Arena One: Slaverunners

Eight

The explosion sends us both flying back through the air, and I land hard on my back in the snow. For the third time this morning, the wind is knocked out of me.

I look up at the sky, seeing stars, trying to clear my head. I can still feel the heat on my face from the force of the flames, and my ears ring from the noise.

As I struggle to my knees, I feel a searing pain in my right arm. I look over and see that a small piece of shrapnel is sticking through the edge of my bicep, maybe two inches long, a piece of twisted metal. It hurts like crazy.

I reach over and, without thinking, in one quick motion grab the end of it, grit my teeth and yank. For a moment, I am in the worst pain of my life, as the metal goes completely through my arm and out the other side. Blood rushes down my arm and into the snow, staining my coat.

I quickly take off one sleeve of the coat and see blood on my shirt. I tear off a piece of the sleeve with my teeth and take a strip of cloth and tie it tight over the wound, then put my coat back on. I hope it will staunch the flow of blood. I manage to sit up, and as I look over, I see what was once Dad’s bike: it is now just a heap of useless, burning metal. Now we’re stuck.

I look over at Ben. He looks dazed, too, on his hands and knees, breathing hard, his cheeks black with soot. But at least he is alive.

I hear the roar of an engine and look over and see that, in the distance, the other car has caught traction. It is already taking off down the highway, gaining speed, with my sister inside. I am furious at Ben for making me lose her. I have to catch them.

I turn to the slaverunner car before me, still on its side, and wonder if it runs. I run over to it, determined to try.

I push against it with all I have, trying to get it back on all four tires. But it’s too heavy, barely rocking.

“Help me!” I yell to Ben.

He gets up and hurries to my side, limping. He takes position beside me, and together, we push with all we have. The car is heavier than I imagine, weighed down by all its iron bars. It rocks more and more, and finally, after one big heave, we get it back onto all four tires. It lands in the snow with a crash.

I waste no time. I open the driver’s side door, reach in, grab the dead driver with both hands by the shirt, and yank him out of the seat. His torso is covered in blood, and my hands turn red as I throw him into the snow.

I lean in and examine the slaverunner in the passenger seat. His face is covered in blood, too, but I am not certain he is dead. In fact, as I look closer, I detect some signs of movement. Then he shifts in his seat. He’s alive.

I lean across the car and take him by his shirt, tight in a fist. I hold my gun to his head and shake him roughly. Finally, his eyes bat open. He blinks, disoriented.

I assume the other slaverunners are heading to Arena One. But they have such a big head start on us, I need to know for sure. I lean in close.

He turns and looks at me, and for a moment, I am stunned: half his face is melted away. It is an old wound, not from the accident, which means he must be a Biovictim. I’ve heard rumors of these people, but I’ve never seen one. When the nuclear payloads were dropped in the cities, those few who survived a direct attack carried the scars, and were rumored to be more sadistic and aggressive than others. We call them the Crazies.

I have to be extra careful with this one. I tighten my grip on the gun.

“Where are they taking her?” I demand through gritted teeth.

He looks back blankly, as if trying to comprehend. I feel certain, though, that he understands.

I shove the barrel into his cheek, letting him know I mean business. And I do. Every passing moment is precious, and I can feel Bree getting farther away from me.

“I said, where are they taking her?”

Finally, his eyes open in what seems to be fear. I think he gets the message.

“The arena,” he finally says, his voice raspy.

My heart flutters, my worst fears confirmed.

“Which one?” I snap.

I pray he does not say Arena One.

He pauses, and I can see he is debating whether or not to tell me. I jab the pistol tighter against his cheekbone.

“Tell me now or you’re wasted!” I yell, surprising myself with the anger in my voice.

Finally, after a long pause, he answers: “Arena One.”

My heart pounds, my worst fears confirmed. Arena One. Manhattan. It is rumored to be the worst of them all. That can only mean one thing: a certain death for Bree.

I feel a fresh rage towards this man, this bottom-feeder, this slaverunner, the lowest rung of society, who has come up here to kidnap my sister, and God knows who else, to feed the machine, just so that others can watch helpless people kill each other. All this senseless death, just for their own entertainment. It is enough to make me want to kill him on the spot.

But I take the gun out of his cheek, and loosen my grip. I know I should kill him, but can’t bring myself to. He answered my questions, and somehow I feel killing him now wouldn’t be fair. So instead, I will abandon him. I will kick him out of the car and leave him here, which will mean a slow death by starvation. There is no way a slaverunner can survive alone in nature. They are city dwellers – not survivors like us.

I lean back to tell Ben to yank this slaverunner out of the car, when suddenly, I detect motion out of the corner of my eye. The slaverunner is reaching for his belt, moving faster than I thought he was capable. He has tricked me: he is actually in fairly good shape.

He pulls out a gun faster than I could have ever thought possible. Before I can even register what’s happening, he is already raising it in my direction. Stupidly, I’ve underestimated him.

Some instinct in me takes over, perhaps some instinct inherited from Dad, and without even thinking clearly, I raise my gun, and right before he shoots, I fire.

Nine

The gunshot is deafening, and a moment later, the car is splattered in blood. I am so overcome by adrenaline, I don’t even know who fired first.

I am shocked as I look down and realize that I shot him in the head.

A screaming erupts. I look to the back seat and see the young girl sitting behind the driver’s side, shrieking. She suddenly leans forward, pulls herself out from the back, jumps out, and hits the snow running.

For a moment, I debate whether to chase her down – she is clearly in shock, and in her state, I doubt she even knows where she’s going. In this weather, and in this remote location, I doubt she can survive long.

But I think of Bree, and have to stay focused. She is what matters most now. I can’t afford to waste time tracking this girl down. I turn and watch her run, and it feels odd to think of her as being so much younger than I am. In truth, she is probably close to my age.

I check the reaction of the captured boy in the backseat, maybe twelve. But he just sits there, staring, frozen, in a catatonic state. He’s not even blinking. I wonder if he’s had some kind of psychotic break. I stand and look over at Ben, who still stands there, staring down at the dead corpse. He doesn’t say a word.

The gravity of what I have done suddenly hits me: I have just killed a man. Never in my life did I think I would. I have always felt bad even killing an animal, and I realize I should feel awful.

But I am too numb. Right now, all I feel is that I did what I had to to defend myself. He was a slaverunner after all, and he came up here to hurt us. I realize I should feel more remorse – but I don’t. That frightens me. I can’t help but wonder if I’m more like Dad than I care to admit.

Ben is useless, still standing there staring, so I run around to his side of the car, open the passenger door and begin to yank out the body. It is heavy.

“Help me!” I snap. I am annoyed by his inaction – especially while the other slaverunners are getting away.

Finally, Ben hurries over and helps me. We drag out the dead slaverunner, the blood staining our clothes, walk a few feet, then throw it into the snow, which turns red. I reach down and quickly strip the corpse of its gun and ammo, realizing Ben is either too passive or isn’t thinking clearly.

“Take his clothes,” I say. “You’ll need them.”

I don’t waste any more time. I run back to the car, open the driver’s side door and jump in. I go to turn the keys, when I suddenly look down and check the ignition. They are missing.

My heart drops. I search the floor of the car frantically, then the seats, then the dashboard. Nothing. The keys must have fallen out in the crash.

I look outside and notice some unusual markings in the snow that might indicate a trail from the keys. I kneel down and comb frantically through it, searching. I feel more and more desperate. It is like finding a needle in a haystack.

But suddenly, a miracle happens: my hand strikes something small. I comb the snow more carefully, and am flooded with relief to see the keys.

I jump back in the car, turn the ignition, and the car roars to life. This vehicle is some kind of modified muscle car, something like an old Camaro, and the engine roars way too loud; I can already tell it will be a fast ride. I only hope it’s fast enough to catch the other one.

I am about to put it into gear and take off when I look over and see Ben, still standing there, staring down at the corpse. He still hasn’t stripped the corpse’s clothing, even though he is standing there, freezing. I guess seeing the death affected him more than it did me. I have lost all patience and consider just taking off; but it wouldn’t be fair to leave him here alone, especially since he – or his body weight, at least – saved me back there on the bridge.

“I’M LEAVING!” I shriek at him. “GET IN!”

That snaps him out of it. He comes running over, jumps in, and slams the door. Just as I am about to gun it, he turns and looks in the backseat.

“What about him?” he asks.

I follow his gaze and see, in the backseat, the catatonic boy, still sitting there and staring.

“You want out?” I ask the boy. “Now’s your chance.”

But he doesn’t respond. I don’t have the luxury of time to figure it out; there have been too many delays already. If he won’t decide, I’ll decide for him. Coming along with us might kill him – but leaving him here will definitely kill him. He’s coming with us.

I peel out, getting back onto the highway with a thud. I am pleased to see the car is still running, and is faster than I could imagine. I am also pleased to see it handles well on the snowy highway. I hit the clutch and give it gas and shift to second gear, then to third, then fourth… I am grateful Dad taught me how to drive stick – another manly thing I probably never should have learned as a teenage girl, and another thing I resented at the time but am thankful for now. I watch the speedometer climb: 80…90…100…110…120… I am unsure how hard to push it. I worry that if I go too fast I’ll lose control in the snow, especially since this highway hasn’t been maintained in years, and with the snow covering, I can’t even see the potholes. If we hit just one big hole or patch of ice, we could be off the road. I get it up just a bit more, to 130, and decide to hold it there.

I look over at Ben, who has just finished buckling his seatbelt and is now gripping the dash, his knuckles white, looking straight ahead at the road in fear.

“You killed him,” he says.

I can barely hear him over the roar of the engine, and I wonder if I just imagined it, or if it was my conscience speaking. But Ben turns to me and repeats it:

“You killed that man,” he says louder, as if amazed such a thing could happen.

I’m not sure how to respond.

“Yes I did,” I say finally, annoyed. I don’t need him reminding me of it. “Do you have a problem with that?”

Slowly, he shakes his head. “I’ve just never seen a man killed before.”

“I did what I had to do,” I snap back, defensive. “He was reaching for a gun.”

I give it more gas, hitting 135, and as we turn the bend, I am relieved to spot the other car on the horizon. I am catching up, speeding faster than they dare to. At this rate, in a few minutes I might just catch them. I am encouraged.

I am sure they spot us – I just hope they don’t realize it’s us. Maybe they think the other slaverunners got their car back on the road. I don’t think they saw our encounter.

I give it even more gas, hitting 140, and the distance starts to close.

“What are you going to do when you catch them?” Ben screams, panic in his voice.

That is exactly what I have been wondering. I don’t know yet. I just know I need to catch up to them.

“We can’t shoot at their car, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he says. “The bullet might kill my brother – or your sister.”

“I know,” I reply. “We’re not going to shoot. We’re going to run them off the road,” I say, suddenly deciding.

“That’s crazy!” he yells, gripping the dashboard tighter as we close the gap even more. Snow is bouncing off our windshield like crazy, and I feel like I’m in a videogame, going out of control. The Taconic twists, narrowing as we go.

“That could kill them!” he yells. “What good will that do? My brother will die in there!”

“My sister is in there, too!” I shout back. “You think I want her dead?”

“So then what are you thinking?” he screams.

“You have any other ideas!?” I shout back. “You expect me to just ask them to pull over?”

He is silent.

“We have to stop them,” I continue. “If they reach the city, we’ll never get them back. That’s a certain death. At least this gives them a chance.”

Just as I get ready to floor it one more time, the slaverunners surprise me by suddenly slowing down. In moments I am beside them. At first I can’t understand why they are doing this, and then I realize: they think we are their partners. They still don’t realize it’s us.

We pull up and just as I prepare to turn hard on the wheel, to smash into them, their tinted passenger-side window opens to reveal the grinning face of a slaverunner, his facemask raised; he still assumes I am one of his.

I lower my window, scowling back: I want him to have one good look at me before I send him to hell.

His smile drops and his expression morphs into one of shock. I still have the element of surprise, and am about to turn hard on the wheel when I catch a glimpse of Bree in the backseat. She is alive. She looks back at me, fear in her eyes.

Suddenly, we hit a pothole. The sound is deafening, and our car shakes as if a bomb has gone off. It jolts me so hard that my head slams into the metal ceiling, and my teeth smash into each other. I feel as if I’ve lost a filling. Our car swerves wildly, and it takes me several seconds to regain control and straighten it out. It was a close call. It was stupid of me: I never should have taken my eyes off the road. We’ve lost speed, and the other vehicle has sped up and is now a good fifty yards ahead of us. Worse, now they know we’re not one of theirs.

I floor it again: 130…140… I step on the gas until the pedal is touching the floor, but it won’t go any farther. The speedometer hits 150. I assume the car in front of me has the capacity to go as fast, but they, clearly, are being more sensible. The icy conditions on this road are risky at even 80 miles an hour, and they are not willing to take the extra risk. But I have nothing to lose. If I lose Bree, I have nothing left to live for anyway.

We are closing in on them again. They are thirty yards away…twenty.

Suddenly, their passenger window rolls down, and light reflects off of something shiny. I realize, too late, what it is: a gun.

I slam on the brakes, just as they fire several times. I duck as the bullets bounce off our hood and windshield, and the metallic sound of ricocheting bullets fills our ears. At first I think we’re finished, but then I realize the bullets haven’t penetrated: this car must be bulletproof.

“You’re going to get us killed!” Ben yells. “Stop this! There has to be another way!”

“There’s no other way!” I scream back, more to assure myself than him.

I have crossed some sort of line inside, and I absolutely refuse to back down.

“There is no other way,” I repeat quietly to myself, my eyes locked on the road.

I step on it one more time, swerving to the side, coming up alongside them. With one strong pull on the wheel, I smash into them hard, just as the slaverunner is reaching out with his gun. My front fender hits their rear wheel. Their car swerves wildly, and so does mine. For a moment, we are both all over the road. They smash into a metal railing, then bounce back and crash into our car, sending us into the railing on our side.

The highway opens up and the railings disappear, flat farmland on either side of us. It is perfect. I know I can take them out now. I floor it one more time, preparing to swerve again. I have them perfectly in my sights and prepare to turn the wheel.

Suddenly, there is a gleam of metal as the slaverunner reaches out again, gun in hand.

“WATCH OUT!” Ben yells.

But it is too late. Gunshots ring out, and before I can swerve, the bullets rip into our front tires. I lose complete control of the car. Ben screams, as we go flying across the road. So, despite myself, do I.

My universe is upside down as the car tumbles, and we spin again and again.

My head smashes against the metal roof. I feel the sharp tug of the seatbelt digging into my chest, and the world is just a blur through the windshield. The sound of metal crunching in my ears is so loud I can hardly think.

The last thing I remember is wishing my Dad were here to see me now, to see how close I had come. I wonder if he would be proud.

And then, after one final crash, my world goes black.

Ten

I don’t know how long I’m out. I peel open my eyes, and wake to a tremendous pain in my head. Something is wrong, and I can’t figure out what.

Then I realize: the world is upside down.

I feel blood rushing to my face. I look about, trying to figure out what happened, where I am, if I’m even still alive. And then, slowly, I begin to take it all in.

The car is sitting upside down, the engine has stopped, and I’m still buckled in the driver’s seat. It’s silent. I wonder how long I’ve been sitting here like this. I reach over, slowly moving my arm, trying to feel for injuries. As I do, I feel a sharp pain in my arms and shoulders. I don’t know if I’m injured, or where, and I can’t tell as long as I’m hanging upside down in the seat. I need to unbuckle myself.

I reach over and, unable to see the buckle, feel along the strap until I touch something cold and plastic. I dig my thumb into it. At first, it doesn’t give.

I push harder.

Come on.

There is a sudden click. The belt snaps off and I go plummeting down, landing right on my face against the metal roof; the drop must be a foot, and makes my headache far worse.

It takes a few seconds to get my wits back about me, and slowly, I get to my knees. I look over and see Ben there beside me; he is still buckled and upside down. His face is covered in blood, which drips slowly from his nose, and I can’t tell if he’s alive or dead. But his eyes are closed, and I take that as a good sign – at least they’re not open and unblinking.

I check the backseat for the boy – and as soon as do, I regret it. He lies on the bottom of the car, his neck twisted in an unnatural position, eyes open and frozen. Dead.

I feel responsible. Maybe I should have forced him out of the car earlier. Ironically, this boy might have been better off if he stayed with the slaverunners than me. But there’s nothing I can do about it now.

Seeing this boy dead reinforces the gravity of the accident; I check my body again for injuries, not even knowing where to look, since everything hurts. But as I twist, I feel a searing pain in my ribs, and it hurts to take a deep breath. I reach over, and it’s sensitive to the touch. It feels like I’ve cracked another rib.

I can move, but it hurts like hell. I also still have the burning pain in my arm from the shrapnel from our previous accident. My head feels heavy, as if it’s in a vice, my ears are ringing, and I have a pounding headache that just won’t quit. I probably have a concussion.

But there’s no time to dwell on that now. I need to see if Ben is alive. I reach over and shake him. He doesn’t respond.

I debate the best way to get him out and realize there’s no easy way to do it. So I reach over and push hard on his seatbelt release button. The strap flies off and Ben plummets down and lands hard, face first, on the metal roof. He grunts loudly, and I’m flooded with relief: he’s alive.

He lays there, curled up, groaning. I reach over and shove him hard, again and again. I want to wake him, see how badly he’s hurt. He squirms, but still doesn’t seem fully conscious.

I have to get out of this car: I feel claustrophobic in here, especially being so close to the dead boy, still staring at me with his unmoving eyes. I reach over, searching for the door handle. My vision blurs, making it hard to find, especially with everything upside down. I use two hands, groping the door, and finally find it. I pull on it, and nothing happens. Great. The door must be jammed shut.

I yank on it again and again, but still, nothing happens.

So I lean back, bring my knees to my chest, and kick the door as hard as I can with both feet. There is a crash of metal and a burst of cold air rushes in as the door flies open.

I roll out into a world of white. It is snowing again, and it is coming down as hard as ever. It feels good to be out of the car, though, and I get to my knees and slowly stand. I feel a rush of blood to my head, and for a moment, the world spins. Slowly, my headache lessens, and it feels good to be upright, back on my feet, breathing fresh air. As I try to stand straight, the pain in my ribs worsens, as does the pain in my arm. I roll my shoulders back and feel stiff, bruised all over. But nothing else feels broken, and I don’t see any blood. I’m lucky.

I hurry over to the passenger door, get to one knee, and wrench it open. I reach in and grab Ben by the shirt and try to drag him out. He is heavier than I suspect, and I have to yank hard; I pull slowly but firmly, and finally get him out into the fresh snow. He enters the snow face first, and that finally wakes him. He rolls onto his side, wiping the snow off his face. He then gets to his hands and knees and opens his eyes, staring at the ground, breathing hard. As he does, blood drips from his nose and stains the white snow.

He blinks several times, disoriented, and turns and looks up at me, holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the falling snow.

“What happened?” he asks, his speech slurred.

“We had an accident,” I answer. “You okay?”

“I can’t breathe,” he says, sounding nasally, cupping his hands beneath his nose to catch the blood. As he leans back, I can finally see: he has a broken nose.

“Your nose is busted,” I say.

He looks back at me, slowly comprehending, and his eyes flood with fear.

“Don’t worry,” I say, going over to him. I reach up with both hands, and place them on his nose. I remember when Dad taught me how to set a broken nose. It was late one night, after he’d come home from a bar fight. I couldn’t believe it. He made me watch, said it would be good for me to learn something useful. He stood there in the bathroom as I watched, leaned into the mirror, and reached up and did it. I still remember the cracking noise it made.

“Hold still,” I say.

In one quick motion, I reach up and push hard on both sides of his crooked nose, setting it straight. He screams out in pain, and I feel bad. But I know this is what he needs to get it back into place, and to staunch the flow of blood. I reach down and hand him a clump of snow, putting into his hands and guiding it up so that he holds it against his nose.

“This will stop the blood, and reduce the swelling,” I say.

Ben holds the clump of snow to his nose, and within moments, it turns red. I look away.

I step back and survey our car: it sits there, upside down, its chassis visible to the sky. Its three intact tires are still spinning, very slowly. I turn and look back towards the highway. We’re about thirty yards off the road – we must’ve really tumbled far. I wonder how big their lead is.

It’s amazing we’re even still alive, especially given our speed. Surveying this stretch of highway, I realize we got lucky: if we had tumbled back there, we would have plunged off a cliff. And if the thick snow hadn’t sheltered us, I’m sure the impact would have been worse.

I survey our car, wondering if there’s any way we can get it running again. It’s doubtful. Which means I’ll never find Bree, and which means we’ll be stranded here, in the middle of nowhere, and probably dead within a day. We have no choice: we have to find a way to get it working.

“We have to flip it over,” I say, with sudden urgency. “We have to get it back on its wheels and see if it still works. I need your help.”

Ben slowly registers what I’m saying, then hurries over to my side, stumbling at first. The two of us stand beside each other, on one side of the car, and both begin to push.

We manage to rock it, and then, using our momentum, push it again and again. It takes all I have, and I can feel myself slipping in the snow, feel the pain tearing through my bicep, through my ribs.

The car rocks in bigger and bigger swings, and just as I wonder if I can go on, we give it one final heave. I reach up, above my head, pushing and pushing it, walking forward in the snow as I do.

It is just enough. The car reaches a tipping point, on its side, then suddenly lands with a crash on all four wheels. A huge cloud of snow rises up. I stand there catching my breath, as does Ben.

I survey the damage. It is extensive. The hood and roof and trunk look as if they’ve been worked over by a sledgehammer. But amazingly, the bones of it are still in shape. However, there is one glaring problem. One of the tires – the one that was shot out – is in such bad shape that there’s no way we can drive on it.

“Maybe there’s a spare,” Ben says, reading my mind. I look over and he’s already hurrying over to the trunk. I’m impressed.

I hurry over to it, too. He pushes the button several times, but it doesn’t open.

“Look out,” I say, and as he steps back I raise my knee and kick down hard with my heel. The trunk pops open.

I look down and am relieved to see a spare tire sitting there. Ben reaches in and grabs it, and I pull back the lining, and beneath it, find a jack and wrench. I take these and follow Ben, who carries the spare to the front. Without missing a beat, Ben takes the jack, jams it under the chassis, then takes the wrench and starts cranking it up. I’m impressed by how comfortable he is with the tools, and how quickly he gets the car jacked up. He removes all the bolts, pulls off the useless tire, and chucks it into the snow.

He puts on the new tire, and I hold it steady as he puts the bolts back in, one by one. He tightens them and lowers the car, and as we step back and look, it’s like having a brand-new tire. Ben has surprised me with his mechanical skills; I never would have expected that from him.

I waste no time opening the driver’s side door, jumping back in the car, and turning the keys. But my heart drops as I hear silence. The car is dead. I try the ignition again and again. But nothing. Nothing at all. It seems the accident destroyed the car somehow. A hopeless feeling sets in. Was this all for nothing?

“Pop the hood,” Ben says.

I pull the lever. Ben hurries around to the front and I get out and join him. I stand over him as he reaches in and starts fiddling with several wires. I am surprised by his dexterity.

“Are you a mechanic?” I ask.

“Not really,” he answers. “My Dad is. He taught me a lot, back when we had cars.”

He holds two wires together, and there is a spark. “Try it now,” he says.

I hurry back in and turn the ignition, hoping, praying. This time, the car roars to life.

Ben slams closed the hood, and I see a proud smile on his face, which is already swelling up from the broken nose. He hurries back and opens his door. He is about to get back in, when suddenly he freezes, staring into the backseat.

I follow his gaze, and I remember. The boy in the back.

“What should we do with him?” Ben asks.

There’s no more time to waste. I get out, reach in and remove the boy as gently as I can, trying not to look. I drag him several feet, in the snow, over to a large tree, and lay him down beneath it. I look at him for just a moment, then turn and run back to the car.

Ben still stands there.

“That’s it?” he asks, sounding disappointed.

“What do you expect?” I snap. “A funeral service?”

“It just seems…a bit callous,” he says. “He died because of us.”

“We don’t have time for this,” I say, at my wit’s end. “We’re all going to die anyway!”

I jump back into the running car, my thoughts fixed on Bree, on how far the other slaverunners have gone. While Ben is still closing his door, I peel out.

Our car goes flying across the snowy field, up a steep bank and back onto the highway with a bang. We skid, then catch traction. We are rolling again.

I step on the gas, and we start to gain real speed. I am amazed: this car is invincible. It feels as good as new.

In no time, we are doing over 100. This time I’m a bit more cautious, shell-shocked from the accident. I bring it up to 110, but don’t press it past that. I can’t risk wiping out again.

I figure they’re probably at least ten minutes ahead of us, and we might not be able to catch them. But anything can happen. All I need is for them to hit one bad pothole, for just one mishap to happen to them… If not, I’ll just have to follow their tracks.

“We have to find them before they reach the city,” Ben says, as if reading my mind. He has an annoying habit of doing that, I notice. “If they get there before us, we’ll never find them again.”

“I know,” I respond.

“And if we enter the city, we’ll never make it out. You know that, don’t you?”

The very same thought has been going through my mind. He’s right. From everything I’ve heard, the city is a deathtrap, filled with predators. We’re hardly equipped to fight our way out.