Free ZerOes by Chuck Wendig

piss on the cars below. And damn if it wasn’t—at least, until he whizzed right on a cop cruiser. (Hell, it was funny even then.)
    The car takes a hard bounce as it cuts off the narrow road on whichthey’ve been driving and turns onto a red gravel drive. Chance’s teeth vibrate together. That plus his empty stomach and the drugs from the night before have him feeling suddenly queasy.
    And hungry.
    Hungweasy.
    Ugh.
    This stretch of bumpy gravel is long—not a driveway as much as it is a road. They go for five minutes, maybe ten, and then tires skid on loose stone. Out front, Chance sees a chain-link fence and a gate. The fence is tall—thrice his height, easy. Ringed with loops of razor wire, in which are caught leaves and branches. The gate is mechanized: nobody around but them to watch it click, hum, and drift open.
    The car passes through. The gate whirs, then closes behind them. The chain link rattles as it shuts.Stone-Face moves the car forward again.
    Another ten minutes go by. Forest all around. Rocks, too—boulders painted with green moss. They pass by a little waterfall not far off the “road,” white water frothing and gushing like a stab wound.
    Then, ahead, Chance sees it.
    Hollis Copper called it the Hunting Lodge, but this isn’t one building; it’s a whole damn complex—a series of cabins and pods connected by decking walkway, lots of redwood and dark wood. The cabins are modern—boxy and clean, like something out of an Ikea catalog, plunked down in the middle of this tract of mountain forest. All of it stands surrounded by another—shorter, just above head height—fence. Another drunken loop of razor wire decorating the top.
    Another mechanized gate. Stone-Face eases the car through and they park in a line of identical SUVs underneath a broad metal awning.
    â€œAre we there yet?” Chance asks, as snarkily as he can muster.
    Stone-Face gets out of the SUV, stone faced, and opens Chance’s door: “Yeah. Get out.”
    Stone-Face pulls a long duffel bag out of the back of the car and shoves it into Chance’s arms. Oof . “The hell’s in this?” Chance asks.
    â€œYour clothes.”
    â€œI didn’t pack anything.”
    Stone-Face shrugs. “We packed for you.”
    â€œI hope you remembered to pack underwear. I don’t wanna have to go commando in this place. It’s damp up here, man, I don’t wanna get some kinda crotch fungus—”
    Stone-Face suddenly grabs him by the ear and slams his head into the back of the SUV. Chance cries out, pulling away. Ear ringing like a bell.
    â€œShut your mouth,” Stone-Face says. “You keep babbling that brook and we’ll dam it up for you. You’re here to serve a purpose, you little skidmark. That purpose is not to irritate me. Thinking you’re a fucking comedian.” Chance gives him a sneer, but that just sets the man off further. Asshole reaches out, grabs for Chance again, cups a meaty hand around the back of Chance’s neck. “You wanna have a go at me? I’ll throw you in the Dep so fast your dick will shrivel. You know what happens—”
    â€œRoach,” comes a voice. “That’s enough.”
    Stone-Face—or, apparently, Roach—gives Chance’s neck one last squeeze , then fakes a laugh. “Sorry, Agent Copper. Just giving our newbie a short, sharp shock.”
    Chance pulls away. “Whatever, dickhead.”
    Roach’s jaw tightens.
    Hollis Copper comes up, steps between them, gives Chance a look. “You don’t know when to shut up, do you?”
    Chance shrugs. “I figure it says as much in my file.”
    â€œIt does. Let’s go. Bring the bag. You have some people to meet.”
    Roach gives him one last look as they head up a set of aluminum stairs.
    Chance gives him the finger. It’s a dumb move, but nobody ever said he was smart.

    Hollis strides along, long