I check my watch. Ten after seven. Sun sets in another twenty minutes. He better get here soon or I'll have to leave without agreeing to terms for the evening, which means it’s a chase by default. I used to prefer him being late and missing me. Gave me a big lead. But it also led to surprises, and I've tired of surprises. I like making the choice. It's one of the few freedoms I have.

"Want a refill?"

The waitress stands over me, hand holding a pitcher of ice water that's half empty. In the other hand, a wet rag with coffee stains. She's got too much eye make-up on and not enough lipstick. The dark circles under her eyes scream exhaustion. She smells thirty but looks forty. A hard forty. Probably working to support a couple of kids while their daddy does time. I can practically read it in the crow's feet and frown lines.

"No."

"Ready to order, or are you still waiting?"

I check my watch again. "How fast can I get two waffles with butter, no syrup, and a cup of coffee?"

"The coffee you can get in thirty seconds. The waffles will take about ten minutes."

"I'll have the coffee and waffles."

"You got it."

She walks away. I turn my attention to the entrance, willing him to walk through. I do not like surprises, wonder if he's doing this on purpose. Toying with me. Maybe waiting to hit me in the lot.

No, he's moved beyond those petty games. We both have. I'd say we have matured, but how do we mature? It implies growth. Rather, I think we're just tired. It's easier to deal with when you acknowledge that. That we're both tired of this game. There are rules to the game, of course, but the players still have a say in how it's played. And we both decided long ago to a certain type of game play.

The waitress returns with the coffee. Sets it down with a couple packs of creamer and moves on without saying anything. I'm okay with that. Not much for chitchat with strangers.

The door opens and he walks through the entrance, wearing all black, per the usual. Sunglasses on. Head low. He lifts it long enough to scan and locate me. Nods and heads over.

"Was wondering if you were going to show," I say.

"Me, too.” He keeps the sunglasses on as he settles into the seat across from me. Sets his elbows on the table. "Tough getting up."

"Sun too harsh today?"

"It is called the Sunshine State.” He smirks. "I started to convince myself you drove this way to mock me."

"Nah. You kind of forced me in this direction with that stunt in Atlanta."

"Sure, sure. Blame me.” He scratches his chin. His skin is fair but not as pale as an albino. More like a Swede with black hair and rose-colored cheeks and nose. Like he spent his time in the cold before walking in, even though it was well above eighty outside. "You didn't have to come this way."

"True, but it wasn't to mock you.” I glance at the sunset through the big plate window. Orange and dipping low. I start to shiver. "Don't have much time."

He pulls the sunglasses off and sets them down. Fixes me with gray eyes. "Yeah, already feeling better."

"I know.”

"Thought I'd lost you there for a while, just after dawn. But I caught the scent outside Tallahassee. Managed to make it here and grab a room at the Motel 6 over there."

"That's where I stayed, too."

"No shit?” He nods his head. "Figured I had enough time to rest, being that close to you. I figured wrong."

"Me, too. Had a tough time recovering today, even with the sun."

The waitress shows up and sets the waffles down. Asks if there'll be anything for my friend. I say no and she leaves.

"Maybe I wanted something."

"You can have whatever you want after I leave.” I sever a waffle and bite. Chase it with coffee. I should have eaten earlier, before the sun dipped too far. It's hard to swallow now. My stomach wants to reject everything other than the coffee. Liquids I can handle at night. "But we need to agree to terms."

"Fine, fine. Chase or wits?"

I take another bite, chew, and choke it down. Sip and think. I'm tired and getting colder as the sun fades. I don't want to run, but I know I'm not up for a battle of wits. Not tonight.

"Chase," I say.

"That's five in a row. You're not getting scared of my mental abilities, are you?"

"No, just tired.” I manage another bite before I put the fork down and push the plate away. Managed to finish one whole waffle. Should have eaten earlier.

"You done with that?"

I nod. "I'm in the gulf."

He looks out the window. "Still some rays left."

"I'm in the gulf."

He holds his hands up. "Won't argue with you. I guess you know your body better than anyone."

We sit there, silent. He taps his fingers on the table. I stare out at the last dying rays of light. Another cycle about to start. In the kitchen, a plate shatters.

"Might as well write down the particulars.” He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a beat-up Moleskine. Cracks it open to the middle and clicks a ball point. "What's the fucking date today?"

"Twelfth. Do you know the month?"

"Yes, I know the damn month.” He jots down the date. "Pensacola. Chase. Re—what name are you going by now?"

"You wrote it down yesterday."

"You change it every other day."

"Ray."

"Ray still?"

"Ray, still."

"I liked Regis better."

"I don't look like a Regis.” I motion to my olive skin, even though it's paling as the sun sets. "You?"

"Still Papa."

"You need to change it."

"You say that every night."

"You need to change it. It's stale and dumb."

"No, it's not. And when I eventually win this game, I'll get to ask—"

"Who’s your daddy? I know. You've death-gripped that joke for a long time."

Papa smiles and closes the Moleskine, slips it back into his jacket with his pen. He looks out the window at the orange sky. "Not much longer now."

"Nope."

He points at the waffle. "You won't mind if I finish that, right?"

"Help yourself."

He pulls the plate to him and grabs a clean fork. "Take off."

I nod and tip an imaginary cap to him. "Be seeing you."

I climb out of the booth. Legs feel like rubber. Should have slept more and eaten earlier. This was going to be a long night.

I pull a twenty out of my wallet but Papa waves me off. "I got this one."

"Thanks.” Slip my wallet back in my jeans and head for the door.

 

* * *

 

I’m an hour down the road, west of Pensacola. Somewhere between Mobile and Pascagoula. I want to be farther away, want to have more distance between us, but an accident slows evening traffic to a crawl on Mobile Bay.

I consider getting off the 10. Maybe take side streets and do parallels and nineties all night. Wear his ass out on traffic lights and back alleys. But I don't. Too easy to get bottled up in a dead end. Too easy to end up choked off with no escape. Staying on the interstate provides multiple lanes and highway connectors and numerous exits. Exits are escape routes. Never ever underestimate the power of an escape route.

And never ever underestimate the importance of distance. More is always better than less in this game. Looking up in the rearview every few seconds, I know I'm not on the side of better.

For a second I wish I chose wits. The second passes, though, and I know I made the right call. There is no way I'd win wits.

Because there are no escape routes when battling wits. Not with him.

He knows all the tricks, and I don't have the mental capabilities I once had. This is his playground, and I'm just a tourist. A constant tourist. One who's tired.

I don't engage anymore. I've let my wits atrophy. I replaced them with fear. I was lucky to get away last week. Used a turn of phrase to win. Never again.

Enough.

Check the rearview again. Not much traffic behind me. A few sets of headlights, mostly trucks hauling freight. Not him. Not yet.

But he's coming. He always comes. And I always run.

The minutes pass. The miles pass. Mississippi passes. I'm in Louisiana. I'm tired. I'm weak. My attention drifts. Still a few headlights behind me, but not him. Not yet.

On the bridge spanning the Atchafalaya Swamp. Too dark to see anything below. Like flying over the abyss. But I can smell it, damp and stagnant. Eternal yet ever-changing.

And not enough exits.

I see the headlights.

Coming fast.

Him.

Not much else to do but smirk because this is my fault. He stayed far enough back not to be noticed and waited until I made it onto the two-lane causeway. No real shoulders. A few turn-offs and U-turns, but, for the most part, nothing but a straight line for eighteen miles. Eighteen miles of bridge and swamp and the two of us along with a few others. At least there won’t be many casualties this time.

The lights close to within two car lengths but no closer. He's matching my speed, daring me to move first. My Challenger has enough horses to do some damage, but nothing compared to what his heavily-modified Shelby can do.

I can't outrun him.

I can't out-muscle him.

And I'm too weak to outsmart him.

Well, what the hell does that leave?

My smirk broadens into a full-fledged grin.

Easy. Piss him off.

Check my speed. A nice and legal sixty-five. Perfect.

Then I slam on the brakes.

I watch in the rearview as the bright reds illuminate his surprised face. I hear the screech of his own rubber as he does the same. Swerves right to avoid me. I anticipate and swerve right with him, forcing him to reverse hard over to the left. Don't know how, but he misses my back bumper and narrowly avoids the left rail of the bridge. I accelerate, pushing up to seventy and then eighty before re-sighting him.

Shit. He's recovered fast. Already corrected and closing.

We've done this too many times.

I look ahead. No signs for exits or turnabouts. No land between east and west sections of the bridge. It's just us, racing.

He stays directly behind me, about eight car lengths. He won't make the same mistake twice. Instead, he matches my speed, comfortable to stay in pursuit mode.

What's his game? Is he baiting me into something? Or is he just bored and trying to drag this out all night?

I look over on the passenger seat. The cardboard box sits there. In it, a .45, an Uzi and a couple of grenades. Don't want to use either gun. Hell, I can't, not with him behind me. He knows that. I'd love to use the grenades, especially since there's no traffic on the bridge, but I don't want to cause damage to the bridge and end up killing someone by accident later. I wonder if a grenade would really do all that much damage to reinforced concrete. I doubt it.

I save it for later and look back to the rearview. Still right where I left him.

Up ahead in the right lane, taillights. Small, round ones. Hard to tell what kind of car. A few more seconds and I realize it's the back of a semi hauling a trailer.

An engine roars.

Not mine.

His.

He's deduced my plan before I could put form to it. He knows, damn it.

Before I can hit the left lane and blow by the semi, he's parallel to me, pinning me behind the truck and blocking me from any maneuver.

Except slamming on the brakes.

But he knows that, too. That's why he's got a Glock raised and pointed at my head. For some reason I notice his passenger window's down. Like he had planned it all along to go this way.

Before I can put the brake pedal through the floor, he's firing.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

The first hits my driver side window, turning the safety glass into a mosaic. The second shatters it and hits my left deltoid. I keep my left hand on the wheel and my right on the emergency brake.

The brake pedal turns to mush and he's flying by me. Ready to yank up on the emergency and flipped this bitch one-eighty and incinerate asphalt in the opposite direction, but not before the third bullet hits below my left arm. It tears through my armpit and hits something. Pieces of shrapnel head south toward my lungs, toward my heart.

I wish I was strong enough to bite down and bear it, but I've never been that way. Instead, I scream and jerk the wheel right-left-right. Fight hard not to lose control. Blink away tears. The reds of the semi's lights blur and I hear him downshift. See him pull up alongside me again. He readies to fire again.

I let go of the emergency brake. Death-grip one of the grenades. Pop the pin free with my thumb and chuck it. I don't look before I throw. I don't have to. I know I've got him.

I accelerate, hitting fifth gear fast. In the rearview he swerves and rear-ends the semi. The driver's door pops open and he’s rolling hard on the asphalt. The Shelby makes it another twenty feet before turning the swamp orange and yellow.

No cheering. No fist pumping. Because even though he's on foot now, he's still coming. And I'm bleeding and hurting. And it’s a long time until sunrise.

As I cough blood and fight to keep my eyes open, I realize for the first time in a long time I might not make it. For the first time in a long time, he can afford to wait and see. For the first time in a long time, I may be fucked.

 

* * *

 

Coughing blood. Left eye closed. Right hand barely gripping the wheel. I pulled off the I-10 hours ago out of fear of being pulled over for driving too slow. Out of fear he would catch up and finish my ass off.

Reaching Baton Rouge, I took side roads. Back roads. Empty roads. Anything where I could drive twenty-five and not attract attention. Neighborhoods. Business parks. I didn't fear him in this territory. I only feared missing sunrise.

At five in the morning, I hit the road again, taking the 49 toward Shreveport. Good open country. Lots of tall grass and wetlands. Lots of nothing.

Spit blood on the passenger side seat. It's never been occupied as long as I've owned it, so no foul. Stare hard down the road, willing the first rays of light to crest the lowland and illuminate a path of salvation. When they don't come, I turn and gaze east, almost crying. Starting to wonder if this is it, if this is the end, if I've finally lost this game. I haven't been in this position in a long, long time and it starts to sink in that this might be it. The end.

Then the orange-yellow creeps over the horizon. The first indication the new day arrives. I swerve right and pull off onto the shoulder. Kill the engine, yank the key, and hoist myself out with my right hand, keeping my left arm pinned to my ribs, not wanting to tear any scabs or stop any clots.

I shut the door and stumble down a berm, away from the interstate. It's a field. A pasture. Hell, I don't know. It's open land. And the further east I go, the sooner the light will hit me. So I plod. I trudge. I trip several times, hoping I'll somehow fall into the newborn light.

Then I find a rock. Long, flat, about a foot off the ground. My mind screams Ancient altar! But I don't care. It's there. Whether for me or not, I don't know. Will never know.

The rays are almost here and I can't go any further. So I strip off my shirt, toss it and lay on the rock. The cool, moist surface soothes my back and sends instant chills from my head to my heels. But I ignore it because this is it. Either I'm done or I'm not. Either it's all over or it’s not.

The rays come. I feel them creeping, radiating off the blades of grass as they’re illuminated. Then up the side of the rock as the evaporation cycle begins, clearing the rock of its night-borne moisture. Then my right arm. Instantly, I feel the warmth, the renewal, the embrace. It spreads across my chest to my left side. I lift my arm, exposing the near-mortal wound, and allow the life-giver to do its work.

I'm safe. I'm going to make it. He can't touch me now.

Then I pass out.

 

* * *

 

—salt air is thick on the wind coming from the horizon. The waves lap the hull, hard spraying mist over the sides, but I plow on toward the first rays of light, clutching the horizontal slash across my stomach, pushing hard to keep my intestines from spilling on the deck.

Not much longer.

I cast a quick glance over my shoulder, see him several boat lengths behind. Impossible to make up the difference. He knows it. The look on his face says as much. Then he answers me by spitting and turning and disappearing below decks.

Turn back to the eastern horizon. The first rays emerge from the sea. Then curve of the orange dome. Tears fill my eyes. I drop to my knees and flop on my side and let the—

 

* * *

 

"Mister, you okay?"

My eyes flutter. I blink back the sudden rush of light. The sun is high above in a cloudless sky. An egret circles to the left.

"Mister?"

I sit up, exhaling the whole way. Check the wounds. Good to go.

Turn to my right. A boy, no more than eight, stands there. Local for sure. Farmer's kid.

"Yeah, I'm good."

"That your shirt?"

"Yeah."

"That your car?"

I look to the road and see two punks peering in the windows. Another has already popped the hood and stares at the engine as if he knows what the hell he's looking at.

"Yeah. Those your brothers?"

"Shit, no. They a couple punk bitches that like to scavenge around here. Always bugging my Pa."

"Scavenge?"

"You know, steal shit out of broke down cars and pick up shit that falls off trucks. That kind of shit."

"You say shit a lot, kid.”

He chews on his lip and looks down. “My Pa says it a lot. Guess I do, too. Ma hates it, but what's she gonna do. She's in a wheelchair and me and Pa do all the work."

I nod. "I don't care."

"Well, shit. Just trying to help."

"Thanks. Now run along."

"What you gonna do to them?"

I hit the kid with double-barrel eyes. "Run along."

It works. He sprints off parallel to the freeway then banks left into the pasture toward a house half a mile away.

I return my attention to the punks. They've taken no notice of me. Maybe they haven't seen me at all. That's about to change.

I push off the rock, grab my shirt and walk. No wobbles. No dizziness. Full of strength. Energy. As if last night never happened.

"Step away from my car," I say as I climb out of the shallow ditch on the side of the shoulder.

The teenagers peering through the windows, both brunettes and about the same age, pop up, caught red-handed, and swivel toward me. Their eyes are a little wide. Different colors. The one on my right has brown eyes, the one on the left has blue, but their faces are similar enough to give them away as brothers. Same father, different mothers. They still live with the father. I can smell his two packs a day and cheap whiskey on them like a stain painted on their souls.

The boy under the hood doesn't pop up like his buddies. Instead, he sighs loud, and straightens up slowly. Grabs the hood and shuts it. Puts his knuckles on it. Sighs again and then turns around, wearing a big, shit-eating grin like it’s part of his face. Like it's been there since he was born.

By that point I'm about six feet directly behind him. Hands at my sides. With my shirt and jacket on, they can't tell if I'm carrying or not.

"Your car," the apparent leader says. "Can you prove that?"

"I don't have to prove a damn thing.” Pat my pocket where the keys are. "It's mine."

"You got a lot of firepower in there, mister. I think the sheriff might say it's his car now."

"Is that what you were going to do?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you were going to be a good citizen and call the sheriff and alert him to a car on the side of the road full of grenades and automatic weapons and a sawed-off shotgun on the back floor?” I make a slight motion to my waistline. "And whatever isn't in there?"

He looks at my waist, at the space behind the flap of my jacket and my belt. He can't see, but he smiles as if he can see through the jacket. "I'm calling your bluff. Show it."

"Why don't you boys just run along? Let me get in my car and go. I'll even give you the sawed-off."

"Why take a scatter gun when we can take it all?" he asks. "And I even like the car."

The other two come around and join their leader, standing at his sides. They're still a bit nervous but they'll follow his lead.

I lick my lips and tap my fingers together. Here comes the hard part.

"Do what you got to do. But you're not leaving with the car or its contents."

"We'll see about that."

He steps forward and swings an overhead right. I see it coming in slow motion but make no move to dodge it.

The next moment, I'm on my right knee, blinking spots away. He's standing over me, right fist cocked, smiling. And he hammers down into my left cheekbone and temple.

I blink more spots away. Look back up at him. Get down on both knees and raise my chin at him

The other two look more nervous than before, unsettled, but the leader's not phased. Not one bit. He's digging it.

Three more punches in rapid succession: right-left-right. My head flies in the opposite direction with each hit only to be course-corrected by the following punch.

Then I lift my chin up and gaze at the leader. The smile has disappeared. His fist is cocked but it's shaking. Unsure. So unsure what to do now.

I've seen this many times before.

"You need to go now," I say. "Before I lose my patience."

The punk on my left grabs the leader by his cocked arm. "Come on, man. This dude's nuts."

"He ain't shit," the leader says, but his eyes don't match his tough words.

"He ain't bleeding, man," the punk on my right says. "Doesn't even look like you hit him."

"Your friend’s right," I say to the leader. "You can't hurt me."

"Bullshit, anyone can be hurt."

"True. There's one who can hurt me. But that person isn't you."

"You’re crazy," he says, lowering his fist, trying to save face.

"You'll never know what I am. Or what I do every night for you."

"Huh?"

"Go."

The other two grab the leader and pull him away toward a raised Ram crew cab. They climb in and spin the back tires and haul ass.

I remain kneeling for a moment, thinking about what I just said. What I do every night for you. It makes my stomach sour for two reasons. One, most guys like that don't deserve what I do. And two, everyone else does. But it's the few that tempt me, that make it real hard to keep going.

I spit and rise and shrug it off.

Won't be the last time.

So I climb in and continue on my way.

 

* * *

 

I stop in Texas. Grab a room at a La Quinta. Scarf down a couple cheeseburgers before racking out. Alarm's set for five. Figure I’d get a solid nap, wake up, grab a few more burgers and meet up with him again. Settle the terms for the evening. I won't let what happened last night happen again. Not two nights in a row.

The alarm goes off. Smack it and sit up. Feeling good. Feeling a hell of a lot better than I did yesterday around this time.

That was my mistake. I didn't get enough rest, didn't get enough food, and then fell into the gulf. He almost had my dumb, lazy ass.

Not tonight.

Hell, I might even choose wits.

I shower and shave, take deeps breaths of the lingering steam. Feel really good.

The phone rings.

I freeze, staring at it in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. Sitting next to the bed. Ring-ring-ring.

Him.

I walk over and pick it up and say, "You're either tired or lost."

"I'm in Shreveport."

"So you're tired and have some distance to make up."

"Well, you destroyed my car and left me in the middle of that fucking bridge. Wasn't a fun night. Put it that way."

I sit on the edge of the bed. "No nights off, you know that."

"Thank you Captain Obvious. That's why I'm calling."

"What?"

"I want to get a few more hours sleep, so I was hoping we could just settle the terms now. Figure you choose chase and I say okay and you take off and I go back to lovely dreamland for a while. You get a nice big head start on top of the lead you already have, and I get my rest."

I cradle the phone and pull on my jeans. "Sounds like a win-win."

"There you go, a win-win. All you got to do is say it and I'll write it down."

"But I'll have to eat dinner alone."

"I'm sure you'll be okay."

I pull on my boots. "I don't know…"

"Come on, don't be an asshole."

I check my watch. Almost six. Tuck my gun in the small of my back. Listen to him breathe another few seconds. He's beat and I feel good. Fuck being chased.

"Wits," I say.

He laughs. I think it's annoyed laughter at first, but then my stomach drops. There's something else there. Something almost sinister.

"You're so damn predictable. It's almost like I know you better than I know myself."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing. It's what you did."

"What are you talking about? What did I do?"

"You chose wits. And you've already lost."

I drop the phone and bolt for the door. I open it and expect to find fire falling from the sky. The earth opening up and swallowing every living thing. The sun exploding.

Instead, I find him. Standing there. Grinning.

And then he punches me with a right cross that could crack a mountain. I fall back, hit the bed and drop to my ass. Clutch my nose. Broken, erupting blood.

He walks in and shuts the door behind him. Removes his sunglasses and sets them on the end table. Slides his jacket it off and drops it on the bed.

"You've broken protocol," I say and cough on blood. Spit. "You've broken the rules."

"Bullshit, I won."

"How? We haven't battled wits and you haven't given chase. I chose wits, you bastard."

"I know, and I outwitted you."

"At what point did that occur?"

"I lured you into a false sense of confidence. You believed I was exhausted, not mentally up for the challenge, but I was. I was right out there the whole time and you never caught on. I outflanked you. I won."

"That's not a battle of wits, you soft-headed ape. You tricked me and then assaulted me. You've won nothing.” I look around the room for a second. "In fact, I'd say you forfeited the contest tonight."

"How so?"

"Because we're still here. Everything is still here."

He furrows his brow and looks around the room, too. Goes over to the window and looks outside. Then back to me. "Shit."

"Grab me a towel."

He heads to the bathroom, returns with a hand towel, tosses it in my lap. I press it against my nose.

"Open the blinds."

"Why?"

"Just do it."

He does.

The last bits of the days light flood in, hitting me right in the face. I drop the towel and let the sun do its thing.

"I've never seen this before."

"I know."

He takes a seat and stares in awe. "Does it itch or tickle?"

"No. Feels warm."

I touch my nose. Wiggle it. Right as rain. I wipe the rest of the blood from my face and mouth and then drop the towel and climb up on the bed. Sit and look at him. A lot of firsts today.

"So now what?" he asks.

I shrug. "Got me. This is new ground."

He looks around the room like an answer might present itself. "Well, you're alive, everything's fine outside and I'm in no way feeling the drive to chase or battle wits."

I sigh, searching my emotions, looking for that unimaginable burning to run when I choose chase. Or that concrete desire to hold my ground and level him when I choose wits. Neither are there. Anywhere. It's like I'm completely empty.

"This is weird," he says.

"Yeah."

"It's like…I'm hollow or something."

"Yeah."

"So this is what it feels like."

"What's that?"

"When people bitch about not having a purpose in life."

I smirk. "I guess you could say that."

He drums his finger on the small desk. "There's got to be a consequence to this."

I scratch my head and think about that. "You mean a price to pay for not following the rules?"

"If there isn't, what's the point of our nightly game? No consequence, no reason for us to exist."

"It would all be meaningless.” My stomach sours at the thought. The punk from earlier flashes white hot across my memory. All the shit I put up with, have put up with, endured, suffered, for guys like him, would have been for nothing. Unless there was a consequence.

I grab the remote control from the end table and flick on the TV. Scan the channels.

"What are you looking for?" he asks.

"The price."

"Is right?"

"No, the consequence."

"I don't—"

He stops when I land on CNN. Breaking news. A massive earthquake has just hit southern California. Flapping heads talk about "the big one."

"Well," he says. "There you go. Now we know what happens."

I scan the news ticker at the bottom. Explosions, collapsed overpasses, buildings shaken to dust. All because he decided to play his dumb trick on me. Sadly, the monster earthquake makes me feel a hell of a lot better than I did a second ago. It's nice to know my existence isn't meaningless.

"I got a bottle of Wild Turkey in my room," he says. "Want I should get it?"

"Yep," I say. "That'll do."

 

* * *

 

He sits at the desk. I lay on the bed. We both drink Wild Turkey from plastic cups.

“Why do you do it?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean why do you do it?”

I think about the assholes I’ve dealt with over the years. “Because I’m supposed to. It’s kind of my reason for existing, you know.”

“Yeah, but you see how these people are these days. They’re going to wipe themselves out before I ever plant you in the ground.”

“Possibly, but we play the game until that happens.”

“You could always quit. Let me do away with you. Then it’d all be taken care of.”

“Trust me, I’ve thought about it on more than one occasion.”

He sighs. Sips. “So why not do it then?”

“You’ve already asked this question and the answer hasn’t changed. Because I’m supposed to.”

“There’s got be something else there. I mean, yes, this is what we do. This is who we are. But they have changed so much. Hell, they haven’t sacrificed to us in who knows how long. It’s not unfair to think maybe our game should end because, brother, I’m pretty damn tired of playing it.”

“I’m tired, too, but we keep playing. The darkness won’t prevail.”

He smiles. Winks. “We’ll see about that tomorrow, I guess.”

 

* * *

 

We kill the bottle. He heads out around three in the morning. He stands in the doorway, back to me.

“It’s weird,” he says.

“What’s that?”

“Well, we’ve never gone a night just hanging out.”

“True.”

“Even when it’s wits I usually storm off in a fit of rage and kill some people.”

“You don’t have to storm off and kill anyone.”

“Hey, that’s how I take out my frustration. Losing to you every night for eons is a damn bit frustrating, if you know what I mean.”

“Weird, I’d thought you’d be conditioned to it by now.”

He turns to me. Smirks. “Fuck you.”

“Sure thing.”

“Where do you want to meet tomorrow?”

“The front-desk lady kept talking about a diner in the next town. We can meet there.”

“Let me know when you get the name of the place.”

“Will do. Off to bed?”

“Nah. I don’t sleep while it’s dark. Too much energy. I’ll probably go find a whore. Fuck her and kill her.”

I wince. “You have sex with them?”

He shrugs. “It’s something to do. Mostly, I just kill them.”

“You don’t have to.”

“It’s my nature, remember. Got to feed the snake.”

“Right.”

“See you tomorrow.”

He closes the door.

I stare at the ceiling, pretty sure this will never happen again.

 

* * *

 

The name of the place is the Yellow Rose Diner and Fill Station. Basically, your run-of-the-mill food stop on the asshole edge of nowhere, but the coffee’s decent.

The sun dips low, painting the town in shades of sepia. The air is still and dense, like mounting tension. Like the whole place might explode at any moment.

Then again, maybe it’s just the diner. Has a weird feeling to it. Darkness. Like when I’m around him. A type of darkness that wants you to hang around just long enough to see you dead.

The bell above the door jingles.

I look up to see him.

He sees me. Approaches.

“How’s the food?” he asks, dropping into the chair across from me.

“I’ve had better.”

He looks at my empty plate. “Doesn’t seem to have prevented you from eating it all.”

“I learned from the other night. No way I’m entering the gulf without a full stomach.”

The waitress arrives. I ask for a refill on the coffee. He orders country fried steak, a side of Texas toast and a coffee of his own.

“So, anyway,” he says, “after I left you last night—”

I hold up my hands. “I don’t want to hear about what you did to some poor whore.”

“It’s not like that.”

“We’ve got to settle the terms for the evening.”

“Fine, but then can I tell you what happened?”

“I guess.”

He pulls out his pen and Moleskin. “Okay, what’ll it be?”

“Chase,” I say.

He writes it down, along with our names, the date and the location. Puts the pen and Moleskin back in his jacket.

“So, last night I pick up this really young whore and take her back to the room. Do my thing. Set her up nice and good for the kill. But the whole time she’s blabbering about her kid and how she doesn’t want to lose it. How she wants to live.”

“This is not what I want to hear.”

“But this you do. I didn’t kill her.”

I blink. “What?”

“I didn’t kill her. I let her go and took off before the cops showed up.”

“Why?”

The waitress returns with his food and the coffee. When she leaves, he says, “Because I’m tired of it. All of it.”

I sit back, eyeing him. Wondering what this was all about. I sip coffee and think maybe this is wrong. There’s some kind of con here.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he says around bites of chicken fried steak. “The monster is all of the sudden a softy?”

“Something like that.”

He nods. “I get it, man. The thing is, it’s true. I didn’t want to kill her and so I didn’t. Got me thinking a lot.”

“I bet.” Still don’t feel good about this.

“Got me thinking how you’re a lot like them.”

“How’s that?”

“You’ll never quit.”

“Oh, humans are pretty damn good at quitting.”

“Sure, on an individual and societal level, but they will not quit living. These monkeys should have died long ago. Yet here they are, persisting, because here you are, persisting.”

I shake my head. “Wonderful. You’ve finally figured out they’re around because I’m around.”

“No, I figured out how to win.”

For some reason, I swear everything has gone quiet and the entire universe is listening to us.

“You see,” he says, “last night I got it all backwards. Tricked you, as you put it. But I also learned it doesn’t have to be chase or wits. It can be both.”

I feel sweat breaking out on my forehead. “What have you done, Apophis?” It’s the first time I’ve used his real name in thousands of years.

He sips coffee. “What never occurred to me. Why not end you by ending myself?”

He opens his jacket enough to show me the explosives taped to his torso. My eyes bulge, moving from them to his smiling face. He closes the jacket.

“The moment you get up from this table and move away, I will follow. And then we all go boom. So, who’s your daddy?”

I shake my head. “No, this isn’t right.”

“Relax, it’ll all be over soon.”

“This isn’t a chase.”

“It is, and it’s finally over.”

“This can’t be—”

“You knew it would end someday, Ra. It can’t last forever. These humans have had their time.”

I blink tears, looking at the souls around me. Them, all of them, about to blink out of existence.

“I kind of like this place,” he says, looking around the diner. “Has a certain feel to it.”

I look from the people and back to him, staring, pleading.

“One last sunset.” He shakes his head, eating more of his food. “Enjoy the coffee.”

The darkness pushes in. Enveloping me, the world, as the sun disappears over the horizon. The life giver. Life. All of it. Gone.

“You know what?” he asks. “I’m going to miss fried food. Well, that and the booze.”

The long bright descent.

In the end, the darkness prevails.

 

 

 

 

Erik Williams is a former naval officer and current defense contractor (but he’s not allowed to talk about it). He is the author of the novels Demon and Guardian from The Fallen Series, and Bigfoot Crank Stomp, as well as numerous works of short fiction.

His world is paper and ink. He writes, he edits and he writes again.

He currently lives in San Diego with his wife and three daughters.