Keep Busy

19.

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.