Arena Two. Morgan RiceЧитать онлайн книгу.
seat of a motor boat, racing its way up a river. It is not summer, but winter, and the banks are lined with snow. Occasional chunks of ice float past us. My face is sprayed with water, but it is not the cool mist of the ocean waves in summer but rather the freezing spray of the icy Hudson in winter. I blink several times until I realize it is not a cloudless summer morning, but a cloudy winter afternoon. I try to figure out what happened, how everything changed.
I sit up with a chill and look around, immediately on guard. I haven’t fallen asleep in daylight in as long as I can remember, and it surprises me. I quickly get my bearings and see Logan, standing stoically behind the wheel, eyes fixed on the river, navigating the Hudson. I turn and see Ben, head in his hands, staring out at the river, lost in his own world. On the other side of the boat sit Bree, eyes closed, leaning back in her seat, and her new friend Rose cuddled up with her, asleep on her shoulder. Sitting in her lap is our new pet, the one-eyed Chihuahua, asleep.
I’m amazed I allowed myself to sleep, too, but as I look down and notice the half-drunk bottle of champagne in my hand, I realize the alcohol, which I haven’t had in years, must have knocked me out – that, combined with so many sleepless nights, and so many days of adrenaline rush. My body is so banged up, so sore and bruised, it must’ve just fallen asleep by itself. I feel guilty: I never let Bree out of my sight before. But as I look over at Logan, his presence so strong, I realize I must’ve felt safe enough around him to do that. In some ways, it’s like having my dad back. Is that why I dreamed of him?
“Nice to have you back,” comes Logan’s deep voice. He glances my way, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips.
I lean forward, surveying the river before us as we cut through it like butter. The roar of the engine is deafening, and the boat rides the current, moving up and down in subtle motions, rocking just a tiny bit. The freezing spray hits my face directly, and I look down and see I’m still dressed in the same clothes I’ve been wearing for days. The clothes practically cling to my skin, caked with sweat and blood and dirt – and now moist from the spray. I am damp, and cold, and hungry. I would do anything for a hot shower, a hot chocolate, a roaring fire, and a change of clothes.
I scan the horizon: the Hudson is like a vast and wide sea. We stick to the middle, far from either shore, Logan wisely keeping us away from any potential predators. Remembering, I immediately turn back, checking for any sign of slaverunners. I see none.
I turn back and look for any signs of any boats on the horizon before us. Nothing. I scan the shorelines, looking for any sign of activity. Nothing. It is as if we have the world to ourselves. It is comforting and desolate at the same time.
Slowly, I relax my guard. It feels like I’ve been asleep forever, but from the sun’s position in the sky, it’s only mid-afternoon. I couldn’t have been asleep for more than an hour, at most. I look around for any familiar landmark. After all, we are nearly back near home. But I see none.
“How long was I out?” I ask Logan.
He shrugs. “Maybe an hour.”
An hour, I think. It feels like an eternity.
I check the gas gauge, and it reads half empty. That doesn’t bode well.
“Any sign of fuel anywhere?” I ask.
The moment I ask, I realize it is a stupid question.
Logan looks over at me, as if to say really? Of course, if he had seen a fuel depot, he would have hit it.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“These are your parts,” he says. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
I scan the river again, but still can’t recognize anything. That’s the thing about the Hudson – it’s so wide, and it stretches forever, and it’s so easy to lose one’s bearings.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” I ask.
“Why should I? You needed the sleep.”
I don’t quite know what else to say to him. That’s the thing about Logan: I like him, and I feel he likes me, but I don’t know if we have all that much to say to each other. It doesn’t help that he’s guarded, and that I am, too.
We continue in silence, the white water churning beneath us, and I wonder how much longer we can go on. What will we do when our fuel runs out?
In the distance, I spot something on the horizon. It looks like some sort of structure, in the water. At first I wonder if I am seeing things, but then Logan cranes his neck, alert, and I realize he must see it, too.
“I think it’s a bridge,” he says. “A downed bridge.”
I realize he’s right. Growing ever closer is a towering hunk of twisted metal, sticking up out of the water like some sort of monument to hell. I remember this bridge: it once beautifully spanned the river; now, it’s a huge heap of scrap metal, plunging at jagged angles down into the water.
Logan slows the boat, the engine quieting as we get closer. Our speed drops and the boat rocks wildly. The jagged metal protrudes from every direction, and Logan navigates, turning the boat left and right, creating his own little pathway. I look up as we go at the bridge’s remains, looming over us. It looks like it rises hundreds of feet high, a testament to what humanity was once able to do before we started killing each other.
“The Tappan Zee,” I remark. “We’re about an hour north of the city. We’ve got a good jump on them, if they’re coming after us.”
“They are coming after us,” he said. “You can bet on it.”
I look at him. “How can you be so sure?”
“I know them. They never forget.”
As we pass the last scrap of metal, Logan picks up speed and I lean back as we accelerate.
“How far behind us do you think they are?” I ask.
He looks at the horizon, stoic. Finally, he shrugs.
“Hard to say. Depends how long it takes to rally the troops. Snow’s heavy, which is good for us. Maybe three hours? Maybe six, if we’re lucky? Good thing is, this baby’s fast. I think we can outrun them, as long as we have fuel.”
“But we don’t,” I say, pointing out the obvious. “We left with a full tank – now we’re half empty. We’ll be empty in just a few hours. Canada’s a long way away. How do you propose we find fuel?”
Logan stares at the water, thinking.
“We have no choice,” he says. “We have to find it. There’s no alternative. We can’t stop.”
“We’re going to need to rest at some point,” I say. “We’re going to need food, and some sort of shelter. We can’t stay out in this temperature all day and all night.”
“Better to starve and freeze than be caught by slaverunners,” he says.
I think of dad’s house, farther upriver. We’re going to pass right by it. I remember my vow to my old dog, Sasha, to bury her. I also think of all the food up there, in that stone cottage – we can salvage it, and it would sustain us for days. I think of all the tools in dad’s garage, all the things we can make use of. Not to mention the extra clothes, blankets and matches.
“I want to make a stop.”
Logan turns and looks at me as if I’m crazy. I can see that he doesn’t like this.
“What are you talking about?”
“My dad’s house. In Catskill. About an hour north of here. I want to stop there. There are a lot of things we can salvage. Things we’ll need. Like food. And,” I pause, “I want to bury my dog.”
“Bury your dog?” he asks, his voice rising. “Are you crazy? You want to get us all killed for that?”
“I promised her,” I say.
“Promised?” he shoots back. “Your dog? Your dead dog? You’ve got to be kidding.”
I stare him down, and he realizes pretty quickly that