Page 5 of The Uncut Wood

Before he realized I was back at it, I had torn into my twelfth piece and caught up with him. If I powered through, I could gain on him by at least one piece before he got back into the race.

I was onto my thirteenth chunk, slamming it into quarters. Gunner was hacking away again with renewed strength and urgency. Like an addict, I chanced a glimpse of his sweaty armpits when he raised his axe, every muscle in his core contracted, his lats spreading…

And that’s when I tore open my left hand.

The axe handle stripped off the hard ridge of calluses at the top of my palm.

Time slowed as I stared down at the exposed raw skin waiting for the pain to travel to my brain.

Even in shock, the burn was worse than I’d expected. Going shirtless had been a bad idea. The sweat was running down onto my arms and slicking my palm with salty liquid fire.

“Fuck!” I roared.

Gunner looked over at me, his smirk gone and face serious. “Hank?”

I stood for a moment, shaking out my arm as if I could sling the burning sensation onto the ground. For a moment I thought about burying it in the snow, but getting my hands wetter wasn’t going to help.

Gunner frowned.

I opened my hand to him, flashing the blood-red gash. “Fucking burns.”

He winced, sucking air through his teeth. “Didn’t your daddy teach you to wear gloves?”

I should have worn gloves. But Gunner didn’t wear them, and once again I’d made the idiotic choice to try to keep up with him instead of doing what I needed to do for myself.

With three pieces to go, I was down to one arm. Not only did the open wound burn like a motherfucker, but Gunner was down to two pieces, and I couldn’t fully block out the sight of his nearly naked body.

But after breaking up his fourteenth piece, it took him a few moments to free his axe. He finally stumbled back, winded. He glanced over at me and caught my eye. We stood across from each other, chests heaving. The spectators were egging us on, and Jim was circling us with his camera, narrating something I couldn’t concentrate on.

Gunner cut his eyes down at his final piece and grimaced. Sorry, man. Hate to do this to you, but…

He must have mistaken the despair on my face for athletic ego. He shot me a wink and stalked back into position.

I thought he was just going to blow through that last piece and start jackhammering the fuck out of the God Log.

But his first strike bounced off, barely making a dent as if the piece were possibly frozen or petrified. “Fuck!” On the second strike, his axe head stuck again. He braced the piece with his boot as he tried to yank the axe head out of the crack he’d finally managed to make.

I couldn’t help but think it sure would be a shame if Jim had to blur the shot of Gunner’s beautiful ass. Maybe that’s where I found a reserve of power. I still had a chance.

One-handed, my aim sucked, and I only managed a thin slice. Nobody specified how big the quarters had to be, so I seized on the tactic. If I had to play a little dirty, so be it. I shaved off two more edges leaving a fourth mostly stump-shaped chunk and moved on.

Gunner was complaining loudly. “Shit! I’ve been stuck on this one forever. This is a twisted son of a bitch. It’s like it’s made out of stone!” But with a roar he amazingly raised the axe with the final chunk still attached and pounded it to the ground with a loud crunch.

It split neatly in half.

He repeated the move again.

And one last time.

Fuck.

He raised his arms in victory and basked in the crowd’s applause.

I wasn’t giving up. At his diminished pace, the God Log was going to take some time. I could finish my line before he made any progress and the race would go into overtime with the stacking. That was my real remaining chance. Between the two of us, I was the faster runner.

Gunner was taking his time. He sauntered over to the crowd and accepted a few high fives and fist bumps. He took a Yeti tumbler away from somebody. He finally walked back to the God Log, but he rolled a stump over near it. Turning his axe head to the ground he held the handle like a cane and seated himself slowly. He put his feet up on the God Log like it was a glorified footstool.

He sipped from his commandeered drink while he watched me.

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