Arena One: Slaverunners by Morgan Rice

too fast. This mountain road twists sharply and there is no shoulder; one turn too sharp and I will plummet, dropping hundreds of feet straight down the cliff. I go as fast as I can, yet slow before each turn.
    It feels great to be driving again; I had forgotten what real freedom felt like. My new coat flaps like crazy in the wind. I lower the black visor, and the bright white of the snowy landscape changes to a subdued gray.
    If I have one advantage over the slaverunners, it is that I know these roads better than anyone. I’ve been coming up here since I was a kid, and I know where the road bends, how steep it is, and shortcuts that they could never possibly know. They’re in my territory now. And even though I’m probably a mile or more behind them, I feel optimistic I can find a way to catch them. This bike, as old as it is, must be at least as fast as their muscle cars.
    I also feel confident I know where they’re going. If you want back on the highway—which they surely do—then there’s only one way out of these mountains, and that’s Route 23, heading east. And if they’re heading for the city, then there’s no other way but to cross the Hudson via the Rip Van Winkle Bridge. It’s their only way out. And I’m determined to beat them to it.
    I’m getting used to the bike and gaining good speed, good enough that the whine of their engines is becoming louder. Encouraged, I gun the motorcycle faster than I should: I glance down and see I am doing 60. I know it’s reckless, since these hairpin turns force me to slow down to about 10 miles an hour if I want any chance of not wiping out in the snow. So I accelerate, and then decelerate, turn after turn. I finally gain enough ground that I can actually see, about a mile in the distance, the bumper of one of their cars, just disappearing around a bend. I am encouraged. I’m going to catch these guys—or die trying.
    I take another turn, slowing down to about 10 and getting ready to speed up again, when suddenly, I almost run into a person, standing there in the road, right in front of me. He appears out of nowhere, and it’s too late for me to even react.
    I’m about to hit him, and I have no choice but to slam on the brakes. Luckily I’m not going fast, but my bike still slides in the snow, unable to gain traction. I do a 360, spinning twice, and finally come to a stop as my bike slams against the granite face of the mountainside.
    I’m lucky. If I had spun the other way, I would have spun right off the cliff.
    It all happened so fast, I am in shock. I sit there on the bike, gripping the bars, and turn and look up the road. My first instinct is that the man is a slaverunner, placed in the road to derail me. In one quick move, I kill the ignition and draw the gun, aiming it right at the man, who is still standing there, about twenty feet from me. I release the safety and pull back the pin, like Dad taught me so many times in the firing range. I am it right for his heart, instead of his head, so if I miss, I’ll still hit him somewhere.
    My hands are shaking, even with the gloves on, and I realize how nervous I am to pull the trigger. I’ve never killed anyone before.
    The man suddenly raises his hands, high into the air, and takes a step towards me.
    “Don’t shoot!” he yells.
    “Stay where you are!” I yell back, still not quite prepared to kill him.
    He stops in his tracks, obedient.
    “I’m not one of them!” he yells. “I’m a survivor. Like you. They took my brother!”
    I wonder if it’s a trap. But then I raise my visor and look him up and down, see his worn jeans, filled with holes, just like mine, see that he’s only wearing one sock. I look closer and see that he has no gloves, and that his hands are blue; he has no coat either and wears only a worn, grey thermal shirt, with holes in it. Most of all, I see that his face is emaciated, more hollowed-out than mine, and I notice the dark circles under his eyes. He hasn’t shaved in a