THE BLACK JOKER ON BEHALF OF AMBROSE BIERCE

STATUS: TERMINATED

VICTOR: THE HANGING MAN

POINTS AWARDED: NONE

DUE TO THE HANGING MAN'S ACTIONS IN NOT FOLLOWING THROUGH WITH THE KILL, THE POINTS NORMALLY AWARDED FOR A DEATH ARE REMOVED.

"The Plan"

First, I must apologize for the deception. I pride myself on always telling the honest truth, but I am afraid this lie was necessary. There was no argument with Clara - in fact, we got along pretty well. This was manufactured simply for the purpose of making the Hanging Man believe she would be alone and vulnerable.

The waiting was the hardest part. Each night, as she stopped to rest, we would wait on the next ridge, watching, simultaneously hoping that this would be the night the Hanging Man would attack and that we would have more time to prepare. I had the Mauser ready and Clara had even shown Blair how to attack a man's weak points with his knife.

And so we were fully prepared when the Hanging Man swung his noose and caught Windmill instead of Clara. I knew he would have a grip on that rope, I knew he wouldn't be able to let go immediately, that he would be dragged by that horse. I was hoping it would be enough to kill him, though I expected it probably wasn't.

"Fire's out," Clara said. And Windmill stopped, with the Hanging Man in tow.

And we emerged from our hiding place, me with my Mauser and Blair with his knife. No chances.

He certainly looked dead. He had been dragged through dirt and rocks, bruises covered his body. I held the Mauser up.

"I think he's-" Blair said, but he didn't finish the sentence as the Hanging Man sprang up with hideous speed and tackled him.

I rushed over to defend Blair and saw that the Hanging Man had already gotten his knife away from him. The Hanging Man held it like a man on the edge. He looked at me with those wild eyes and leapt at me, knife first.

I shot him square in the head.

His body collapsed at my feet. I went to check on Blair and found him fine except for a few bruises. Clara also came over and we silently nodded to each other. The plan had worked. We had done it.

Then I heard a clapping sound. "Well done," a voice said. We all turned and saw her: the woman Clara called the Red Joker. She looked exactly as Clara described, her clothes bordering on obscene. "Well done, Mr. Bierce. Congratulations."

"On what?" I asked. "Surviving?"

"No," she said. "You just killed your personal nemesis."

"I'm sorry?"

"Don't be," she smiled. "There a certain aspects of this game that are not explained to the players until much later. Each player in the game has a personal nemesis, an enemy that is faster, stronger, more powerful than they are. And if a player defeats their personal nemesis, they get a reward."

"More points?" I asked.

"No," she said. "They get to go home."

I looked at Clara and Blair, then turned back to the Red Joker. "Blair," I said. "Send Blair home, not me."

"I'm afraid it's not something that can be traded," she said. "Or refused." She waved her hand and I felt something tugging at me. There was a sharp pain in my side and I looked behind me and there was a hole, a hole in the air, and it was pulling me in.

"No," I said. Clara and Blair rushed forward, but they were too late. I was pulled in, surrounded by inky blackness. I closed my eyes.

And when I opened them, I was back in Mexico. The sun shone down brightly and the sky was a heavenly shade of blue. And yet I yearned to be back there, back in Hell, back where I could help Blair and Clara. I sat down with a heavy heart and a pain in my side.

One of the soldiers asked, "Are you okay, old man?"

"No," I said. "I'm afraid I have to go."

I packed up and left that night. I did not know where I was going, I just went. I took whatever transport I could get. I traveled back through Texas and Louisiana, crossing my own footsteps, trying to think of some way to get back. To find a way back to them.

I thought of going to San Francisco and telling Blanche Partington my story, but she was retired and besides would not believe it. And even if she did, what good would it do? Just telling the story would not change the ending.

And then, one morning, as I walked along a dusty path, I saw a hole appear in the air, a hole just like the one that had taken me away. And from that hole emerged Blair and Clara. They looked at me and smiled and laughed.

"Ambrose!" Blair exclaimed. "I didn't think we would ever find you, but we did!"

I could barely speak, but managed to utter, "How?"

"We won!" Blair said. "We won the game!"

I shook my head in bewilderment and turned to Clara. "It wasn't easy," she said. "I mean, most of the players were already dead by the time we got to the final round, but that old Game Master made us fight some nasty things. Things worse than even the Hanging Man. And than at the end, he tried to make us fight each other, but we refused."

"So how-"

"Well," Clara said, "when Blair said we won, it was more like the Game Master lost. Some old enemy of his had snuck in and killed him while we were refusing to fight. We were left on the board, but luckily those servants of his decided to bring us anywhere we want, since we lived through the whole game. And, well, we wanted to find you again."

"Thank you," I said. Blair rushed forward and hugged me and I gasped.

"I'm sorry," Blair said.

"Not your fault," I said, "just a pain in my side. No big..." I stopped. I felt my right side. There was a sharp pain, like something was stuck there.

"Ambrose?" Clara said.

"What?"

"Ambrose," Clara said, her voice suddenly sad and tired. "Ambrose, you need to wake up."

My side hurt like Hell and I looked down at it again and there was blood staining my shirt.

"Please, Ambrose," Clara said. "Please wake up."

I opened my eyes. The sky was still orange and the ground was still black and white. Clara and Blair sat beside me, their faces wet with tears. "I'm awake," I said, my voice soft and cracked. "I knew I wasn't that fast. What happened to the Hanging Man?"

"He stabbed you and ran off," Clara said. "I'm sorry." Blair was silent.

"Not your fault," I said. "None of it was any of your faults. Can you do something for me please?"

"What?" Clara said.

"Get me that lap-top thing. I need to write," I said.

"Are you sure?" Clara asked.

"Quite sure," I said. "I'm dying. And like all good writers, I want to leave something behind before I go. Not just something written, though that comes first. Something good."

She brought me the lap-top and I wrote this out. I wrote it so that they would know: I would never leave them. They have become like my family here. And even if I was taken away, I would still come looking for them. And if the Devil himself escorts me to the deepest pit of Hell, I would still try to find a way.

My name is Ambrose Gwinnett Bierce. I have been called Bitter Bierce and Old Gringo and other names not to be mentioned in polite company. I have been a soldier and a writer and a father and a husband and some of those I have been good at and some of those I have been very, very bad at.

This is my life and I make no excuses for it. I gave what help I could and I tried not to give in to despair. And that is what is important, I think. That is what makes life, even a miserable life, bearable: to not give up hope, to not succumb to despair.

The wound hurts more and I think if I stop typing, I shall not start again. I am fine with this. I accept my end. Though it is my fervent wish that Blair and Clara stay alive and survive this sadistic game. But I know I shall not live to see that.

My name is Ambrose Bierce and I am ready.

"Loss"

He still misses her. I can tell.

But there isn't anything we can do. She's long gone by now. One of the perks of having a horse: the ability to traverse distances quickly. Even if I wanted to find her again and apologize, we wouldn't be able to find her on foot.

Now, the only thing we can do is survive.

"An Argument"

Please permit me to plagiarize my own work. Specifically, The Devil's Dictionary:

Advice, n. The smallest current coin.

This is, in a nutshell, the reason why Clara is no longer traveling with us. She gave her advice and was quite hostile when I told her it was not needed.

This is how it began: I was instructing Blair in how to aim and fire the Mauser. I was telling him about the kick, about how to reload the rifle quickly. We couldn't do any actual practice, since our bullets were limited, but I was still showing him how to do it all.

"The way you described this Hanging Man," Clara intruded, "it doesn't seem like shooting him will do much good. You said he was too fast."

"We can still try," I said.

She shrugged and then took a knife from her pack. "I think this might a better weapon for Blair to learn," she said.

I must admit, that made me a little angry. Of all the weapons, she disparages the Mauser and instead picks an ordinary knife.

I'm afraid I said some words that I now regret. I do not wish to record them here, but needless to say they were not kind. In fairness, Clara did respond to these words with words of her own (some of which I did not understand).

This argument led to Clara packing her bags and leaving. As Blair said, perhaps we were not meant for three. He is sleeping at the moment, so I am left alone to contemplate what our future may hold. And, if I'm permitted to plagiarize once more:

Alone, adj. In bad company.

"Words"

"Are you asleep yet, Blair?"

"Yep."

"Alright then. Just checking."

"The Pyre"

We're still following the Hanging Man's trail. If we are to be foolish, then let us be foolish in service of something good. Let us stop this madmen before he kills more.

Unfortunately, we were too late. We came across a tree, its bark black and white, and on it there were bodies hung. I recognized the handiwork. Our friend the Hanging Man had been here and left us these abominable gifts.

We were not the first ones to find them, however. An older woman, probably around fifty, had climbed the tree and was cutting down the bodies when we spotted it. We saw her horse and we waited behind the nearby brush. We watched, our eyes suspicious, our minds tainted with recent events, as she cut all the bodies down and started gathering up firewood.

And I realized: she was making a pyre. A pyre for the dead.

Blair realized this too and they asked me to cover for them, then they walked out and started talking with the woman. I held my Mauser up and prayed that the woman was what she seemed, prayed that it wouldn't turn out like before.

Eventually, I realized they were praying over the bodies. So I stood up and walked over to them and waited. When they were finished, we all took a step back and the woman lit a match and set the pyre aflame. The smell of wood and burning flesh filled our nostrils, but none of us looked away.

We set up camp not far from the woman, whose name was Clara. I'm not going to lie, there is a comfort in being close to someone near my own age (though I am older than her by at least a decade).

I caught Blair feeding Clara's horse a few moments ago. He was supposed to be sleeping, but I couldn't chide him. It is a very nice horse and I've seen a quite a few.

Finally, after Blair went to sleep, I saw Clara walk over to our campsite.

"I don't mean to be a bother," she said. "Just doesn't make much sense, having two campsites so close."

"No bother," I said. "We've just had...bad experiences."

Clara looked at me and said, "So have I. It tends to make you see everybody in a certain light."

"Yes," I said. "Everyone becomes an enemy. Every noise is a person sneaking up on you, every time you go to sleep another chance for someone to kill you."

We sat there in silence for a bit, listening to Blair sleep and the horse gently graze. "Not everyone is an enemy," she said. "I wish I could say you could trust me, but the truth is I barely trust you. But if you're chasing the one that strung up those bodies, then I will gladly trust you."

"Oh, we're chasing him," I said. "And when we find him, I will put a bullet between his eyes. But can you promise me something?"

"What?"

"If I miss, you have to kill him. Don't make Blair do it alone."

"I promise."

"Supplies"

We went into another Pawn Shop today. We had the points from Georgia's death and we had to spend them. We needed food and water. And bullets.

I laid my Mauser on the counter and asked one of the club-faced men. "I need seven millimeter cartridges," I said.

"A single seven millimeter full metal jacket bullet for a Spanish Model 1893 is ten points," the club-faced man said.

"So ten bullets is a hundred points?" I asked. "That seems kind of steep."

"It is an antique gun," he said.

I looked around. There weren't that many people in the store. Blair was checking the prices on various loaves of bread. I walked over to them. "Stay in here until I return," I said. "I won't be gone more than a hour at most."

They shrugged and then, almost as an afterthought, asked, "Where are you going?"

"To get more points," I said. I walked back to the counter and the club-faced man. "I need two bullets." He handed me two bullets and I looked at them. Twenty points could mean food for the next few days. But here I had spent it on two pieces of metal whose only purpose was to make it easier to kill.

I loaded them into my Mauser and stepped outside.

It took twenty minutes to find two men fighting. I was lucky, neither one had a firearm. One was holding a long sword and the other was swinging what looked like a mace. The first man swung the mace and nearly hit the other. They were so busy, neither noticed me. Or my antique gun.

I walked back into the store ten minutes later. "Give me ten bullets," I said.

"Sleeper"

She woke up before I killed her. I think I'll always remember her face, that look of confusion. No shock, no fear, just confusion, uncertainty as to what was going on.

I did it as quick and painlessly as possible. She still made a sobbing sound as the knife went in. If my soul has not been blackened by my years of war, it was certainly made so by that sound. I know I am in Hell, but I will certainly go to a worse one when I die, as punishment for the evil I have committed, necessary or not.

But, as usual, I have begun at the end.

It started at night when I had rested my bones for several hours. I woke to find Blair and Georgia still talking over something and I instructed both of them to sleep, while I watched over. Both said they weren't tired, but I could see that Georgia was filled with weariness. She hadn't slept since we rescued her. Perhaps she was afraid, so I tried to reassure her that we would still be here when she awoke, that she could sleep safely.

I was a fool, of course. Even in my old age, with many days behind me, I was a fool. A sad, pitiful fool.

She was asleep for around half an hour before she sat up unexpectedly. I turned to check on her and I saw that her eyes were still tightly closed. I called her name, but she did not answer. Instead, she stood up. She walked differently, as if she wasn't the one walking, but someone else. She began to walk down to the nearest road.

Blair went to stop her, but I held them back. "Let's find out where she's going," I said. "We'll follow her and protect her from any other players, but...let's just see how this plays out."

Blair looked at me like I was crazy. And perhaps I was. Letting a girl like that go sleepwalking just to satisfy my curiosity. But I did.

She walked and we followed. She slipped into one of the Pawn Shops and went up to the counter. We pretended to browse the aisles and listened in.

"Knife," she said to the club-faced men.

"What kind of knife would you like, Ms. Orr?" the club-faced man said.

"Hunting knife," she said. "Sharp." It was her voice, but it sounded strange, like it wasn't used to talking.

The club-faced man gave her a large knife that she could probably skin a wild animal with. "I have subtracted one hundred and forty points from your account, Ms. Orr," the club-faced man said.

Blair looked at me quizzically. If she had over a hundred and forty points, what was she doing with no food or supplies?

She left the Pawn Shop and we followed. I caught a glimpse of her face and her eyes were still closed, she was still sleeping. Something else was walking around, using her as a suit.

Pretty soon, she ran into another girl, a girl with a bandaged arm. The girl stopped and asked, "Do you know where the nearest hospital is? I need to get there pretty bad. I can trade you some food if you-"

Georgia looked at her with closed eyes and swung her new hunting knife. The girl's throat slit open and we could see the blood pour.

I couldn't stop Blair from rushing forward then. They grabbed Georgia's arm and tried to pull her away. She struggled with them, trying to slash downward, to cut them, to spill their blood.

I pried the knife from her fingers. That didn't stop her. She charged at us, kicking and hitting, like a demon, but we pinned her to the ground. Still she struggled, like there was a demon inside her bursting to get out.

Blair looked at me desperately. "Why did she do that?"

"You can tell it ain't her," I said. "She's still sleeping."

Blair looked back down at her. "Something's grabbed ahold of her. Something else's in the driver's seat while she's asleep."

"Yes," I said. "And we got no rope to tie her down, no points to buy rope."

"So what do we do?" Blair asked.

I held up the hunting knife, the one still red with a poor girl's blood on it. "No," Blair whispered.

"We can't leave her to kill more," I said. "We don't have any other choice." She was still struggling, so Blair had to hold her down as I readied the knife. Blair looked at Georgia with pity in his eyes as I silently prayed that he look away when I did the deed.

She woke up before I killed her. Just a second before the knife went in, she opened her eyes. She could see us. She looked so confused.

Afterwards, we didn't say anything. We carried her body to one of the hospitals, since we didn't have shovels to dig a proper grave. They said that they would take care of her. We didn't ask how.

Blair hasn't talked since then. I'm worried that they've reached the point - what we called the point of no return during the war. It's that moment when a person knows just how much death they are willing to take, and either accepts it or puts a bullet in their brain.

I wish to God that never happens.

"The Trail"

We've been following the Hanging Man's trail. He's fast - uncannily fast - but he still leaves a trail like everybody else. Moreso, actually, because I don't think he knows he's leaving it. Or maybe he does and he's just leading us into a trap.

But we're following him anyway. Because we're stupid and we want to kill him before he kills us. How we are to do that is something we're still working out.

We saw him attack another person today - a young girl, short with brown hair. She looked tired and worn out and she didn't even see the Hanging Man coming 'til it was too late and the noose was around her neck.

We charged like it was San Juan Hill and we were the Rough Riders. What idiots we were, me with my Mauser like a club and Blair with his electrical device (I still can't bring myself to call it a 'taser' - what a silly name).

We managed to get close enough so that Blair could cut the rope with their knife and free the young lady. The Hanging Man, on the other hand, was still fast enough to slip away. And he didn't even look angry or irritated. He looked delighted, as if he was glad that we were chasing him.

Before he slipped away, he tipped his hat towards me and said, "That's another noose you owe me. I aim to collect."

"The only noose I'll give you is the one I wrap around your neck," I said. It wasn't the best retort, but it seemed to work fine.

The Hanging Man just smiled and then he was gone.

I went back to where Blair was checking on the girl. She seemed fine, though a little malnourished. "Was he real?" she asked.

"Yes," I said. "Real as anything here is."

"Oh," she said. "I thought this all be a dream."

"A might peculiar dream it would be," I said and introduced myself and Blair.

The young lady looked at us and then told us her name: Georgia, like the state.

By the way that Blair's offering food to her, I suspect we've found a new traveling companion. Which is fine by me - the more we've got, the better protection we have while we sleep.

"The Hanging Man"

I woke up with a noose around my neck.

I grabbed it with both hands to stop it cinching anymore and looked around. Couldn't see Blair, only the remains of the campsite.

Noose felt tight, I was losing air, had to get out. Mauser was at my feet, but I couldn't reach it.

The rope was taut - whoever was holding it had to be pretty close to keep it like that. I began seeing black spots and I knew if I didn't do anything soon, I wouldn't do anything again.

So I pushed my body down and flipped my legs upward and I felt my boot connect with something. The rope loosened and I pulled the noose off quickly, then scrambled to get my rifle.

I pulled it up just as the rope pulled back. There was a man holding the rope. He wore a loose brown duster and a Stetson. He coiled the rope around his arm and started swinging it, a grin on his face.

"Where's the kid?" I asked.

"You're faster than thought," he said. "Old man like you, thought it would be quick and easy."

"Where are they?" I asked. "What'd you do with them?"

"I think I prefer this however," the man said. "Face to face. Makes it all more...interesting."

"Yeah, well, I have a gun and you have a rope," I said, "so start talking or I start shooting."

He moved faster than I had ever seen a man move. He flung the rope and the nose caught the Mauser and before I knew it, it was out of my hands and on the ground.

The man smiled. "Back where I came from," he said, "they called me the Hanging Man. Well, they did before the Empress found me and after that...they didn't call me much of anything. They didn't say much of anything 'sides screams."

I had nothing. Without the Mauser, I was an old man with asthma and too many war wounds. I was nothing.

And then I saw the kid. Blair. They were walking back to the campsite - they must have gone to the bathroom or something. And now they were walking into a warzone.

The Hanging Man saw him, too, and his grin grew wider. He began to coil his rope again and I knew what he was going to do. He was going to kill Blair in front of me.

The kid saw us and me and the Hanging Man both sprang into action. He threw his rope and the noose went over Blair's neck. And I rushed forward, while he wasn't looking, grabbed my Mauser and fired.

The rope snapped.

The Hanging Man looked at me. "You are an interestin' fella," he said. "Good shot, too. I need to make a new noose now."

"No," I said. "Now I shoot you." My Mauser was still in my hands, my sweat-drenched hands, and I could feel my anger rising like steam.

"You sure?" he asked. "You sure you have enough bullets in that thing? How many did you fire yesterday? Or the day before? Perhaps, before I wrapped my noose around your neck, I emptied all the other shells. I just forgot the one already in there."

I pulled the trigger and nothing happened.

The Hanging Man smiled and tipped his hat. "See you later," he said and then ran off.

I checked on Blair and made sure they were alright, then checked the rest of my bullets. Nothing. He'd emptied the whole thing.

I was lucky. If that one bullet hadn't been there, if I had been a second slower...I don't even wish to imagine that. I have seen too many dead.

Too many.

"Addendum to Previous Conversation"

Before I went to sleep, Blair spoke. "It's not a secret. Why the Dog is after me." And they told me why.

"There's no shame in what you did," I said.

"I ain't ashamed," Blair said, a bit defensively. "Just sorta sad and angry."

"Both emotions that can serve you well," I said, "though eventually you'll learn to let them both go. No use being angry at the past for happening or sad at what was done. We can't walk backwards through a mirror, no matter how hard we try. So we learn to let go."

They still looked saddened by their story, so I went back to using my pack as a pillow.

Sleep, I'm sorry to say, did not come easily.

"A Conversation with Blair"

The other player's name is Blair, as it turned out, and they were running from the spade-masked man due to damaging some of the Game Master's property with a sort of electrical device that Edison would have been proud of.

I shared my jerky with the kid and I shared my story as well. I still cannot tell if they are a boy or girl, but I don't think it matters much and I am not inclined to ask, for it would seem to be intruding.

After I told them my story of how I got here, Blair told me that they were a "Runner" from what they called the "Black Dog." At this point, I must have looked enraptured in their story, since Blair stopped chewing and asked, "Have you heard of it before?" Their voice had a nice drawl to it.

"I've heard tell of a few tales," I said. "Even wrote one myself from a tale I heard. 'Stanley Fleming's Hallucination.' And I've heard why it comes after people." I let that sink into the silence. "Not that I care what secrets you keep. I have secrets of my own."

I could tell it was a subject not to be touched upon, but I had done so anyway and Blair looked at me with a sullen sadness. "We should travel together," I said changing the subject. "It will make things easier when we need rest. One of us can sleep, while the other stays alert and watches for any trouble."

Blair finished eating the jerky and asked, "How'd you know I won't just wait 'til your sleepin' and slit your throat?"

I laughed. "If that's the cause, then I deserve it. I consider myself a good judge of character and you seem like a person who only cuts a man's throat when they have no other choice. Am I right in that assumption?"

Blair shuffled their feet nervously. "Might be," they said.

"Good," I said. "Because I am actually a horrible judge of character and I would hate to die in my sleep."

That made them smile.

"The Pawn Shop"

As the darkness increased, I found two buildings.

The first turned out to be a hospital of some sort, operated by people who wore their hearts on their sleeves, as well as on their faces. When I walked through the door, they looked up at me and then went back to their work, which appeared to be patching up other players of this "game." It is good to know that the devil who brought us here wants us in good health.

One of the heart-faced workers came up to me and handed me a device. "For your asthma," she said.

"How did you know?" I asked.

"We knew as soon as you were here," the woman said. "We know the conditions of all the players. It is our duty."

I gave a short nod and looked at the device - it was small and strange, made partly of metal. The heart-faced woman showed me how one end goes into my mouth and if I pushed the other end, it would spray something into my lungs that would allow me to breath easier. As I said before: what wondrous technology.

I thanked her and then left. I could see another building nearby, this one in the shape of what looked like a pawn.

The building was busier than I realized at first. There were quite a lot of players inside - although none were fighting each other, which I deduced was because of the quite large men with spades on their faces that carried weapons around. Obviously, they were the soldiers for this "Game Master" and kept the peace inside the buildings, although I noticed several fights going on outside them of which they took no notice.

A few well-placed shots with the Mauser and those fights dispersed into the wind. And so I walked into the pawn-shaped building and found it, appropriately enough, to be a shop, where the proprietors had clubs on their faces.

I was sensing a theme.

The shop had quite a bit of food in it and supplies which I would need, though I had no idea what price anything was. They had bags of jerky and as I grabbed one, one of the club-faced men said to me, "That is two points."

I gave him a confused look and asked, "And how many points do I have at the moment?"

"Ninety-two," he said. "Each time you eliminate another player, you gain from eighty to one hundred points, which can be redeemed here."

"'Eliminate,'" I said. "You mean 'kill.'" The club-faced man nodded his head, as if this information did not bother him in the slightest. "We are rewarded for how many we kill." A nod, not even a glance, just a nod. "And those spade-faced men?"

"The Spades guard the Game Masters' property," the club-faced man said. "Anyone damaging the buildings or those who belong to the Game Master will be punished by the Spades."

So they were slaves. I had fought in a war to free them and here I was again in their presence. Was my life merely repeating in stranger ways?

I paid for my jerky and left and nearly bumped into another player. I hesitate to use 'he' or 'she,' for I honestly could not tell their gender, but they were in a hurry. Their skin was a dark olive color and their hair was shorn quite short. "I'm sorry," I said, but they weren't listening. Instead, they turned their head to look backwards and I knew that they had been running.

I saw the one they were running from: a man with a spade mask wielding a quite large curved knife.

I do not know why they wear masks. It was not bulletproof and after I set down the Mauser, I did not have a chance to ask him. Though it was good to know that even in my old age, I am still a good shot.

The kid still looked scared, as if he was frightened not only of the masked man, but of me as well. Perhaps he had been here long enough to become scared of everybody, no matter if they attacked or not. I well understood this. I knew enough not to step near him or try to pat his shoulder in comfort, for even that could be a sign of aggression.

So I merely raised up my bag and asked, "Do you like jerky?"

"The Last Moment"

I sat across from the dead body and sighed with resignation. This was to be more difficult than I thought.

Last night, I had resigned myself to stay out of this little competition. I am too old, I have lived too long and seen too many dead before me to be a "winner" of this game. I said that I will not be forced to kill, not for this unseen Game Master, not for anyone.

How quickly this notion was disabused of me.

This morning, I awoke to find myself looking at the edge of a knife. A man, wild-haired and wild-eyed, was holding it to my throat. He gestured to the remains of the campfire I had built. "Found you with the smoke," he said. "Lots of people don't know that. Makes it easier for us to find them."

"And who would 'us' be exactly?" I asked.

The man squinted, as if he didn't expect me to respond, or he expected a different respond. Perhaps pleading or screaming of some sort. "The hunters," he said, "the killers."

"And you are one of these hunters?" I asked.

"Yeah," the man said. He licked his lips and pulled his knife a little ways back. "I've already killed two and I only got here yesterday."

"That makes you a killer," I said, "not a hunter. Did you find them like you found me? Asleep and unprotected? Did you wake them just to taunt them, as you do with me? That is not hunting. That is as far from hunting as I can imagine."

"Shut up," the man said and brought his knife back. Unfortunately for him, I had already gotten a grip on my rifle, hidden underneath my blanket, and I brought it forward with a crack, hitting him across the temple.

He awoke several hours later to find the situations reversed.

"Did you mean to frighten me?" I asked him, as he took in his surroundings and his eyes widened in shock. "Son, I have seen more than you ever will. I have seen friends die and enemies live. I survived the Battle of Shiloh and it haunts me still. I have seen my sons die before I and that was probably the worst of all." I picked up my gun. "I have killed before. Men younger than you, men who were merely trying to serve their country, to do what they believed was right. You call yourself a hunter, but a hunter kills without taking the sadistic glee you took. A hunter would kill someone in their sleep to give them mercy, rather than wake them and give them terror." I loaded the rifle and aimed. The man started crying and blubbering, a most unmanly sight.

I stopped and set down my rifle again. "Do you swear?" I asked him. "If I do release you, do you swear you will not kill another soul here?"

He did. He swore on his mother's grave and upon all the graves of his family and friends. I did not want to kill him, so I almost believed him. Almost.

I went over to the supplies I had found on him. A large knife, serrated on one edge. A smaller pocket knife. Some small food in bar form (I took a bite of one and found it actually tasted particularly good). And a notebook. A diary.

It was the diary of a young girl. In the morning sunlight, I read of how she was tormented by shadows and how she fled them across the country. And then how she woke up to find herself here, in this Hellish landscape. The rest of the diary was splattered with blood.

I turned back to the man. He had calmed a bit, now thinking I was not going to kill him. I lifted my rifle again and asked, "Do you swear?"

He looked surprised when he died. Almost as if he didn't believe it was going to happen until the last second. We never believe it's going to happen, not until the last second. The last moment before dying.

This will be more difficult than I thought.

"Dead Things in Hell"

I have confirmed that this is Hell: the vile bat-creature I killed came back to life after I finished my last report.

I gave it another round with the Mauser, until it shouted, quite unexpectedly, "You cannot kill me! The Game Master gave me life and only he can take it away!"

I paused then, because what he was saying had become self-evident: the bat-creature could not permanently die.  Probably an effect of being the spawn of demons or something of that sort.

The bat-creature then tried, as its bullet wounds healed, to explain to me the rules of this "game" that I was now to play: the players are provided with places to trade and with places to heal, but there must only be one winner. And anyone who isn't the winner must be dead.

At that, I realized that I was not quite as dead as I had previously supposed. If I could die in Hell, I must not already be dead.

This did not, however, invoke in me a longing to win this "game" the creature spoke of. No, I am seventy-one years of age - it would not be right of me to be the winner of this vile game. That belongs to one who has a future.

I had already resigned myself to being dead, so dead I shall remain, in mind if not in body.

"In a Strange Land"

I believe that I am dead.

Now, I cannot say for certain that I am in Hell, for it does not look like what I believe it would look like. In fact, it looks quite like a checkerboard, all white and black, spread across to the horizon. But it must be Hell, in fact, for a vile bat creature came to me and spoke with a hissing voice. It claimed that this was all some sort of game and I had to kill or be killed, as the case may be.

I shot it with my Mauser rifle. Then I shot it again and again until it stopped twitching.

The Mauser was a gift from Pancho Villa before the Battle of Tierra Blanca. I still remember that day, though my memory of other days grows hazy at points. Such as the day I found myself here.

I remember the heat of the sun baking the city of Chihuahua. Even in December, it was hot there. I had dropped off my letter to Blanche and watched as Pancho's army paraded down the street, their bandoliers wrapped around their chests with pride.

I went to join them and then the sun blinded me for a moment and I closed my eyes.

And I opened them here.

I have what I was holding back in Chihuahua - my Mauser, my pack, and my writing utensils - but in addition there was a strange device. After I had shot the bat creature, I looked closely at the device and found it came with a small book attached that explained how one used it.

It's apparently something called a "lap-top computer" and it will allow me to communicate to the world outside this Hell. What wondrous technology.

In any case, though I may be in Hell, I shall explore all I can and do as any good journalist does, though my age is more than three score. I shall be Ambrose Bierce, Hell's own reporter.