“Where’d the bad guys get to?” Paul asked as the four of them collapsed against the car, finally on dry land.

“With any luck they assumed we’re dead,” Brad sighed.

“Looks like we lost them, anyway,” Gina said.

“Well, if they’re Ritza’s flunkies, they’re probably not the poster children for natural selection,” Greg huffed.

“Let’s get going before they come back,” Gina commanded. She opened the driver’s side door and let out a sob when a few gallons of water and algae gushed forth. “My poor car,” she cried.

“I’m going to take this opportunity to announce that this is all Brad’s fault,” Greg said as they all piled into the somewhat soggy car.

“It’s not my fault that Ritza’s insane,” Brad declared.

“Yeah, but if you hadn’t decided to fuck her, she wouldn’t have decided to go after Fenny and I wouldn’t have slime in my favorite shoes.”

“If I hadn’t decided to fuck her, we could all be dead!”

“Yeah, and we might still all end up dead,” Greg grumbled.

“If you hadn’t screwed around with Fenny, I wouldn’t have fallen for Ritza.”

“I have an idea,” Gina piped up. “Let’s not talk about sex for the next 10 minutes. Think we can manage?”

Brad folded his arms across his chest and glared out the window, and they continued in silence for a few minutes. “Can we turn on the radio or something, get some music playing?” Greg asked.

Paul poked at the stereo for a minute. “I think the water shorted it out,” he announced.

“Dammit,” Gina shrieked, giving the steering wheel a harsh whack.

They sulked for another few miles until sunset, the gravity of the situation finally settling on them as they each realized what they had gotten themselves into. They whizzed past a rustic sign that read, Welcome to Oberon, and Gina decided that was as good a place as any to make camp for the night.

She pulled up to a little pub that looked like it could provide them with rooms. “Why are we stopping here?” Brad demanded.

“Face it,” Gina sighed, “we don’t know what we’re doing. Us running all around the country aimlessly is not gonna help anyone. Besides, I want out of these wet clothes.” They piled out of the car.

“You have a change of clothes?” Brad asked, suddenly wishing he did.

“I always keep a change of clothes,” she chirped, opening the trunk and pulling out a duffel bag.

“Why is your trunk watertight but the rest of your car isn’t?” Paul demanded.

“I didn’t design the thing, I just drive it. Anyway, there’s probably a store around here somewhere if you wanna hunt down some dry stuff,” she shrugged. Gina bounded into the pub, chatted with the man behind the bar who gave her a key, and waved to the three men who were standing in the middle of the room being stared at. Gina rolled her eyes and disappeared up the stairs to her room, and the others decided to follow suit.

“And this weak and idle theme, no more yielding but a dream…” Greg muttered as he swung his key ring.

“Would you stop that already,” Brad grumbled, giving him a shove.

“Can’t help it,” Greg said, “ever since we saw that stupid sign that’s all I can think of, bits of Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

“Can I get a smoke?” Paul asked. Reluctantly, Greg reached in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes, pulled one out, and started muttering obscenities again. He handed the bent, soggy cigarette to Paul.

“I’ll pass,” he said with a laugh.

Gina poked her head out into the hall. “And the tobacco companies won’t admit that smoking leads to impotence,” she jeered. Greg looked down at his pathetically wilted cigarette and shoved it back in his pocket. “Just looking to see which rooms to check for corpses in the morning. Sweet dreams!” she chimed and retreated back into her room. The three men shrugged at each other and disappeared into their own rooms as well.

Fenny was beginning to lose her mind. Miles of dirt and scattered dry foliage, chaffing wrists and Celine Dion were enough, but compounded with the whole being kidnapped thing, she was beginning to wonder if it would be worth it to smash her head through the window.

At first she tried to think of Who songs to keep her mind off things, but her mental Roger Daltry soon adopted a French-Canadian accent, so that had to be stopped. She tried making up hoedowns, but that just added to her anguish. What kind of kidnappers listened to Celine Dion, anyway? How did Ritza expect to gain that authoritative dominance so necessary in a situation like this with that syrupy fluff dribbling out of the speakers? Led Zeppelin, that’s what kidnappers should listen to, heavy stuff with dark, menacing overtones and the occasional bloodcurdling scream. What Fenny wouldn’t give for a good John Paul Jones bass line…

As the sun was beginning to set, they pulled up to a virtual oasis, a shining patch of green life amongst the red dust. “What’s this?” Fenny asked.

“Just a nice piece of land my family owns,” Ritza answered, killing the engine.

“You have family?” Fenny gasped. “I just assumed you sprang from the loins of Satan.”

Ritza leapt from the car, threw Fenny’s door open and dragged her from the vehicle by her bound wrists, pulling at the already tender shoulders. Ritza unlocked the front door and threw Fenny into the house, chuckling as she fell to the floor. Fenny was quick to gain her feet, though. “Why are we here?” she demanded.

“Resting for tomorrow’s outing,” Ritza cooed. “Besides, I thought you might like it here.” She grabbed Fenny’s arm and led her down a hallway into a bedroom. “This,” she said, pushing Fenny onto the mattress, “is where your precious Brad and I first made love.” Repulsed, Fenny scrambled to get off the bed. Ritza pushed Fenny back onto the bed, face down, to straddle her around the hips. “You can still smell him in the sheets,” she declared, untying Fenny’s hands as she struggled beneath her. In a matter of seconds, Ritza had Fenny’s wrists tied to the wrought iron headboard.

“Fuck you,” Fenny spat as she twisted herself around to face Ritza, tugging futilely at the knotted rope.

“Yes, that’s exactly what he did,” she smiled. “And it was damn good, too.”

“What are you trying to accomplish here, huh?” Fenny demanded.

“I’ve got my plans,” Ritza growled and slammed the door as she left the room.

Fenny collapsed against the bed, suddenly very tired and very frightened. “Just ‘cause I said my life sucked, that didn’t mean I wanted to die.”

Brad lay on the somewhat lumpy bed, wishing he could go down to the bar and get really hammered. But a hangover wouldn’t help in the morning, and, more importantly, his clothes were hanging off the shower curtain in the bathroom, and he didn’t think a visit in his shorts would be appreciated by the locals.

What would he do if something happened to Fenny? Greg was right, this was all his fault, what was he thinking messing around with someone like Ritza? He’d never forgive himself if Fenny got hurt…or worse. After a good half hour of such thoughts, he drowned out his inner voice with flipping through the three channels on the television that was probably older than he was.

Paul had really been looking forward to that cigarette. As he stepped under the stream of water in the shower, he wondered how he’d gotten himself in this mess. He’d known Fenny all of two days, and sure, he wanted to help her out, she was in trouble. But with his almost-ex, her almost-lover, and the guy he was mad at for Fenny’s sake, what kind of team was this? Of all the things he’d done in his life, this had to top the list. He wasn’t sure which list, but it had to be at the top of something. Stupidest plans, most uncomfortable situation, least rational idea…

He decided to get to sleep and hope when he woke it would all turn out to be an alcohol-induced dream.

Greg stepped out of the shower, glad to be rid of the slime remnants that had clung to his skin. He decided the cold, wet clothes he had tried his best to clean in the shower were not entirely necessary, and lay them across bits of furniture to dry, then placed a few of the less damaged cigarettes on the window sill with the hopes that the insane Australian heat would dry them to a more useful form.

Clad in a hotel-issue towel, he wandered the room, looking for something to amuse him. Standard bible and battered ammunition magazine in the nightstand drawer, television with a broken antenna, under-stocked mini bar. What he really wanted to do was get totally wasted, but it looked like fate was against him, as usual. Oh well, at least he could achieve a nice buzz…

Gina pulled on her clean t-shirt and pulled out the map. She was entirely too wound up to sleep, and she certainly didn’t want to socialize with any of the sociopaths she was stuck with, and she wanted to have a plan when they set out the next morning. Still, she couldn’t seem to focus on Fenny, and it made her feel terrible. All she could think about was Greg and Paul, how both of them were mere feet away, and how badly she wanted both of them, and how wrong that was.

She sat staring at the map, one finger on Oberon, another on Katoomba, wondering how many other cars full of deranged henchmen they were going to encounter in the journey between.

There was a knock at the door, and Gina rolled her eyes as she got up to answer it. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“I got lonely,” Greg sighed. “And I wanted to talk.” Gina sighed and ushered him into her room, listening to him squish, the wet pants and shirt dripping on the floor. He stood next to the bed and glanced at the map. “Any brilliant ideas yet?”

“No,” she said, sweeping the map to the floor. “I think we might be in some deep shit here.”

“We’re just gonna have to go to that little house and hope for the best. There’s nothing we can do about it now,” Greg sighed.

“I guess so,” she agreed, rubbing her eyes.

Greg regarded her carefully. “I wanted to apologize for what I said to you. I overreacted and I was being hypocritical.”

“Yes you were,” Gina agreed.

“I love you,” he said softly, almost as if he didn’t want her to hear. “I know I’ve never said it before, and this isn’t the best of circumstances, but…”

“I—” Gina began, only to find his lips crashing down on hers suddenly, harshly, wonderfully. All the feelings for him she had been trying to dampen over the past year or so suddenly came streaming forth, and she lost all control, clinging to Greg as if he were the only thing keeping her alive. She tentatively reached up with one hand and slid her fingers through his still damp hair. She had to have him, there was no more rationalization, no more controlling herself, no more arguments.

Greg was startled and pleased when her fingers began to work on the buttons of his shirt and smoothed the wet material over his damp skin. Panting as they pulled apart, he all but ripped her shirt over her head, then guided her back onto to the bed.

He kissed her again, both their hearts racing uncontrollably as she tried to fight against the button of his pants. He took off his glasses, tossed them onto the bedside table, and looked down at her, the oddly familiar raw lust glowing in his eyes mirrored in hers. “I love you too, Greg,” Gina gasped.