Free Arena Two by Morgan Rice

from where the line sits in the water.
    Please don’t figure it out. Please don’t stop. Please.
    They are ten yards off. Five.
    We only get one shot at this, and it needs to work perfectly. The line needs to raise to just the right height.
    “ NOW!” I scream to Logan.
    At the same time, we both hoist the line.
    The zip line jumps up, rising up out of the water and into the air, about eight feet. It is the perfect height.
    The line rises right to the chest level of the slaverunners standing in the boat. It makes impact, cutting right into them, and as it does, I feel a tremendous tug on the force of the line. We hold it with all we have as it cuts right through them.
    All five of them go flying off the boat, right into the water.
    The boat continues speeding forward on its own without them for another fifty yards before it spins out-of-control and smashes right into a large outcropping of rock. With a horrific crash, it smashes into pieces, then bursts into flames.
    Meanwhile, all the slaverunners bob in the freezing water, flailing.
    I can’t believe it. It worked. It actually worked.
    Logan and I look at each other, amazed. We slowly drop the line.
    Logan hurries back to the wheel, hits the throttle, and we’re off.
    I hear the screams of the slaverunners behind us, flailing in the water, crying for help, as we take off. A part of me feels bad. But I have learned my lesson—one too many times.
    As we go, the sun rises, and for the first time in a while, I begin to relax again. There are no more boats behind us. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I’m beginning to think that we can really make it.

 
S I X
     
     
    We continue up the Hudson, never slowing as morning morphs into late afternoon. Logan guns it hard, the roar of the engine ever-present, determined to get as far away from the slaverunners, from Manhattan, as possible. The entire morning I am on edge, looking and listening for any signs of anything.
    But after more time passes, I begin to relax. Logan finally slows us just a bit, to cruising mode, and the engine quiets. I look over and see Rose, now fast asleep in Bree’s arms. Bree leans back herself, eyes closed, Penelope in her lap. Ben sits slumped over, head in his hands. And Logan just stares, eyes fixed on the water, expressionless as always. The entire energy on our boat is more relaxed.
    Logan slows the boat even more, and I wonder why, when I look out at the water and see huge chunks of ice. They become larger and more frequent as we go. Logan is slowing to avoid them, and he swerves us left and right constantly, weaving in and out. All of this ice concerns me, especially as I feel a bitter wind cut into my bones, feel it grow colder with every minute. The sky, bright just hours ago, is now thick and grey. In fact, a fog is even beginning to settle on the water. I feel a storm coming.
    Suddenly, flakes of snow began to fall from the sky. They are large, soft flakes, and they feel reassuring as they land on my cheek, as if something is still pure in the world, still working as it should. They make me think of childhood, of happier times, when I loved the snow. When it meant no school, playing with my friends. Now, though, it just means being colder, wetter. Now, it is just an inconvenience.
    Within minutes, the snow becomes blinding, whipping into our faces, whiting out the sky. It becomes hard to even see.
    Logan slows even more, and I wonder if we are out of gas. I hurry over and stand beside him and glance at the gauge: less than an eighth of a tank, but not redlining yet. I don’t understand why he’s slowing, until I look up ahead and see it for myself: there, before us, sits an island in the middle of the Hudson. It’s not huge but it’s not tiny either: maybe a half mile long and half as wide. It’s long and narrow, ringed by a sandy shore, and covered in thick trees, many of which are pine, covered in snow. I see Logan staring and I know what he’s thinking. He turns