Another shot, and a bullet flies right past me and hits the ground, only a few feet from where I stand.
"TAKE COVER!" Logan screams.
We all run back to the cave, as another shot rings out, chipping a branch a foot above my head.
We make it back to cave and stand huddle inside, looking at each other, shocked.
"What the hell is it?" I ask.
"A sniper," Logan says. "Somewhere on shore. It's not coming from the island - the angle is too steep. He must've been waiting for us." Logan turns and looks at me. "You still want to stay here?"
He has a point. But I don't care about who was right or wrong now; I just want to get us all out of here, quickly and safely.
"So now what?" I ask.
"I only have a few shots left in my pistol," Logan says. "There's no way I'd hit him. He's too far. That's a long-distance rifle. He's got us pinned here."
Ben crosses the cave, grabs the bow and arrows. He wears a new expression - tough, fearless - one I haven't seen before.
"Where are you going?" I ask.
But he just struts out of the cave without hesitating, into the open.
"Ben!" I yell. "Don't! You'll get killed!"
But Ben keeps walking, and as he does, another gunshot rings out, missing him by a few inches.
Ben keeps walking, doesn't even flinch. It is unbelievable. He struts with his chin up, determined, walking right out through the trees, towards the direction of the gunfire. It is as if he is suicidal.
And then it occurs to me: maybe he is suicidal. Maybe he feels so overwhelmed with guilt about his brother, that a part of him wants to die.
I hurry to the mouth of the cave, as we all do, and stand there, watching.
"He's going to get himself killed," I say.
"That's his choice," Logan says.
Ben walks through the trees, gunfire hailing down all around him, barely missing him in the tree cover. He reaches the shore, and stands there, out in the open. Gun fire hits the sand near him, just missing.
As if he has all the time in the world, Ben slowly removes the bow from his shoulder, takes out an arrow, and studies the far shoreline. On the horizon, on the other side of the Hudson, high up on a cliff, there is a lone gunman, aiming down with his rifle. The stock of his rifle glistens in the sunlight.
More shots ring out, but Ben doesn't flinch. He stands there, boldly. I wonder if this is courage, or suicide. Or both.
Ben places a single arrow on the bow, pulls it back, and takes aim. He holds it there for several seconds, waiting, aiming. Another gunshot rings out, missing him, but he doesn't flinch.
And then, finally, he lets go the arrow.
I see the arrow sail through the air, high across the Hudson, a good hundred yards. It is a thing of beauty. I'm amazed.
I'm even more amazed to watch as it finds its target: it lodges right into the chest of the lone gunman. After a moment, he falls face down, dead.
I look over at Ben in shock.
Ben walks back to us. He stands at the mouth of the cave, holding his bow and arrow, and we stand there, staring back at him. No more gunshots hail down. It wasn't the slaverunners. It must've been a lone, crazed gunman. A survivor.
Ben stares back at us wordlessly, and for the first time I can see the warrior in his eyes, a whole different Ben than I've seen before. I can also sense that a part of him had indeed wanted to die, had wanted the gunman to kill him, had wanted to join his brother. But he didn't get his wish.
At the same time, it seems like the episode was cathartic, like it exorcised something within him. Some sort of guilt about his brother or Rose. As if he faced death, and now he's ready to live again.
"I'm ready to leave," he says. "Let's go north."
The four of us sit silently in the boat, each lost in our own world, as our boat continues up the Hudson. Logan is steering, and we have been driving for hours, winding our way slowly upriver, avoiding chunks of separating ice. We all keep our eyes peeled forward; none of us dare look back.
We all left behind too much back there. Since the shooting, Ben doesn't talk about going home. I have nothing more to say, either. Obviously, it wasn't safe to stay there, after all. That shooter may have been a stray - or there may be more where he came from.
The mood now is much more somber. We all feel the absence of Rose. Penelope sits in Bree's lap, shaking, and I feel like we're all in mourning for a lost comrade. I think her passing also reminds us all of how close we came. It could've been any one of us - by pure happenstance it just happened to be her.
I don't think any of us really believe we will live for long. Each day is like looking our own mortality in the face. It's not a matter of if we will all die. But when.
A part of me has given up caring. I just look ahead, focus on the far north, on the distant goal of Canada. I hold it in my mind, and try not to let it go. Whether it's real or not, it doesn't really matter anymore. It's something. A destination. It beats our aimlessly wandering, heading God knows where, for God knows what. It's comforting to think that we're heading some place that might one day be home.
Ben surprised me back there - he surprised all of us. I was sure that he was going to get killed. Whatever his motive, his actions were brave, and he took out the sniper and saved us all. I think Logan has a new respect for him. I certainly do. And I think Ben, sitting a little taller, has a new respect for himself. It's like, finally, he's a member of our team.
Bree, on the other hand, has withdrawn into herself, ever since Rose's passing. Her eyes seem sunk, hollow, and she seems more out of it than I've ever seen her. It is as if a part of her died with Rose. She clutches Penelope as if she's holding a piece of Rose, and looks off into the water as if she's bearing the sorrows of the world. I can't stand to see her like this. But I don't know what else to say.
Logan, beside me, is quiet, and I can see the concern in his face. He stands over the wheel, checking the gas gauge every few seconds. We are now officially in the red. He keeps scanning the shoreline, as do I, for any signs of a town, a station - anything. But there is nothing. We'll be out of gas soon. And we'll be stranded. What I would give now for just a gallon of gas. I don't know what we'll do without this boat, if we have to leave it.
Suddenly, I spot something coming towards us in the river. At first I wonder if I'm seeing things, but then I see it's real. I grab my gun, even though there's no ammo left, and brace myself.
"GET DOWN!" I scream to Bree.
She and Ben jump down, looking out over the rail. Logan looks over at me, not understanding, then he looks out and sees it, too. He squats down, and reaches over and grabs his gun.
Coming right at us is another boat. It is a huge, rusted metal boat, maybe a hundred feet long and half as wide - it looks like a mini barge. It floats towards us, between the chunks of ice, crookedly, on an angle. That is when I realize that something looks wrong with it.
As it comes into better view, I see what it is. And I relax.
It is a ghost ship. Its entire hull is hollowed out, and I can see right through it. It is incredible: a huge, empty, rusted shell, floating down the river. It creaks and groans as it bounces in the river, sandwiched between large chunks of ice, leaning. It drifts our way and Logan turns us away, to keep us a good distance from it.
We float right past it and I look up, amazed by its size, as it blocks the sun. It is eerie. It is like looking at an old pirate ship. I wonder who piloted it, wonder how many months it's been floating down this river. It is other-worldly, this strange relic, this vestige of a world that once was. It makes me wonder if there is anything left in the world anymore.
None of us say anything as it passes. I relax my guard, realizing there is no danger.
But I hear a noise and I look down, as our boat starts to slow. At first I wonder if we ran out of gas. But that's not what it is. We suddenly stop moving, our boat groaning. We are stuck.
I look down, trying to figure out what happened.
"Did we hit a rock?" I ask. "Aren't we too far from shore?"
Logan shakes his head, looking down grimly.
"Ice," he answers.
I lean over the boat, and see it. There, all around us, are huge chunks of ice, boxing us in. So much of it has gathered around us that we can no longer move. I can't believe it.
"Now what?" Ben asks, also leaning over.
"We need to break out," Logan says.
"We need some kind of tool," Logan says. "Like a saw. Or a hammer."
I remember the hammer I salvaged from my dad's house, and rummage through my sack and pull it out. I lean over the edge and hammer at the ice.
But it hardly does a thing. The ice is too thick, and my hammer is too small.
I lean back, exhausted.
"Nice try," Logan says.
I look all around the river, and realize we are sitting ducks out here. This is bad. It could take hours for the ice to thaw. And the current is now bringing us back downriver.
Logan, Ben and I all exchange a nervous glance; clearly, none of us have any ideas.
"What about the anchor?" Bree asks.
We all turn and look at her. She stands there, pointing. I follow her finger to the back of the boat, to the small anchor on an iron chain. Bree's right. It's a brilliant idea.
Logan hurries over and hoists it. I am impressed by his strength: it must weigh thirty pounds, solid iron.
"Stand back," he says.
He leans over the edge, winds up the chain and anchor, and brings it down hard on the ice. It hits with a cracking noise, and I watch as the ice cracks and splits in several parts. Logan does it again and again, and soon, the huge chunks of ice break free.
He drops the anchor and turns to Bree with a smile: "Smart thinking," he says.
I come over and put my arm around her, and she smiles proudly.
"Don't know what us grownups would do without you," I say.
Logan guns it and we break through the remaining ice, back into open water. We are moving, but more slowly than before, Logan doing his best to avoid the floating chunks. I stand beside him, watching the horizon.
"See that up there?" he asks, pointing.
I squint, and in the distance I see, on the shore, the remains of what looks like a gas station. It is a small, crumbling dock, with the remnants of rusted gas pumps. It looks like it once fueled boats. It sits on the periphery of a sprawling town, dilapidated, like all the towns we passed.
"I say we give it a shot," he says. "Probably empty, but we need to try. We're running on fumes."
"Could be risky, getting that close to shore again," I say.
"We have no choice," Logan says. "It won't be long until the river freezes over for good. And if the pumps are empty, we can scavenge that town."
Ben and Bree are standing beside us, looking too.
"Any objections?" Logan asks.
We are all silent. It's probably a waste of time, but he's right: it's not like we have a choice.
Logan turns us towards the dock. We pull up to it, my heart beating in anticipation, and I silently wish and pray that there is gas left in these pumps. All we need is some gas, in just one pump. Just a few gallons. Something. Anything.
Come on.
Logan pulls up expertly beside the dock, aligning the nozzle. He jumps out, our boat rocking, as he lands on the dock two feet away.
He lifts the rusted nozzle, inserts it into the boat, and pulls the lever. My heart stops as I hear a swooshing noise. Then silence.
Logan tries again and again. He leans back and bangs the pump. But nothing happens. It is empty.
We all look away, grimacing. We know what that means.
"What now?" Ben asks.
"We have no choice," Logan says. "We've got to see if we can find some gas. We've got to check this town out. A canister, anything. Maybe even siphon it off an old car, if we can find any. The boat's useless to us now."
He's right. I know he's right, but I hate to admit it. I don't want to leave the safety of the boat, don't want to go back on shore. But I know that it's useless without gas.
"Let's do it," I say.
I jump off the boat, the dock bobbing as I do, then turn for Bree and pull her up. Ben lingers, reluctant to leave the boat, then finally jumps off and joins us. Logan reaches down and drops the anchor.
"What about the boat?" Ben asks.
Logan shakes his head.
"Can't take it with us," he says. "One of us could stand guard, but that'd be a waste of time. Don't worry about it," he says. "It's useless without gas. It's not going anywhere."
As we all follow Logan towards town, I check back over my shoulder, and look one more time at the boat. I don't know why, but I have a sinking feeling that I'll never see it again.
