Alex. Newspaper article about the betties. He realizes he never moved on the flight. I don't get it. Lightning. "She's next."
Brown Ali sees a power line go down and start snaking around on the ground, spitting sparks.
Alex ditches the cabin just as the FBI guys pull up. He jumps into a canoe -- yes, a canoe -- and begins rowing madly away as Henchguy bawls, "Alex! ALEX!" Row, Alex! Row like the wind! Or, don't. I don't really give a shit either way, frankly, so do what you have to do.
Brown Ali lights candles. Outside, her chained-up dog barks madly at the whipping power line. Way to bring your dog in for the night, Brown Ali. If death doesn't get your ass, the ASPCA should. She struggles into her coat to go deal with the dog, and the candle she just lit gets blown out. By the ominous breeze. Smoke curls away from the wick. I do believe I might get it. Maybe. Sort of. Ask not for whom the power line tolls, Brown Ali. It tolls for thee.
Alex flounders away from the canoe. Shot of police vehicles as Alex runs through the woods. He crosses the road in front of the cop cars, and the law enforcement guys give chase through the underbrush. "Alex! We're! Trying! To help! You!" Henchguy calls out, waving a Clean & Clear facial cleansing pad like a little white flag. Okay, he doesn't. But someone should.
Brown Ali yells at the dog to get away from the power line. The line whips over to the little spiderweb-shaped clothes-drying thingie and drives it into the ground right beside Brown Ali's head. She staggers up and tries to let the dog off the chain.
In the woods, Alex runs. The officers run. Alex tumbles into a crevasse, and his lips almost get impaled on a twig. A ripple of fear crosses said lips, which have swollen with fear to Erik-Michael Estrada proportions.
Brown Ali. Above-ground pool, bursting. Dog, barking. Brown Ali, "afraid." Power line, padding its Academy Award reel. Sparks. Whipping noises. Gasping Brown Ali hurling herself at a rose trellis; dog almost getting fricasseed. The whipping stops. The dog runs into the bushes. The power line goes in another direction.
Woods. More lightning. More running. More lips. A branch falls on Alex and pushes his head into a puddle. I drop my ginger snap to applaud the branch, which has answered my prayers by burying Alex's pizza face and moon-jump lips in six inches of muddy water. The officers can't find him. "Oh shit," grumps Henchguy, in a meta-statement about the movie.