Ben, to his credit, doesn’t hesitate. He hurries forward and takes the wheel; the boat swerves as he does.
Logan then hurries to my side, taking a knee beside me.
He fires and his bullets just miss, grazing off their boat. They return fire, and a bullet misses my head by inches. They’re closing in fast.
Another bullet shatters a large chunk of wood off the back of our boat.
“They’re going for our gas tank!” Logan screams out. “Go for theirs!”
“Where is it?” I scream out over the roar of the engine and flying bullets.
“In the back of their boat, on the left side!” he yells.
“I can’t get a clean shot at it,” I say. “Not while they’re facing us.”
Suddenly, I have an idea.
“Ben!” I scream out. “You need to make them turn. We need a clean shot at the gas tank!”
Ben doesn’t hesitate; I’ve barely finished speaking the words when he turns hard on the wheel, the force of it throwing me sideways in the boat.
The slaverunners turn, too, trying to follow us. And that exposes the side of their boat.
I take a knee, as does Logan, and we fire several times.
At first, our barrage of fire misses.
Come on. Come on!
I think of my dad. I steady my wrist, breathe deep, and take one more shot.
To my surprise, I land a direct hit.
The slaverunners’ boat suddenly explodes. The half dozen slaverunners on it burst into flames, shrieking as the boat speeds out of control. Seconds later, it smashes head on into the shoreline.
Another huge explosion. Their boat sinks quickly, and if anyone survived, they are surely drowning in the Hudson.
Ben turns us back upriver, keeping us going straight; slowly, I rise and take a deep breath. I can hardly believe it. We killed them.
“Nice shot,” Logan says.
But it’s not time to rest on our laurels. On the horizon, closing in, is another boat. I doubt we’ll be so lucky a second time.
“I’m out of ammo,” I say.
“I’m almost out, too,” Logan says.
“We can’t confront the next boat,” I say. “And we’re not fast enough to outrun them.”
“What do you suggest?” he asks.
“We have to hide.”
I turn to Ben.
“Find us shelter. Do it now. We have to hide this boat. NOW!”
Ben guns it and I run up to the front, standing beside him, scanning the river for any possible hiding spot. Maybe, if we’re lucky, they’ll zoom right past us.
Then again, maybe not.
Four
We all scan the horizon desperately, and finally, on the right, we spot a narrow inlet. It leads into the rusted shell of an old boat terminal.
“There, on the right!” I say to Ben.
“What if they see us?” he asks. “There’s no way out. We’ll be stuck. They’ll kill us.”
“That’s a chance we have to take,” I say.
Ben picks up speed, making a sharp turn into the narrow inlet. We race past the rusted gates, the narrow entryway of an old, rusted warehouse. As we pass through he cuts the engine, then turns to the left, hiding us behind the shoreline, as we bob in the water. I watch the wake we left in the moonlight, and pray it calms enough for the slaverunners to miss our trail.
We all sit anxiously in the silence, bobbing in the water, watching, waiting. The roar of the slaverunners’ engine grows louder, and I hold my breath.
Please, God. Let them pass us by.
The seconds seem to last hours.
Finally, their boat whizzes past us, not slowing for a second.
I hold my breath for ten more seconds as their engine noise grows faint, praying that they don’t come back our way.
They don’t. It worked.
Nearly an hour has passed since we pulled in here, all of us huddled together, shell-shocked, in our boat. We barely move for fear of being detected. But I haven’t heard a sound since, and haven’t detected any activity since their boat passed us. I wonder where they went. Are they still racing up the Hudson, heading north in the blackness, still thinking we’re just around the bend? Or have they wised up and are they circling back, combing the shores, looking for us? I can’t help but feel that it will only be a matter of time until they come back our way.
But as I stretch out on the boat, I think we are all starting to feel a little bit more relaxed, a little bit less cautious. We are well hidden here, inside this rusted structure, and even if they circle back, I don’t see how the slaverunners could possibly spot us.
My legs and feet are cramped from sitting, it’s gotten much colder out, and I’m freezing. I can see by Bree and Rose’s chattering teeth that they’re freezing, too. I wish I had blankets or clothes to give them, or warmth of some sort. I wish we could build a fire – not just for warmth, but also to be able to see each other, to take comfort in each other’s faces. But I know that’s out of the question. It would be far too risky.
I see Ben sitting there, huddle over, shaking, and remember the pants I salvaged. I stand, the boat rocking as I do, and take a few steps over to my sack and reach in and pull them out. I toss them to Ben.
They land on his chest and he looks over at me, confused.
“They should fit,” I say. “Try them on.”
He’s wearing tattered jeans, covered in holes, way too thin, and dampened with water. Slowly, he bends over and pries off his boots, then slides the leather pants on over his jeans. They look funny on him, the military pants of the slaverunner – but as I suspected, they are a perfect fit. He zips them up wordlessly as he leans back, and I can see the gratitude in his eyes.
I feel Logan looking over at me, and I feel as if he’s jealous of my friendship with Ben. He’s been like that ever since he saw Ben kiss me back at Penn Station. It’s awkward, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I like them both, in different ways. I’ve never met two more opposite people – yet somehow, they remind me of each other.
I go over to Bree, still shivering, huddled together with Rose, Penelope in her lap, and I sit beside her, drape an arm over her and kiss her forehead. She leans her head into my shoulder.
“It’s okay Bree,” I say.
“I’m hungry,” she says in a soft voice.
“Me too,” Rose echoes.
Penelope whimpers softly, and I can tell she is hungry, too. She is smarter than any dog I’ve ever met. And brave, despite her quivering. I can’t believe she bit Rupert when she did; if it weren’t for her, maybe we all wouldn’t be here. I lean over and stroke her head, and she licks my hand back.
Now that they mention food, I realize it’s a good idea. I’ve been trying to avoid my hunger pangs for way too long.
“You’re right,” I say. “Let’s eat.”
They both look at me with eyes wide open in hope and expectation. I stand, cross the boat, and reach into one of the sacks. I take out two large mason jars of raspberry jam and hand one to Bree, unscrewing it for her.
“You guys share this jar,” I say to them. “The three of us will share the other.”
I open the other jar and pass it to Logan, and he reaches in with his finger, takes a large amount, and puts it in his mouth. He breathes deeply with satisfaction – he must have been starving.
I hand it out to Ben, who takes one, too, then I reach in and scoop a fingerful and place it on my tongue. I get a sugar rush as the raspberry fills my senses, and it is quite possibly the best thing I’ve ever tasted. I know this is not a meal, but it feels like one.
I seem to be the keeper of food, so I head back to the bags and take out what’s left of our cookies and hand one to each person, including myself. I look over and see Bree and Rose happily eating the jam; with every other fingerful, they give Penelope one. She licks their fingers like crazy, whining as she does. The poor thing must be as hungry as we are.
“They’ll be back, you know,” comes the ominous voice beside me.
I turn and see Logan sitting back, cleaning out his gun, looking at me.