Rust

The letter didn't interest Bal so much as the fact that it even got to him in the first place.

"You are not an easy man to find," said the DSL driver, picking twigs out of his pant legs. "Never had to deliver to GPS coordinates before. Somebody must have really wanted you to have this, sending it all the way out here."

"Ah," said Bal, regarding the letter in his hands, an off-white envelope sealed in wax. "I don't have any cash or I'd..."

"Can't take tips anyway, so no worries," said the deliveryman. "Besides, I get the impression this whole set-up cost a pretty penny to start. You have a nice day."

Bal nodded and closed the door. He knew who the letter was from. He even knew what it said, but he opened it anyway, holding out some vain, foolish hope it might mean something else. But no. It was Trace. It was time for another contest.

His first instinct was to tear the paper in two and throw it in the fire. But then Elizabeth's face came to him. She and her curly auburn hair and amber eyes, flecked all through with silver and violet.

The last of them. His grandchild, eight generations removed. The last of the line he'd started with Ellie Cole in the foothills of Tennessee, all those lifetimes ago. Back before he knew any better.

Why did it take so long to figure it out? he asked himself. Was there ever a slower learner than me?

They'd all died. All the lines - and he'd started so many. More than Bal cared to count. The mathematical improbability was not lost on him.

"We're meant to be alone," Gwen had explained to him, so many centuries before. "You can try and deny it. You can try and fight it. But in the end, that's where you'll be - alone."

Bal re-read the sprawling cursive of the letter. And as always, the first prize is death, it read, before adding just below, (Sorry folks, the rest of you have to live.)

It was a joke. A cruel, cruel joke.

And yet, it was the only hope Bal had.

_______________________________________________

There were more than even Bal might have guessed. Three hundred, at least. Four hundred? Bal laughed. Of course. Why should he be the only one to feel what he felt? They had all watched thousands of blood kin die. Lovers. Children. All dead. Of course they would chase Trace's prize. Of course.

Trace, for her part, seemed more pleased with herself than ever. She swaggered across the stage of the rented auditorium, soaking it in.

"So many? So many." Her voice echoed even without a microphone. She had long ago learned how to speak with volume. "Is it so bad, this living? So bad? I like it. I like it quite a lot actually. I wonder...hmm. I wonder if maybe you all simply aren't appreciating things the way you should. Is it that? Is it that, you think?"

She paused as if waiting for someone to actually respond. No one took the bait. "Maybe death isn't what you need. Maybe it's appreciation. Huh? What do you think of that? What if we do a contest and the winner learns to appreciate life just a little bit more? There's a prize. There's a prize. I like that. What do you say?"

Bal was surprised to find himself standing up. "Fuck off, Trace. Tell us the rules and let's move on."

Bal reclaimed his seat to a chorus of loud assent. Trace frowned. "You know...you know, I don't have to have these little contests at all. You know that, right? This is for you, you miserable little crybabies. This is for you!"

A woman near the door - her name was Tila and Bal remembered her in Rome with olive leaves in her hair - stood up and began to walk out. Everyone made to follow her.

"Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine, you big babies," sneered Trace. "Come back. I'll tell you the rules. Come on. Sit, sit, sit. Sit down. Impatient. Alright, we've had some fun contests in the past, haven't we? Feats of strength and skills and tenacity and all that rubbish. Well, for this contest, I'd like to challenge another one of your skills. One you've all no doubt been finely honing over the years. Your skill as manipulators."

This caused a low murmur to spread through the auditorium.

"You know it's true," said Trace. "Comes from spending so much time with humans. I know you all know how to get what you want. So here's what I want. I want you...to convince someone...to kill someone else...on your behalf."

The murmur turned to an uproar.

"I thought we agreed we'd never have to kill anyone with these damn contests," shouted a man sitting in the back.

"You aren't," said Trace, holding up her hands. "Someone else is doing the killing for you. And - AND - I don't mean contract killing. That's killing for money. I want someone to kill someone else because they think it will make you happy. I want you to make someone love you so much they're willing to kill for you - and then actually do it! How wonderful! Now that's living! Am I right? I'm right. I know I am."

There was more yelling and more furious discussion, but Bal didn't hear any of it. He'd already left the auditorium.

_______________________________________

Seven months later, Bal met Rachel in the rust-colored canyonland of Utah. She was lost. He was not.

"How do you know this place so well?" huffed Rachel, as she followed Bal through a graveyard of narrow crags.

"Just time," said Bal. "Enough time, you can figure out every place. Anywhere."

"You talk like you're a hundred years old. Are you a vampire or something?"

Bal laughed. "Pretty sunny for a vampire."

"Well, maybe someday I'll come back here and you can show me how to reach that ridge without getting lost and almost dying out here."

"I can show you how to reach the ridge. Not dying's your business."

Rachel snorted. "What a progressive gentleman. I admire your willingness to let me kill myself."

"I'm just trying to keep you for developing any unhealthy co-dependencies," said Bal, shielding his smile with his canteen.

"And here I thought you seemed like the perfect kinda guy to depend on."

They slept together that night. Bal could tell it was going to happen and couldn't bring himself to stop it. He didn't realize quite how much he'd missed that kind of contact - that kind of connection. Falling asleep, he swore he would wake early and leave and never see her again, but he didn't and he couldn't. And breakfast turned to dinner, just as weekends turned to weeks, and weeks turned to months.

Bal blinked and he was in love. What's worse, so was Rachel.

He reminded himself of his losses. He saw all of their faces, though many were faded and indistinct. He knew what it felt like to lose them. And yet he could not disentangle himself from Rachel. He could not walk back from the cliff he was now living on.

He began to forget. Not the faces, but the pain. He let himself forget.

They moved in together. Bal went back to the cabin to gather what few things of value he possessed and found Trace's letter. He wondered who had won and allowed himself a small moment of self-congratulations for refusing to participate. And in that moment he remembered that someday Rachel would not be there. It made him wonder when the next contest would be held and whether or not he would want to participate then...

Time passed and they were happy. Rachel hinted at what came next, forcing Bal to make a choice. It was not an easy choice.

"I can't," he said. "I just...I can't. I wish I could explain it, but...children would just..."

"It's okay," Rachel said. "It's okay. I can see it in your eyes. You don't need to explain it. I can it see."

She did understand and she never brought it up again.

They were engaged.

They were married.

Bal worried about the coming years, when Rachel would age and he would not. He'd never done this - not in a digital age. Not in a world of pictures and data backups. How would he do it? When could he tell her the truth?

One day Rachel looked pale. "Don't worry. I'm going to the doctor," she said. Bal offered to go, but she went on her own, saying it was nothing. Really. Nothing.

An hour later, or maybe two, there was a knock on the door.

Bal answered and stood, confused.

"Why? Why are you here?"

Trace let herself in. "For tea and coffee cake? For polite conversation?" She wheeled around and grinned. "You won, you idiot! You stupid, stupid man. You are the big winner. First prize! Gold medal! Yay for you!"

Bal remained at the door. "I wasn't in the contest. I...I left."

"You came," said Trace. "So...you entered. And, after an exceedingly long time, you, fair Bal, have won. And I have come to deliver your prize."

"No," said Bal, still at the door. "I didn't enter. I haven't entered. And besides, Rachel hasn't killed anyone. And certainly not for me."

"No? Not for you?" Trace pulled a simple silver dagger out from her bodice. "I beg to differ. In fact, the deed was done not 35 minutes ago. Sorry for the delay, by the way. Finishing my shows."

"What?" said Bal, frozen in place. "Who?"

"Well, no one you've met," said Trace. "And no one you ever will meet. But she definitely did it for you. For her love. Because she saw how much it was going to hurt you. How much it caused you pain. So she cut the pain away. What a woman, right?"

"No," whispered Bal. "I wasn't playing."

"We're all playing," said Trace, stepping forward with the dagger. "All the time. It's all a game. But now, it seems your turn is over. Thanks for playing!"

Then she stabbed him. And Bal felt it. Felt it in ways he'd never felt a stabbing or a gun shot before. He felt it. Blood rushed out, replaced by nothing. Bal fell to the floor and bled and bled.

On careful tip-toes, Trace stepped over the body and out into the street.

Sometime later, Rachel returned, looking ill and sad and so, so tired.

They say her screams were heard as far as four blocks away.