Re-revised D8

Timothy takes the time to yell obscenities across the now-smoking river at Snow and Moore before grabbing my hand, dragging me inside the Cornucopia, and shoving a wet cloth at me. "Tie this around your mouth and nose, now," he orders. I do so, he already has his on and is tacking up one of the huge canvas sheets across the entrance to the Cornucopia - I believe it is a tent he cut up. I clamber up the boxes, helping him attach it to the lip at the top with the super-strong tape we found in one of the generic repair kits. "This won't work for long," I say fearfully through my mask, secretly agreeing with every word Timothy had called them. "The smoke will get through the canvas."
"No it won't," he says flatly, stepping down onto the golden floor. "That's wood vinegar they're burning, highly toxic smoke that is heavier than air. It'll sink down, and it tends to return to its source, i ee, the river. It's also highly explosive," he adds happily. "It'll flash burn those - girls. We're far enough away it shouldn't actually effect us."
"Pyroligneous acid," I correct absentmindedly, remembering the few chemistry lessons we'd been taught at school.
"Whatever," Timothy grumbles. I ignore his irritation, feeling distinctly heartened by his words. Wood vinegar was one of the few flammable acids, and with that dark muddy color...he was probably right.
"In which case," I say slowly, and he looks at me. "It'll burn pretty quickly, right? I mean, it's mostly water, so once all the chemicals are burned off, it'll just...go out."
"How do you expect me to know?" Timothy demands indignantly. "And it's 80% water."
"Because you're the one who plays with fire," I point out.
"Yes, it burns quickly," he says sullenly. I nod, and we sit down to wait it out, hoping the smoke clears as quickly as its source burns out. After a few minutes, Timothy bursts out again. "Dibs on Snow." He is still fuming, livid at having his favorite weapon used against us. I wasn't even aware he could be so angry, with his diabolically mischievous mind. I didn't know he could actually kill.
"She's just doing what we're supposed to do - kill each other and survive," I point out, a little startled by the fury in his tone. We are extremely lucky we spent the morning sluicing down the entire island, before Snow and her hellish ideas popped up.
"I'm serious, that little-" He goes into a string of words that I sincerely wish had never been invented. "She's determined to turn us into well-cured hams."
"Hams?" I give him a blank look. Besides smoking, I don't see the connection.
"Long pork?" he prods in disbelief, staring at me. I don't reply, simply gazing at him expressionlessly, unblinking. I swear that boy is a piece of work - even killing mad and inches from death, he will still cut wisecracks. He shakes his head, looking away again. "I mean it, you know. I'd like nothing more than to spit her on a sword." He has got cooking meat on the brain. Understandably.
"Technically it was Moore firing the arrows," I offer.
"I'll let you have her, then," he says moodily. Yay. I get to face the Career.
"On the plus side, the mutts might get them," I say with brutal cheeriness."So then we could just stay in here and whichever one smothers slowest is victor."

Timothy:

I'm pretty sure Charlene's bipolar. One day it's 'this will never work.' The next day she's all - ah, sarcasm. Sarcastic optimism. I decide to play along. "Idea, that," I say in an offhand manner. "Where's the pillows, we can mix things up a little." All bantering aside, it is definitely getting stuffy in our canvas filter. "Do you think a slow death asphyxiating or a faster, painful death having your lungs frazzled, is preferable?" I ask conversationally. Charlene gives me a look and we fall silent, waiting for the cannon shots that would announce our enemies have fallen victim to either the mutts or their own sadistic trap.