Only a Game (Olympus Drive Chronicles)

Chapter 80: One year later

Teddy

"What---who the hell are you?"

"Hi," I say, leaning back causally in the back seat of the truck. We're a few hundred miles from the nearest town, at a rest stop. It's dark out. The only light comes from flickering street lights on the highway.

"Who the fuck are you?" the man turns around in the front seat, menacingly, "How did you get in my car?"

"You know when the police started finding bodies pounded into the ground I figured had to be a cryptid right---?"

"You—you're that British kid, from the internet---if this is one of your crackpot theories---"

"---I mean who would take the time to actually bash their victim into a paste, and then bury 'em? Lotta work right?"

"I'm calling the police---"

"What I failed to take into account was what sick, sick people you Americans are, complete offense—"

"Okay you creepy little fuck—I'm going to call 911 if you don't get the fuck out of my car."

"Oh go ahead. And while you do, you might want to preparing to explain the mallet in the bed of this truck. I know it wasn't there when you left. You left it at your cabin. But the police won't believe that when it's sitting there in your truck bed. And me, your next murder victim, frightened and confused," I say, shrugging, "Go ahead and check."

He comes back holding a shotgun, getting in the front seat and pointing a shotgun at me, "What the fuck do you want?"

"A confession, right now, on this tape I'm about to edit," I say, holding up my iPhone which has been recording this encounter. "A nice confession and the location of the bodies of your other victims. And I break the story and you go to the police like a good little boy."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because, then, you'll be alive," I say, calmly.

He racks the shotgun.

"I'll take that as a no," I say, snapping my fingers.

The windshield shatters and the man is dragged out of it, screaming. I watch emotionlessly as blood sprays across me and the back seat of the truck, peppering my blue flannel with dark stains. I wait until the screaming stops to get out of the truck, peeling off the unseemly leather gloves. I end the recording. I'll edit out the screaming. Edit in a confession. A good night's work.

The End