Final Destination 3, page 27
part #1 of Final Destination Series
"Like, say, oh…" Kevin said with a tone of dark dread. "Maybe a firework going off in my face?"
"Oh my God," Wendy said, remembering what her mom had said about the fireworks display. "Kevin, you need to stay away from any fireworks."
"And how do you propose I do that at a fireworks show?" Kevin asked, his voice tense and anxious.
"Leave now," Wendy said. "Never mind getting fired, you need to get away from there right now."
A coiling knot of fear tightened inside her heart. She could not bear the thought of anything happening to Kevin.
"I can't do that, Wendy," Kevin said. "I have to find Julie. If we can save her, then maybe that will break the order and you and I will both be safe."
"Jesus," Wendy said softly. "I really hope you're right."
23
McKinley Tri-Cintennial
The McKinley Tri-Centennial Fair, as the name suggested, celebrated the town's third century of existence, though as was often the case with this sort of celebration, large chunks of the town's history were often tactfully ignored. Its humble beginnings as Beaversport, originally a trading post for fur trappers, was proudly acknowledged, as evidenced by the buckskin-clad men in coonskin caps that welcomed people through the wooden palisade gates into the park where it was being held.
The town's role as a staunch supporter of the colony's rebellion against British rule was well documented by the "colonial village" that had been set up around the park pond. Blacksmiths in traditional garb shod horses that didn't need shoeing and made black iron shackles and other period novelties. Women in enormous bonnets and tight fitting bodices churned butter and stitched quilts. Young girls with braces and acne sold funnel cake, candy apples and other "olde time" treats from quaint, half timbered kiosks with McKinley Area Department of Health certificates mounted prominently in antique picture frames.
Unsurprisingly however, the fact that the trappers that founded the village took the land by the simple expedient of slaughtering its original occupants, a tribe of Iroquois, down to the last man, woman and child was not highlighted. Nor was there any mention of the hundred years of brisk trade with pirates who raided British, Spanish and French ships in the Caribbean, and sold their goods to the "honest" people of Beaversport. The McKinley brothers' various shady dealings, financial shenanigans, and less than savory business partners were never mentioned, and neither were the generations of stolen childhoods, as hundreds upon hundreds of child laborers were chewed up and spat out in the steaming, mechanized hell of the textile mills, dying young to build the McKinley fortune. There was also no celebration of the fact that the town survived the depression by serving as a port for Canadian bootleggers, with Connor McKinley taking a financial bite out of every passing barrel.
Instead, rosy cheeked, tow headed tots in buckle shoes and tri-corner hats ran around with balloons, and mechanics, accountants and firemen, dressed in buff and green colonial militia uniforms and armed with flintlocks and muskets, re-enacted dubiously historical battles in which they fought high school teachers, shopkeepers and television repairmen dressed in lobster red uniforms with bright brass buttons.
In addition to the faux colonial village, there were all the usual entertainments found at small town fairs: carnival rides and midway games, hot dog, pizza, kettle corn, and fried chicken stands, the Future Farmers of America livestock show, local garage bands performing the latest from Good Charlotte and the White Stripes, a square dancing competition with no competitors under sixty years of age, local radio stations giving away T-shirts, buttons and CDs, and, of course, after the sun went down, a fireworks display.
All strata of McKinley society mingled and rubbed elbows at the fair. Aerobicized yuppie moms pushing expensive, high tech strollers, and blue-collar dads with laughing sons bouncing on their broad shoulders. Sticky fingered kids mouthing cotton candy, and uncertain old folks with their blankets and picnic baskets making their slow and careful way to the big field to watch the fireworks. History buffs in colonial garb comparing cap and ball pistols, and uniformed police officers talking shop about Heckler and Koch's new cutting edge compacts, wound ballistics and the latest in non-lethal technology. Gangs of slouching teenage boys trying not to cough around their cigarettes, hiding contraband beers and looking for trouble. Gangs of giggling teenage girls sucking on ice-pops and looking for boys. Young couples who saw nothing but each other, and older married couples who hadn't noticed one another in years. Everyone was there, breathing in the rich and contradictory smells of hay, horseshit, gunpowder, cotton candy and frying meat.
-----
Kevin closed his cell phone and put it back in his jacket pocket. He looked around at the Tri-Centennial celebration as if it had suddenly turned into a pit of vipers. There seemed to be danger everywhere, particularly behind him. The captain of the security detail had placed him at the barricade that blocked off the area where pyrotechnicians were setting up the night's fireworks display. He watched them nervously, eyes drawn from one lethal item to another.
Dozens of metal mortar tubes lay together like cigarettes in a pack, bolted into sturdy wooden frames, red and yellow wires spilling from their far ends. The technicians attached the wires to a series of "electronic match" igniters and then hooked the igniters to a computer notebook that sat on a card table nearby. Some of the mortar frames were staked into the ground. Others sat on a small, two-wheeled trailer. A metal rod was placed below the trailer hitch to keep it level.
One of the technicians, an old man in faded green coveralls with "Celli and Sons Fireworks" stitched on the back, lifted a heavy oblong firework package out of a crate marked "DANGER-HIGH EXPLOSIVES" and stenciled with a skull and crossbones and a fire icon. He carried it, cradled in his arms like a baby, to a mortar frame, and lowered it gingerly into the tube, fuse end down.
Kevin blinked. For a moment the ends of the mortars all looked like the wide gaping maws of some sort of hungry eels on the Discovery Channel. He was letting his imagination get completely out of hand, but the danger was real, no doubt about that. Each one of those fire-breathing throats could be the instrument of his demise. He had a sudden, almost overwhelming urge to throw off his security jacket and run as fast and as far as he could from this stupid Tri-centennial celebration, from the town of McKinley, and from all of this endless, grinding fear, but he couldn't run, he couldn't.
Julie was next, or one of her friends, and he had to try to save them first. It would destroy Wendy if anything happened to Julie, and Kevin could no more allow that than he could allow Wendy to be killed. His own life was the least of his worries. He had to stay, for her. Only after he knew without a doubt that she was safe, would he be able to think about himself. He looked back down at his cell phone. Was she ok? Why wasn't she here yet? Could there have been some sort of…
He shook his head. No, if the order was right, and so far they had no reason to think it wasn't, then nothing could happen to Wendy while he was alive. So in a way, watching out for himself was watching out for her. He glanced back at the mortar tubes. He just wished she would hurry up and get here.
-----
Wendy was pushing her truck up to sixty-five when she hit Old Mill Road, the twisting, potholed street that was the only way to get to the isolated fairground. The Ranger was no sports car and took the turns like a lumbering buffalo, forcing Wendy to slow to below fifty as she dragged the truck around a narrow hairpin left. Anxiety bristled inside her, raking its nails along her spine and squeezing her pounding heart. She was terrified for vulnerable Julie. All Death had to do to her was give her a good scare and her poor limping heart would seize up on her and do Death's work for him. Wendy had called Julie's cell phone a hundred times, but every time it went straight to voicemail. Julie had probably forgotten to charge it, as usual. The anxiety around Wendy's spine coiled tighter and she nudged the protesting truck up to sixty.
In a flash, a pale, lanky shape bounded out into Wendy's headlights. She let out a tight, airless little scream and slammed on the breaks, swerving hard to the right.
Dog? She thought as the creature turned flashing green eyes on her.
She slowed to a skidding stop on the shoulder, gravel spraying out from beneath the truck's tires in a noisy patter. The animal she'd nearly hit was standing in the middle of the road, looking at her. It had to be some kind of husky or malamute or something like that, but it was huge and gawky, its leg and snout way too long. No collar. Really it looked more like a wolf. Ridiculous, since there had not been wild wolves in McKinley in over a hundred years. Must be one of those wolf-dog hybrids people were breeding now. Whatever it was, she did not like the way it was looking at her.
The animal –wolf, dog, whatever- turned its snout and bounded away into the dark woods bordering the old road. Wendy shook her head and put the truck in gear, pulling back out into the road, when suddenly all her dashboard lights went black. The seemingly lifeless radio burst into sudden, staticky life, making her jump in her seat. She slowed the truck down to a ten-mile an hour crawl, tapping the dash. Nothing. Then a song surfaced from beneath the static. Not just any song, but that same corny song that had started playing on the radio in Kevin's truck right before…
"There is someone walking behind you," the voice in the darkened radio sang. "Turn around. Look at me."
Fear flushed like freon through Wendy's veins, and her gaze flicked up to her rearview mirror. There was a car coming around the hairpin turn, just two dots of light in the distance.
Following her?
Then, something inexplicable happened. A formless wave of inky black rippled across the narrow face of her rearview mirror, erasing the image of the headlights behind her.
What the hell was happening? Was Death toying with her again, playing with her and delaying her just to make her suffer, before she arrived too late to save anyone? Or worse, had Julie and Kevin already been killed? Was this it? Was it her turn?
She stomped on the accelerator and bit down hard on the tender meat inside her lower lip, hard enough to draw blood. With that hot penny taste in her mouth, she sped down the road towards the fair. She did not look in the rearview mirror again.
-----
A couple of twelve year-old boys, a redhead and a blond, charged out of the Tri-Centennial fair crowd toward Kevin, mock sword-fighting with hissing, spitting sparklers. Before Kevin could react, the redhead trapped the blond against the barricade. The blond ducked under and the redhead made to follow. Kevin's blood ran cold.
"Hey," he shouted, running over and grabbing their arms. "Dude. Get out of here with those things. You want to set that shit off?"
He gestured to the mortar tubes. The kids looked around at the huge array of fireworks, and grinned like cute little angels.
"That would fuckin' rock," said the redhead.
"Fuckin' A," said the blond.
"Jesus," Kevin said. "I got news for you kids, getting your face blown off does not fuckin' rock. In fact, it fuckin' sucks. Get the hell out of here willya?"
"Fuck you," said the redhead, and ran off with the blond kid, still sword fighting with the white hot sticks.
Kevin swallowed and passed a hand over his eyes. There was one potential death avoided. He started scanning the crowd again as he tried to push his heartbeat back down closer to normal. He wondered where Julie was. He scanned the ever-moving crowd, trying to pick out her petite, curvy figure from the sea of petite, curvy figures that strolled through the fairground. Why did all girls in McKinley have to dress exactly the same? Was there a bulletin that was posted somewhere? This week we all wear bright colored hoodies, hip hugger jeans, baby tees, and pink sandals with plastic flowers on the toes.
Was that Julie? Three girls were goofing around with Mylar balloons, bouncing them off the heads of three boys, but Kevin couldn't get a good enough look at the girls. He stood on tiptoe. One of the boys grabbed a balloon and rubbed it on the baby fine blonde hair of one of the girls.
"Ah," she cried, jerking away. "It shocked me. Get off."
She pushed the boy's arm away and the static of the balloon caused her hair to stick to it, rising up off her head like the Bride of Frankenstein. Her friends laughed, then all started rubbing the balloons on each other's hair. None of them, however, was Julie.
Kevin cursed. Where was she? He wished he could leave his post, but orders were orders. Surely she had to walk by sometime. The fair wasn't all that big. He just wanted it to happen now. He had to warn Julie about the danger she was facing before it was too late, though he didn't know what he was going to tell her. Without Wendy's pictures to back up the story, it all sounded pretty lame. And what was supposed to happen to Julie anyway? Wendy hadn't told him any details about Julie's picture. Christ. It could be anything. Anything.
A loud voice beside him made him jump.
"The British are coming! The British are coming!"
Kevin spun around. An actor dressed as Paul Revere was spurring his horse through the crowd, holding aloft an old style lantern with a bright, modern, sixty watt bulb inside it. Well, yes, he thought, as Revere dismounted and tied his skittish horse to a metal, six foot T-post, that was an option. Julie could be the first person in McKinley in over a century to be trampled to death by a horse. Or…
There were so many deaths to choose from. Across the way a fat, red-faced barbeque chef was crying his wares from his kiosk.
"Ribs," he cried. "Polish sausage. Shish kebab. Get 'em while they're hot."
The chef hefted a large, raw slab of dripping ribs and laid it across a black, cut in half oil can barbeque grill. Kevin had a sudden vivid flashback to the slab of human ribs he had seen at the scene of the roller coaster crash. The smoky aroma of charring meat from the grill sent waves of powerful nausea through Kevin's belly, closing his throat and filling his mouth with a hot gush of metallic saliva. He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated every ounce of effort he had on not puking.
When Kevin was able to open his eyes and swallow normally again, he looked back over at the barbeque chef. The fat man stood over his grill, a long, wicked, steel fork gripped in one hand. He wore a stained apron emblazoned with stylized flames and chilli peppers that read: "HOTTER THAN HELL!" Distorted behind the heat waves coming off the grill, he looked like some greasy, obese devil presiding over a lake of fire. The tines of the fork and the tips of the shish kebab skewers glinted menacingly in the twilight. As Kevin watched, the chef turned the knob of the portable propane tank under the grill. Death by impalement. Death by fire.
Next to him, a burly, bearded man dressed as a colonial blacksmith pounded on a white-hot horse-shoe while holding it steady with iron forceps. Sparks flew and bounced and scattered all over the place, dropping into the straw at his feet. His left foot pumped the bellows of a glowing forge. It roared like a dragon. Another death by fire.
Further down the way, two younger guys dressed as colonial militiamen were stacking heavy iron cannon balls into triangular stacks beside their field pieces. Behind them, a squad of uniformed soldiers marched in time to a young boy rapping out a beat on a drum. Each of the soldiers carried a gun, but Kevin had no idea if they were actual working firearms or just replicas. Their sergeant drew his razor-sharp sabre as he called out company halt. Death by cannon ball. Death by gun fire. Death by sword.
An eerie flapping sound like the beat of a giant bird's wings made Kevin spin around. A chubby Ben Franklin impersonator in a bad wig and granny glasses was paying out the string of a big kite while a crowd of onlookers craned their necks to watch it rise. Ben was standing next to a spherical contraption of glass, brass and steel. He grinned at his audience.
"Now," he said. "Let's hope for some lightning."
Death by electrocution. Kevin groaned.
"Great," he muttered. "Thanks, Ben."
He returned to scanning the crowd. Julie had to be there somewhere.
-----
Wendy slammed on the brakes of her truck as an old couple in a Buick in front of her came to a sudden stop. She was in the lot of the park where the Tri-Centennial celebration was being held, and it was jam packed with morons of every stripe. The old geezer in the Buick was apparently waiting for the lady in the mini-van to pull out of the space on the left, even though there were clearly more open spaces just a little further down the row. Wendy pounded the steering wheel. Now the lady in the mini-van was arguing with the kids in the back seat. She hadn't even started her car yet.
What a nightmare. Wendy had to get into the fair. She had to find Julie. She looked to the left and right. There wasn't enough room to get around the Buick so she laid on the horn, frustration building. The old guy in the Buick ignored her, but the lady in the mini-van gave her a dirty look. Fine, whatever. As long as she got moving, she could give all the dirty looks in the world. The lady put her seat belt on with deliberate slowness, then backed carefully out of the space, and at last put her van in first and drove away. The old guy in the Buick signaled left, and then eased in with all the speed and caution of a space shuttle pilot docking with the MIR. Wendy's hands white-knuckled the wheel. Were these more of Death's playful delaying tactics? Was it enjoying her torment, as it tossed one obstacle after another into her path?
The Buick finally edged into the parking space and Wendy roared ahead, then slammed on her brakes again as she nearly ran down an entire family dressed like pilgrims. There was an irony she didn't need. Killing five people on the way to saving her sister from imminent death. The pilgrims passed, cheerful and oblivious, and Wendy surged ahead again, then slewed into a parking space, stomped on the parking brake, and slammed out of her door.
As she hurried across the crowded parking lot, she remembered the car behind her, the song and the blacked out rearview mirror. She looked back over her shoulder. There were tons of cars, tons of people. She had no idea if one of them might be the one that had been following her. She ran on toward the bright lights of the fair.
