I followed Murdoc for what seemed to be a long time, placing my feet exactly where his boots had left a print. Mines were scattered in the sand surrounding the faint path, and I knew that the slightest move would send a trail of explosions all the way back to the tree that I had so innocently passed under in hopes of shade.

We eventually reached a dirt road, which surprised me. The map had said we were a long ways from any town, and I hadn't expected any signs of civilization until I returned to the city.

For a while, I wondered if there was someone who was a bit eccentric and excessively emphasized fresh air, but I dropped this idea shortly after for one reason. We had reached a town.

There was no one in the streets, and pickaxes lay on the sides of the road as though discarded in a rush.

Murdoc had a real desire for authenticity, I decided. Either that or he had watched a few too many westerns. It looked a bit different from the ghost towns in America, but held a certain level of similarity. Buildings lined the streets, windows boarded up and doors shut tightly. There was a coating of dust on everything in sight, leaving only a few signs readable. I glanced past the signs for a general store, newspaper office, and an inn before noticing a building without a sign, though its purpose was easily recognizable: a train station.

I turned to ask Murdoc where we were and what he wanted, and if he would please tell me where the antidote was so I could go home, but it was hard to face someone who wasn't there. I glanced down to find his footprints again, following them with my eyes as they led up to a shaded boardwalk beside the road and disappeared along with the dust.

"Murdoc!" The man had vanished, and I wasn't happy with him for it. In order to confront someone, you needed to know where they were, and it was a little difficult to determine what I would do to get the antidote away from Murdoc when I couldn't tell where he was or what he was doing.

"Murdoc!" I called again, stepping up onto the boardwalk. By the time I reached the other side of the town, I was jogging, trying to spot him. I paused as I heard a sound, looking around in an attempt to place it. As my eyes traveled over the sign in front of me, it clicked. The train station. It was the door of a train car! I hurried off the boardwalk in the direction of the abandoned tracks.

I reached the railway, coming upon a rusted old train. One of the doors to its many cars stood open. After a quick glance around, even under the train, I saw no sign of Murdoc. It was a risk, but I had nowhere else to go. I cautiously stepped up inside the car.

The light coming in from the door illuminated only half the car, leaving the rest in shadow. By all appearances, it was a kitchen. I looked around, spying the small wood-burning stove and open cupboards full of dusty and chipped teacups and kettles, but no Murdoc.

I whipped around as I heard the door closing. It wouldn't have been a problem, except for the fact that I was still inside and when I rushed to open it, it seemed to be locked. I heard the muffled laugh from outside. "Murdoc," I whispered angrily as I tried the door again.

"Try all you want, MacGyver, but that door is sealed shut. Though, if you're too lonely in there, I can give you some company."

There was a thump as something hit the floor. I looked down and saw that Murdoc had shoved something inside through a small hole in the side of the car.

I couldn't see the object very well since it was out of the light, but I could hear it. A small hissing sound issued from it and suddenly my lungs seemed to shrink and my eyes started to water. Tear gas. Just what I needed.

I didn't take the time to think as I grabbed my pocketknife and cut a scrap of cloth from my shirt. Too bad; it was one of my favorites. I coughed against the fabric, my throat rough and scratchy. After tying it around my nose and mouth, I still held my breath for as long as possible, breathing as little as I could manage.

Before the gas could creep all through the room and leave little breathable air, I glanced around, looking for a way out. The first place I looked was up, since light was filtering through, and, sure enough, a grate was fastened to the ceiling.

I climbed onto the counter by the stove, examining the grate. It was tightly secured, the screws rusted almost beyond recognition. I flipped out the screwdriver on my knife, scratching some of the orange rust away before beginning to twist the screws.

My eyes streamed as I struggled with the grate; even turning my knife as hard as I could, it barely moved. I let out one breath and grabbed another as, finally, the first screw dropped to the floor. Now only three more.

The next screw turned a bit more easily, taking me only about 30 seconds to remove it. I moved on to the next, but this one proved far more difficult than even the first. It wouldn't move at all; no matter how much rust I scratched away or how hard I turned, it wouldn't budge. Something abruptly gave way in my knife, and wiping my eyes once more so I could see past the tears blurring my vision, I glanced up. The screwdriver had broken, a jagged metal toothpick sticking up where a Philips head had been seconds before.

I pushed the useless blade down, picking out the knife and moving on to the next screw. There was no way I could get the other. It turned slowly, far too slowly for my own tastes, careful not to put too much strain on my blade. The screw finally slipped free, falling to the ground with a noise I barely noticed as I pivoted the grate, an unpleasant screech present as I did so.

I Harry Houdini-ed my way out, almost dislocating my shoulder as I squeezed through the small space. My belt caught on the metal, but I ignored it and pulled free, some of the leather ripping as I struggled through. The things my wardrobe went through for the Phoenix Foundation.

I tugged the fabric off my mouth and collapsed on the top of the train car in a coughing fit. As I caught my breath I heard a small applause coming from the ground. Blinking rapidly, I looked over the side and saw Murdoc smiling up at me.

"Well done, MacGyver. I was worried for a minute that you weren't going to make it."

"Worried?" I coughed skeptically.

"Yes. If you didn't make it out, I'd have to cut our little game short, and what fun would that be?"

"It would be more fun for me..." I suggested somewhat sarcastically.

He shrugged. "No need for sarcasm, MacGyver. Shall we cut to the chase?"

I rolled over on the roof and jumped down, wiping my still watering eyes and ignoring his question.

"You want the antidote. I have it. But not on my person, I'm afraid." He said quickly, as though in an attempt to keep me from attacking him in search of the cure to Pete's unexpected ailment. "I suppose I will refrain from telling you directly where it is, but be warned. The entire town is prepared for you, so watch your back." A chuckle slipped past his lips.

I glared at him. "How do I know that this isn't all just a trap?"

"You don't. I wouldn't worry. Why would I kill you now when I've spent all this time preparing to see the show? You are the main act, after all." Murdoc gestured toward me with his hands, as if I should be honored and he expected a thank you. When I still eyed him warily, he turned his back on me and stepped up onto the boardwalk to sit on an old rocking chair that was somehow still in one piece. He swept his arm across in an inviting indication for me to explore.

I sighed, turning my back to him and striding down the center of the street. On all sides I was surrounded by buildings that looked the same: old, dilapidated, and unsound. Oh well. Without any clues, I might as well go about things systematically.

I tried the building nearest the train station on the right, rattling the doorknob and pushing against the door. With a creak, it eased open, but before stepping inside, I looked around. After all, Murdoc had said the place was booby-trapped. There was no sign of anything out of the ordinary, but as a precaution, I decided to send something ahead of me.

I turned around and grabbed a pickaxe lying on the ground nearby, tossing it into the store before me. As it landed with a thud, a large boom triggered inside, sending out a puff of smoke. My already irritated eyes protested, watering profusely, and I turned away, leaving the door open so the room could air out. If need be, I could tackle that building later.

Moving to the next building, which read "Gazette" on a sign overhead, I examined the door. Well, this looks promising. It was wooden like the rest of the building, but a new lock and knob adorned it; the dirt that was present everywhere else in the town was absent here.

I tried the door somewhat doubtfully, but it opened silently, adding to my conclusion that the original door had been replaced. Pushing it open all the way, I remained standing on the threshold, then glanced down the boardwalk and saw a chair just a little ways over. Walking over, I grabbed the arm of the chair, preparing to jerk it off, but when I took hold of it, it broke away without effort. I glanced at the rotting wood in my hand. Well, that was easy.

I tossed the wood into the doorway and then quickly jumped back, expecting a small explosion like before. Nothing. Murdoc never did the same thing twice. I walked inside cautiously, visually exploring the room. A large press stood in the corner of the room, several printing plates stacked haphazardly beside it. Across from it stood a camera on a tripod, complete with the cloth covering and the tray for flash powder.

Pulling a match from my pack and striking it to light it, I looked around the room, hoping for a lamp or something to illuminate what the light from the door couldn't reach. A kerosene lamp sat precariously on the edge of a table, but before I could light it with the match I already held, the flame flickered and went out. I reached into my pack and pulled out a second match, cupping my hand around it to shield it from the breeze as I held it to the wick.

After the wick finally caught, I looked more closely around the now lit room. There it was. Sitting on a stand in the middle of the room, a glass vial shone in the light, beckoning me forward. I glanced around the edges of the room, trying to spy some sort of complication, but the surrounding shelves held nothing more than old printing equipment.

I slowly stepped forward toward the center of the room, stopping a few feet away from the antidote. The metal stand supported the glass vial, and a few things cluttered the edge of what appeared to be, essentially, a desk.

I moved to stand closer to the metal table, examining it closely. A mass of wires clustered around the corner of the table, sending a threatening message. From the direction the wires were heading and the place the vial was balanced, I was willing to guess that this was some sort of pressure switch.

Pulling my knife from my pocket, I crouched down next to the group of wires, debating which to cut. Ordinarily, a pressure switch has only one wire: something to tell the power source whether or not the inner workings are still making the proper connection. With the extra number of wires involved, I was willing to bet that each held a surprise equally unpleasant... that was, unless I cut the right one.

I stood again, examining the rest of the objects on the table and trying to find a clue of some sort. Positioned somewhat randomly across the table were what looked like an old-fashioned birdcage and a few stacked books. As I scanned the titles, I heard a shuffle behind me. Startled, I quickly jerked around, but as I did so, my fingers brushed against the metal handle of the birdcage.

A surprising shock tingled up my arm, painfully enough to make me swing my arm around and knock the cage to the floor.

As I shook my wrist wildly to try to dispel the unpleasant tingling, something on the table caught my eye.

Positioned directly beneath the birdcage's former location, a square, metal panel with a protruding hinge was visible. I flipped the blade out on my pocketknife, prying the panel open to examine the switch's inner workings. Hopefully there was only one wire inside.

Ah. I've never been so glad to see a single red wire. I tugged enough of the wire out to fold around edge of my knife and cut it with a quick pull.

I moved to close the panel back up, but the moment my finger touched the metal, a second shock traveled up through my arm, except this time, it couldn't compare. It struck me with a force strong enough to shove me back and vaporize my kneecaps. I hit the floor and shuddered, feeling the echoes of the pain slowly start to ebb away.

Soon my heartbeat started to return to normal and only a slight tingle remained in my fingers and toes. I shook my head and slowly began to stand. As I looked up, I noticed something mounted near the ceiling by the desk. A camera.

Still dangling from the mouth of the old Polaroid was a photo that was starting to change from gray into a picture of me. I grimaced as I saw the final development. It showed me cringing back from the blue spark that traveled from the metal table to my finger. My expression was wild and pain filled. Not my best side.

I did feel slightly better after seeing the picture, because that meant that Murdoc had expected me to die from that shock, expected to take a picture of my last living moment. I flexed my hands, hoping that Murdoc didn't have another camera.

I blew out a deep breath, glancing at the glass vial on the pressure switch. What was Murdoc thinking? Glass didn't conduct electricity. Why put it on an electrified pressure switch if I was just going to be able to take it off?

Hoping I had cut the right wire, I avoided the metal and grabbed the antidote. The pressure switch it was resting on was released. I tensed for a moment, but when nothing disastrous happened, I relaxed. I guess that was the correct wire after all. Tucking the vial carefully away in my pack, I reached for the doorknob.

The knob jiggled uselessly. Locked. Maybe that wasn't the right wire after all...

There was no keyhole, the door was locked electronically. Ironically, I, the victim, was the one who had locked it. I tugged back on the handle a few times before releasing it. Trying to think, I leaned forward, stopping when my forehead hit the barrier.

"Ow," I said quietly to the stubborn door.

I turned around and pressed my back against the door while I scanned the room, searching for any possible ways out. My eyes fell onto the old camera on the tripod.

I walked slowly over to the camera and picked up the small tray that held the flash powder. It was empty, but I continued looking, glancing about the room and spotting a small closet that probably had served as a dark room and supply closet.

Grabbing the lamp, I strode into the closet, carefully shielding the flame from any of the chemicals. Flash powder stood on the bottom shelf, carefully labeled and covered.

Without hesitating, I picked up the can and carried it into the main room, placing it gingerly on the floor next to the door. I paused for a moment, peering about the room and looking for my next ingredient as I placed the lamp back on the table.

The cloth covering attached to the back of the camera looked promising. I ripped it off before tearing it into a long, thin strip.

I grabbed the larger part of the cloth, carrying it over to where the flash powder sat on the floor. Carefully, I shook a small amount of the powder into the cloth, then smoothly righted the can, pushing the lid back down on it as I carried it back into the darkroom. I then returned to the lump of powder and tied the cloth into a ball.

Quickly, I went to the table and blew out the flame that was fueled by kerosene. Grabbing the strip of cloth remaining on the table, I soaked it in the fuel before returning to the door, tucking my homemade fuse into the ball of powder and balancing it on the knob.

Flash powder happens to be a weakened form of gunpowder, but over time, what used to create a small flash and a puff of smoke becomes much more powerful-and unstable. In other words, I had made a small bomb that would blow the door off its hinges.

I pulled a match out and lit the kerosene-doused cloth, moving to take cover behind the printing press before the door blew.

With a sudden boom, the makeshift bomb exploded. I waited a few seconds before rising out of my protective position, waving away the billowing smoke to make my way for the door. It hung lopsided on one hinge. An easy fix. I slammed my foot against it and the door fell completely off. The smoke escaped out of the opening and I quickly ran outside to avoid being swallowed inside the black cloud.

I ducked around the corner of the building while simultaneously removing my pack. Unzipping the pocket, I checked inside and pulled out an undamaged bottle. I let out a relieved sigh. Pete was safe.

A laugh sounded beside me.

I sighed. That was, if I ever get out of here.

I quickly tucked the medicine back and swung the pack onto my shoulder before turning to face Murdoc, who stood directly in the center of my path.

"Another lovely escape, MacGyver."

"Why, thank you. Now if you'll step aside, I'll gladly show you another one."

"You wouldn't leave now, would you? Just when the game is beginning?"

"Just beginning? Let's face it, Murdoc, the electricity from that pressure switch was meant to kill me. I wouldn't call that an appetizer!"

Murdoc smiled as he pulled the photograph of me from his pocket. "I admit that it wasn't... but I have to say, I was prepared for the possibility of you getting out."

"Aren't you quite the boy scout."

"You see, MacGyver," he continued as though I had never spoken, "That vial you hold is not the antidote. I knew that the newspaper office had too much available; too many ways for you to get out, so I took a precaution. It's tap water."

I knew that I couldn't take him at his word, but I also knew that he was perfectly capable of doing what he had claimed.

"Look, it's getting late and I have a bad case of jet lag. Why don't you just give me the antidote and I'll be going? I've played your game."

"You've played the game, but not by the rules. You've rolled twice, and now it's my turn."

I didn't see anything coming, but felt something hit the back of my head. The cliché that seems so consistently present in my life came into effect as the impact turned my world black.