The Great Game

He was in a cabin. A shack, really. It was in the upper reaches of the most isolated mountain in the range, surrounded by old-growth forest whose nearest interactions with humankind were sporadic flyovers by distant jets. Nothing and no one were within a hundred miles of the site.

On a spindly, three-legged table on the dirt floor was an ancient Bakelite telephone. The cord was a frazzled stub jutting into the air.

It was ringing.

After four months, he gave in. He lifted the receiver and held it to his ear with a trembling hand.

"Tag," said the voice.

Inevitable

Huitzo sat down in front of the red pieces. "Coal before fire," he said.

His opponent gestured with an idle claw. "Blood before bile."

"Oh." Huitzo stared at the board. The twelve checkers were arrayed in neatly offset rows.

"They solved this game, you know," said the demon. "Checkers is a series of binary options, each decision leading to two further possibilities, until you reach the end and your only choice is to go back the way you came. Every one of those outcomes is completely mapped, now."

Huitzo pushed a piece forward.

"That's the wrong move," said the demon.