Frank was trying to hear what was being discussed by the fire.

He was certain the blueprints for his demise were being drawn up but all he could hear were strings of muffled consonants and the occasional affirmative mmm, hmm.

He sat back on the bed chewing his lower lip and absently scratching his beard.

There was a little dresser within arms-length, and he yanked on the drawers. Mostly he found old clothes but in the top drawer he found a pack of Lucky Strikes and some matches. He lit one and sat back blowing the smoke at the yellowing tiles on the ceiling.

The thought of torching the place crossed his mind but knowing his luck those hillbilly fuckers would just let him burn—break out the hotdogs and marshmallows.

Better not chance it.

He spent some time pulling at his ankle but only managed to open his wound more which, unlike in the movies, did not act as a lubricant for him to squeeze his foot through the chain. All it did was hurt a lot more.

He wished that girl would come back with the Makers. If he was going to die, he wanted to be good and sloshed.

The door to the trailer opened as if on cue and the little lanky girl plodded in softly. She very carefully closed the door behind her, reaching up to hold the squeaky spring. She looked to be in stealth mode.

Frank whispered, "Did you bring the whiskey?"

"No," she whispered incredulously, staying low, creeping on all fours. "Just be fucking quiet."

Frank flicked ash on the carpet and eyed the girl suspiciously.

The girl, Emily, got on her knees in front of Frank and looked up at him with big watery eyes.

Frank knew he shouldn't think it—but he thought it.

She looked hot.

The dull half-light from the fire, filtered through those foggy windows smoothed out her features—airbrushed her like a magazine model. Maybe this was part of their death ritual. Maybe she was there to offer herself up like a virgin before the gods. "Are we... are we gonna do it?" he asked softly.

Her spine straightened instantly, and she slapped him hard across the cheek.

"No," she said, sounding more repulsed than offended which, in turn, offended Frank. "What the hell... what's wrong with you? Just... shut your fucking mouth for a second." She looked over her shoulder toward the door, making sure she hadn't been followed then reached under her soiled dress and returned with the silver Beretta Jed had brandished before. She set it on his lap. "When he comes back in here. Shoot him in the fucking face," she said, still eyeing the gun. Her eyes flicked up to Frank's for a second, looking hard and mean. Then she was up and noiselessly rushing back out the door as quiet as the smoke swirling from Frank's Lucky.

He picked up the gun.

It felt good and smelled cold and oily.

He checked the magazine—it was loaded.

Well, this should help, he thought, but now what? Shoot through the chain then run out into the night firing at anything that moved and hope to god they weren't armed? Then he'd have to find Jane, free her somehow, find his 4 Runner... this was all starting to sound very complicated.

He set the gun on the bed and started absently folding the clothes he'd pulled out of the dresser. He let the cigarette dangle from the side of his mouth as he ran over his options but no matter how he sliced it, the end result in the theater of his mind was death. It was a suicide mission. But with the gun, at least he had a fighting chance. He might be able to free Jane.

But... if he took the gun and went off on a shooting spree in the dark, he might not succeed then just get killed anyway. If he chose that route there'd be the hope of survival—a rising, flowering hope sure to be squashed under the boots of staggering odds followed immediately by a violent death.

Wasn't that worse than just dying? Dying violently?

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Frank looked up and saw Emily leaning in the door looking perplexed. He examined the neat little stacks of tee-shirts and underwear he'd just folded.

"It helps me think," he said, defensively.

Emily shook her head and tossed something at Frank. It landed at his feet with a jingle.

The keys to the chain.

He looked up to say thanks, but she was already gone.

Well now he really didn't know what to do.

That's when he heard a rifle's report echoing through the trees which was promptly followed by agitated shouts and shoes slapping the soft forest floor.

Shit.

He quickly unlocked the chain and pocketed the rest of the pack of cigarettes. He checked the safety on the gun—it was off.

He walked slowly toward the door listening to the sounds outside. A few more gun shots tore through the rising commotion. He gingerly put his hand on the knob when Jed suddenly burst into the trailer looking frantic but determined, knocking Frank on his ass.

In a panic, Frank leveled the gun at the big man's chest and opened fire.

Bits of plaid shirt, skin and blood erupted from his target.

Jed staggered back and fell to the side into the dinette area, breaking the table and loudly scattering dishes across the floor. Frank got back to his feet and walked over to the dying man. "Where's the whiskey?" he asked.

Blood bubbled out of Jed's mouth in thick, viscous rivulets. His hands were shaking above his wounds like they were attached to strings. He was in shock and not about to answer Frank's question.

Frank knew what would happen in a few minutes if he didn't finish the job. Jed convulsed and gargled as blood poured into his throat and filled his lungs. He shot Jed point blank in the forehead and waited for the movement to stop.

"Maybe I should have asked where Jane was," he said as he turned to leave the trailer. He was unexpectedly met by the sight of Emily standing in the doorway, mouth agape but smiling slightly. "Jesus! Holy shit. You scared the shit out of me," Frank said, clutching his heart. She didn't move—just kept staring at her dead dad.

"Emily! What's going on in there? I heard shots," came a voice from outside.

"Nothing! I think we're good," she shouted back, not taking her eyes off Jed.

The agitated sounds of turmoil around the firepit area reached a crescendo which was accompanied by loud mechanical thumping noises and the roar of a diesel engine pushed to a high whine—the sharp crack of tree branches breaking.

A few seconds later, the rear of the trailer, where Frank had been chained, was suddenly torn away in a huge crash of smoke and flying debris.

Frank and Emily were thrown to the floor as the trailer pitched and settled.

All the cabinets opened and vomited their contents.

The bottle of Makers slid into Frank's thigh.

"Well, that's lucky," he said as he grabbed it and stood, pointing the gun at the swirling smoke where the back half of the trailer used to be. Now there was a farm truck there. An old Ford pick-up, dented, lopsided and leaking chemical green and blue fluids.

The driver door opened, and Jane stepped out.

She was naked.

"You're naked!" Frank exclaimed.

"I'm aware," she said as she dashed past him and began searching Jed for any other weapons. She had a rifle in her hands and blood smeared across her face, droplets polka-dotting her body.

"Why are you naked?"

"Hey, you, creepy girl, are there any more guns in here?" Jane asked.

Emily was pushing back her hair and gingerly touching a growing bump on her temple. "Yeah, in the couch," she pointed.

Just past Jed's body there was a built-in plaid couch. Is everything plaid in the country? Jane hurdled the dead man and lifted the cushion.

"This is good," she said.

She tossed Frank some kind of automatic military looking machine gun which knocked the bottle of Makers out of his hand. It shattered against broken plates.

"Ahh, seriously?" he said.

Then gunfire tore through the remaining walls of the trailer.

Jane, Emily and Frank dropped to the ground.

"Pick up the gun Frank!" Jane had her own GI-JOE type weapon complete with scope, extra banana clip and what looked like a grenade launcher attached to it. She had tossed the rifle aside.

Frank looked at the booze as it ran away from him into cracks in the linoleum. He felt the anger rising. What's it fucking take to get a bottle of booze in this world? His mind spun into a rage-frenzy, so he grabbed the gun, cocked it, stood, pointing at the shadows moving under the trees and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. Shit! In the next second he was back on the floor as more bullets sang past his head.

Emily grabbed the gun from his hands, flipped a switch, slid a bolt into place, flipped another switch and handed it back to him.

"Try again," she said.

This time Frank decided the gung-ho maniac approach should be couched and opted for the more cautious and certainly not as cool crouch and scoot.

He made it to the edge of the doorway where the kitchen table had toppled and peaked around the corner.

A chorus of gunfire shredded the wall opposite the door.

"Not good," he said.

Jane was still trying to figure out her gun.

"Good fucking lord people," Emily said as she leaned across her bleeding father and snatched the weapon. She went through the same routine she had with Frank's gun then set it on the floor beside her. "Here, help me," she said as she attempted to lift Jed's body to a sitting position. She wedged her feet against a counter looking for leverage, straining as she pushed the enormous corpse toward the door.

Frank grabbed one of the dead man's arms and yanked him forward. They got him up and slid his dead-weight over to the open door of the trailer. His heavy legs flopped over the threshold, dangling above the dusty ground.

It was quiet outside. Frank could see no movement.

"Jed? Are you okay?" came a voice. There was a pause. "Jed?"

"Can you see anyone?" Emily whispered to Frank.

Frank peered around Jed's limp body. He could now see two or three people moving cautiously toward the trailer, having emerged from their hiding spots.

"Yeah. There's about..." but before he could finish, Emily stood up with Jane's gun at her hip, shoved the barrel through the exit wound in the back of Jed's dead head and opened fire.

Screams rose out in the trees.

Frank looked over at Jane. "Whoa. Fucking hard core," he said.

Jane's wide eyes agreed.

Jed's head shredded as the AK-47 vibrated and emitted its lethal payload. Emily pulled the gun away from Jed's collapsing skull and kicked his body out the door.

"Come on!" she shouted—though it sounded more like a challenge to the folks outside than an invitation to Frank and Jane. Still, they picked up their weapons and followed this gun toting teeny bopper into the night. Emily was firing at random into the darkened forest as she scuttled along.

Frank and Jane followed suit.

"We need a car," Frank shouted over the carnage.

Emily made eye contact and nodded, changing her course.

Every time she let loose with the AK-47 she was thrown back a few paces—her bare feet sliding in the dirt.

It didn't sound like there was any return fire, but Frank wasn't taking any chances and kept the trigger depressed. He watched as the world moved in staccato bursts as the muzzle sent bright flashes strobing through the woods.

Bits of tree bark and dirt flew all around them as they ran around the side of the Fill and Feed.

They stopped for a second at the corner of the building.

Emily and Frank were breathing heavily and sweating. Jane looked fine apart from her eyes looking a little crazed.

"Have you ever shot a gun before?" Emily asked Frank.

"Yes," he said, indignantly. "I'm just not used to these big fuckin' army fuckin' things."

Emily nodded again and smiled at Jane.

"He's a terrible shot," Jane said.

"Shut up. I'm a good shot. Here, you wanna trade?" Frank held out the machine gun to Jane who was gripping the rifle she's scooped back up on their way out of the trailer.

"No, you keep it," she grinned. "Makes you look tough."

"Just keep fucking quiet," Emily said.

"You were the one asking the questions," Frank exclaimed.

"Shh!" Jane and Emily said together.

There was no sound coming from back near the firepit and trailer. Maybe they'd killed everyone.

"My dad's got a Suburban out front. Keys are in it."

"Great, let's go," Jane said, standing and rounding the corner only to get knocked back into the gravel by the force of a shot to the shoulder.

Frank still had the machine gun. It was time to prove he could handle the thing.

He jumped past Emily and fired at whatever was there. He was screaming because... well, it just felt right.

Through his bleary eyes he saw two bodies fall before his bullets found one of the propane tanks near the opposite side of the building. A huge explosion lit the surrounding trees and demolished two or three more people—their limbs flailing and separating from their hosts. Within a few seconds, the side of the Fill and Feed had burst into flames.

The concussion punched Frank in the stomach and laid him out next to Jane. She was looking right at him.

She looked dead.

She was dead.

She was naked and dead.

If it wasn't for the all-encompassing ringing in his ears, he would have heard her say, "Stop looking at my tits." But he did see her lips move. So... she wasn't dead-dead.

Then Emily was dragging both of them to their feet.

She was saying something that Frank also couldn't hear.

They got to the Suburban and threw open the doors. Emily jumped in the driver's seat, grabbed the keys from the visor and started it up. Frank was in the passenger seat and Jane lay across the bench in the back. The gears grinded noisily as Emily tossed it in reverse and jammed on the gas.

Frank's head bounced off the dashboard.

"Ow goddamnit! Always with the head!" His voice echoed around inside his skull to join the incessant ringing.