Читать книгу Arena Two - Morgan Rice - Страница 6

We walk quickly through the snow and I look anxiously at the darkening sky, feeling the pressure of time. I glance back over my shoulder, see my footprints in the snow, and beyond them, standing there in the rocking boat, Ben and Rose, watching us wide-eyed. Rose clutches Penelope, equally afraid. Penelope barks. I feel bad leaving the three of them there, but I know our mission is necessary. I know we can salvage supplies and food that will help, and I feel we have a comfortable jump on the slaverunners.

I hurry to the rusted shed, covered in snow, and yank open its crooked door, praying that the truck I hid inside ages ago is still there. It was an old rusted pickup, on its last legs, more scrap than car, with only about an eighth tank of fuel left in it. I stumbled across it one day, in a ditch off Route 23, and hid it here, carefully down by the river, in case I ever needed it. I remember being amazed when it actually turned over.

The shed door opens with a creak, and there it is, as well hidden as it was on the day I stashed it, still covered with the hay. My heart swells with relief. I step forward and pull the hay back, my hands cold as I touch the freezing metal. I go to the back of the shed and pull open the double barn doors, and light comes flooding in.

“Nice wheels,” Logan says, walking up behind me, surveying it. “You sure it runs?”

“No,” I say. “But my dad’s house is a good twenty miles away, and we can’t exactly hike.”

I can tell from his tone that he really doesn’t want to be on this mission, that he wants to be back in the boat, moving upriver.

I jump into the driver seat and search the floor for the key. I finally feel it, hidden deep. I put it in the ignition, take a deep breath and close my eyes.

Please, god. Please.

At first nothing happens. My heart drops.

But I turn again and again, twist it farther to the right, and slowly, it begins to catch. At first it is a quiet sound, like a dying cat. But I hold it, twist again and again, and eventually, it turns over more.

Come on, come on.

It finally catches, rumbling and groaning to life. It clutters and gasps, clearly on its last legs. At least it’s running.

I can’t help smiling, flooding with relief. It works. It really works. We’re going to be able to make it to my house, bury my dog, get food. I feel as if Sasha’s looking down, helping us. Maybe my dad, too.

The passenger door opens and in jumps Bree, bristling with excitement, scooting over in the one vinyl seat, right next to me, as Logan jumps in beside her, slamming the door, looking straight ahead.

“What you waiting for?” he says. “Clock’s ticking.”

“You don’t need to tell me twice,” I say, equally short with him.

I put it into gear and floor it, reversing out of the shed and into the snow and afternoon sky. At first the wheels catch in the snow, but I give it more gas, and we sputter forward.

We drive, swerving on the bald tires, across a field, bumpy, getting jolted every which way. But we continue forward, and that’s all I care about.

Soon, we are on a small country road. I am so thankful the snow was melting most of the day – otherwise, we’d never make it.

We start picking up good speed. The truck surprises me, calming down as it warms up. We hit almost 40 as we ride Route 23 heading west. I keep pushing it, until we hit a pothole, and I regret it. We all groan, as we slam our heads. I slow down. The potholes are nearly impossible to see in the snow, and I forgot how bad these roads have become.

It’s eerie being back on this road, heading back to what was once home. I am retracing the road I took when chasing the slaverunners, and memories come flooding back. I remember racing down here on a motorcycle, thinking I was going to die, and I try to put it out of my mind.

As we go, we come across the huge tree felled in the road, now covered in snow. I recognize it as the tree that had been felled on my way out, the one downed to block the path of the slaverunners, by some unknown survivalist out there who was looking after us. I can’t help but wonder if there are other people out there now, surviving, maybe even watching us. I look from side to side, combing the woods. But I see no signs.

We are making good time and to my relief, nothing is going wrong. I don’t trust it. It is almost as if it is too easy. I glance at the gas gage and see we haven’t used much. But I don’t know how accurate it is, and for a moment I wonder if there’ll be enough gas to get us there and back. I wonder if it was a stupid idea to try this.

We finally turn off the main road, onto the narrow, winding country road that will bring us up the mountain, to dad’s house. I’m more on edge now, as we twist and turn of the mountain, the cliffs dropping off steeply to my right. I look out and can’t help noticing the view is incredible, spanning the entire Catskill mountain range. But the drop-off is steep and the snow is thicker up here, and I know that with one wrong turn, one wrong skid, this old heap of rust will go right over the edge.

To my surprise, the truck hangs in there. It is like a bulldog. Soon we are past the worst of it, and as we turn a bend, I suddenly spot our former house.

“Hey! Dad’s house!” Bree yells out, sitting up in excitement.

I’m relieved to see it, too. We’re here, and we made good time.

“See,” I say to Logan, “that wasn’t so bad.”

Logan doesn’t seem relieved, though; his face is set in a grimace, on edge as he watches the trees.

“We made it here,” he grumbles. “We didn’t make it back.”

Typical. Refusing to admit he was wrong.

I pull up in front of our house and see the old slaverunner tracks. It brings flashing back all the memories, all the dread I’d felt when they’d taken Bree. I reach over and drape an arm around her shoulder, clutch her tight, resolve to never let her out of my sight again.

I cut the ignition and we all jump out and head quickly towards the house.

“Sorry if it’s a mess,” I say to Logan as I step past him, up to the front door. “I wasn’t expecting guests.”

Despite himself, he suppresses a smile.

“Ha ha,” he says, flatly. “Should I take off my shoes?”

A sense of humor. That surprises me.

As I open the door and step inside, any sense of humor I had suddenly falls away. When I see the site before me, my heart drops. There is Sasha, lying there, her blood dried, her body stiff and frozen. Just a few feet away is the corpse of the slaverunner Sasha had killed, his corpse frozen, too, stuck to the floor.

I look down at the jacket I’m wearing – his jacket – the clothes I’m wearing – his clothes – my boots – his boots – and it gives me a funny feeling. Almost as if I’m his walking double.

Logan looks over at me and must realize it too.

“You didn’t take his pants?” he asks.

I look down and remember I did not. It was too much.

I shake my head.

“Stupid,” he says.

Now that he mentions it, I realize he is right. My old jeans are wet and cold, and sticking to me. And even if I don’t want them, Ben might. It’s a shame to waste them: after all, it is perfectly good clothing.

I hear muffled cries and look over to see Bree standing there, looking down at Sasha. It breaks my heart to see her face like that, crumpled up, staring down at her former dog.

I walk over to her and put an arm around her.

“It’s okay, Bree,” I say. “Look away.”

I kiss her on the forehead and try to turn her away, but she throws me off with surprising strength.

“No,” she says.

She steps forward, kneels down and hugs Sasha on the ground. She wraps her arms around her neck, and leans over and kisses her head.

Logan I exchange a glance. Neither of us know what to do.

“We haven’t time,” Logan says. “You need to bury her, and move on.”

I kneel down beside her, lean over and stroke Sasha’s head.

“It’s going to be okay, Bree. Sasha’s in a better place now. She’s happy now. Do you hear me?”

Tears drop from her eyes, and she reaches up, takes a deep breath, and wipes them away with the back of her hand.

“We can’t leave her here like this,” she says. “We have to bury her.”

“We will,” I say.

“We can’t,” Logan says. “The ground is frozen solid.”

I stand and look at Logan, more annoyed than ever. Especially because I realize he is right. I should have thought of that.

“Then what do you suggest?” I ask.

“It’s not my problem. I’ll stand guard outside.”

Logan turns and marches outside, slamming the front door behind him.

I turn back to Bree, trying to think quick.

“He’s right,” I say. “We don’t have time to bury her.”

“NO!” she wails. “You promised. You promised!”

She’s right. I did promise. But I hadn’t thought it all through carefully. The thought of leaving Sasha here like this kills me. But I can’t risk our own lives either. Sasha wouldn’t want that.

I have an idea.

“What about the river, Bree?”

She turns and looks at me.

“What if we give her a water burial? You know, like they do for soldiers who die in honor?”

“What soldiers?” she asks.

“When soldiers die at sea, sometimes they bury them at sea. It’s a burial of honor. Sasha loved the river. I’m sure she’d be happy there. We can bring her down and bury her there. Would that be okay?”

My heart is pounding as I wait for a response. We are running out of time, and I know how intransigent Bree can be if something means a lot to her.

To my relief, she nods.

“Okay,” she says. “But I get to carry her.”

“I think she’s too heavy for you.”

“I’m not going unless I get to carry her,” she says, her eyes flashing with determination as she stands, faces me, hands on her hips. I can see from her eyes that she will never give in otherwise.

“Okay,” I say. “You can carry her.”

We both pry Sasha off the floor, and then I quickly scan the house for anything we can salvage. I hurry to the slaverunner’s corpse, strip his pants off, and as I do, feel something in his back pocket. I’m happily surprised to discover something bulky and metal inside. I pull out a small switch blade. I’m thrilled to have it, and cram it in my pocket.

I do a quick run-through of the rest of the house, hurrying from room to room, looking for anything that might be useful. I find a few old, empty burlap sacks and take them all. I open one and throw in Bree’s favorite book, The Giving Tree, and my copy of Lord of the Flies. I run to a closet, grab the remaining candles and matches and throw them in.

I run through the kitchen and out to the garage, the doors already busted open from when the slaverunners raided it. I hope desperately they didn’t take time to search in the back, deeper in the garage, for his tool chest. I hid it well, in a recess in the wall, and I hurry back and am relieved to see it’s still there. It’s too heavy to carry the entire toolbox, so I rifle through it and cherry pick whatever might be useful. I take a small hammer, screwdriver, a small box of nails. I find a flashlight, with the battery inside. I test it, and it works. I grab a small set of pliers and a wrench and close it and get ready to leave.

As I’m about to run out, something catches my eye, high on the wall. It’s a large zip line, all bunched up, tied up neatly and hanging on a hook. I forgot all about it. Years ago, dad bought this zip line and tied it between the trees, thinking we could all have fun. We did it once, and never again, and then he hung it in the garage. Looking at it now, I feel that it might be valuable. I jump up on the tool bench, reach up and take it down, slinging it over one shoulder and my burlap sack over the other.

I hurry out the garage and back into the house and Bree is standing there, holding Sasha in both her arms, looking down at her.

“I’m ready,” she says.

We hurry out the front door, and Logan turns and sees Sasha. He shakes his head.

“Where are you taking her?” he asks.

“The river,” I say.

He shakes head in disapproval.

“Clock’s ticking,” he says. “You got 15 more minutes, before we head back. Where’s the food?”

“Not here,” I say. “We have to head up higher, to a cottage I found. We can do it in 15.”

I walk with Bree towards the truck and throw in the zip line and sack over the back of the pickup. I keep the empty sacks, though, knowing I’ll need it to carry the food.

“What’s that line for?” Logan asks, stepping up behind us. “We have no use for it.”

“You never know,” I say.

I turn, put an arm around Bree, who still stares at Sasha, and turn her away, looking up the mountain.

“Let’s move,” I say to Logan.

Reluctantly, he turns and hikes with us.

The three of us hike steadily up the mountain, the wind getting stronger, colder up here. I worriedly look up at the sky: it is getting darker much quicker than I thought. I know that Logan is right: we need to be back in the water by nightfall. And with sunset basically here, I’m feeling increasingly worried. But I also I know in my heart that we have to get the food.

The three of us trudge our way up the mountain face, and finally we reach the top clearing, as a strong gust hits me in the face. It’s getting colder and darker by the minute.

I retrace my steps to the cottage, the snow thick up here; I feel it piercing through my boots as I go. I spot it, still hidden, covered in snow, still as well hidden and anonymous as ever. I hurry to it and pry open it small door. Logan and Bree stand behind me.

“Good find,” he says, and for the first time I hear admiration in his voice. “Well hidden. I like it. Almost enough to make me want to stay here – if the slaverunners weren’t chasing us, and if we had a food supply.”

“I know,” I say, as I step into the small house.

“It’s beautiful,” Bree says. “Is this the house we were going to move to?”

I turn back and look at her, feeling bad. I nod.

“Another time, okay?”

She understands. She’s not anxious to wait around for the slaverunners either.

I hurry inside and pull open the trap door, and descend down the steep ladder. It’s dark down here, and I feel my way. I reach out and feel a row of glass, clinking as I touch it. The jars. I waste no time. I take out my sacks and fill them as fast as I can with jars. I can barely make them out as my bag grows heavy, but I remember there being raspberry jam, blackberry jam, pickles, cucumbers… I fill as much as the sack can carry then reach up and hand it up the ladder to Logan. He takes it and I fill three more.

I clean out the entire wall.

“No more,” Logan says. “Can’t haul it. And it’s getting dark. We have to go.”

Now there’s a little bit more respect his voice. Clearly, he’s impressed with the stash I found, and finally, he recognizes how much we needed to come here.

He reaches down and offers me a hand, but I scramble up the ladder myself, not needing his help and still miffed by his earlier attitude.

On my feet back in the cottage, I grab two of the heavy sacks myself, as Logan grabs the others. The three of us hurry out the cottage, and soon retrace our steps back down the steep trail. In minutes, we’re back at the truck, and I’m relieved to see everything is still there. I check the horizon, and see no signs of any activity at all anywhere on the mountain, or in the distant valley.

We jump back in the truck, I turn the ignition, happy that it starts, and we take off back down the road. We’ve got food, supplies, our dog, and I was able to say goodbye to dad’s house. I feel satisfied. I feel that Bree, beside me, is content, too. Logan looks out the window, lost in his own world, but I can’t help feeling as if he thinks we made the right decision.

* * *

The trip back down the mountain is uneventful, the brakes in this old pickup holding pretty well, to my surprise. In some places, where it is really steep, it is more of a controlled slide than a break, but within minutes we are off the worst of it, back onto the stable Route 23, heading east. We pick up speed, and for the first time in a while, I’m feeling optimistic. We’ve got some precious tools, and enough food to last us for days. I’m feeling good, vindicated, as we cruise down 23, just minutes away from getting back to the boat.

And then, everything changes.

I slam on the brakes as a person jumps out of nowhere, right into the middle of the road, waving his arms hysterically, blocking our path. He’s barely fifty yards out and I have to hit the brakes hard, sending our truck into a slide.

“DON’T STOP!” Logan commands. “Keep driving!” He’s using his toughest military voice.

But I can’t listen. There is a man there, standing out there, helpless, wearing just tattered jeans and a sleeveless vest in the freezing cold. He has a long black beard, wild hair, and large, black crazed eyes. He’s so thin, he looks like he hasn’t eaten in days. He has a bow and arrow strapped to his chest. He’s a human, a survivor, just like us, that much is obvious.

He waves his arms frantically, and I can’t run him over. I can’t bear leaving him, either.

We come to an abrupt stop, just feet away from the man. He stands there, wide-eyed, as if he didn’t expect us to really stop.

Logan wastes no time jumping out, both hands on his pistol, aiming it at the man’s head.

“STEP BACK!” he screams.

I jump out, too.

The man slowly raises his arms, looking dazed as he takes several steps back.

“Don’t shoot!” the man pleads. “Please! I’m just like you! I need help. Please. You can’t leave me here to die. I’m starving. I haven’t eaten in days. Let me come with you. Please. Please!”

His voice is cracking, and I see the anguish on his face. I know how he feels. Not long ago, I was just like him, scrounging to get by with every meal here in the mountains. I am hardly much better now.

“Here, take this!” the man says, taking off his bow and quiver of arrows. “It’s yours! I mean no harm!”

“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.