In the Woods by Merry Jones Page B

trailer lot. And the main building didn’t look as big as this place. It looks smaller, same size as the cottages.’
    â€˜So? They dug up the lot when they laid the pipeline. And that map is just, like, a sketch. A plan. It shows the locations, not the exact actual structures.’ Bob pointed to a row of boxes on the map. ‘See? These things are those squares. We’re here.’
    Pete studied the map again. Saw only one other building in that area of the woods, a hunting lodge located a few miles from the old campground. And this sure didn’t look like a hunting lodge. This place was deserted, in ruins. It had to be the old campground, torn up to make way for the pipeline.
    â€˜Okay.’ He referred to the map. ‘So if those are the cottages, then the pipeline must be buried over there, behind them.’ Pete took five giant steps and stopped, turned to face Bob, and raised his arms. ‘Right underneath me.’
    Bob broke into a grin. ‘YEE HA!’ He ran around, waving his arms, hooting. ‘We fuckin’ found it!’
    Pete scratched his palms, wincing.
    â€˜Come on, Pete. Stop carrying on. What’s wrong with your hands?’
    â€˜I think it’s poison ivy.’
    â€˜No shit. Well, never mind. Show some jubilation.’ Grinning, Bob opened his backpack and pulled out a bag of weed. ‘We found the spot. This is celebration time. Where’s the paper?’
    â€˜You have it.’ Pete folded the map, stuffed it into his pocket.
    â€˜No, you do.’
    Pete looked in his pack, dug deep, taking out their explosives, wiring, beer, blasting caps, beef jerky, matches, walkie-talkies. He was pulling out rope and flashlights when Bob said, ‘Oops, you’re right. I got the paper.’
    They smoked for a while and feasted on beef jerky. Then, feeling mellow, they decided to set up their devices.
    â€˜You should have brought more food.’ Bob wrapped explosives in wire.
    â€˜Me? Why me? Were your legs broken?’ Pete messed with a walkie-talkie, took another hit on the joint. Maybe marijuana would stop his itching. He’d heard that it helped cancer patients – so why not poison ivy?
    â€˜Dude. Seriously, I’m frickin’ starving.’
    â€˜You just think you’re hungry because you’re fuckin’ stoned. You just smoked a pile of weed and ate about a ton of beef—’
    â€˜I could eat a frickin’ antelope.’
    Pete closed up his tool kit, chuckling. ‘Who knows? When these little darlings go off, they might roast an antelope or two.’
    â€˜I’m not kidding. I could go for some curly fries. Or no – wings. Christ, I could do with some wings.’
    Bob went on, listing various foods he could eat while he and Pete set up the explosives, connecting them to the blasting caps and the walkie-talkie that would act as a detonating device.
    When they were finished, Pete blew cool air on his hands. They were red and blotchy, and the itching was making him crazy.
    â€˜We’re ready.’ Bob beamed.
    â€˜Just a second.’ Pete went to the toolbox, took out a hammer, started pounding on one of his palms.
    Bob watched. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
    â€˜Killing this itching motherfucker.’ He pounded it again, winced, cursed.
    Bob picked up his backpack, rooted around, took out a first-aid kit. Handed Pete a tube of something. ‘Use this.’
    â€˜What is it? Shit. You had this all the time?’ He rubbed cream on his swollen, now bruised palms. Felt the itching fade, could almost see it wither and die.
    Bob rolled another joint, lit it, took a hit. Passed it to Pete before taking two beers out of a backpack. Opening them, he handed one to Pete, sat against the trunk of a tree, took a pull at his beer and another hit on the joint. ‘We’ve done it. We’ve really done it.’
    Pete took a seat beside him. ‘Now all we have to do is wait