text: [Themes: modern, thriller]
  
  Bill Ingersoll
  
  Text © 2020 Bill Ingersoll, All Rights Reserved / Published August 2020 / Image source: wallpaperplay.com
  
  > BEGIN
  Well you stole it 'cause I needed the cash
  
  And you killed it 'cause I wanted revenge
  
  Well you lied to me 'cause I asked you to
  
  Baby, can we still be friends?
  
  ——U2
  
  > Next page.
  ou didn't plan to be stuck inside your camp during such a major storm. But by the same token, the storm was never supposed to come.
  
  "I'll just be there for the weekend," you told your wife on Thursday, referring to the rustic Adirondack cabin that's been in your family for three generations. "No one's been up since May. Now might be a good time to take down that dead balsam."
  
  "It has to be this weekend?" Heather said. "It's not something that can possibly wait?"
  
  "Wait? Wait for what?"
  
  "Don't be silly. The storm, of course."
  
  She was talking about Hurricane Bob, a Category 3 down off the Carolinas that was tracking up the coast. It had grazed Florida a few days ago, causing the usual damage in a state that'd rather be known for its sunshine and citrus. Despite its cartoonish name, Bob did have some bite to it.
  
  "What, that thing?" you said. "We'll never see it. The storm will just bounce off the coast and die in the Atlantic. That's what they're saying on The Weather Channel, anyway."
  
  "No one knows that," your wife replied. "Hurricanes are forces of nature; you can't predict them."
  
  True, one of the possible storm tracks had it sweeping over parts of the Northeast, but the more reliable models showed the storm veering back out to sea. What did Heather expect you to do — hang out at home worrying about what might happen, when there was something productive that needed to be done?
  
  And so you snuck off Saturday morning, while Heather was still asleep. At least it felt like sneaking, since the two of you never discussed your weekend plans again. The skies over the Rochester suburbs were perfectly clear, and you needed your sunglasses for the long drive eastward along the Thruway. The threat of a hurricane was the last thing on your mind, so instead you listened to a succession of Pearl Jam albums for the duration of the trip to the mountains.
  
  The cabin had belonged to your grandfather. He and some buddies had bought it back in the 1950s and used it as a hunting camp, although the evidence suggests that more card-playing and beer drinking had occurred than anything. Long before them days, this had been somebody's farm, back when locals grew their own food in the summer, cut their own wood in the winter, and attended church and Temperance meetings on Sundays. But other than the cast iron plow blade you once found out back, little is left of that era other than the grainy photos you've seen in local history books.
  
  Dad never used the cabin much, since it wasn't near water or anything attractive; it was never a place on which you could base a family vacation. It was a retreat from civilization, not an attempt to reestablish Eden. The Bear's Den, as it has always been called, stands on a dead-end gravel road surrounded by state land; were it not for your property and about half a dozen other camps of a similar vintage, the state would probably close the road and add the area to the Ridgerock Mountain Wilderness. It is small, furnished as if from a flea market, and perpetually at risk of being besieged by mice. But when his father died, Dad began to take a more sentimental interest in the place. And when he passed a few years ago, ownership fell to you.
  
  There is no power here, let alone cell service. To Heather, these are deterrents; to you these are tempting attractions. Starbuck Mountain rises a thousand feet somewhere behind the cabin, and the Honnedaga River flows half a mile to the south, nestled within a deep valley. Night skies are black here, unlike back home, and often the Honnedaga and the peepers are the only sounds to be heard. The Bear's Den is heated with a barrel woodstove, and an ancient wooden chair has been parked beside it as long as you can remember. Grandpa used to sit next to the stove alone with his thoughts some nights; now you do too, wondering what it was he thought about.
  
  When you arrived Saturday afternoon the old balsam tree that had worried you so was still standing, like a bull o' the woods that was undeterred by the weather, despite having been dead for a year. If it fell, there were plenty of directions where it might hit the ground without causing damage — but being a tree in the Adirondacks, it was more likely to fall on the cabin. As you dug out the old Husqvarna, you noticed the absence of passing vehicles. A dead-end gravel road is never busy, especially one as narrow and rough as this, but still there should've been hikers, campers, and aspiring fishermen heading through.
  
  There wasn't enough gas in the saw to do the job, so you headed into town. Even Griffin looked dead for a weekend in August. "Where is everyone?" you asked the Stewart's clerk as you paid for a couple hot dogs.
  
  The girl didn't seem to understand what you meant. "Sue is on break," is all she said, probably indicating one of her coworkers.
  
  "No, I mean everyone," you said. "There's no one on the road. I've never seen this town so devoid of life this time of year."
  
  "Oh," she said. "People are probably preparing for the storm."
  
  "Really?" Had the hurricane's track changed since you left home?
  
  "Yeah. Looks like we're gonna get hammered tonight."
  
  This was a revelation to you, but she pointed to the rack of regional newspapers. Indeed, the headline on today's Albany Times Union warned of the fierce and unexpected approach of Bob — now downgraded to a tropical storm, but still a swirling mass of wind and rain.
  
  For a moment you thought it would be best to forget the chainsaw and head straight home. But that was a four-hour drive in what would be increasingly foul weather. Best to stay put, at the Bear's Den. So in addition to the hot dogs and the gas, you left the Stewart's with the newspaper and a twelve-pack of beer.
  
  > Next page.
  And so here you are, sitting alone on a Saturday night in the middle of the Adirondacks, listening to the advancing turmoil of Tropical Storm Bob. The wind started blowing several hours ago, but from the wrong direction: up the valley instead of down, and with a warmth that is foreign to these cold mountains. The dead balsam tree now lies in sections outside on the crabgrass; it seemed prudent to bring it down before the storm did, but there had been no time to split and stack the wood. Being a balsam, it probably didn't matter; the wood was already half-rotten and wouldn't burn even if you doused it in gasoline.
  
  During your trip into Griffin the sky was already clouding over, with a sound like distant thunder booming repeatedly on the southern horizon. With no internet access, the Albany newspaper was your only source of information now. Bob was expected to track up the Hudson Valley, the article said, and after that who knew what might happen? With no high-pressure systems to dislodge it, the remnants of the hurricane might just swirl around the mountains all night long and most of the following morning. There was no way to tell.
  
  So with nothing else that can be done, you stoke up the stove and dim the kerosene lamp, grabbing another Magic Hat as you return to your grandfather's old chair with the newspaper. It's been years since you've held one of these things, a newspaper, but the low-tech nature seems to suit the evening.
  
  Heather must be furious at you. If so, then maybe it's a good thing there's no way you can reach each other. Actually, she'll be fine out near Rochester, a place where no storm is worth worrying about unless snow is involved. It's you who might be stranded here longer than intended, unable to get out once all is said and done. Parts of the road lie close to the Honnedaga River, and given the amount of rain outside washouts seem inevitable. Days might pass before you can leave this place again, putting you at the mercy of the town road crews.
  
  But there is no reneging now. You take a swig of the beer and listen as the rain pelts the old tin roof. In theory it should keep you dry, and in theory the walls should keep out the storm. Several years ago you had the place insulated so that you could come here in the winter, but never did you expect to weather a hurricane in this rustic place. Downstate, the tourists who didn't manage to evacuate Manhattan are holing up in their tiny hotel rooms, hoping the subways don't flood; two hundred miles away, you have your feet kicked up next to a barrel stove that's as old as you are.
  
  The wind is insistent, but the rain sounds chaotic, coming down at a rate faster than the ground can handle. The Bear's Den is on high ground, and if the basement floods it doesn't matter because you don't store anything down there anyway. But even with the dead balsam out of the picture, trees still stand all around the camp, with maybe a dozen or so within striking distance. If any of them have been secretly weakened by rot, you may soon learn which ones.
  
  You finish your second Magic Hat of the evening by 8 o'clock, and you're well into the third when you are startled by the sound of knocking.
  
  For a moment you assume it is a trick of the wind, which has maybe pried loose some part of the cabin and is now rattling it against the ancient tarpaper siding. But then you hear a woman's voice.
  
  "Please, can you let us in?" The voice is muffled through the wall, but it certainly isn't the wind. And you haven't had nearly enough beer to affect your senses.
  
  Who could possibly be here at this time of night? The door isn't locked, but protocol is to get up anyway and see who is calling. With the bottle of Magic Hat still in hand, you swing open the wooden door. There, just beyond the metallic mesh of the screen door, stand a man and a woman. They look drenched and miserable.
  
  Your first instinct is to stand aside and let them inside the cabin. Never does it occur to you that two such people appearing unexpectedly out of the depths of a tropical storm could be as much trouble as the storm itself.
  
  "Thank-you-thank-you-thank-you!" the woman gushes. She is wearing a hoodie over her khaki shorts, but it's soaking wet. Her blond ponytail hangs limply from the back of her head, like a woe-begotten pine marten.
  
  "You're a life saver," her male companion, wearing a green vest over a white shirt, says as he follows her into the Bear's Den. His clothing, which is also wet of course, looks like it would be much more hipsterish under drier conditions. Or rather, he looks more like someone who'd rather be raising a pint at a trendy microbrew than hiking in the wilderness. The twill flatcap on his head looks especially ridiculous, given the weather. Both people are wearing boots, though, so you assume they must be hikers who had been caught unprepared by the storm.
  
  > Next page.
  "I guess this is not the best night to be out hiking in the woods, is it?" you say, watching as the pair gravitates straight toward the woodstove.
  
  "Wha—? No. We were, ah, off the trail a while ago?" the man says. It's a statement, you assume, but the last word is inflected upwards like a question.
  
  "Our car broke down," the woman quickly clarifies. "Miles from anywhere, just our luck. We thought we were going to be stranded out here, but then Gordy spotted the light in your window."
  
  "You're a life saver," the man, Gordy, says again. He looks up from the woodstove and flashes a grin between his mutton chop sideburns, but his glasses are so wet it's a wonder he knows where to look.
  
  "How far did you have to walk to get here?" you ask, wondering to yourself why they didn't just stay in the car where it was dry.
  
  "Not far," the woman says. She has an athletic build, but still stands no higher than his shoulder — a runner, perhaps, paired with a fop. Neither of them can be older than thirty, if even that.
  
  "I had left the key in the ignition all day," Gordy says, as if embarrassed to admit the folly. "The battery was dead when we got back."
  
  "Got back from where?" you ask; the state trailhead is three miles up the road. She had said they hadn't come far, but certainly that counts as far under the circumstances.
  
  "Exploring," is all the woman says.
  
  "Did you guys take the trail in to Ridgerock Lake?"
  
  "Where?" she says.
  
  "Ridgerock Lake," you repeat. "That's where the trail at the end of the road goes. Most of the hikers who pass this way are going to Ridgerock."
  
  "Oh. Well, Gordy and I aren't much into hiking."
  
  There is an awkward silence, except for the wind and the rain outside. If they weren't hiking, then what were they doing here?
  
  "Where is your car parked?" you ask.
  
  "It's just around the bend," Gordy says, as if dismissing your query as unimportant.
  
  There is a math to what they're saying that doesn't equate with your knowledge of the neighborhood. Why would these two people be parked so far from the state trailhead? There's nothing "around the bend" but Ray and Mindy Cooper's little A-frame. But whatever; the details of their misadventures aren't necessarily your business. Right?
  
  You get an idea. If it's just a battery jump they need, that might be something you can help them with. To get them on their way, if that's what they want.
  
  "Was that your truck we saw out front?" Gordy asks before you can make your suggestion. "The red F150?"
  
  "Yeah, that's mine," you say.
  
  "What year is it? It looks brand new!" His interest in your truck seems somehow out of character for him; you picture Gordy more as the Volvo type.
  
  "It's a 2017," you reply. "I've had it for over two years now."
  
  "How many miles?"
  
  "Oh, about 32,000, I think."
  
  "Nice. Still practically brand new. You must be well off to afford a truck like that!"
  
  It's an interesting choice of words. You've never considered yourself "well off," although you and Heather live comfortably enough. But if you're not mistaken, was there almost resentment in the way he said it? Like the interest in your truck isn't genuine — like he's playing you, somehow?
  
  Best to keep things civil, you decide. "By the way, my name is Al Flansburgh," you say, extending your hand to him.
  
  "Yeah, sorry, we should've introduced ourselves," Gordy says. He returns your grip with a damp hand. "Gordon Fellows."
  
  The woman extends her hand next. "I'm Charlei. Charlei Goodcheer. And despite what he says, don't you dare call him Gordon, or he'll get all grumpy."
  
  Gordy seems mildly perturbed at the comment. "Honey," he chastises her.
  
  "But you do! Remember what you did the other day when—"
  
  "Honey!" he says again to her, this time with his jaw muscles tense.
  
  "Now you're just proving my point, Gordon," Charlei teases. "Or maybe I should call you Mr. Goodcheer-Fellows."
  
  Just then, at the mention of the hyphenated surname, you spot the tarnished rings on their left hands. "The Goodcheer-Fellows," you say. "That's clever."
  
  "Well, normally I'd agree," she says, "but lately Gordon here hasn't been a very cheerful fellow. Have you, Gordon?"
  
  Charlei's husband is now quiet, like he's trying to stifle a response. It could just be the weather; based on appearances alone, he is certainly not the rugged individualist type. Getting caught in a downpour is quite likely the type of adversity for which a sheltered childhood failed to prepare him.
  
  "Where are you two trying to get to? Before the battery died." Once again, you feel the need to steer the conversation a bit.
  
  "Oh, wherever," is all Charlei says. Gordy is still sullen, adding no further details either.
  
  "I mean, there must be someplace you need to be," you continue, thinking these two seem to have a lot of baggage between them tonight, and this may not be the best place to unpack it. "I can give you a jump, get you on your way."
  
  Neither of the Goodcheer-Fellows seem overly joyful at the offer. "You mean you'd give my shitty little Dodge a jump with that manly F150 of yours?" Gordy says. Wet clothes and foul mood notwithstanding, this chip on his shoulder is something you can't fathom.
  
  "It's a nice gesture," Charlei adds, but it comes across like a noncommittal response that does little to mitigate her husband's attitude. It's almost like the two of them are making a coordinated effort to resist your attempts at helpfulness — like what they want more than anything is to be here, in the Bear's Den.
  
  Guests for the night? You'd hate to turn people out in the storm, but you're not really prepared to be hosting company. At least, not this company. There are only two rooms in this cabin — the combination den/kitchen here on the first floor and the bunk room upstairs — and you doubt there is food enough on the premises for three people.
  
  On the other hand, there's no guarantee the road out to town is still passable. You all may be stuck here anyway.
  
  > insist on giving their car a jump.
  "No, seriously," you say, "you two don't want to be stranded out here like me. A few more hours of this rain and the road will start washing out. Best to get out of here while you still can."
  
  "Honey, I think Mr. Flansburgh here is hinting that he wants us to leave," Gordy says.
  
  "Oh, look at you, always seeing the worst in people," she replies. "He's offering to help. I think it's a sweet gesture."
  
  "It's warm and dry here, though. Why would anyone want to go back out into that weather?"
  
  "But Al is right — is it OK if I call you Al? — if we don't get your car out of here now we may be stuck out here for days. And I didn't bring a change of clothes."
  
  Gordy tightens his lower jaw again but doesn't respond. He knows that she has made up her mind, and like most marital disagreements the woman's vote usually counts twice.
  
  "And besides," Charlei continues, "this will give you an opportunity to see Al's truck up close. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
  
  Her husband's reaction is controlled, unreadable. "Let me get my hat and coat," you say. You feel Gordy's eyes watching as you pick up the keys to the Ford from the table.
  
  "We really appreciate you helping us, Al," Charlei says. "I don't know where we'd be if it wasn't for you."
  
  The words are spot-on, in terms of the requirements for politeness. Nevertheless, everything each of these two twenty-somethings says feels like it's part of an act, a two-person theater being put on for your benefit.
  
  "Are you guys ready?" you say, realizing the idiocy of the question when you see them; they arrived with nothing, and they're already dripping wet. But when you open the door again, you aren't sure if you're ready. The rain is falling thickly, angled in the direction of the wind. Water streams across the saturated ground, and the trees seem stressed to the breaking point. A huge yellow birch limb lies on the ground between the door and the truck, and leaves cover the windshield.
  
  "There's no need to be afraid, Al," Charlei says. "It's only a little bit of water."
  
  Reminding yourself that this whole thing was your idea, you pull your baseball cap down tighter and rush headlong into the storm. The restlessness of the atmosphere has stirred a similar spirit in the forest; trees and limbs are snapping and popping everywhere, their tortured dances hidden only by the darkness.
  
  You jog directly toward the driver's side door, unable to tell in the dim light if the storm has caused any damage yet to the truck's body yet. You climb up and pull the door closed quickly behind you, surprised to see that Charlei and Gordy haven't followed.
  
  Turning the ignition, both the engine and the headlights come to life, illuminating the grounds far better than the pathetic glow from the kerosene lamp in the window. But rather than climbing in the truck themselves, your two companions are circling around it as if checking it out, unconcerned by the rain.
  
  They seem to be in no hurry to get in, but a moment later the passenger doors open up. The F150 has a crew cab; Charlei climbs into the front seat, Gordy slides into the back.
  
  "You've got a real nice truck, Al," Gordy says.
  
  Glad you approve, you think but do not say. Instead: "Which direction did you say your car was?"
  
  "That way." Charlei points up the road, in the direction of the dead-end. The rain pounding on the roof is so loud it nearly drowns out her voice, and as you begin to back up the truck you can barely see out the rain-glazed rear window. Gordy is a strange silhouette in the back seat, passively still.
  
  > Next page.
  Somehow you manage to back out of the driveway without hitting any trees, but even with the headlights you can barely see the road. The rain makes vision impossible past twenty feet ahead, and the gravel surface is strewn with leaves, twigs, and small branches. The idea of giving their car a jump seems less of a good idea, all of a sudden.
  
  "I haven't seen a storm like this since I was a kid!" Charlei says.
  
  "'Admire me, admire my home; admire my son, he's my clone!'" Gordy sings from the back seat, with a spontaneity that seems out of character for him. It takes you a moment to realize that Pearl Jam is still playing on the stereo. The music is an unnecessary distraction as far as you're concerned, and your hand reflexively moves to turn it off. "No, don't!" he interjects. "I love this song. 'This land is free; I'll do what I want but irre-spon-sib-ly!'"
  
  Then Charlei joins in: "'Because it's evolution, baby!'"
  
  Instead of turning it off, she turns up the volume so that Eddie Vedder is now growling over the rain. The windshield blades are beating out of sync with the rhythm of the music as you inch down the road.
  
  "You've got a good sound system, Al," Gordy says, but you realize it's not really a compliment but rather an indictment of some kind. Here he is, grooving out to a song that is basically a screed against a materialist society, and here you are chauffeuring him in a truck that probably cost more than his entire annual salary. "'Those ignorant Indians got nothin' on me!'"
  
  It takes forever to drive just a quarter of a mile. When you round the first major bend in the road and see no broken-down vehicles ahead, you feel let down.
  
  "Where did you say your car is?" you ask, but your passengers are lost in the song. "'I am ahead, I am advanced, I am the first mammal to make plans, yeah! I crawled the earth but now I'm higher; 2010, watch it go to fire!'"
  
  When the song is over Charlei turns off the CD player. "I'm sorry, Al. Did you say something?"
  
  "Yes. How much farther is your car?" The pounding of the rain now seems like a welcoming change.
  
  "Oh, I can't remember. It was around here somewhere. Right, Gordy?"
  
  Gordy retreats back into his former moodiness and merely shrugs his response. You see the gesture in your rearview mirror.
  
  "There it is, right there!" Charlei is excitedly pointing out the side window — not to the side of the road, but to a driveway.
  
  You immediately hit the brakes and throw the truck into reverse, backing up the fifty feet or so by which you overshot the driveway. You know the place; this leads up to the camp owned by the Coopers. Without saying anything, you shift back into drive and steer the truck up the driveway. It is cluttered with branches, but nothing that the F150 can't handle.
  
  The Goodcheer-Fellows say nothing either. It is as if they are letting you observe the scene and draw your own conclusions. The Coopers have an A-frame that is about a hundred feet off the road. Built back in the seventies, this is one of the few camps on the road that was never a homestead, or even the site of one. Ray and Mindy live in New Jersey and get up here only a few times a year, and you wouldn't expect to see them now. But as you navigate the driveway, you see a tan Dodge Ram parked in front. It's the only vehicle here.
  
  A chill comes over you. "That's yours?" you say, pointing with your chin toward the truck. You play innocent, but you know full well that's Ray Cooper's truck.
  
  "Uh-huh," Charlei says, nodding. She is watching you intently, as if to gauge your reaction.
  
  The A-frame is completely dark, but the door has blown wide open in the wind. Despite the presence of the truck, you can't tell if anyone is here or not. There are no lights on anywhere, other than your own headlights. Coming upon the place in these conditions is like discovering the wreck of the Titanic. It looks silent and empty, but it speaks of violence and death.
  
  Obviously, you're in a situation here, although you can only guess at the gravity. No one seems to be directly threatening you, so maybe the way out of this predicament is to play along. You came here on the pretense of giving their car a cable jump, so maybe that's what you should proceed to do, hoping that Gordy and Charlei then continue on their way.
  
  On the other hand, you are outnumbered and unarmed here. If your passengers are as dangerous as you now suspect them to be, you may need to find a way to even the odds. Ray Cooper keeps a collection of shotguns and deer rifles here, and you know exactly where they are stored. Perhaps you should insist on "checking" the camp first.
  
  > give the Dodge a jump.
  You find it hard to believe there is really anything wrong with the Ram. It may be a few years old and have thousands of more miles on it than your Ford, but Ray Cooper keeps it in good shape. But at the same time, it wouldn't be here unless Ray himself was up from New Jersey. Since you've seen no sign of him, it begs the question of who Gordy and Charlei really are, and why they are now claiming the truck is theirs.
  
  It is chilling to think about all the possibilities those questions imply. And if your suspicions are correct, it would be a tactical mistake to call your passengers' bluff. Who knows what they're capable of?
  
  So instead you pull your truck up at a right angle to the Dodge and shift it into park. Then comes an awkward moment with the three of you just sitting there, wondering what comes next. If you're right, this whole thing is just a sham; the Ram can start perfectly fine on its own, but the Goodcheer-Fellows said they were stranded here by a dead battery, and so here you are.
  
  Your passengers seem to be waiting for you to do something, so you pull the cable that pops up your hood. Both Charlei and Gordy shuffle nervously in their seats.
  
  You turn to Gordy. "You'll need to pop yours, too, so I can get at the battery." You look him straight in the eyes, but he says nothing, nor does he reach for the door.
  
  It occurs to you that although you're trying to play along, taking their word at face value, you may have inadvertently called their bluff anyway. You already know as fact this truck belongs to Ray Cooper; you even recognize the "Garden State" license plates. So it stands to reason that neither of your passengers has the keys.
  
  Despite all the rain outside, your throat feels dry as you swallow hard on a gulp of air. Gordy's delay is a troubling development.
  
  Charlei is the first one to break the tension. "God, do I have to do everything around here?" she says as she pushes her door open and jumps down to the soggy driveway. You and Gordy watch as she splashes over to the Dodge, opens its driver's side door — which, by the looks, wasn't locked — and pops the hood. This allows the game to proceed.
  
  You push open your own door, resigned to the fact that you are likely to get drenched in the next few minutes; there will be no way to connect the two batteries and keep dry at the same time, not in this storm. But intuition tells you that if this charade ends well, wet clothes would be the best possible outcome, if that turns out to be your only discomfort. You have a set of jumper cables stashed under the seat, and with the coil in your hand you step around to the front of the truck.
  
  Charlei is already lifting the Ram's hood, but she recoils when the wind catches it and wrests it out of her hands. "Is it safe to do this in this kind of weather?" she shouts through the rain.
  
  "The trucks aren't going to jump themselves," you reply, encountering the opposite problem with your hood: the wind is blowing against it, making it difficult to lift up. You hope this whole fantasy ends soon, because the wind-blown rain in your face is making it difficult to breathe.
  
  Another truck door slams shut, and you now see Gordy watching from the sidelines. You attach the first two clamps to your battery terminals and then run the cable over to the Ram. The engine compartment is becoming littered with wind-blown pine needles as you hurriedly attach the remaining two clamps.
  
  "You'll need to turn your ignition," you yell to Charlei. She nods and returns to the Ram's cab, and as she does so you still have to wonder if she even has the keys to the thing. But she climbs into the driver's seat, and a moment later the engine starts up beautifully, without even the slightest hesitation.
  
  As you are disconnecting the cables, you see Gordy circling the F150. "I'll bet this thing cost a fortune!" he says, as if oblivious to the elemental forces surrounding him. "How much did you pay for this, Al?"
  
  The game is starting to take a bizarre turn, despite your best effort to not deviate from the script. You had hoped that by playing along they'd take the Ram and leave you alone, but now Gordy seems interested in changing the rules, as if he is growing bored of the old ones.
  
  Instead of answering his question, you decide to make a show of getting back inside your truck. "If you guys don't mind, I need to be getting—"
  
  But Gordy steps forward and holds the door closed, keeping you in the rain. "Honey, I think we should get ourselves one of these!" he says.
  
  "Gordy, don't be silly," his wife says. "You know we can't afford such a fine vehicle!"
  
  "Al seems like a reasonable man," he replies. "And as you said, he wants to be helpful. Don't you, Al?"
  
  For a moment you forget all about the driving rain, wondering instead if you need to be more worried about Charlei coming around behind you. This feels like a pivotal moment: do you act, or do you continue to play along? On the surface this odd couple appears harmless, but of course appearances can be deceptive. You've seen no evidence that they are armed in any way, but you also don't know what their limits are, or if they even have any. Until now you had been disturbed by their passive-aggressive facade, but now you sense their true natures may be predatory. What are they doing here, and how did they gain access to Ray Cooper's truck? And now that Gordy has his eyes set on your vehicle, what is he prepared to do to take it?
  
  Thus you feel that you have arrived at a decision point: act now to protect yourself, or continue to play along and hope to come away unharmed?
  
  > make a lunge at Gordy to take him down.
  So far these two twats have behaved in a menacing manner, but you've seen no direct evidence of their aggression. You aren't about to just hand your truck over to them merely on the basis of some freakish behavior, and this night is too wet and miserable to be playing childish games.
  
  "What do you say, Al?" Gordy says, still between you and your truck. "Do you mind if Charlei and I take the F150 for a test drive?"
  
  You look back to Charlei, partly to verify her distance from you and partly as a feint of indecision. Then you rush forward, bowling Gordy into the side of your truck. As you expected, his effeminate frame doesn't offer much resistance — at first. His back slams hard against the door, but he overcomes the initial surprise and brings his knee up sharply. It catches you in the abdomen and nearly lifts you off your feet for a split second.
  
  "Al, oh Al!" he laments above you as you fall to your knees. "This sudden change in behavior is going to get you killed."
  
  He then spins quickly and comes at you with a kick. His first assault had left you momentarily stunned; this one serves to prolong that condition.
  
  "I'll never understand why people are so protective over things," you hear Charlei say.
  
  "It's their limitation, sweetheart. And their downfall."
  
  "Al, you had seemed so promising, so accommodating," she says. "All you had to do was play along. You have no idea how disappointed I am."
  
  You try to look up and meet the eyes of your tormentors, but instead you wince at the sharp pain in your ribcage. "You fucktards can rot in hell," you try to say, but between the rain and the broken ribs, the words are garbled beyond recognition.
  
  "Hohohohoho!" Gordy laughs. "Did you hear that? I think Al just dropped an F-bomb."
  
  "Al!" Charlei says reproachfully. "You're just going to make this worse for yourself!"
  
  All you can really see of either one right now is their feet. Gordy's boots disappear as he steps into the cab of the F150.
  
  "There's a quarter tank of gas," he reports. "Automatic transmission — good. And like every Pearl Jam CD ever made."
  
  "CDs, Al, really?" she says. "No Sirius XM?"
  
  "No, we got that too," Gordy reports. "Al, what's your subscription status? It's not expired, is it? I hope you remembered to renew it."
  
  "Fuck you," is all you say.
  
  Charlei seems distressed; you see her feet beginning to pace back and forth. "Oh, this is not going to end well."
  
  Gordy apparently sees this condition in his wife and steps back down from the truck. "Honey, why don't you go back up to the cabin and get the rest of our things? I promise to make this quick."
  
  She hesitates for a second, then says, "You better." Her feet have disappeared from your field of vision, but you did not notice the moment when she left.
  
  "Al, look at me," Gordy says. "It's OK, buddy. Just look here."
  
  With much discomfort, you lift yourself up onto your knees. Gordy has a small, snub-nosed pistol pointed at your head.
  
  "I promise to take good care of your truck," he says.
  
  "No, wait—" you start to protest, but he cuts you off. "Sorry, dude, but this is the way it's got to be."
  
  The gun flashes, and you fall to the watery ground not far from the front tire of your truck. A diluted array of blood spreads outward from your body, briefly creating a pattern like an angel's wing before being completely washed away by the heavy rain.