[b]MIDNIGHT HIT[/b]

The night air pricks at my skin like a hundred thousand needles, especially around my stomach. I spit up vomit and a little bile by the back wheel of the police cruiser. The vicious smell of half-digested alcohol fills my nose and I feel my stomach lurch a second time, but nothing comes out. I haven't eaten a decent meal in over a year. Above, the full moon speaks heresy and shines down on me like a judgmental eye, mocking my condition. It's a cold night. A wretched night. Just like the one from my memories. All cloud and a low-hanging mist. I'm about to ready to pick myself up off the forest floor when the radio goes off inside the cruiser, calling out an APB:

"1-Adam-2, what is your 10-20? Over. 1-Adam-2, what is your 10-20? Over. Come on 1-Adam-2, please respond. Over."

I take a few steps and the world refuses to right itself and I almost lose my balance. I slam my hand against the open window, then reach into the car and pick up the radio.

"1-Adam 2, 10-4. Go ahead," I mutter, still wiping the scum off my lips.

"We've been trying to reach you for the last half hour, 1-Adam-2, what is your status?"

"I got held up by some punks off Route 23," I lie. I sit back against the car and spit somewhere into the woods. "Reckless endangerment. Motorcycle gang. ... It was raining, but I swear the wipers were on. I don't know how I didn't see her."

"1-Adam-2, can you repeat?" The dusty voice of the radio crackled. "I didn't get that last part."

"10-22. Go ahead."

"Roger that. We have reports of some local kids causing havoc at an abandoned cabin near Stillwater Basin. Can you go and make sure they're not causing any problems? We have a very concerned citizen on the phone. ... 1-Adam-2? There have been multiple calls. We need you up there right away."

"10-4."

"1-Adam-2?"

"What?"

"You might want to take it easy, Sam. I can hear the slur in your voice."

"Tsk... 10-4. Over and out."

I pull open the door and get in. The car smells of must and the shotgun is on the back seat when it should be locked up in the trunk. There's still saliva around the gun barrel. I stare out at the woods; the thin black trees; the warring moon; and then I reach for the gun but find the stick instead.

"What the hell," I utter, "one last job before I end it..."

I put the car in reverse and roll it out of the dirt and the wheels squeal as they pull the rest of the car out of the ditch. I guess that's a sign I should probably go ahead and make my way to that cabin. I put the car on the straight and narrow and try not to throw up as the last of the liquor turns over in my stomach.

It's only when I hit the corner and join the main road that I realise I've been driving without my lights on. I flick the switch and try and concentrate on the road.

"1-Adam-2, what is your status? Over."

"I don't... fucking remember if it was raining or not. I guess the tarmac was wet, especially closer to the bend," I say, half in a dream and looking out of the window at the moon. I then reach for the radio and almost drop it down the side door. I scramble for it, my hand wavering on the edge of the wheel. "This is 1-Adam-2 enroute, over." I then fumble it back into the slot and see a street sign coming at me head-on. It reads in blood red letters: "CAUTION: SLOW DOWN."

I straighten up the car deftly. The car skids, but I don't take my foot off the gas pedal as I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. As I put the street sign in my rear view mirror, my mind wanders to the bottle of brandy in the glove compartment. I toy with with the idea of another drink, but leave it alone for now. I need to be sharp for what's coming. You can never tell with Missouri kids. They could be toting one of their father's guns.

I turn the car off the road and the scenery changes. From a narrow hiking road to a narrow hiking trail. The trees grow in size, like wolves howling at the moon. I see a little mist clinging to the road and pass through it like velvet. It wraps around the front-end of the car and dissipitates, but not enough that I can make out all the potholes and tire-blowers that mark this streth. I turn on the patrol lights then flick them back off again, indecisive because it barely makes a difference. I hit a few potholes and then before I know it but frankly not soon enough I hear a solid thump and realise I've hit a square fence that borders what can only be the cabin. I stop the car and the breaks let out a brief, tired scream before the engine stalls, and then I hear the carburator rock as the manifest tells me how fucking stupid I am and that I should've given up police work five years ago back when they first tried to take my license.

The door opens and I practically fall out, clinging to the door. Then I take my first good, hard look at the cabin.