style="font-size:15px;"> We gun it out of the channel in the breaking dawn. He’s right to take off. Those gunshots might have alerted someone; who knows how much time we have now.
We tear out of the channel into the purple light of day, leaving several bodies floating behind us. Our place of shelter has quickly transformed into a place of horrors, and I hope I never see it again.
We race again down the center of the Hudson, the boat bobbing as Logan guns it. I am on guard, looking in every direction for any sign of slaverunners. If they are anywhere near us, there is nowhere left to hide: the sounds of the gunshots, of Rose’s shrieking, and of a roaring engine hardly make us inconspicuous.
I just pray that at some point during the night they circled back looking for us and are farther south than we are; if so, they are somewhere behind us. If not, we will run right into them.
If we are really lucky, they gave up and turned all the way back and headed back to Manhattan. But somehow I doubt that. We’ve never been that lucky.
Like those crazies. That was just a stroke of bad luck to park there. I’ve heard rumors of predatory gangs of crazies turned cannibals, who survive by eating others, but I never believed it. I still can hardly believe it’s true.
I hold Rose tight, blood seeping through her wound, onto my hand, rocking her, trying to console her. Her impromptu bandage is already red, so I tear a new piece off my shirt, my stomach exposed to the freezing cold, and replace her bandage. It is hardly hygienic, but is better than nothing, and I have to staunch the blood somehow. I wish I had medicine, antibiotics, or at least painkillers – anything I could give her. As I pull off the soaking bandage, I see the chunk of missing flesh on her arm, and I look away, trying not to think of the pain she must be going through. It is horrific.
Penelope sits on her lap, whining, looking up at her, clearly wanting to help, too. Bree looks traumatized once again, holding Rose’s hand, trying to quiet her cries. But she is inconsolable.
I wish desperately I had a tranquilizer – anything. And then, suddenly, I remember. That bottle of champagne, half drunk. I hurry to the front of the boat, grab it, and race back to her.
“Drink this,” I say.
Rose is hysterically crying, screaming in agony, and doesn’t even acknowledge me.
I hold it to her lips and make her drink. She nearly chokes on it, spilling some out, but drinks a little.
“Please, Rose, drink. It will help.”
I hold it again to her mouth, and in between her wails she takes a few more sips. I feel bad giving alcohol to a young child, but I’m hoping it will help numb her pain, and I don’t know what else to do.
“I found pills,” comes a voice.
I turn and see Ben, standing there, looking alert for the first time. The attack, what happened to Rose, must have snapped him out of it, maybe because he feels guilty for falling asleep on guard. He stands there, holding out a small container of pills.
I take it and examine it.
“I found it inside the cubby,” he says. “I don’t know what it is.”
I read the label: Ambien. Sleeping pills. The slaverunners must have stashed this to help them sleep. The irony of it: there they are, keeping others awake all night, and stashing sleeping pills for themselves. But for Rose, this is perfect, exactly what we need.
I don’t know how many to give her, but I need to calm her down. I hand her the champagne again, make sure she swallows it down, then give her two of them. I stash the rest in my pocket, so they won’t get lost, then keep a close watch on Rose.
Within minutes, the booze and pills begin to take effect. Slowly, her wails become cries, then these become muffled. After about twenty minutes, her eyes begin to slump, and she falls asleep in my arms.
I give it another ten minutes, to make sure she’s asleep, then look over at Bree.
“Can you hold her?” I ask.
Bree hurries over to my side, and slowly I get up and place Rose in her arms instead.
I stand, my legs cramped, and walk to the front of the boat, beside Logan. We continue to race upriver, the sky breaking, and as I look out at the water, I don’t like what I see.
Small chunks of ice are beginning to form in the Hudson in this freezing morning. I can hear them pinging off the boat. This is the last thing we need.
But it gives me an idea. I lean over the boat, water spraying me in the face, and put my hands in the freezing water. It is painful to the touch, but I force my hand all the way, trying to grab a small chunk of ice as we go. We are going too fast, though, and it’s hard to grab one. I keep missing by a few inches.
Finally, after a minute agony, I catch one. I lift my hand, shaking from the cold, rush over, and hand the ice to Bree.
She takes it, wide-eyed.
“Hold this,” I say.
I go back and take the other bandage, the bloody one, and wrap the ice in it. I hand it to Bree.
“Hold this against her wound.”
I am hoping it will help numb her pain, maybe stop the swelling.
I turn my attention back to the river and look around, on all sides, as the morning becomes increasingly bright. We are racing farther and farther north, and I’m relieved to see no signs of the slaverunners anywhere. I hear no engines and detect no movement on either side of the river. The silence is, in fact, ominous. Are they waiting for us?
I come up to the passenger seat, beside Logan, and glance down at the gas tank. Less than a quarter tank. It doesn’t bode well.
“Maybe they’re gone,” I venture. “Maybe they turned back, gave up the search.”
“Don’t count on it,” he says.
As if on cue, suddenly, I hear the roar of an engine. My heart stops. It is a sound I’d recognize anywhere in the world: their engine.
I turn to the back of the boat and look out at the horizon: sure enough, there, about a mile away, are the slaverunners. They are racing towards us. I watch them come, feeling helpless. We are nearly out of ammo, and they are well-equipped and well manned, with tons of weapons and ammunition. We don’t stand a chance if we fight them, and we don’t stand a chance of outrunning them: they are already closing in. We can’t try to hide again, either.
We have no choice but to confront them. And that would be a losing battle. It is like a death sentence racing towards us on the horizon.
“Maybe we should surrender!” Ben yells out, looking back, terrified.
“Never,” I say.
I can’t imagine becoming their prisoner again.
“If I go down, it’s as a dead man,” Logan echoes.
I try to think, pressing my mind for any solution.
“Can’t you go any faster!?” I press Logan, as I watch them close the gap.
“I’m going as fast as I can!” he shouts
