, as if I no longer exist.
His sitting reminds me of the pain in my calf, of how exhausted I am. I go to the far wall, as far away from him as I can get, lean back against it, and sit, too. Ben comes over and sits beside me, his knees almost touching mine, but not quite. It feels good to have him there. He understands.
I can’t believe we are both sitting here right now, alive. I never would have imagined this. I was sure we were being marched off to our deaths earlier, and now I feel as if I’m being given a second chance at life.
I think of my sister, and Ben’s brother—and suddenly it strikes me that we will have to part ways, go to different parts of the city. The thought of it disturbs me. I look over and study him, as he sits there with his head down. He’s just not cut out to be a fighter. He won’t survive on his own. And somehow, I feel responsible.
“Come with me,” I suddenly say. “It will be safer that way. We’ll go downtown together, find my sister, and then find a way out of here.”
He shakes his head.
“I can’t leave my brother,” he says.
“Stop and think about it,” I say. “How will you ever find him? He’s crosstown somewhere, hundreds of feet below ground, in a mine. And if you do find him, how will you get out of there? At least we know where my sister is. At least we have a chance.”
“How will you get out after you find her?” he asks.
It is a good question, one for which I have no response.
I simply shake my head. “I’ll find a way,” I say.
“So will I,” he answers. But I can detect the uncertainty in this voice, as if he already knows that he won’t.
“Please, Ben,” I plead. “Come with me. We’ll get Bree and make it out of this. We’ll survive together.”
“I can say the same thing,” he says. “I can ask you to come with me. Why is your sister more important than my brother?”
It is a good point. He loves his brother as much as I love my sister. And I understand. There’s nothing I can say to that. The reality hits me that we will part ways at dawn. And I will probably never see him again.
“OK,” I say. “But promise me one thing, will you?”
He looks at me.
“When you’re done, head to the East River, make your way down to the pier at the South Street Seaport. Be there at dawn. I’ll be there. I’ll find a way. Meet me there, and we’ll find a way to make it out together.” I look at him. “Promise me,” I command.
He studies me, and I can see him thinking.
“What makes you so sure you’ll even make it downtown, to the Seaport?” he asks. “Past all the Crazies?”
“If I don’t,” I say, “that means I’m dead. And I don’t plan on dying. Not after everything I’ve been through. Not while Bree’s alive.”
I can hear the determination in my own voice, and I barely recognize it—it sounds as if a stranger is speaking through me.
“That’s our meeting place,” I insist. “Be there. Promise me.”
Finally, he nods.
“Okay,” he says. “Fine. If I’m alive, I’ll be there. At dawn. But if I’m not, that means I’m dead. And don’t wait for me. Do you promise? I don’t want you waiting for me,” he insists. “Promise me.”
Finally, I say, “I promise.”
He reaches out his frail hand towards me. I slowly take it in mine.
We sit there, holding hands, our fingers intertwined, and I realize it is the first time I’ve held his hand—really held his hand. The skin is so soft, and it feels good to hold it. Despite myself, I feel small butterflies.
We sit there, our backs to the wall, beside each other in the dim room, holding hands for I don’t know how long. We both look away, neither of us saying a word, each lost in our own world. But our hands never part, and as I sit there, falling asleep, I can’t help but wonder if this is the last time I’ll see him alive.