Arena Three

I look around. Toledo is more or less intact, but completely empty. It’s a ghost town, eerie in the pale morning light. The place is so thoroughly deserted, I can’t help but think slaverunners must have been through here, picking off all the survivors. The thought makes me shudder.

Zeke consults the map. “It’s this way,” he says, pointing ahead.

We all stop and turn and look at the boat. I have mixed feelings, knowing we are abandoning it. I can only hope and pray we find the train soon. And I can’t help but feel a sense of victory that we made it this far by water.

We turn and walk. We trek down a narrow road, tall trees growing on either side. There are young tree saplings that have clearly grown since the war because they look healthy and untamed. But the road itself has been ravaged by bombs. Every few steps we pass another crater, another burnt out car, and bits of twisted metal all over the asphalt from an explosion that ripped vehicles right apart from its force. Nature has attempted to reclaim the road. Tufts of grass spring out of cracks, and vines twist around street signs, hydrants, and lamps.

After a while, we turn onto a main road. Here there are houses dotted either side of the road, the wood siding rotting and falling off in places, their front gardens completely overgrown. Some of the houses have endured fires and have huge black smoke marks above the grubby windows. Others look almost completely intact, the bombs that fell here missing their properties by mere feet.

We pass a gas station, with a raggedy American flag still blowing in the wind. There are rusted trucks sitting in the parking lot, abandoned. We check them all for gas, to see whether we can use them to reach our destination more quickly, but they’ve all already been siphoned. It’s a sign that people lived around here after the war long enough to scavenge, but there’s no one to be seen now. No sign that anyone’s set foot on this road, in this part of America, for years and years and years.

Beyond exhausted, we trek all day. Finally, night begins closing in. We’re all famished. The only upside is that there have been no more attacks from crazies, and no sightings of wild animals, despite the Toledo zoo being just a few blocks from where we’re heading. I’ll never forget the time I came face to face with a wild lion that had broken free from Central Park Zoo. It’s an experience I hope never to repeat.

The air is heavy with dust. The houses become more dense, as does the destruction. There are whole streets where the front parts of the buildings have been blown off, like the door to a doll’s house being taken off and exposing the whole house inside. Each house tells the same story: of everything of worth being looted, of the building being left in disrepair with wallpaper peeling from the walls, plaster and wiring falling from the ceiling, the stairs caved in, of nature trying to reclaim what was taken from it. Rats have nested in the old family homes, as have birds.

I’m on even greater alert here than before. Anywhere that was once more populated is more dangerous. Not only are there more places to hide but there’s more chance that people survived the war and got left behind. At least there’s no sign of slaverunner activity. I’m certain that this area must have been amongst the first to be raided by the slaverunners. They probably haven’t been here for years now, discarding the place after taking what they needed, leaving a ghost town in their wake.

Finally, I see the huge rust-colored bridge where the train tracks pass over the roads. For the first time in a long time, I let a flicker of hope lift my spirits. I even find enough strength in my limbs to run.

“Guys, come on, this way,” I call to the others.

With tired, heavy footsteps, we dash across the last bit of open land and into the train yard. But the moment we get a clear view of the station and tracks, my stomach sinks with disappointment. The whole place is destroyed. Explosions have melted the metal of the tracks and twisted them up at strange angles. The train cars that were on the tracks must have been blasted off, because they lie on their sides, scattered across the yard.

And of course, there is no coal.

They’ve all been looted.

I’m devastated by the sight I see before me. The Commander’s historic map was right, it led us on the right path to the right place, but we’re here years too late. The map has led us to a place that’s been completely obliterated. The only things still standing are the bridge across the road and the small metal station house.

Molly is the first to speak.

“Now what?”

It’s a good question and one I can’t answer. When we left Fort Noix, there was no plan B.

“We’ll need to find another vehicle,” I say.

“Way to state the obvious,” Molly says. “But we’ve been checking pretty much every car we’ve passed. There’s nothing.”

I really don’t appreciate her attitude right now.

“We can’t stand here,” Ben says.