text: [Themes: modern]
  
  "Shoot, you know what?" you say. "I don't have my jumper cables on me!"
  
  "Al, no!" Charlei says. "You're killing me here!"
  
  "It's true," you continue. "I took them out last week when I was cleaning out the truck. I forgot to put them back, left them in my garage back home."
  
  It's a complete lie; the cables are directly underneath you. You always keep them under the driver's seat, but these two twits don't know that. What you need, though, is an excuse to go up to the cabin.
  
  "That doesn't sound like you at all!" she says, as if she's known you for years. "So what are we going to do?"
  
  "It just so happens I know the people who own this camp."
  
  "This camp?"
  
  "Yes, Ray and Mindy Cooper. From Paterson, New Jersey. Do you know them?"
  
  "No, that doesn't sound familiar," she says.
  
  But you're the ones who led me here! you think. "Nice people, although I haven't seen them since last summer. But I know right where Ray Cooper keeps a set of jumper cables of his own."
  
  "They wouldn't mind—" Charlei says, but Gordy has been growing increasingly restless in the back seat, as if growing tired of this charade, and so he interrupts her. "Fine, just do what you got to do, and let's get on with it."
  
  You look back at him, but as before there is not much to see in the shadows. Does he know what you're trying to do? It's difficult to read him, and you have a vague hunch that he might not be anything like your original assessment: an ineffectual fop. His brusqueness aside, though, he does have a point: best to keep the games at a minimum and proceed with your plan.
  
  "You two just wait here. I'll only be a minute."
  
  You open the door and the dome light comes on, illuminating both of your companions. It occurs to you that you are about to place a great deal of trust in them, leaving them alone with your truck — especially after that odd interest they took in it a few minutes ago. But that doesn't seem to be their game, not at the moment. Right now, their attention is focused on you.
  
  The Goodcheer-Fellows don't say anything further as you slide out of the seat and onto the rainy ground. You close the door behind you, the rain pelting you once again. What are you doing all this for again? This is a hell of a night to be running around on fool errands! Then you see the Ram that your companions just tried to convince you was theirs, and you see the open door to the A-frame. You remember all the math that isn't adding up.
  
  The Ford's headlights show you the way: a short, winding walkway leading up a slight incline to the door of the Coopers' camp, recessed into its steeply-pitched roof. It might've just blown open with the wind; given Bob's ferocity tonight, that is entirely plausible. But something tells you that's not why the door is open — that Charlei and Gordy have already been here, and there's something here they want you to find.
  
  On the other hand, what you really want is not inside the camp, but around back. Ray Cooper's gun cabinet is in a utility room tacked on like a lean-to to the rear of the A-frame, most easily reached through a separate entrance. And since any jumper cables Ray might have laying around would be in that utility room too, that seems like the more prudent place to go.
  
  As you are pondering these options, you hear the doors of the truck closing behind you. Turning, you see Charlei and Gordy following you up the walkway.
  
  "We want to help!" Charlei says.
  
  > go around back to the utility room.
  Talk about bad timing.
  
  "Really, I'm fine!" you insist, raising your voice to be heard above the rain. "You guys are better off waiting back inside the truck."
  
  "We don't mind at all!" she says, glancing back at Gordy. He seems to be overcoming his irritation now, and is starting to watch the two of you as if he were the eager spectator of an amusing drama. Neither of them seems concerned anymore that they are getting drenched; they have been rained upon so much tonight they possibly no longer care about the storm.
  
  Or rather, whatever their level of physical discomfort, they clearly seem more interested in you.
  
  "It's just a jumper cable! Honestly, I think I'll manage!" Although to be completely honest, what you really want is the opportunity to check out that gun cabinet without their interference.
  
  "Oh, Al!" Charlei says. "You've been so helpful to us, we just want to return the favor."
  
  As you stand here debating this with them, you are starting to get as soaked as they are. How can you convince them you don't want them following you around? "Thank you, but it's not necessary! I've got it covered. Why don't you two wait in there?" You are pointing toward the open door.
  
  Charlei looks at the door skeptically, but then her expression brightens when she comes up with an idea. "Gordy, why don't you go with Al, and I'll wait in the truck."
  
  To you this is no better than having both of them follow you, but Gordy nods as if the proposal were infinitely wise. "Yeah, that makes sense," he says. "Al, you seem to know your way around this place. You lead the way!"
  
  He gestures for you to continue up the walkway, as if he's not willing to brook any further discussion. And indeed, it seems futile to try and talk either of them out of this plan. The desire on their part to keep you within sight seems pretty deliberate.
  
  Charlei steps aside to allow Gordy to follow you. "All right," you say. "This way."
  
  Between the open door on the side of the house and the utility room in the rear stands a raised garden of native ferns and a variety of poorly tended annuals, all of them looking rather haggard in the rain. With all of the runoff, the rich planting soil is beginning to flow over the wooden retaining walls and accumulate on the walkway like burnt stream sediment. Gordy seems surprised when you follow the walkway past this garden rather than entering the camp through the open door.
  
  "We're not going in there?"
  
  "No, the cables are probably out in back."
  
  He doesn't say anything further, but you can see his shadow following yours as the headlight beams project your silhouettes onto the camp's green metal roof. The light, however, is not enough to penetrate all the way to the back of the camp; between the waist-high flowerbeds and the corner of the roof, the rear is completely in shadows. Only the upper branches of the nearest trees are catching the light as they sway and flutter at the mercy of the wind.
  
  "Be careful where you step," Gordy says as you reach the end of the light. This is an odd bit of concern to express at this moment, given all of the other adversities being thrown at you tonight.
  
  "How do you mean?" you say.
  
  "There could be anything out there in the dark."
  
  Now what is this about? you wonder. It's doubtful that your personal safety is topmost on his mind. What does he think is out here?
  
  Nevertheless you approach the darkness cautiously, your body now reluctant to proceed after Gordy's warning; as long as you are standing within range of the headlights, your eyes refuse to adjust to the zone beyond. After taking a few tentative steps around the corner of the camp into its penumbra, you pause to let the shadows come into focus. Indeed there is something large in the middle of the backyard, maybe fifty feet beyond the hindmost extent of the building — probably a piece of tree brought down by the storm.
  
  Gordy sees it too and strides right over to it. "See what I mean?" he says, bending down to examine the shadowy object. "I wouldn't want you to turn up like this guy."
  
  Your blood chills. Like this guy. Looking at the shadow again, it is hard to say what he has found. But yes, the possibility that it's a person lying on the ground can't be confidently eliminated — not from this distance.
  
  "Al, come check this out!" He's still stooping over the object, examining it like a curious kid who's found a garter snake in the grass. Given all of your suspicions, though, your imagination has already drawn a conclusion: one or both of the Coopers is lying dead out in that yard.
  
  > make a break for the lean-to door.
  With Gordy distracted by the shadowy object some fifty feet away, you may never get a better chance to get inside that lean-to without him right behind you. The door is very close by, and with luck it won't be locked any more than the other one was.
  
  You were last here two summers ago during a neighborhood gathering, when Ray and Mindy hosted all of the camp owners who happened to be around for a Fourth of July cookout. That was when Ray Cooper proudly showed off his gun cabinet, the same one you've been coyly trying to reach. It was housed within the lean-to, which he used as a utility room. And as you recall, the door was to the right of a woodpile, which itself stood in neatly-stacked rows under a flimsy metal roof.
  
  "Ohmigawd!" Gordy shouts from the middle of the yard, in what sounds almost like a joking tone. "He's got an axe sticking out of his back!"
  
  It's like he's baiting you for something, having overcome his earlier sullenness and now enjoying the time of his life out here in the dark. He's treating the scene so lightly that you're now beginning to wonder if he's even being serious. You don't give him the pleasure of a reply, though, focusing instead on finding the door. That roof over the woodpile is easy enough to find in the dark, as it is rattling away in the wind as if the storm is about to blow it apart.
  
  "Got him square in the spine, too. See, Al, didn't I warn you? There could be anything out here tonight, even axes blowing on the wind."
  
  Hoping that Gordy can see even less of you than you can see of him, you dash in the direction of the rattling woodpile roof, your shoes splashing in the water that is accumulating over the saturated ground.
  
  "Isn't that a Dylan song or something? 'The axes, my friend, are blowin' in the wind; the axes are blowin' in the wind!'"
  
  Gordy sounds nothing like Dylan, even as he croons the words over the wild noises of the storm, his voice echoing off the rear wall of the A-frame. But more importantly, it sounds as if he hasn't a clue where you are, which of course is all well and good. The woodpile is faintly visible in front of you now as a dark-on-dark silhouette, the sheet metal vibrating loudly directly above it. With the door being somewhere to your right, then, you turn to grope your way toward it.
  
  "I had a music teacher in the sixth grade who taught us that song. I always thought he was an ex-hippie, but he told us once he was too young to go to Woodstock. Al— Al? Where the hell are you?"
  
  Letting the shadows of the woodpile guide you toward the door, that's where you are. But just as you assume you must be within reach, you trip over what feels like a sack of stones lying on the ground. It stops your feet, but the top half of your body keeps moving forward, and by then there is no recovering your balance. You fall head-first into the woodpile, scraping your hand on something sharp in the process. An involuntary yelp of pain escapes your mouth.
  
  You can hear Gordy's footsteps in the darkness running straight toward you. "Al! What have you been doing over here?"
  
  He comes to a stop somewhere behind you as you are trying to clamber back to your feet, your right hand now useless: it is sensitive to all physical contact, including the drops of wind-driven rain that are pelting you.
  
  "Oh, her," he says, his body as shadowy as the woodpile. "I forgot about that. I guess I should've warned you the door was blocked, huh?"
  
  There is a mock contriteness to his words, but you pick up what seem to be the key details: her, and the door was blocked. Like he already knew about that last bit.
  
  "You haven't been saying very much lately, Al. Have I done something to upset you? Here, let me help."
  
  You can feel his hands on your shoulders as if he is trying to steady you, but it's no use. Whatever is lurking on the wet ground is till there, simultaneously soft and hard beneath your soles, preventing you from finding level ground. With your orientation blinded by the night, your feet have no idea where to step.
  
  "This might be easier if we had some light," Gordy concludes. You hear him stepping away, then pounding his fist on the wall. "Honey? Can you turn on the back light, please? Al had a bad fall."
  
  It seems like a preposterous request, implying that Charlei is already waiting inside the utility room and that they have the camp's generator running, ready to power up the lights. But then you hear her voice through the door. "Goodness! OK."
  
  A second later, a light fixture above the door you had been trying to locate snaps to life. You see blood gushing out of your hand, you see Gordy leaning against the wall, you see Charlei trying to push the door open but encountering resistance.
  
  "Here, honey, hold on a minute," Gordy says, springing into action when he sees his wife struggling with the door. "It's Mrs. New Jersey. I never got around to moving her." He bends down and picks up a pair of legs clad in grungy blue jeans that are glistening with water and mottled with mud. You had been so preoccupied with the condition of your palm that you had forgotten to examine what had caused you to trip in the first place.
  
  It's Mindy Cooper, face-down in a puddle. A meaty hole can be seen through the back of her torn pink-and-purple flannel shirt. At least, you assume it's her by the mane of shoulder-length black hair.
  
  > Next page.
  Gordy is dragging the body away from the door by the ankles, and once the obstruction is removed Charlei steps outside. You can briefly see the utility room and the gun cabinet through the opening before she pulls the door shut behind her. She seems to be averting her eyes, as if the sight of the body is more than she wants to see, but it doesn't take long for her eyes to land on you, still stunned and off-kilter in a tumbled section of the woodpile.
  
  "Did you find those jumper cables yet, Al?" she says, as if that is what this night has really been about. Before, you merely suspected what had happened here, but now the doubt is being dispelled.
  
  "I don't think he's talking to us anymore," Gordy says, dropping Mindy's legs against the wall of the lean-to. "Looks like he gashed his hand pretty good, though. Hold on, I got just the thing for it."
  
  As he stomps off into the yard, Charlei distracts you by grabbing your wrist and turning your hand so she can see the wound. But the moment she sees the diluted blood mixing with the rain she winces and lets your hand go. "Ooh, sick. That must hurt."
  
  But you're more concerned about what Gordy's up to. Leaning forward, you see him heading out to the mysterious object over which a moment ago he had been butchering Bob Dylan. Indeed, there is a second body sprawled out in the mud near the extent of the light's range, a man wearing tan shorts and what was probably a white shirt, though it is streaked now with browns and reds and grays. And Gordy wasn't joking: an axe handle protrudes from his back, as if he were an unchopped piece of wood. If that's Mindy Cooper up against the wall, then obviously this is Ray.
  
  Gordy casually pulls the axe free and hefts it in his hand. The handle is wet and slippery, and so he almost loses his grip. This is corrected by grabbing the wooden shaft with both hands as he returns to you and the woodpile.
  
  "How appropriate, Al, that you're sitting on about two cords of— what is that? Beech? Maple?"
  
  "Now come on," you say, gravely concerned about what that axe means. "I've never done anything to you!"
  
  "He speaks!" Gordy says, drawing nearer. "A man realizes his life is over, and all of a sudden he wonders if he can talk his way out of death."
  
  "But this doesn't make any sense!" you protest. "I have no idea who you people are. What is the purpose of all this?"
  
  "Of course there is a purpose, Al. Just because you can't see it doesn't mean it doesn't exist."
  
  "You're mad!"
  
  "Then how horrible it must be for you to suffer a madman. Charlei, why don't you go wait inside. Al and I have the usual business to transact. I'll only be a minute."
  
  His wife, seeing him advance toward you with the axe wielded like a baseball bat before him, a slugger stepping up to the plate, nods to him and quickly turns to open the door. It is shut again behind her in a heartbeat, as if she hasn't the stomach for this portion of their shared game.
  
  "Gordy, this is all a big joke, right? Ha-ha?"
  
  "Look around you, Al, and tell me if Mr. and Mrs. New Jersey here are laughing. Who did you say they were, the Hoopers?"
  
  You don't bother correcting him, but even this slight consideration buys you nothing: Gordy has you cornered in the woodpile, armed with the same axe that took down Ray Cooper.
  
  "I'll bet you that gash on your hand must be killing you. It's murder, wouldn't you say?"
  
  What does he expect you to do, laugh at his jokes? He is standing before you now, leaning on the axe handle like it was a short hiking stick. His eyes are scanning your face, studying every aspect of your reaction, absorbing each detail with great amusement. Of course you are extremely tense, but trying not to be, trying instead to remain loose and prepared to roll out of harm's way at the first sign he's about to swing that axe at your head. He must see this too, though. He jerks his hands and grunts, as if he is about to lift the axe, and then he bursts into laughter as you flinch in terror.
  
  "Al, you're a good one. You tickle me. That dipwad over there thought he was Johnny NRA. He and the missus came at me with this little snub-nosed they must've had hidden somewhere, a pathetic .38 they couldn't even aim straight. Like you, there was something they desperately wanted from this storage room. That's where this came from." He hoists the axe for emphasis. "I'll bet you Charlton Heston and Annie Oakley here fantasized all their lives about killing someone breaking into their home. Then when it happens, epic fail."
  
  "So why are you telling me all this?" He hasn't done the deed he seems to be threatening yet, so even in the unsteadiness caused by your rapid heartbeat you wonder if he is perhaps leaving you a way out of here.
  
  "You were all neighbors, right? Rolling in so much extra money you could afford two homes? I just figured you would want to know, put your mind at ease or something."
  
  Fuck him, putting your mind at ease as he stands before you with the axe, his previous kills on either side of him. What the fuck does he know.
  
  "Now really, Al, you must be in misery. I hate to see you go on suffering like this. I'm no doctor, but I can take your pain away. Forever."
  
  "It's just a cut!" you say, fully cognizant of what you're really pleading for. "Bandages, some ibuprofen, and then some stitches once the storm clears! I'll be fine!"
  
  "Stitches, huh? Where is the nearest ER?"
  
  "Uh, I guess that would be Amsterdam."
  
  "Amster, Amster, dam, dam, dam!" he sings. "Like in Holland? That sounds rather far away."
  
  "No, it's just an hour, ninety minutes down the road."
  
  "Longer in this weather, though, wouldn't you say?"
  
  "Maybe, hard to s—"
  
  "And with so much heavy rain, there may be flooding and washouts." He's doing a good job at dispelling your own logic. "So it might be days before you can get to this Amsterdam place, correct?"
  
  "I suppose..."
  
  "So I think it's much better if we do it my way. Trust me, if you don't put up a fight I'll make sure it's over quickly. You're only hurting yourself by resisting."
  
  This is not going well.
  
  He raises the axe, holding it with both hands above his head, contorting his face into a cartoonish grimace by furrowing his brow and baring his teeth. You coil, readying for his swing; Gordy bursts out laughing again, points the axe back at the ground and leans on the handle.
  
  "Oh my goodness, Al! You should see yourself. Damn near pissed your pants." He has to calm himself for a second, although he never lets go of the axe or takes his eyes off you. Then he raises his free hand, as if to gesture to you to remain seated. "No, of course I'm not going to come at you like that, my arms raised and my belly exposed. One good kick from you jackass-style, and down I go."
  
  Gordy tosses the axe aside into the rain, then reaches behind his soggy vest. "This is how we're really going to do it, Al." He pulls out a small revolver with a comically short barrel. "This is that snub-nose I was telling you about. These two never managed to hurt anyone with it. Want to see if I can?"
  
  Before you can respond, he points the little handgun at you and aims carefully down its short length. The last thing you ever see is the strobe-like flash of light from the barrel as he pulls the trigger.