Arena One: Slaverunners

Thirty One

My heart leaps in my throat as I reach out for the thick, knotted twine. I catch hold of it in the air, clutching onto it for life. Like a pendulum, I swing on it, racing through the air at full speed towards the immense hull of the rusted barge. The metal flies at me, and I brace myself for impact.

It is excruciatingly painful as I collide at full speed, the metal slamming into the side of my head, ribs, and shoulder. The pain and shock of impact is almost enough to make me drop the rope. I slip a few feet, but somehow manage to hang on.

I wrap my feet around the rope before I slip all the way down to the water. I cling to it, dangling there, as the barge continues to move, gaining speed. Logan has managed to catch his and hang on, too. He dangles a few feet away.

I look down at the rough waters a few feet below me, churning white as the barge cuts a path across the river. Those are big currents below, especially for a river, strong enough to lift this huge barge up and down.

To my right, the Statue of Liberty towers over us. Amazingly, it has survived intact. Seeing it, I feel inspired, feel as if maybe I can make it, too.

Luckily, Governors Island is close, barely a minute’s ride. I remember taking ferry rides there with Bree on hot summer days, and how amazed we were that it was so close. Now, I’m so grateful it is: if it were any farther, I don’t know if I’d be able to hang on. The wet rope digs into my freezing hands, making every second a struggle. I wonder how I will get out of this mess. There is no ladder on the side of the boat, and once we reach the island, there will be no way for me to get out except to drop down off the rope, into the water. Which would surely make me freeze to death.

I detect movement and look over and see that Logan is slowly climbing his way up the rope. He has devised an ingenious method of lifting his knees, clamping the insoles of his feet tightly against the thick rope, then using his legs to pull himself up.

I try it. I raise my knees and clamp my feet into the twine, and am happily surprised to see that my boot catches. I straighten my legs and pull myself up a notch. It works. I do it again and again, following Logan, and within a minute, the time it takes to reach the island, I’m at the top of the rope. Logan is there, waiting, hand outstretched. I reach up and grab it, and he pulls me quickly and silently over the edge.

We both crouch down behind a metal container and furtively survey the boat. Standing up front, their backs to us, are a group of guards holding machine guns. They herd a dozen young girls, directing them down a long ramp lowered from the boat. The sight makes me burn with indignation, and makes me want to attack them right now. But I force myself to wait, to stay disciplined. It would give me temporary satisfaction, but then I would never get Bree.

The group starts to move, chains rattling, until they are all off the ramp and on the island. When the boat is emptied, Logan and I nod to each other and silently make our way off the barge, running alongside the edge. We hurry down the ramp, a good deal behind everybody else. Luckily, no one is looking back for us.

In moments we are on land. We hurry through the snow and take shelter behind a small structure, hiding out of sight to watch where the girls are taken. The slaverunners head toward a large, circular brick structure which looks like a cross between an amphitheater and a prison. There are iron bars all around its perimeter.

We follow their trail, hiding behind a tree every twenty yards, running from tree to tree, careful not to be seen. I reach down and feel for my gun, in case I need to use it. Logan does the same. They might notice us at any moment, and we have to be ready. It would be a mistake to fire – it would draw too much attention, too soon. But if I need to, I will.

They herd the girls into the open doorway of the building and then disappear in the blackness.

We both break into action, running inside after them.

My eyes take a moment to adjust to the darkness. To my right, around the bend, a group of slaverunners leads the girls, while to my left, a single slaverunner heads solo down a corridor. Logan and I exchange a knowing glance, and both wordlessly decide to go after the stray slaverunner.

We run silently down the corridor, just yards behind him, waiting for our chance. He reaches a large iron door, pulls out a set of keys, and begins to unlock it. The metal clangs, reverberating in the empty corridors. Before I can react, Logan pulls out a knife, charges the slaverunner, grabs him by the back of his head, and slices his throat in one quick motion. Blood spurts everywhere as he collapses, a lifeless heap on the ground below.

I grab his set of keys, still in the lock, turn it, and pull back the heavy iron door. I hold it open and Logan runs in, and I follow.

We are in a cell block, long, narrow, semi-circular, filled with small cells. I run down it, looking left and right, scanning the haunted, hollow faces of the young girls. They stare back at me, hopeless, desperate. It looks like they’ve been here forever.

My heart is thumping. I look desperately for any sign of my sister. I feel she is close. As I run through, the girls go to their cell doors and stick their hands through. They must realize we’re not slaverunners.

“PLEASE!” one cries. “Help me!”

“LET ME OUT OF HERE!” another cries.

Soon, a chorus of shouts and pleas rises up. It is drawing too much attention, and it worries me. I want to help each one of these girls, but there’s no way I can. Not now. I need to find Bree first.

“BREE!” I scream, desperate.

I increase my pace to a jog, running cell to cell.

“BREE? CAN YOU HEAR ME? IT’S ME! BROOKE! BREE? ARE YOU HERE!?”

As I race by a cell, a girl reaches out and grabs my arm, pulling me to her.

“I know where she is!” she says.

I stop and stare at her. Her face is as frantic as the others.

“Let me out of here, and I’ll tell you!” she says.

If I set her free, she might draw unwanted attention to us. Then again, she is my best bet.

I look at her cell number, then look down at the keys in my hand and find the number. I unlock it, and the girl comes running out.

“LET ME OUT, TOO!” another girl yells.

“ME TOO!”

All the girls start screaming.

I grab this girl by the shoulders.

“Where is she!?” I demand.

“She’s in the mansion. They took her this morning.”

“The mansion?” I ask.

“That’s where they take the new girls. To be broken in.”

“Broken in?” I ask, horrified.

“For sex,” she answers. “For the first time.”

My heart plummets at her words.

“Where?” I demand. “WHERE IS IT?”

“Follow me,” she says, and begins to run.

I am about to follow her out, but suddenly I stop.

“Wait,” I say, grabbing her wrist.

I know I shouldn’t do this. I know I should just run out of here, focus on saving Bree. I know there’s no time, and I know that helping the others can only cause unwanted attention and screw up my plans.

But something inside me, a deep sense of indignation, stirs. I just can’t bring myself to leave them all here like this.

So, against my better judgment, I stop and turn back, running cell to cell. As I reach each one, I find the key and unlock it. One by one, I free all of the girls. They all come running out, hysterical, running every which way. The noise is deafening.

I run back to the first one I freed. Luckily, she is still waiting with Logan.

She runs and we follow her, racing down corridor after corridor. Moments later, we burst out into the blinding light of day.

As we run, I can hear the chorus of girls screaming behind us, bursting out to freedom. It won’t be long until all the soldiers catch onto us. I run faster.

The girl stops and points across the courtyard.

“There!” she says. “That building! The big old house. On the water. The Governor’s Mansion. That’s it! Good luck!” she cries, and turns and runs off in the other direction.

I sprint for the building, Logan right beside me.

We run across the massive field, thigh-deep in snow, on the lookout for slaverunners. Luckily, they aren’t on to us yet.

The cold air burns my lungs. I think of Bree, being taken somewhere for sex, and I can’t possibly get there fast enough. I’m so close now. I can’t let her be hurt. Not now. Not after all this. Not when I’m only feet away.

I force myself forward, never stopping to catch a breath. I reach the front door and am not even cautious. I don’t stop to check, but just run into it and kick it open.

It bursts open and I continue running, right into the house. I don’t even know where I’m going, but I see a staircase and my instinct tells me to go up. I run right for it, sensing Logan right behind me.

As I reach the landing at the top of the steps, a slaverunner bursts out of a room, his mask off. He looks at me, eyes open wide in shock, and reaches for a gun.

I don’t hesitate. Mine is already drawn. I shoot him point blank in the head. He goes down, the gunshot deafening in this contained area.

I continue to charge down the hallway and pick a random room. I kick the door open and am horrified to find a man on top of a young girl, who is chained to a bed. It’s not Bree, but still, the sight sickens me. The man – a slaverunner without his mask – jumps up, looks at me in fear, and scrambles for his gun. I shoot him between the eyes. The little girl screams as his blood splats over her. At least he is dead.

I run back down the hall, kicking open doors as I go from room to room, each one containing another man having sex with a chained girl. I move on, searching frantically for Bree.

I reach the end of the hall and there is one final door. I kick it open, Logan behind me, and charge inside. I freeze.

A four-poster bed dominates the room. On it lies a large, fat, naked man having sex with a young girl, tied to his bed with rope. I can see that the girl is unconscious, and wonder if she’s been drugged. This man must be important, because beside him sits a slaverunner, standing guard.

I aim for the fat man, and as he turns I shoot him once in the stomach. He crashes to the ground, grunting, and I shoot him a second time – this time, in the head.

But I’m reckless. The guard aims his gun at me, and I can see out of the corner of my eye that he’s about to shoot. It was a stupid mistake. I should have taken him out first.

I hear a gunshot and flinch.

I am still alive. The guard is dead. Logan stands over him, gun drawn.

Across the room sit two young girls, both chained to their chairs. They sit fully clothed, shaking with fear, clearly next in line to be brought to the bed. My heart soars. One of them is Bree.

Bree sits there, chained, terrified, eyes open wide. But she’s safe. Untouched. I made it just in time. A few more minutes and I’m sure she would have been at the mercy of that fat man.

“Brooke!” she screams, hysterical, and bursts into tears.

I run to her, kneeling down and hugging her. She hugs me back as best she can with the chains on, crying over my shoulder.

Logan appears and, having grabbed the key from the dead slaverunner’s belt, unlocks them both. Bree jumps into my arms, giving me a hug, her whole body shaking. She clings to me as if she’ll never let go.

I feel the tears pour down my cheeks as I hug her back. I can’t believe it: it’s really her.

“I told you I’d come back for you,” I say.

I want to hold her forever, but I know we haven’t time. Soon this place will be overrun.

I pull her back and take her hand. “Let’s go,” I say, preparing to run.

“Wait!” Bree yells, stopping.

I stop and turn.

“We have to bring Rose, too!” Bree says.

The girl beside Bree looks up at us, so hopeless, so lost. It is odd, but she actually resembles Bree; with her long black hair and large brown eyes, the two of them could pass for sisters.

“Bree, I’m sorry, but we can’t. We don’t have time and – ”

“Rose is my friend!” Bree yells. “We can’t just leave her. We can’t!”

I look at Rose, and my heart wells up at the sight. I look at Logan who looks back disapprovingly – but with a look that says it’s my call.

Bringing Rose will slow us down. And it will be another mouth to feed. But Bree, for the first time in her life, is insistent – and standing here will only slow us down. Not to mention, Rose seems so sweet, and reminds me so much of Bree, and I can see how close they already are. And it is the right thing to do.

Against my better judgment, I say, “Okay.”

I run over to the unconscious girl, still tied to the bed, and use my knife to cut all four pieces of rope. Her hands and feet relax, plop down on the bed. She is still unconscious, and I can’t tell if she’s sick, drugged or dead. But I can’t deal with that now. At least now, she’s free.

The four of us burst out of the room, only to meet two guards charging us, reaching for their guns. I react quickly, shooting one in the head, while Logan shoots the other. The girls scream at the gunshots.

I grab Bree’s hand and Logan grabs Rose’s and we sprint down the stairs, taking them two at a time. A moment later we burst out of the house, into the blinding snow. Guards charge us from across the yard, and I only hope we can find a way off this island before we are completely overrun.

Thirty Two

I look around frantically, trying to figure some way out of here. I scan for vehicles, but don’t see any. Then I turn around completely, and find myself scanning the water, the shoreline. And that’s when I see it: right behind the Governor’s mansion, tied up to a solitary pier is a small, luxury powerboat. I’m sure it is reserved for the privileged few who use this island as their playground.

“There!” I say, pointing.

Logan sees it, too, and we sprint for the shoreline.

We run right up to the beautiful, shining motorboat, big enough to hold six people. It bobs wildly in the rough water and looks powerful, like a thing of luxury. I have a feeling that this boat was used by that fat, naked man. All the more vindication.

It is bobbing so wildly, I don’t want to risk Bree and Rose trying to board themselves, so I lift Bree in, while Logan takes care of Rose.

“Cut the rope!” Logan says, pointing.

A thick rope tethers the boat to a wooden pole, so I run over to it, extract my knife, and cut it. I run back to the boat where Logan is already standing inside, grasping the pier to keep it from floating away. He reaches out a hand and helps me down into it. I check over my shoulder and see a dozen slaverunners charging us. They are only twenty yards away, and closing in fast.

“I got them,” Logan says. “Take the wheel.”

I hurry over to the driver’s seat. Luckily, I’ve driven boats all my life. Logan shoves us off and takes a position at the back of the boat, kneeling and firing at the oncoming soldiers. They duck for cover, and it slows them down.

I look down, and my heart drops to see there are no keys in the ignition. I check the dash, then check the front seats frantically, my heart pounding. What will we do if they aren’t here?

I look over my shoulder and see the slaverunners are closer now, barely ten yards away.

“DRIVE!” Logan screams, over the sound of his gunfire.

I get an idea and check the glove compartment, hoping. My heart soars to find them. I insert the key into the ignition, turn it, and the engine roars to life. Black exhaust comes billowing out, and the gas gauge pops all the way. A full tank.

I hit the throttle and am jerked backwards as the boat takes off. I can hear the bodies falling behind me, and I look back to find that Bree, Rose and Logan were all knocked over by the torque, too. I guess I gunned it too hard – luckily, no one fell overboard.

We are also lucky because the slaverunners are at the shore’s edge, just ten feet away. I pulled out just in time. They fire back at us, and because everyone hit the deck, their bullets whiz over our heads. One of the bullets grazes the wood paneling, and another takes out my side view mirror.

“STAY DOWN!” Logan screams to the girls.

He takes a knee at the rear, pops up, and fires back. In the rearview I see him take out several of them.

I keep gunning it, pushing the engine with all it has, and within moments, we’re far away from the island. Fifty yards, then a hundred, then two hundred… Soon, we are safely out of range of their bullets. The slaverunners stand on shore helplessly, now just dots on the horizon, watching us tear away.

I can’t believe it. We are free.

* * *

As we pull away, deeper and deeper into the river, I know I should stay in the middle of the waterway, far from either shore, and head upriver, getting as far from the city as I can. But something inside stops me. Thoughts of Ben come rushing back, and I can’t let him go so easily. What if somehow he’s made it down to the Seaport? What if he was late?

I just can’t let it go. If by some chance he is there, I can’t just abandon him. I have to see. I have to know.

So instead of turning upriver, I point the boat straight for the opposite shore – back towards the Seaport. Within moments the Manhattan shoreline rushes at us, getting closer and closer. My heart pounds at the potential danger that could be waiting – any number of armed slaverunners waiting on shore to fire on us.

Logan realizes I’m going the wrong way, and suddenly comes running up beside me, frantic.

“Where are you going!?” he screams. “You’re heading back to the city!”

“I have to see something,” I say, “before we go.”

“See what!?”

“Ben,” I answer. “He might be there.”

Logan scowls.

“That’s crazy!” he says. “You’re bringing us right back into the hornet’s nest. You’re endangering us all! He had his chance. He wasn’t there!”

“I have to check,” I yell back. I am determined, and nothing will stop me. I realize that, in some ways, I’m just like my Mom.

Logan turns and sulks away, and I can feel how disapproving he is. I don’t blame him. But I have to do this. I know that if it was Ben, he’d come back and check for me, too.

Within moments the Seaport comes into view. We get closer, 300 yards…200…and then, as we reach a hundred yards out, I swear I spot someone, standing alone on the end of the pier. He’s looking out at the water, and my heart leaps.

It is Ben.

I can hardly believe it. He’s really there. He’s alive. He stands there, in the snow, up to his thighs, shivering. My heart drops to realize he is alone. That can only mean one thing: his brother didn’t make it.

We are close now, maybe twenty yards out, close enough that I can see the lines of sorrow etched into Ben’s face. In the distance, I see a caravan of slaverunner vehicles racing through the snow, heading right for the pier. There isn’t much time.

I slow the boat and pull up to the pier; Ben, waiting, runs to the edge. We idle, rocking wildly in the waves, and I suddenly wonder how Ben will get in. It is a good ten foot drop from the pier. Ben looks down, fear in his eyes, and he must be thinking the same thing, trying to figure out how to jump.

“Don’t jump!” Logan screams. “It might destroy the boat!”

Ben stops and looks at him, frozen in fear.

“Get on your hands and knees, turn around, and crawl down backwards,” Logan commands. “Inch your way down. Grab onto the edge of the pier and dangle off it with your hands. I’ll catch you.”

Ben does as he’s told and slowly slips and slides over the edge, until he’s hanging by his hands. Logan, to his credit, reaches up and grabs him, lowers him into the boat. Just in time: the slaverunners are hardly fifty yards away, and closing in fast.

“MOVE!” Logan screams.

I gun the throttle and we take off, flying upriver. As we do, shots are fired out again, just grazing our boat, and sinking into the water in small splashes. Logan takes a knee and fires back.

Luckily, they are no match for our speed: within moments we’re far from shore, in the middle of the river, out of firing range. I keep heading north, upriver, back in the direction of home.

Now, finally, there is nothing left to stop us.

Now, we are free.

* * *

We race up the East River and as we go, it is extraordinary to see the wreckage of the bridges up close. We race past the remains of the Brooklyn Bridge, its rusted metal sticking out of the water like a prehistoric thing. It towers above us, several stories high, like a skyscraper rising out of the water. I feel dwarfed as we drive under it, and can’t help wondering if any of this will ever be rebuilt.

Nearby is the wreckage of the bomber plane sticking out of the water, and I swerve to keep a good distance from that, too. I don’t know what sort of metal might be protruding from these freezing waters, and I don’t want to test it.

We soon pass the remnants of the Manhattan Bridge, then the Williamsburg Bridge. I hit the throttle, wanting to get us past all these horrific sights as soon as possible.

We soon race by what was once Roosevelt Island, its thin strip of land now a wasteland, like everything else. I fork left and find the 59^th Street Bridge has been destroyed, too – along with the tram that used to connect the island to Manhattan. The tram, rusted and demolished, bobs in the river like a huge buoy. I have to be careful to avoid it as the waterway narrows.

I continue racing upriver, farther and farther, passing nothing but destruction, until finally, I fork left into the waterway of the Harlem River. This is much more narrow, with land only fifty yards on either side of us. I feel much more on edge as we traverse it. I scan the shores, on the lookout for an ambush.

But I see nothing. Maybe I’m just being paranoid. If the slaverunners are going to mobilize after us – and I’m sure they are – we probably have at least an hour jump on them. Especially given all the snow. And by then, I’m hoping we’ll be too far up the Hudson for them to catch us.

The Harlem River snakes between Manhattan and the Bronx, and finally dumps us out onto the vast, wide-open expanse of the Hudson River. The Hudson, by contrast, is as wide as ten football fields, and I feel like we have just entered an ocean. Finally, I feel at ease again. Finally, we are back on the river that I remember. The river that leads us home.

I turn right and point us north, and we race back in the direction of home, towards the Catskills. In just two hours, we will be there.

Not that I plan on returning home. I don’t. Going back now would be foolish: the slaverunners know where we live, and it is surely the first place they will look for us. I want to stop at home, to bury Sasha, to say my goodbyes. But I won’t be staying. Our destination will have to be much farther north. As far as we can get.

I think of the stone cottage I’d found, all the way up the mountain, and I feel a pang, as I feel how badly I wanted to live there. I know that one day it might make a great home for us. But that day is not now. It’s too close to where we used to live, too dangerous right now. We have to let things cool down. Maybe, one day, we can come back. Besides, there are five of us now. Five mouths to feed. We need to find a place that can sustain us all.

As we head farther upriver, I finally begin to relax, to unwind. I feel the tension slowly leaving my neck, my shoulders. I breathe deeply for the first time. I can’t believe we actually made it. It is more than I can even process. I feel the aches and pains and bruises all over my body, but none of that matters now. I’m just happy that Bree is safe. That we’re together.

I take a moment to look around, to take stock and survey the others in the boat. I have been so focused on just getting us away from the city that I haven’t even stopped to consider everyone else. I look over at Logan, sitting there, content, in the passenger seat beside me. I turn and see the others sitting in the rows behind me. Each person looks out at the water, each in his or her own direction, each lost in his or her own world.

I reach over and tap Logan on the shoulder. He turns towards me.

“Mind taking the wheel?” I ask.

He rises from his seat quickly, happy to accommodate me, and grabs the wheel as we switch places.

I climb over to the back of the boat. I’m dying to talk to Bree, and I’m also dying to talk to Ben, to find out what happened with his brother. As I head back, I see Ben sitting in what appears to be a catatonic state, staring out at the river. He looks as if he’s aged ten years overnight, grief etched into his face. I can only imagine what hell he’s been through, the guilt he must have from not saving his brother. If it were me, I don’t know if I’d be able to handle it. I admire him for even being here.

I want to talk to him, but I need to see Bree first. I move to the back row and sit beside her, and her eyes light up at the sight of me. She gives me a big hug, and we embrace for a long time. She holds me tight, clearly not wanting to let go.

After several seconds, I finally pry her off. Tears roll down her cheeks.

“I was so scared,” she says.

“I know, sweetheart,” I answer. “I’m so sorry.”

“Are we going home now?” she asks, hope in her eyes.

Home. What a funny word. I don’t know what that means anymore. I once thought it meant Manhattan; then I thought it meant the mountains. Now I know it’s neither of those places. Home is going to have to be a new place. Some place we haven’t even been yet.

“We’re going to find a new home, Bree,” I say. “An even better one.”

“Can Rose come, too?” she asks.

I look over and see Rose, sitting beside her, look up at me hopefully. They are already two peas in a pod.

“Of course,” I say. “She’s part of the family now.”

I smile at Rose, and she surprises me by leaning over and giving me a hug. She clings to me, just like Bree, and I wonder where she came from, where her family us, where she was captured. I realize the hell that she must have gone through, too, and it hits home that we saved her, too. I think of an old saying: when you save a person’s life, that person becomes your responsibility for life. I can’t help feeling that somehow it’s true, that I’m now responsible for Rose, too. In my mind, her and Bree are inextricably linked.

“Thank you,” Rose whispers over my shoulder, into my ear.

I kiss her on the forehead, and she slowly pulls away. She reminds me of Bree in so many ways, it’s scary.

“What about Sasha?” Bree asks. “Can she come?”

It is the question I’ve been dreading. I take a deep breath, trying to think of the best way to phrase it. I have to tell her the truth; after all she’s been through, Bree deserves it.

“I’m so sorry, Bree,” I say, looking down. “Sasha didn’t make it.”

Fresh tears rush to Bree’s eyes, and she starts crying again, hysterical. Rose leans over and hugs her.

But after several seconds, to my surprise, Bree leans back, brushes away her tears, and looks back at me, red-eyed.

“I knew it,” she says. “I had a dream. She was visiting me. Somehow, I already knew she was dead.”

“This might cheer you up,” suddenly comes a voice.

I turn and see Ben standing there. To my surprise, there is a slight smile on his face.

I look down and see that he is holding something. Something small, wrapped in a blanket. He’s holding it out towards Bree.

Suddenly, a small dog pops its head out from the blanket. I can’t believe it. It is a small Chihuahua, missing one eye. It shakes and trembles, looking terrified.

“OH MY GOD!” Bree and Rose both scream out at once, eyes open wide in surprise.

Bree grabs it and holds it tight, cradling it, and Rose bends over to pet it, too. They both lean down, and it cranes its neck and licks their faces. They scream out in delight.

“I found it in the boat,” Ben says. “I almost sat on it. I guess someone left it. Or maybe it crawled its way on.”

I’m shocked. I hadn’t seen the dog, and now that I think of it, I realize I didn’t spend any time examining the boat at all. I look around, wondering what else could be here.

I spot all the side compartments and hurry to each one, opening them one after the other. I am surprised and delighted as I begin to discover all sorts of surprises. I open a sealed crate and am breathless to see its contents: it is packed with chocolate bars, candy, cookies, crackers and delicacies of all types.

I reach down and grab a huge bag filled with chocolate-covered jelly rings. I hold open the bag for Bree, Rose, Ben and Logan, and they each, wide-eyed, reach in and grab a handful. I then grab a handful myself and stuff my mouth, chewing one after the other.

It is ecstasy, by far the greatest thing I’ve ever tasted. The sugar rush races through my body and I feel like I’ve gone to heaven. The others wolf them down, too, eyes closed, chewing slowly, savoring each bite. All of us, ravished.

I reach back into the crate and discover bags of gummy bears and Twizzlers. I am amazed. I never thought I’d see these again. These are like gold, and I know I should ration them.

But after what we’ve all been through, now is not the time to ration anything – and for once, I let my emotions overcome my rational side. I throw the small bags to everyone in the boat, distributing them equally, and each person catches them in the air with a cry of joy and surprise. As Logan catches his, taking his hand off the wheel, the boat swerves a bit, then quickly straightens out.

I tear open my bag of gummy bears and finish the whole thing in just a few seconds, shoveling them into my mouth. Then I turn to the Twizzlers. I try to take my time with these, forcing myself to chew each one slowly. I’ve barely eaten in days, and it is a shock to my stomach, which screams out in pain. I force myself to slow down.

I spot a small fridge in the back of the boat, and hurry over to open it. I can’t believe it. It is stocked with everything from juice to champagne. The inequality of it all infuriates me: here we are, starving to death, while these fat slaverunners have been guzzling champagne. At least now it’s time for revenge.

I grab a bottle of champagne, twist off the wire, and pop the cork. It goes flying through the air, overboard, and into the river. Everyone turns at the sound and sees me standing there, holding the bottle as foam sprays out the top and over my hand. It is icy cold, but I don’t care. I put it to my lips, and take a swig. It goes right to my head.