"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.