Bad Games

70



Patrick running through the woods. Someone is chasing him. He turns over his shoulder and sees a big man following close behind. The man is carrying a pitchfork in both hands and wearing a burlap sack with one eyehole over his head. A terror unlike anything Patrick has ever felt since childhood sweeps over him. He knows he cannot out-run his pursuer. He knows he will be caught. He knows that before he is killed the assailant will remove his hood and Patrick will see his face—the deformed face that haunted him throughout his childhood.

Patrick continues running anyway. In the distance, he sees an abandoned shed. He knows what’s inside. Knows the victims of his pursuer are inside, mutilated and decomposing. He knows that no matter what he does, he will join them soon.

He enters the shed anyway. The shed is lit with random candles, casting a flickering glow on a scene littered with corpses. Some are freshly killed with wide, lifeless eyes staring back at him. Some are gray and rotted, riddled with bugs.

He slams the shed door shut and hoists two fresh kills up against it in an attempt at a barricade. He takes several steps back, waiting for his pursuer to try and enter. He scans the shed, looking for a weapon.

There is a bang at the door. The pursuer is trying to shove it open; the fresh kills are making it difficult, buying him precious time. Patrick spots a machete by one of the candles. It is next to the body of a man with no head. He knows it’s a man by his clothes and the severed head inches from his torso. He was a fresh kill. The blood on the stump of the neck is wet. The eyes on the head are open and staring up at him. They start to blink when he grabs the machete. He cries out at the impossible absurdity of it, and they only blink faster.

Patrick turns to face the door. The banging has stopped. The man with the burlap sack and pitchfork is no longer at the door. He’s somewhere though. He’s close by— somewhere outside, looking for a way in. And he will get in. Patrick knows this. Knows it truer than anything.

His bowels are close to giving out; his bladder has already emptied. Patrick tightens his grip on the machete and takes another step back, away from the door. He steps on something. The tip of a boot. Someone is behind him.

Patrick spins and swings the machete. It slices into the man with the burlap sack’s shoulder. The heavy blade becomes stuck in its new meaty home, Patrick losing his grip in a failed attempt to jerk it free. The solitary eye through the eyehole grows wide, a pained moan is heard. He’s not dead. Because he can’t die. And he’s angry. Patrick’s death will now be far, far worse.

The man with the burlap sack pulls the machete from his shoulder and drops it to the floor with a clatter. He is still holding the pitchfork.

It’s time to die, Patrick thinks to himself. He is going kill me with that pitchfork and leave me here in this shed to rot. No one will ever find me.

But the man with the burlap sack doesn’t kill Patrick. Instead, he removes his hood. Patrick sees his face and screams.



* * *



Now it was Amy’s turn to look on with worry as the nurse rushed to her husband’s side. His care was no different than what she’d received after her nightmare, but unlike Amy, Patrick’s sheets needed changing.

Patrick stood and did not make eye contact with his wife as he walked to the bathroom. He closed the door behind him while the nurse stripped the bed. Amy was sure she heard her husband weeping behind the bathroom door. She started to cry too.