text: [Themes: modern, thriller]
  
  Charlei watches as you try and get comfortable. "You probably hate me, don't you Al?"
  
  In response, you take a swig from the bottle.
  
  "None of this was my idea, you know," she continues.
  
  "Oh? I didn't notice much hesitation when the two of you decided you wanted my truck."
  
  "It's not like I had much choice! You have no idea what Gordy is like. It was all I could do to get away from him!"
  
  "So he's a stark-raving lunatic, and you're the innocent victim?" you say.
  
  "You say that like you don't believe me."
  
  "Am I supposed to?"
  
  "You're always supposed to believe the woman."
  
  "I thought that was for assault cases, not grand theft."
  
  "Let me see that bottle again." She reaches over and takes another long swig; at this rate, there may not be enough of the Fireball to last the night.
  
  "I can only imagine what you must think of me," she says when she's done, handing the bottle back.
  
  "I have no idea what to think. Every time I ask a direct question, you deflect it back at me."
  
  "Why? What do you want to know?"
  
  "Well, for starters, who the hell are you?"
  
  "Yeah, I guess we did gloss over that part of our introduction," she says. "Sorry. But there's not much to tell, though. Gordy and I are just two people trying to get by in a cruel, difficult world."
  
  Still a vague, noncommittal answer in your opinion. "And you thought it would be a lark to just come up here and bust into all these camps in the middle of nowhere?"
  
  "We didn't bust in! You let us in! But see, you don't understand. Gordy has been under a lot of stress lately, and I had been hoping some fresh air would do him good."
  
  "Let me guess: he has a dozen warrants out for his arrest."
  
  "Al, don't be so cruel! Are you like this to your wife?"
  
  "My wife?" you say.
  
  "Yes, your wife. I see that ring on your finger. I hope you treat her with more respect than you're treating me!"
  
  Here come the games again, you think. This could go on all night: you try to get information from her, she pretends to oblige for a second, only to turn around and put the focus back on you. She is very skilled at this tactic, and you have to wonder if she even realizes when she's doing it. If this is how the night is going to unfold, then it would be best to spend it in silence.
  
  But then, after a pause, she surprises you with a complete reversal in tone.
  
  "Al, I'm really glad I found you tonight," Charlei says, her voice nowhere near as defiant as it was a moment ago. "I thought I was all alone out here tonight with him. I thought tonight was maybe going to be the night, when... you know, this might be it for me. Then we found you at that camp of yours. I regret that it took so long for me to figure it out, but I realize now you are somebody I can trust."
  
  Now it's your turn for a long swig from the whiskey bottle.
  
  "You still don't believe me, do you?"
  
  "It's a pretty big pile of bull to swallow," you say.
  
  "Well if you think I'm so evil, then why'd you follow me here? Why are you sitting here sharing a bottle of booze with me?"
  
  You have no ready response.
  
  "You saw the way he was shooting at us, Al. You saw how unhinged Gordy was. That's the way he's been for the last five months, ever since we got back from— That's the way my life has been, a nightmare! So is it my fault if a little bit of his crazy has rubbed off on me?"
  
  Again, you say nothing.
  
  "You're obviously a good man, Al. A good, solid man. I feel so... safe with you."
  
  Charlei is looking straight at you, as if it's important that you notice just how vulnerable she is claiming to be. But you sense there is something else to it, like there is a place she is trying to get to tonight, and these are just the beginning steps of that journey.
  
  "Do you think we're safe here, Al?" she says.
  
  "So long as your nutso husband doesn't show up," you say.
  
  Charlei sighs at the mention of Gordy. "I don't know, he might."
  
  "I thought you said he didn't know about this place."
  
  "He doesn't. I found it when I went out for a walk yesterday morning. This cabin is so far off the main road! But there aren't many other places we could be, so he might eventually track us down."
  
  "And then what?"
  
  "Oh, Al! This kind of talk scares me!"
  
  "Speak of the devil!" you say. Charlei doesn't understand you at first, but then she sees it too: the glow of light from outside the cabin, filtering through a slim gap in one of the window covers. What else could it be, but headlights coming up the driveway?
  
  "He's here?" she says, but compared to her professions of fear and vulnerability the last few moments, this sounds more like dismay — like something isn't going according to plan.
  
  "It must be him. Who else would be paying us a visit?"
  
  Charlei looks more annoyed than afraid. "Perhaps you should wait upstairs," she says. "I'll talk to him. It's best he doesn't see us together."
  
  So much has happened tonight that you don't know whom or what to believe anymore. There is something about Charlei that doesn't add up, and hasn't from the very beginning. But at the same time you can appreciate the wisdom in not wanting to be found alone with the wife of a madman.
  
  > Have nothing to hide.
  "I'm not hiding from anyone," you say.
  
  "But Al! It's for your own good. Hurry! He'll—"
  
  "No. You go ahead and talk with him. I'll take care of myself."
  
  Charlei watches with disappointment as you beat her to the door and grab the old wood-splitting axe that is propped up against the wall beside it.
  
  "Al, no—"
  
  "If Gordy isn't coming here to make trouble, then no one has anything to worry about," you tell her. "But either way, I'll be waiting right here."
  
  The annoyance you observed in her a moment ago is now directed at you, doubly so. But she says nothing forward and waits for Gordy to arrive.
  
  It is not a long wait. Even in the rain you can hear the sound of footsteps on the wooden stoop outside the door. Charlei looks at you with the axe, realizes that you are serious in your intent to defend yourself, and preemptively opens the door herself.
  
  Gordy is about to enter, soaking wet, but Charlei puts her hand on his chest and walks him back out onto the stoop, clearly upset with him. She closes the door behind her.
  
  "What the hell are you doing here?" you can hear her you say through the wood.
  
  "It's what we agreed!" Gordy protests. "What do you mean, 'what am I doing here'?"
  
  "I said to give me some time!"
  
  "I did! It's been like half an hour!"
  
  "Ugh, men!"
  
  "Oh, don't be playing your games with me! How much time alone with this pig did you need? What were you planning to do?"
  
  You feel a chill go through your body.
  
  "Well, it's ruined now," Charlei says. "He's standing inside with an axe."
  
  "Isn't that just cute. Hi, Al! I hope you're getting off by eavesdropping on me and my wife!"
  
  The door is still closed of course, and it is made of solid wood. You can't see them, and the Goodcheer-Fellows can't see you. But with Gordy now addressing you directly from the stoop outside, it seems like finally the pretenses might be coming to an end.
  
  Suddenly you realize that if the two of them come through the door, this axe isn't going to do much to protect you against someone with a gun. And they both know you're here, so there will be no such thing as an element of surprise; you are in a grave situation, and you are not going to be able to swing and hack your way to safety.
  
  So what else can you do? Well, you can lock them outside, maybe. There is indeed a small deadbolt fastened to the door — too small to be the vanguard in home security perhaps, but it's the only tool you've got. It consists of a small metal peg in a horizontal track affixed to the edge of the door, pointing toward a matching hoop on the jamb. You try sliding one into the other, but they are not lined up very well! The door (or maybe the building itself) is off kilter, and the peg merely butts against the edge of the hoop. Maybe if you try lifting on the handle until the two are aligned....
  
  The act does not go unnoticed.
  
  "He's trying to lock us out!" Gordy shouts from the other side.
  
  "Al, honey, what are doing?" Charlei says. "Are you insane? It's raining out here!"
  
  Someone shoves their shoulder against the door, but you hold it firm. And just at that moment, the peg slides over into the hoop. The door is locked, but it's hard to imagine something so basic holding for long. You have only that much time to figure out your next step.
  
  The obvious thing to do is to flee through the front door while these two ass wipes are banging away at the rear; you give yourself at most a minute, and maybe not even half that long. The front door is located at the opposite end of this multipurpose room, next to the woodstove and the pegs with all of the old hunting clothes, and it opens directly onto the driveway. From what you remember, though, the Starbuck Mountain Gang doesn't use it too much anymore because the porch at this end of the building is so old the floor boards have begun to rot.
  
  Someone is furiously kicking at the door behind you as you try to figure out the door in front of you. There is no lock, and yet the thing won't open. And then you see the nails tacked into its periphery: the club has sealed it shut.
  
  Good thing you have an axe then. You take the handle in both hands and swing it at the door. But you aren't Jack Nicholson apparently, and this isn't The Shining. Splinters fly away, sure, but this is solid wood you're hacking away at, not some modern kind of particle board. It's going to take more effort to break your way out of this place.
  
  Fortunately for you, though, it sounds like your adversaries have been stymied by that rinky-dink deadbolt at the other end of the camp. Someone is still kicking away at it, to little avail. It just motivates you to swing harder at the front door, trying to split the hardwood apart so you can get out. With each impact of the axe blade, the wood is weakening. When you feel moisture on your face, you at first think it's the sweat running down your brow. No— it's the first spritz of rain bursting through the fissure you are hacking open.
  
  You attack the door as if it were Gordy himself, and the crack splits open. There is indeed a narrow gap, with the light of your truck spilling through along with the rain. The door behind you doesn't sound like it could possibly hold much longer, so you kick away some loose splinters and slide your way through the gash. The jagged edges of the wood snag at your shirt — your jacket is still dangling from the ceiling — but this is the least of your concerns. It tears the fabric, it scrapes your skin, but then you are free of the cabin.
  
  > Next page.
  The porch is a simple affair: a platform of wood, two lathed posts holding up a roof, concrete block steps leading down to the ground. Your truck is waiting for you about thirty feet away, with another car you didn't expect to see in between. The truck is idling in the rain, its headlights illuminating the camp's front yard; the car is a silhouette in the rain.
  
  Seeing the F150 sitting there unattended makes your next step seem obvious, but it would be embarrassing if you came this far only to be undone by the poor maintenance of the porch. The ancient boards are sagging under your weight already, and you can see by the light of the Ford that no two are on the same plane anymore; they are like the keys of a broken piano, up and down beyond all hope of harmony.
  
  So you take one long step from the door to the front edge of the porch, hoping to bypass all the peril in between.
  
  "That wasn't nice of you, Al, locking the door on us like that."
  
  Another chill goes through your body, but certainly not because of the weather. You turn toward the sound of Gordy's voice and find him sitting in a back corner of the porch, his lanky frame occupying an old rocking chair backed up against the wall. There is no sign of Charlei; she must be the one kicking at the backdoor, intentionally driving you out the front.
  
  You don't know what to say to him. Nothing in your life experience has taught you how to handle someone as unhinged as this — as you strongly suspect both of them to be.
  
  "But I'm willing to put it behind us, if you are," he continues.
  
  "What do you want from me?" you say, realizing that your plan of escaping in your truck is foolhardy. You can't see his gun, but you know he has one.
  
  "Just the pleasure of your company," he says. "It's going to be a long storm, so it's best we all settle in and get to know each other. Don't you think, Al?"
  
  "I ain't got anything valuable on me."
  
  "Oh, Al, of course you don't. You aren't telling me anything I don't already know. Charlei and I have been all up and down this road, just looking for something to do. There's not much here, as I'm sure you know. We did get to spend some time with some of your neighbors, though: a nice couple from New Jersey. God rest their souls."
  
  "What do you mean by that?" you say, unable to hide the nervousness in your voice. "You mean Ray and Mindy Cooper, don't you?"
  
  "Was that their names?"
  
  "Yes. And that was their truck you wanted me to jump."
  
  "Is that so?"
  
  "So what did you do? Shoot them, like you tried to shoot at me?"
  
  "Shoot them? Mercy, no! Al, how could you think such a thing! Actually, I didn't find this puny little .38 until I searched Mrs. New Jersey's body. What did you say her name was? Mandy? Minnie?"
  
  So, you finally have confirmation of what you suspected all along. Indeed, you can now see the gleam of light reflecting off the small piece in his hand.
  
  "Nice axe you got there, by the way," he continues. "Did you come out here to split some wood?"
  
  You don't respond. Instead, you grip the wooden handle tighter.
  
  "I know what you want! You want your truck back, don't you, Al?"
  
  All you can do is stare at his shadowy presence as he nervously fidgets in the rocking chair. How exactly does one get out of this situation? What is the path to tomorrow for you? It is difficult to see at the moment, with Gordy here casually holding Mindy Cooper's revolver in his lap. Run, and he shoots you in the back. Lunge at him with the axe, and he drops you right here on the porch.
  
  Maybe the better option is to play along, just as before. "Yes, that is all I really want. Just my truck."
  
  "Well there it is, Al. You can have it. I won't keep it from you."
  
  That was too easy, you think. There is no way you can trust him.
  
  "Go on," he says. "I left the keys in the ignition."
  
  "Thank you?" you say, unable to conceal your skepticism over his display of amity.
  
  "Al, you make me laugh! Go on! Get! Sayonara!"
  
  He seems sincere, but you don't dare take your eyes off him for long. You have to, though, to avoid tripping down the concrete steps.
  
  "Hold it!" he shouts, his abrupt command almost perfectly timed for the moment you have just stepped into the sheet of water running off the porch roof.
  
  "Let's make this more sporting," he continues, standing from the rocking chair. "How far is it, would you say, from here to your truck? Twenty, twenty-five feet?"
  
  "At least," you reply.
  
  "All I have is this little snub-nosed .38. Not exactly the most accurate weapon in the world. You know, Al, if you made a run for the truck, you just might make it."
  
  He is not pointing the gun at you, but it is certainly in his hand.
  
  "Well go!" he shouts. "We don't have all night!"
  
  When you remain standing half under the cascading runoff, he raises the gun in your direction. "Every moment you remain motionless, the better aim I get!"
  
  "You're mad, you know that, right?" you say.
  
  "I'm not the one standing in the rain. You might want to drop that axe; you'll run faster that way."
  
  You don't see where you have many choices. The axe plops down in the puddle beside you. The F150 is humming along in the storm, like a contented dog oblivious of its surroundings. Gordy is practically salivating at the opportunity to try and cut you down as you run. You are caught between the two, wishing this was all a horrible dream instigated by an undercooked Stewart's hot dog or something.
  
  "All right," Gordy says, clearly growing impatient. "On the count of three I'm going to start unloading this thing regardless. One...."
  
  So this is how it's going to be: Al Flansburgh versus the .38 snub-nose? Who will be faster? More accurate? You suck in your pride and run.
  
  Behind you, Gordy takes aim and fires.