Before I can even react, I sense movement high above, and look up. Standing up high, atop the wall, are several slaverunners, wearing their black face masks, holding machine guns. They aim them down towards us.
“DRIVE!” Ben screams, frantic.
I’m already stepping on the gas, tearing out of there, as the first gunshots ring out. A hail of fire pours down on the car, bouncing off the roof, off the metal, off the bulletproof glass. I only pray that it doesn’t slip between the cracks.
Simultaneously, the crazies rush us from all sides. One of them reaches back and throws a glass bottle with a burning rag on it. A Molotov cocktail lands right before our car and explodes, the flames rising before us. I swerve just in time, and the flames graze the side of our car.
Another comes running up and jumps on the windshield. He grabs on and won’t let go, his face snarling at me through the glass, inches away. I swerve again, scraping against a pole, and it knocks him off.
Several more jump on the hood and trunk, weighing us down. I floor it, trying to shake them, as I continue west across 42nd.
But three of them manage to hold onto our car. One of them is dragging on the cement, and another is crawling his way up the hood, towards us. He raises a crow bar and prepares to bring it down, right on the windshield.
I make a sharp turn sharp left on Eighth Avenue, and that does it. The three of them go flying off the car, and sliding across the snow on the ground.
It was a close call. Too close.
I race down Eighth Avenue, and as I do, spot another opening in the wall. Several slaverunner guards stand before it, and I realize they might not know I’m not one of theirs. After all, the Times Square entrance is an entire avenue away. If I drive right for it, confidently, maybe they’ll assume I’m one of theirs, and keep it open.
I aim right for it, going faster and faster, closing the distance. A hundred yards…fifty…thirty…. I race right for the opening, and so far, it’s still open. There’s no stopping now. And if they bring it down, we’re dead.
I brace myself, and so does Ben. I’m almost expecting us to crash.
But a moment later, we are through it. We made it. I exhale with relief.
We’re in. I’m doing 100 now as I race down Eighth Avenue, against the one way. I am about to make a left, to try to catch them on Broadway, when suddenly, Ben leans forward and points.
“THERE!” he screams.
I squint, trying to see what he’s pointing at. The windshield is still covered in blood and pine needles.
“THERE!” he screams again.
I look again, and this time I see it: there, ten blocks ahead. A group of Humvees, parked outside Penn Station. I see the slaverunner car I’ve been chasing, the vehicle parked out front, sitting there, exhaust still smoking. The driver is out of the car, hurrying down the steps to Penn Station, dragging Bree and Ben’s brother, both of them handcuffed, chained together. My heart leaps at the sight of her.
The empty fuel gauge is beeping louder than ever, and I gun it. All I need is a few more blocks. Come on. Come on!
Somehow, we make it. I screech up to the entrance, and am about to pull to a stop and jump out, when I realize we have lost too much time. There is only one way we’re going to catch them: I have to keep driving, right into Penn Station. It’s a steep decline, down narrow, stone steps, to the entrance. It’s not a staircase meant for cars, and I wonder if our car can handle it. It’s going to be painful. I brace myself.
“HOLD ON!” I scream.
I make a sharp left and floor it, gaining speed. I’m up past 140. Ben clutches the dash, as he realizes what I’m doing. “SLOW DOWN!” he screams.
But it’s too late now. We are airborne, flying over the ledge, then driving straight down the stone steps. My body is so jolted, the tires bouncing with every step, that I am unable to control the car. We fly faster and faster, carried by our own momentum, and I brace myself as we crash right through the doors of Penn Station. The door goes flying off its hinges, and the next thing I know, we are inside.
We gain traction and I finally get control back of the car, as we drive on dry ground for the first time. We drive down another flight of steps, screeching through. There is a tremendous slam, as we hit the ground floor.
We are in the huge Amtrak console, and I’m driving across the cavernous room, tires screeching as I try to even out the car. Up ahead are dozens of slaverunners, milling about. They turn and look at me with shock, clearly unable to comprehend how a car got down here. I don’t want to give them time to gather themselves. I aim right for them, like bowling pins.
They try to run out of the way, but I speed up and smash into several of them. They hit our car with a thud, bodies twisting, and go flying over the hood.
I keep driving, and in the distance, I see the slaverunner who kidnapped my sister. I spot Ben’s brother, being loaded onto a train. I assume Bree is already on it.
“That’s my brother!” Ben screams.
The train door closes and I gun our car one last time, for all it’s worth, aiming right for the slaverunner who stole her. He stands there like a deer in the headlights, having just shoved Ben’s brother onto the train. He stares right at me as I close in.
I smash into him, sandwiching him against the train and cutting him in half. We hit the train doing 80, and my head slams into the dash. I feel the whiplash, as we grind to a halt.
My head is spinning, my ears ringing. Faintly, I can hear the sound of other slaverunners rallying, chasing after me. The train is still moving—our car didn’t even slow it. Ben is sitting there, unconscious. I wonder if he’s dead.
It takes a superhuman effort, but somehow I peel myself out of the car.
The train is gaining speed now, and I have to run to catch up to it. I run alongside the train and finally leap, gaining a foothold on the ledge and grabbing onto a metal bar. I stick my head in a window, looking for any sign of Bree. I scramble along its outside, looking window to window, making my way towards a train door to let myself in.
The train is going so fast, I can feel the wind in my hair, as I desperately try to reach the door. I look over and my heart drops to see that we are about to enter a tunnel. There is no room. If I don’t get in soon, I will smash into the wall.
Finally, I reach over and grab the door handle. Just as I’m about to open it, suddenly, I feel a tremendous pain smashing into the side of my head.
I go flying through the air, and a moment later land hard on my back, on the cement floor. It is a ten foot drop, and the wind is knocked out of me as I lay there, on my back, watching the train speed away. I realize that someone must have punched me, knocked me off the train.
I look up and see the face of a vicious slaverunner standing over me, scowling down. Several more slaverunners hurry over, too. They’re closing in around me. I realize I’m finished.
But it doesn’t matter: the train is speeding away, and my sister is on it.
My life is already over.
P A R T I I I
T H I R T E E N