Borderline by Allan Stratton

flashlight, but I don’t. Not to worry—he’s probably turned it off. I’ll bet he’s hiding behind some tree, waiting to jump out and scare me.
    My foot catches on something. I stumble forward, trip face-first to the ground, my left leg snarled in a strip of barbed-wire fencing. The bottom of my jeans is ripped, but I’m okay. My flashlight picks up a row of old posts planted into the distance on either side of me. The fencing holds between some of the posts, falls away between others. Was it to keep things out? Or trap them inside?
    I brush myself off. “Andy?” I sweep my flashlight back and forth. Ahead of me, a clearing. I toe my way forward, come out of the pines.
    I’m at a garbage dump. It must be the one the guys talked about, next to the hermit shack. There’s stacks of green plastic bags, and bundles of neatly tied magazines and newspapers, molting at the edges. I see a rusty baby carriage. Broken radios and TVs. Old Coca-Cola crates. And in the center of the junk, the shack itself, cobbled together from boards, plywood, and tarpaper.
    â€œAndy?” I edge toward it. “Andy, I know you’re hiding. Say something.”
    Nothing.
    â€œAndy, this isn’t funny.”
    The shack has a ripped screen door. It’s fallen off its hinges, the frame peeling. I aim my flashlight into the black hole. I see Andy crouched in the corner of the shack, next to a couple of old paint cans.
    â€œGotcha!” I exclaim.
    Andy doesn’t budge. His eyes are huge. They’re staring at something behind me.
    â€œAndy?”
    A beam of light hits my back, casting my shadow against the shack. “Drop your flashlight, boy,” says a low voice. “Turn around slow, so I can see you.”
    I do as I’m told. Ahead of me, the hulking shape of a stranger. He’s wearing a miner’s helmet. I squint hard.
    There’s a twelve-gauge shotgun aimed at my head.

Ten
    T he man holding the shotgun is maybe sixty. He’s wearing a dirty plaid jacket over dirtier overalls and boots. There’s a hunting knife strapped to his belt. He hasn’t shaved in days, or had a bath by the smell of him.
    â€œYou boys having fun?”
    Alone at night on a deserted island with an armed psycho. Whaddaya think?
    â€œAsked you a question,” the hermit says. “You fancy this is some party place?”
    â€œNo, sir,” I whisper.
    â€œDamn right, it’s not. There’s a sign: NO TRESPASSING . Can’t you read?”
    â€œSorry.”
    â€œâ€˜Sorry’? That’s what they all say.”
    They? Who are they ? Where are they now?
    â€œYou two alone?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œDon’t lie to me, boy. There’s a lard-ass passed out in your tent.”
    â€œI mean there’s just the two of us, here, now,” I cover. How long has he been spying on us?
    â€œWe just came to have fun,” Andy blurts. “Please, let us go. We won’t tell anyone you’re here.”
    â€œYou think I’m a fool?”
    â€œI mean it. We won’t tell anyone. And we’ll never come back.”
    â€œFor damn sure, you won’t,” the hermit spits. “On your feet.”
    He marches us through the woods, hands on our heads. Any second, he’ll kill us and stuff our bodies in a rotten tree trunk. Who’ll ever know? My folks always taught me to tell someone where I was going. This time I didn’t. We didn’t write anything down at the cottage, either. Stupid, stupid.
    Marty’s wailing from the beach: “Andy…Sammy…Where are you?”
    We come through the pines onto the sand. Marty’sdown by the water, taking a leak. He turns, dick in hand, sees the hermit, and falls on his ass.
    â€œToss me your knapsacks,” the hermit says. “One at a time.”
    So he’s going to rob us before he kills us. What if we rush him? No way. Andy and Marty are too drunk. If I go