Final Destination: Dead Man's Hand Page 2

  The impact crushed Aldis against the steering wheel, and he screamed as his ribcage shattered, the fragments of bone puncturing his lungs, his heart. Some pieces erupted outward, through his chest, to stab like skeletal fingers at the stereo buttons on the steering column. The only sounds Aldis could hear were the explosive coughs that ripped from his throat, each one spurting blood across the dashboard.

  Dark, thick clots bumped their way across the leather-upholstered dash as they were carried along by the flow. Then they, along with the seemingly never-ending river of blood that poured from Aldis's mouth, cascaded down to join the pool of bodily fluids already forming on the floor mat under his feet.

  As he lay dying, Aldis felt the desert breeze swirl through the shattered windshield. It stroked his blood-spattered cheeks, his lips, cooled his forehead with its gentle caress. The first thing, the oddest thing, that came to mind was that he finally knew what people meant when they said they'd felt the touch of Death.

  So, it was true, he realized in those last few seconds of life. The third time really was the charm.

  ONE

  It was supposed to be the happiest moment of her life. But when Allie Goodwin finally woke up in that Las Vegas hotel room after a margarita-fueled night of debauchery, she knew right away just how truly screwed she was.

  Ever since she was a little girl growing up in Schiller, Illinois, Almarine Faith Goodwin had dreamed of her wedding, the day she would pledge her undying love to the boy with whom she'd spend the rest of her life, and he would make the same vow to her. She'd practised it dozens of times with her Barbies and Kens, the ceremony attended by stuffed animals and dolls on one side of the aisle (friends of the bride), and her brother Archie's action figures on the other (the groom's party). GI Joe with Kung-Fu Grip was the best man-since he could actually hold the ring-while Malibu Stacy was the maid-of-honor. The reception was held at the tea party playset. From there, the newly-weds jetted off to London or Paris or Rome for their honeymoon, before settling down in Barbie's Townhouse to begin their lives as a couple. It was how Allie had always imagined her own wedding would be, with real people in attendance at the church instead of toys, of course. But everything else was exactly how she pictured it, including the beautiful powder blue, fairy-tale princess gown she'd wear, its train running the length of the aisle from the altar to the front door. And her husband would be whichever movie or TV star she had a crush on at the time. The notion of Tom Selleck's Magnum, PI whisking her off to Hawaii occupied her thoughts for a couple of weeks. Then teenaged Will Wheaton from Star Trek: The Next Generation was high on the list for a while. Even Pee-Wee Herman showed up at the altar at one point.

  Such were the wildly illogical fancies of an eight year-old girl's mind in the late 1980s.

  And yet, though the years passed, and she made the sometimes awkward, sometimes challenging transition from daddy's little girl to daddy's rebellious teen, the dream never truly faded away, although the imaginary suitors certainly did. She stored it in the back of her thoughts for safekeeping, cherished it like a priceless family heirloom, waiting for the day she could bring it back out after she'd finally met the right man. It was only a matter of who that man would be.

  She just never expected it to be an ex-boyfriend who'd been drinking as much as she had the night she'd brought up the whole idea of a quickie marriage after they'd arrived in Las Vegas. Or that he still wanted to do it after they'd sobered up. Or that the ceremony would be held, not in a church with friends and family present, but in a shabby little chapel a mile off the Vegas Strip, attended by the elderly, blue-haired woman who owned the place and her Casio organ-playing daughter, and presided over by a minister dressed like Elvis.

  Barbie and Ken sure never had a wedding like that.

  There was a soft click in the darkness as the clock-radio's alarm snapped on; she'd set it her first night in the hotel room to tune in to a local classic rock radio station, so she wouldn't be shocked awake by a shrill buzzer. The radio clicked on and Allie found herself halfway through a familiar song.

  "We gotta get outta this place," Allie quietly sang along, "if it's the last thing we ever do."

  A soft groan beside her cut her off. Tom-the words my husband exploded in her mind like a psychic grenade being detonated-rolled over from his side of the bed to snuggle up. Apparently, he was awake and ready for another round of marital bliss; the way he was rubbing against her thigh was evidence of that. She contemplated pushing him away, but rejecting his advances seemed like such a waste, and the next time she did something like that, as the saying went, would be the first time. She inhaled the musky scent of him: a heady, inviting concoction of sweat and sex and Bod cologne that made her a little dizzy. Or was that just the hangover asserting itself? Whatever. She rolled over and pulled him on top of her.

  Was getting married a smart idea or a stupid impulse, she dimly wondered? Well, right now, who gave a shit? She wanted him, and that was all that mattered, for the moment. They could always figure things out later-like after they'd given the box springs in the mattress another good, hard test-drive.

  But then he had to go and ruin it by opening his stupid mouth.

  “Good morning, Mrs Gaines," he whispered in her ear.

  That was it. The spell was broken. Allie pushed him off and rolled out of bed. She'd been okay with their crazy plan-especially since it had been hers to begin with-from the time they paid the marriage license at the courthouse, through the initial shock that had set in after Elvis had pronounced them “man and wife, a-huh”. She had been willing to come to terms with the possible consequences, eventually, as long as she didn't have to deal with it right away. But for him to shatter her illusions just as the two of them were getting intimate, and spoil it all by slapping her in the face with the reality of the situation... well, there wasn't a chance in hell of him getting laid now.

  She turned on the nightstand lamp and winced as the sudden glare assaulted her darkness-accustomed eyes. She held up a hand to block her view of the lamp and waited for the black spots to stop dancing across her vision.

  "Hey!" Tom said. "What the fuck?"

  Allie turned around to find him kneeling on the bed beside her. There was something so comical about the angry, confused look on his face, that she couldn't help but smile.

  Tom, however, apparently didn't see the humor in the situation. “You wanna tell me what the hell that was about, Allie?” he demanded. "Ten seconds ago, you were all ready for takeoff.”

  "Yeah, but then I decided to abort the mission,” she replied dryly, then shrugged. “It happens sometimes.”

  "Not with you, it doesn't,” he snapped. “You're always up for a good time.”

  The comment stung as though he'd smacked her in the face, and the breath seemed to rush out of her all at once.

  “And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?" she snarled. She could feel her cheeks burning with anger.

  Tom disentangled himself from the cotton sheets and stepped from the bed. "Oh, come on, Allie! I remember how wild you used to be. That's why we broke up, remember? One guy never seemed to be enough for you; you were always ready for round two."

  Allie gritted her teeth. "Is that so?" she said. Well, it kinda was, but she wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of confirming her prior acts.

  Tom nodded. "Oh, yeah. And you're still like that! You were practically humpin' my leg all the way up in the elevator the day we checked in here-you made me so hard I could barely make it to the room.”

  “Really. Then I must've missed the part where you begged me to stop," she commented sarcastically. She waved a hand at him to cut him off before he could reply. "No, wait, you did beg me to stop. Something about how your dick was gonna snap off if you kept going, right?" She nodded, agreeing with herself. She'd laughed when he told her that; not much on stamina, her Tom. That was the real reason they'd broken up four years ago, he just couldn't keep up with her, and it had been an embarrassment
for him. “But that was after we'd been going at it for a couple of hours, wasn't it?"

  "Hey, now, I'm not saying I didn't enjoy it," Tom countered, “but, Jesus, Allie, you're like some unstoppable fuck-machine once you get going!"

  "I'm a 'fuck-machine'?" she yelled. If her stare had been a gun, he would have been lying dead at her feet. "Who was it just now rubbing his lumber against my leg to try and start a fire?"

  "Okay, okay, that was me, you're right," he said quickly, the words practically tripping over his tongue. “I'm sorry, really, really sorry. I'm an asshole, okay? You know I'd never mean anything like that." Was there a slight whining tone in his voice? God, she hoped not. Tom always sounded like a little kid when he wasn't getting his way.

  "Then what do you mean?" she demanded.

  "It's," he drew a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. “Look, Allie, it's just that you never know when to slow down. Even when we dated back in college, everything had to be in excess, especially when it came to sex. It's like you're always moving at a hundred miles an hour, and the rest of the world has to try and catch up."

  “So I like to live,” she said hotly. “What's wrong with that?"

  "There's nothing wrong with it, but you gotta learn to pace yourself, Allie,” he replied. “I mean, you're only, what, twenty-five? You got a whole life ahead of you, as my mom would say, y'know? But you keep acting like you've gotta get everything in before it's too late." He paused. "Too late for what, though?"

  There was some truth to that, she suddenly realized. She lived hard, had loved even harder, for years, but why, exactly? It probably had to do with the attitude she'd adopted after she got out of the hospital following that night: an "eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die” approach that had colored her outlook on the world ever since. A brush with the possibility of nonexistence hadn't made her more appreciative of her life, it just made it crystal clear how frighteningly mortal she was. And not someone with "a whole life ahead of them", who used to think they were invulnerable, untouchable, liked to be reminded of that.

  She screwed her eyes shut, forcing the dark thoughts back into the recesses of her mind. Now she needed something to take her mind off of that fucking night.

  "So, what're you saying, Tom?" she asked, and stepped close to him. "That I'm some kind of nymphomaniac? That I can't go ten seconds without thinking about how I need some guy boning me?"

  She placed a hand on his chest, traced her index a finger along the edge of his pectoral muscles, tossed her head back slightly to shake out her dark mane, an idea she got from watching a stripper on an episode of Real Sex she caught late one night on HBO.

  Holy shit, she thought. That move really does work.

  Tom paused, as though gathering his thoughts, or carefully choosing the right words that would ensure he'd get his piece of ass. "Maybe," he finally admitted. “But it's not like that's a bad thing," he quickly added. “A lot of guys would kill to be in my place, and I'm sure as hell not complaining." He smiled slyly. “I guess that's one of the reasons I was willing to marry you, even if it was the booze saying, 'I do' instead of me.”

  There-yet another metaphorical slap of reality.

  "Goddammit!” she roared as she threw her hands in the air. "You had to go and do it again, didn't you?” She stomped off toward the bathroom.

  "What?” he said, following her. "What'd I do now?"

  "You know!” She paused in the doorway, then spun around to face him. “Bring up the whole goddamn marriage thing!” She slammed the door in his face.

  “What? Like that was my idea!” Tom said from the other side of the door. “I'm not the one who said, 'Hey, let's get married! when we got to Vegas."

  She balled her hands into tight fists on the edge of the bathroom sink. "No, but I didn't hear you say it was a bad idea, either.”

  "What the hell did you expect?" he countered. "I was drunk when you brought it up, for Christ's sake! Everything sounds like a good idea when you're drunk!"

  She screwed her eyes tightly shut, and chewed her bottom lip for a moment. “And when you weren't drunk?” she asked quietly.

  There was a long pause. A really long pause that turned into a heavy, uncomfortable silence. She'd started to think that maybe he'd dozed off against the wall, when he finally muttered, “I still thought it was a good idea." Another pause, shorter this time. “Didn't you?” he asked.

  That brought her up short. Her eyes popped open in surprise, and she glanced at the door, as though she could see him on the other side. It hadn't sounded like he was throwing shit back at her, more like he was looking for confirmation from her.

  "Yeah," she had to admit. "I guess I did."

  A little smile tugged at the corners of Allie's lips. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, even after she'd said: "I do.” There was part of her that wondered if maybe tying the knot with Tom might turn out all right in the end. Once you got past the sexual stamina issue, the two of them had really been the quintessential "cute couple" back in college; “like you guys are joined at the fuckin' hip,” as her best friend, Talia Kraft, once commented in the dorm room they shared. “Y'oughtta just move in together so I can get some sleep. At least then I'd be able to study without all that screamin' and moanin' keepin' me up at night."

  That hadn't lasted for much longer, but the fact she and Tom had remained friends after they broke up, that he'd been the first guy she called when she got the sudden crazy idea to hop a plane to Vegas and try her hand at poker, and that he'd actually agreed to go with her on no more than a moment's notice, proved there was still something between them. It was a sort of yin and yang equation: Tom, the straitlaced, highly responsible one; she, the wild, impulsive one. She pulled him out of his conservative shell to get him to try new things, and he reined her in when she started getting out of control. They balanced one another in a way none of their other relationships ever had-at least that's how it was when they we both sober. Considering what their trip to Margaritaville had set in motion their first night in town, it was clear he could be just as bad as she was when he wasn't feeling any pain. It was funny, in a way; she never remembered him being like that.

  "Allie? You okay in there?” She could hear the concern in Tom's muffled voice through the door. It sounded like he'd taken a second or two to cool off; now, he apparently wanted to patch things up.

  Slowly, her anger faded too, and she unclenched her fists to lay the palms of her hands along the marble edge of the sink. She lifted up her head to look at herself in the mirror. Her make-up was a mess—the eye shadow had smudged, so it looked — like she'd been socked hard in the left eye-and she had a case of "bed hair” so tragic even a bottle of relaxer would have a hard time subduing it. At least her lipstick hadn't smeared.

  Allie turned on the faucets and started running water into the basin. First, she'd deal with her appearance; then, she and Tom needed to sit down and talk about what they were going to do next.

  The honeymoon, figuratively speaking, was over. Allie shook her head and chuckled softly at the bad joke.

  "Allie?"

  "Yeah, I'm... fine, Tom," she said. "I'll be out in a second.”

  She glanced down, and realized she was still wearing her watch, the dial always worn on the inside part of her wrist. She turned her arm to look at the face: 8:36am.

  Allie sighed. Married just under twenty-eight hours, and already they'd had their first fight. How abso-fuckin'-lutely romantic.

  TWO

  Arlen Ploog was Death Incarnate—at least according to his monthly bank account statements. Put a pair of dice in his hand, give him a questionable tip about an upcoming horse race, unwrap a fresh deck of playing cards within fifteen feet of him, and you could practically hear his savings beg for mercy as their financial life was drained away, sometimes in a matter of hours. And it didn't help any that the city he'd chosen to make his home was Las Vegas, Nevada, the neon-brightened center of the gambling universe.


  Not that his finances were ever that healthy to start with; the last time Arlen had held a steady, good-paying job, the Berlin Wall was still standing. But that was all right, as he often told the few people who ever showed an interest in him-usually croupiers and card dealers and fellow gamblers, and that was only because they had to put up with his stories as penance for taking his money. He was a simple guy with simple needs, he'd say. Give him a roof over his head and a couple square meals a day, and he was content. Whether he said it to convince them or himself was always the unspoken question, and one he had no real desire to answer.

  Still, he found ways to make ends meet, working the second shift at a twenty-four hour laundromat near the intersection of Industrial Road and New York Avenue. It was almost within spitting distance of the Stratosphere, the second tallest building in the city after construction on Merlin's Tower had wrapped up last year right across the Strip. Arlen knew running a coin-operated laundry was about as close as he'd ever get to owning his own casino, and he played up the angle, if only to amuse himself. Everybody in this town played some sort of bigger-than-life role, after all, hid their true identities behind an entertainer's mask, so why should he be any different?

  So once Arlen started his shift at 5pm, he treated the patrons like guests, greeting them as they came in and thanking them for coming as they left, occasionally repeating the lame joke about how, unlike the Luxor or the Golden Nugget, the "winnings" at the Big Apple Laundromat came in the form of clean clothes and fluffy sheets that smelled like springtime. Newcomers always smiled and thanked him for the attention; the regulars tended to ignore him, and spent the hour or so it took to do their loads playing the nickel slots positioned near the front door. And when his shift was over at 1:00am, and the neon lights of the city were fully competing with the moon and stars for dominance of the desert sky, Arlen handed the keys and the coin changer on his belt to the overnight manager, Bartolo Sanchez, then headed off to take advantage of a cheap dinner at Merlin's buffet line. A couple cups of coffee, some steak, mashed potatoes (no gravy, but lots of butter), and a slice of apple pie, and he was fueled for the drive back to his apartment and a few hours' sleep. He'd usually get up around six or seven and work his way over to the Strip to begin his “other” job: losing a fair amount of his wages at the poker tables. When the money ran out, it was back to the apartment for a bite to eat, usually a bowl of instant Ramen noodles, and a nap, before it was time to head out to the laundromat.