I had to move. The Charger was dead, and sitting there bleeding made me an easy target. Every movement was agony as I pushed open the mangled driver's door. My legs nearly buckled when I tried to stand, no thanks to the bullet wound in my thigh. Each breath felt like swallowing broken glass, my cracked ribs screaming in protest.

The highway had become a graveyard of twisted metal and flame. Burning patrol cars dotted the asphalt like funeral pyres, their emergency lights still weakly flashing through the smoke and rain. The fires cast writhing shadows across the wet asphalt, making every dark spot look like it might hide the Drifter’s lurking form. Pieces of my Charger's bodywork lay scattered across the road, leaving a trail of destruction that stretched into the darkness.

I limped toward the nearest wreck, one hand pressed against my side where the bullet had grazed me, the other gripping the stolen police pistol. The rain hammered down, mixing with the blood that ran down my face from my mangled ear. My vision swam, whether from blood loss or concussion, I couldn't tell. Probably both.

That laugh still echoed in my head. Or maybe it was real—in this nightmare realm, I couldn't be sure of anything anymore. The Drifter could materialize from any shadow, step out from behind any piece of wreckage. In my current state, I wouldn't last ten seconds against him. The thought made my skin crawl.

The heat from the nearest burning cruiser washed over me as I approached. The trunk had popped open in the crash, and I prayed there might be a Health Potion inside.

"Come on," I muttered, rifling through the scorched trunk with trembling hands. "Give me something."

Lightning flashed, and for a split second, I could have sworn I saw the Drifter's reflection in the cruiser's broken window. I spun around, gun raised, but there was nothing there—just rain and smoke and dancing shadows. My heart hammered against my broken ribs.

I just want to leave this place, I thought, closing my eyes for a second. I just want to get back to Annalise and Snuggles. I hope to hell they’re doing better than I am…

The Drifter was playing with me. He could be watching right now, enjoying my pain and fear, waiting for the perfect moment to step out of the darkness with that manic grin. Or maybe he was gone, really gone, which somehow felt worse. At least if I could see him coming, I'd know which direction to run.

If I could run at all.

There was nothing worth while in the trunk, so I went around to the front of the car and yanked open the driver’s side door. Inside was the bodies of two cops.

The cops in the mangled cruiser were slumped over, lifeless, held in place by their seatbelts. The one in the driver's seat had taken the brunt of the impact. His head lolled at an unnatural angle, eyes glassy and staring straight ahead, but seeing nothing. Blood trickled from a deep gash on his forehead, mixing with the rainwater dripping in through the shattered windshield. His partner in the passenger seat hadn't fared much better. The dashboard had crumpled inwards, pinning him to his seat. His uniform was soaked with blood, both from his own wounds and from his partner's. His eyes were closed, face pale and drawn.

“Jesus,” I whispered.

The fact that I was staring at two dead cops that could’ve been from Earth made this situation even more horrific than it already was. At least in Limbo, most of the mobs I killed were monsters, which made it easier. These two guys just seemed like real people in a real place. They looked like they had families, a wife and kids, a family pet. They looked like they drank beer with their buddies while they watched a game, like they went to church on Sundays and played catch with their kids.

But of course, they didn’t do any of that. They were just repurposed souls brought here to play a role. That’s all. There was no normalcy for them, no life outside of their role. Even on my HUD, their names were Cop #7 and Cop #9. They were nothing, just pawns of the Overseers.

Just like I was.

Gritting my teeth against the continuing pain, I looted both bodies, taking the dead cops’ guns first. Then a pack of chewing gum that apparently raised your stamina by 10% as long as you kept chewing.

But I found no Health Potion.

“Fuck. Give me something here, you bastards, or else I’m going to fucking die.”

I hobbled over to the next burning patrol car. The cops inside had blackened skin from the flames, and one of them had a broken neck. I looted the bodies, taking the guns, then finally found a Health Potion on the one with the broken neck.

“Thank fuck…” I put the HP in my inventory and just selected it so I wouldn’t have to taste anything. Then I sighed as the potion did its job, healing my various injuries.

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Exhausted, I sat down and leaned back against the smoking patrol car, not even caring if the Drifter was still out there. What the hell was he playing at anyway? Siccing the cops on me, only to show up and save me from them? Was this all part of his crazy cat and mouse game? How long did he expect this to go on for? Was he going to keep pushing me to the brink of death, only to pull me back at the last second?

“Fuck that…” I breathed as I pulled out my cigarettes and sparked one up.

No way was I going to get trapped in the vicious circle the Drifter had laid out for me. I had to think of a way to defeat the bastard once and for all.

But how? This was his world, this was his—

I cut the thought off suddenly and sat forward, smoke slowly escaping from my mouth.

His world.

Yes, that was it.

If this was his world, then I had to take it from him. I had to make it my world, then maybe the Drifter would lose his power, or at least become weak enough for me to kill him.

But how was I going to do that?

The answer came a second later as I took another pull on my damp cigarette.

And it was an answer I didn’t much like. It turned my stomach, in fact, but—

“It’s the only way…”

I had to become like him, to force him out of his role.

I had to become the Drifter.

“Jesus Christ,” I said, standing up and shaking my head.

Becoming the Drifter was the last thing I wanted to do. But what choice was there? Was I supposed to keep playing the real Drifter’s nasty cat and mouse games, or sit around waiting for him to kill me once and for all?

No, fuck that. This was a Trial, and I had to do what I had to do to survive.

That was the whole damn point, right?

So I took a last drag from my cigarette and then tossed it away before I walked up onto the highway.

Alright you son of bitch, I thought as I started walking along the side of the road. You wanna play games? Let’s play a fucking game then.

* * *

I walked along the edge of the highway in the pouring rain for about twenty minutes before the first car came along.

When I heard the engine, I stopped walking and turned around, extending my arm and sticking my thumb out to indicate I was hitching.

As the car drew near, the headlights cut through the dark, blinding me slightly with their glare as I stood staring into them. The car—some sort of beige sedan—pulled up alongside me and I walked to the passenger door, pulling it open.

Inside the car, a smiling face greeted me. The driver was a man in his late twenties or early thirties, with a friendly, open face. His smile seemed genuine, reaching his eyes and lighting up his whole face. "Hey there. Where you headed?"

“Wherever you can take me,” I said without missing a beat.

“Hop on in then before you catch your death out there.”

I smiled without warmth. “Thanks.”

Inside the car, the ’80s radio station was playing, which unsettled me a bit, especially as it was playing “Road to Hell” by Chris Rea.

“I’m John,” the driver said, as he pulled off again. “You must be crazy, hitchhiking in this weather.”

“Yeah,” I nodded, staring at him with dead eyes. “It’s hell out there.”

“You got that right.”

John prattled on nervously for a moment or two, until he slowed the car slightly. “Looks like you aren’t the only one hitching tonight. There’s another guy up ahead. Seems a shame to let him stand out there in this crazy weather.”

Staring through the windshield, I saw who he was talking about—a tall silhouette in the distance, rain coat flapping around him.

“Keep driving.”

“What? But that guy—”

“I said keep driving.” Reaching over, I pushed down on his leg, forcing him to press the accelerator harder.

“Hey! What the—”

We flew past the Drifter, but not so fast that I didn’t see the bastard’s face. He seemed confused at first, and then coldly furious when he realized I was smiling at him. When we were past him, I released my grip on John’s leg.

“What the hell, man?” he said, more confused than angry.

I turned to John, my voice cold and steady as I asked, "Do you know how much blood gushes out of a man’s neck when you stab him in it?"

John shrank away, his eyes darting to me, filled with fear. "W-what?" he stammered.

"You heard me, John," I said, my gaze unwavering.

"W-why would you ask me that?" His voice trembled, barely above a whisper.

"Because, John," I replied, my father’s butterfly knife already in my hand, hidden from view. "You’re about to find out."

Before he could utter another word, I flicked the knife open and struck. The blade sank into his neck, about halfway, then I pulled it out swiftly. The effect was immediate and gruesome. Blood erupted from the wound, spraying across the windshield and dashboard in a pulsating arc. John's eyes widened in shock and terror, his mouth gaping in a silent scream.

He clamped his hands to his neck, trying desperately to stop the flow, but the blood was relentless. It gushed through his fingers, streaming down his arms, soaking his clothes, and pooling in the seat beneath him. The car began to swerve wildly as his frantic movements jerked the steering wheel. The tires screeched, and we careened off the road, heading straight for the barrier.

I reacted quickly, grabbing the wheel with one hand to steady the car. My other hand still gripped the bloody knife, dripping with John's lifeblood. The car slammed into the barrier with a jarring impact, the metal crumpling and the airbags deploying with a loud bang. The force of the collision threw us forward, but I maintained my grip on the wheel, bringing the car to a shuddering halt.

Throughout the chaos, blood continued to pump from John's neck, the flow only slightly slowed by his desperate attempts to stop it. His hands were drenched, the blood slick and dark, making his grip slippery and ineffective. The once clean interior of the car was now a horrifying tableau of red, the coppery scent of blood filling the air, mixing with the acrid smell of burnt rubber and the chemical tang of the deployed airbags.

John's breaths came in ragged, gurgling gasps, his face paling rapidly as his life drained away. His eyes, wide and terrified, met mine. I stared back, my gaze cold and unyielding. The question I had asked moments before hung in the air, answered in the most brutal and final way possible.

“I’m sorry it had to come to this, John,” I told him. “But this is the only way.”

I kept telling myself that as I exited from the car and stepped back out into the stormy night.

Then I began walking the highway again, waiting for the next car to come along.

For my next victim.