Arena One: Slaverunners by Morgan Rice

tires still hold, and we cross the tracks on a country road, running parallel to the river, and I am finally able to slow the bike, dropping down to 70. We pass the rusted hull of an old, huge train, lying on its side, burnt out, and I bang a sharp left on a country road with an old sign that reads “Greendale.” It is a narrow country lane with a sharp ascent uphill, away from the river.
    We lose speed as we drive nearly straight up. I pray that the bike will make it in the snow and not slide back down. I gun it, as the speed drops. We are down to about 20 miles an hour, when finally, we clear the hilltop. We even out on level land, and I gain speed again as we fly down this narrow country road, taking us alternately through woods, then farmland, then woods again, then past an old, abandoned firehouse. It continues, dipping and rising, twisting and turning, taking us past abandoned country houses, past herds of deer and flocks of geese, even over a small country bridge spanning a creek.
    Finally, it merges into another road, Church Road, aptly named, as we pass the remnants of a huge Methodist church on our left and adjoining graveyard—of course, still intact. I know there is only one way the slaverunners can go. If they want the Taconic, which they must, then there’s no way there without taking Route 9. They are heading North to South—and we are heading West to East. My plan is to cut them off. And now, finally, I have the advantage. I crossed the river about a mile further south than they. If I can just go fast enough, I can beat them to the punch. Finally, I am feeling optimistic. I can cut them off—and they will never expect it. I will hit them perpendicularly and maybe I can take them out.
    I gun the bike again, pushing it past 140.
    “WHERE ARE YOU GOING?” Ben yells out.
    He still looks shell-shocked, but I have no time to explain: in the distance, I suddenly spot their cars. They are exactly where I thought they’d be. They don’t see me coming. They don’t see that I am lined up to smash right into them.
    Their cars ride single file, one about twenty yards behind the other, and I realize I can’t take them both out. I am going to need to choose one. I decide to aim for the one in front: if I can run it off the road, perhaps it will cause the one behind it to slam on the brakes, or spin out and crash, too. It is a risky plan: the impact may very well kill us. But I don’t see any other way. I can’t exactly ask them to stop. I only pray that, if I am successful, Bree survives the crash.
    I increase speed, closing in on them. I am a hundred yards away…then 50…then 30….
    Finally, Ben realizes what I’m about to do.
    “WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?” he screams, and I can hear the fear in his voice. “YOU’RE GOING TO HIT THEM!”
    Finally he gets it. That’s exactly what I’m hoping to do.
    I rev it one last time, topping 150, and barely catch my breath as we go racing at top speed on the country road. Seconds later, we go flying onto Route 9—and smash directly into the first vehicle. It is a perfect hit.
    The impact is tremendous. I feel the crash of metal on metal, feel my body jerking to a stop, then feel myself go flying off my bike and through the air. I see a world of stars, and as I’m flying, I realize that this is what it feels like to die.
     

 
     
SEVEN
     
     
    I go flying through the air, head over heels, and finally feel myself land in the snow, the impact crushing my ribs and knocking the wind out of me. I go tumbling, again and again. I roll and roll, unable to stop, bumped and bruised in every direction. The helmet is still fastened to my head, and I am grateful for it as I feel my head crack against rocks in the ground. Behind me, there is the loud sound of crashing metal.
    I lay there, frozen, wondering what I have done. For a moment, I am unable to move. But then I think of Bree, and force myself to. Gradually, I move my leg, then raise an arm, testing it. As I do, I feel