Final destination 3, p.17
Final Destination 3, page 17
part #1 of Final Destination Series
"Get down," he cried. "And watch your eyes."
He slouched down in his seat and put the bottoms of his brand new dress shoes on the inside of the windshield, then pressed as hard as he could. The glass creaked and groaned with the strain. Wendy covered her eyes and tensed. Kevin kicked, and then kicked again. The glass cracked. He kicked again. Another crack.
Behind them, the driverless rental truck bumped over the curb, bounced over a planted border, and careened through the parking lot, still aimed straight and true, almost like it was steering itself right for them.
Kevin kicked again, with all his might, and at last the safety glass shattered and crumbled into tiny cubes that showered him and Wendy in raw diamond glitter.
"Come on!" he said, gripping Wendy's hand.
Together they started climbing though the shattered front window.
The noise of the breaking glass was finally enough to catch the SUV driver's attention, and looking for the source of the sound, he checked his rearview mirror and saw the runaway rental truck racing toward him –filling the mirror. With a panicked curse, he threw his SUV into reverse, cranked the wheel, and, with a squealing of smoking tires, swerved backwards out of the way.
Kevin looked up as he hauled Wendy out onto the hood of his pickup and to her feet. She followed his gaze and saw that the rental truck was roaring into the drive through lane, blasting past the SUV, which had just rocked to a stop barely two feet to the left. There was less than a second to act.
"Jump!" Kevin commanded, and the two of them dived for the parking lot. The force of their leap dented the hood and caused the hood lock to disengage. The hood popped open as Kevin and Wendy ate pavement and rolled over to look back.
The rental truck plowed into the back of Kevin's pickup, slamming it forward to bulldoze into the red Mustang convertible. The hood of Kevin's pickup flew up with the force of the impact, but though the pickup's forward motion stopped, the inertia of the engine block kept it moving forward, ripping through the grill of the truck. With a metallic snap, the cooling fan broke off and flew forward, still spinning like a buzz saw.
The driver of the Mustang convertible banged his head on the steering wheel, smashing his glasses and bloodying his forehead. Then his head whiplashed viciously back. The whirling cooling fan chopped into the back of his neck like a flying guillotine, cleanly decapitating him. The inside of his windshield was instantly covered with a violent fountain of blood.
With a shriek of horror and revulsion, Wendy turned to bury her face against Kevin's chest as she and Kevin were spattered with flecks of gore and cubes of glass. Bits and pieces of both Kevin's pick-up and the convertible Mustang bounced and clattered around them. They found themselves kneeling on the tarmac, clinging desperately to one another, eyes shut tight.
"Don't look," Kevin said, cupping his palm around the back of her head and pressing her face into the lapel of his blood spattered jacket. "Don't look."
Around and above them, people were running out of the Butchie Burger, screaming and shouting, and making calls on their cell phones. The delivery truck driver was stepping out of his cab again, staring in shock. The couple in the SUV gaped, amazed at how close they had come to dying. The woman had taken a sleepy toddler from a baby seat in the back and was clutching the child as if trying to reassure herself that he was okay.
"Horrible," Wendy whispered, breathless and faint as she looked up at Kevin. "It's horrible."
"Was…" Kevin swallowed, fighting to force out the words. "Was that meant for us? Did we escape it?" He shot an anxious glance at the headless corpse slumped in the convertible Mustang, and jerked his eyes away again, sickened. "Did that poor guy take our place?"
Wendy shuddered. "Oh no," she said. "That can't be. That just makes it worse. I couldn't live with anybody dying in my place. He probably has a family…"
Kevin smoothed her hair and picked a bloody cube of safety glass from her bangs.
"Hey, hey," he said. "Forget it. Forget I said anything. Maybe it has nothing to do with the roller coaster crash. That's supposed to go in order, right? And we were last. So unless the 'going in order' part is totally wrong, it wasn't meant for us. Maybe it really was just an accident."
"Maybe," Wendy replied. She pulled away from Kevin, wiping her face and her eyes. "But I could have sworn I felt the thing. The presence. I…"
She put her hand down in an attempt to steady herself so she could stand, and her palm came down on a piece of metal. She looked down. It was a shiny chrome silhouette of a pin-up girl on a chain. She stared at it, pulling back in horror.
"Kevin… Kevin, look…"
"Isn't that Frank's prize from the Whacky Ladder?" Kevin asked. "Where the hell did that come from? How did it…" He stopped as a sudden, terrible suspicion washed over his features. "No way." He looked to the convertible, staring to his feet. "No way."
Wendy looked up too. "No," she said. "No. No way. It's impossible. It can't be."
She stood too, and though it was almost impossible for her to approach the headless, blood-soaked figure in the convertible, she followed Kevin as he crept toward the crumpled Mustang. Hesitantly, they looked inside the twisted remains of the hot rod. Lying on the seat next to the body was a lumpy yellow, red and black thing. It was matted with blood and dented in on one side, and it reminded Wendy of a dirty, old soccer ball that Jason had given his dog to play with. The dog had bitten down hard and popped the ball in the first five minutes, and then spent the rest of the day carrying around the slobbery, lopsided, half deflated prize in her mouth. That's just what this thing looked like, except she knew it wasn't a dog's soccer ball, it was something else.
Wendy knew what it was, what it had to be, but her mind rejected it until she saw the skewed sunglasses still clinging to one side of the gruesome object. She was sure she was going to be sick, but now that she could see the face, her cold, dizzy nausea was eclipsed by a choking dread. It looked horribly familiar, but with the blood and the trauma, and swelling and everything, Wendy couldn't be sure. That bad bleach job on the thing's scraggly hair was wrong, but the dorky red bandana, those cheap broken sunglasses. Then, Kevin reached out and touched one bent arm of the shattered sunglasses and they split and fell away, revealing the weasley, familiar face of Frank Cheek, a look of dull surprise in his glassy eyes.
"It is," Kevin said. "It's Frank."
"It's real," whispered Wendy, her hand over her mouth. "It's all true, Kevin."
Kevin nodded, swallowing thickly. "Frank was next, wasn't he?"
Wendy nodded.
"Then the order…?"
"It's real," Wendy repeated. "It's real."
16
The Officers Clark and Polanski
Officer Clark stood at the edge of the yellow crime scene tape, watching his partner Polanski taking a statement from the kid whose truck got creamed. Polanski was four years younger than Clark and painfully serious. Big and quiet, with bland, Polish features and a look of perpetual puzzlement, Dominik Polanski was the quintessential straight man. He was the sort of guy that never got the joke –that believed everything women told him and became a cop because he wanted to help people. Clark, on the other hand, became a cop for a much more practical reason. He did it to get laid.
It worked too. Women just loved that uniform. The idea that you're gonna protect them gets them all gooey and doe-eyed. Under the uniform, Jesse Clark was fit and tan, thick through the shoulders and everywhere else it counted. He had a face that women fell for, strong chin and a roguish smirk, and just a little hint of vulnerability in his green eyes. The kind of eyes that made them want to bake him cookies and kiss his boo boos. Unfortunately, Clark was well aware of this fact and had several batches of cookies baking all over town.
Truth be told, any woman would be much better off with Polanski, who wasn't much in the looks department, but was as simple and loyal as a dog, and would make a devoted husband if only someone would give him half a chance. Yet somehow that's just not how it worked out. The last time Clark had tried to hook Polanski up on a double date, his earnest young partner had gone home early because he had to give an insulin shot to his diabetic cat. You'd think chicks would be all over a guy who loved his poor old cat that much, but no dice. In the end it worked out just fine for Clark, who wound up taking both girls home for his own private double date.
Right there was a perfect example of what Clark was talking about. Polanski had finished up with the driver of the pickup, and was taking a tearful statement from a woman who had been sitting by the window inside the restaurant when the accident occurred. She was hot, no two ways about it, with curly red hair with a bleached blonde streak in the bangs, and probably red down below as well. Nice thick legs, meaty and solid, with a big round ass, and cute little B-cups under a tight black T-shirt. Clark loved women who weren't afraid to eat and this girl was at the Butchie Burger, so clearly she was not the salad type. Her plump lower lip was quivering, big eyes brimming with tears as she pointed to the scattering of glass and metal where the accident had taken place. Obviously she needed a strong, official man to step in and comfort her, to make her feel safe, yet Polanski was just standing there, taking down notes, his body language as neutral as it had been when he was talking to the teenage kid. She covered her face with her hands, bursting into stifled sobs, and Polanski looked away from her with his pad in his hand, stiff and uncomfortable. Clark shook his head. The guy was hopeless.
There was still the teenage girl to talk to, but she really wasn't Clark's type. Little skinny underage waif, who looked like a strong wind would blow her right over. Clark never understood the appeal of younger girls. They were callow and self-centered, and thought they were hot shit just because they were fresh out of the wrapper. In Clark's experience, girls like that always required more work than they were worth. The input far exceeded the output every single time. Older chicks, on the other hand, were more hungry and willing to work harder to keep your attention.
Still, it never hurt to test the waters. Clark was never one to limit his options, and girls aside, Clark did have a job to do here. This whole accident seemed fishy from the start, but the events that occurred, as unlikely as they might seem, all looked straight up from every angle. Chance. Nothing more. So why did Clark keep getting that strange feeling, like that time they found the severed hand in David Nearly's back yard? Something wasn't right. He couldn't put his finger on it, but it would not leave him alone.
Polanski was walking towards him, and Clark headed across the lot to meet his partner halfway.
"What's up, Dom?" Clark asked.
"Everyone's saying the same thing," the younger man said, checking back over his notes. "The cable on the tow rig snapped, causing the box truck to roll down the hill, through the lot and into the vehicles waiting in the drive through lane. Mr…" He turned the page. "Mr. Mitchell Pearson saw the truck rolling towards his vehicle and was able to take evasive steps to avoid collision. The two kids Kevin Fischer and Wendy Christensen were trapped inside their vehicle by a delivery truck that had backed up until it nearly touched the passenger side door. They were forced to break the windshield to escape."
"Look," Clark said. "I know all this. Did you get a statement from the delivery guy?"
Polanski nodded and flipped pages. The best thing about having Polanski as a partner was that he did almost all the scutwork without even being told. He actually seemed to like that kind of shit.
"It's my personal opinion that the delivery driver, Mr. Eamon J Tinal, was in no way malicious or deliberate in blocking the passenger door of Fischer's truck," Polanski said. "He seems more shaken up by the accident than either of the two kids."
"Just an accident, then," Clark said, squinting at the crumpled remains of the Mustang. "Is that your assessment of the situation?"
"Yes it is," Polanski said, nodding. "Just an accident."
"Dom," Clark said, "just between you and me, doesn't it seem odd that the truck made it all the way down the hill and into this lot without getting hung up or hitting the curb or anything?"
"Odd, but not impossible," Polanski said. "You're not considering some kind of foul play are you?"
Clark shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "It just doesn't… feel right."
"There is no way to control a driverless truck," Polanski said. "Even if the tow truck driver, or the guy Trayne who rented the truck in the first place, had wanted to use it to run down those kids, there would be absolutely no way to set up and execute the complex series of coincidences that took place here today."
Clark nodded, brow still creased. "Well," he said, "we'd better talk to the girl."
17
Confused Feelings
Wendy sat in the back door of an ambulance in the parking lot of the Butchie Burger. A paramedic was seeing to all the little cuts and bruises she had received from diving onto the tarmac, and from all the pieces of flying glass and car parts. It was early evening now and the lights of police cars, fire trucks and ambulances flashed off the shiny black and white checked façade of the restaurant and the windshields of the parked cars in the lot.
Brighter lights shone too, the harsh white lamps of a television news crew doing a stand up in front of the restaurant's trademark sign, a cheery anthropomorphic Boston Terrier with a chef's hat between his pointy ears and a huge, birthday cake-sized hamburger on a platter held high in one paw. She shivered as two more paramedics wheeled the bagged remains of Frank Cheek to another ambulance on a gurney. There was another, smaller plastic packet sitting on top of the standard size body bag. It could have been someone's forgotten lunch, but Wendy knew it was really Frank's head.
The woman who was picking glass out of Wendy's forearm looked up from her work when she felt the shiver traveling through Wendy's body. The paramedic was a tall blonde with a bad complexion and a thick, slightly dumpy build. Her expression was sympathetic, but serious.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I know this doesn't feel so good, but you really need to try and hold still for me."
"Oh," said Wendy. "Right. Sorry."
Kevin crossed the parking lot, eyes scanning the crowd until he spotted Wendy. His bloody jacket was off and turned inside out, draped over one arm. The charcoal gray shirt beneath was open at the throat, and mostly clean, except for a spot or two around the collar. He had removed his tie and stuffed it into his pants pocket. The last few inches of the tie stuck out like a striped tongue. He had a taped-up gash on one cheek and a thicker bandage on his left wrist. Like her, he was covered with scrapes and bruises. He frowned at her, both concerned and anxious.
"Uh, we need to…"
He gestured with his chin and eyes towards the drive marked OUT.
"Right, yes, we do," Wendy replied, nodding and pulling her arm away from the paramedic. "Look, I'm fine. I need to get home now."
"But miss…" the paramedic protested.
"Really," Wendy insisted. "I'm fine, honest. Thanks."
Two uniformed McKinley police officers stepped up behind Kevin. One was handsome and dark while the other was blond and plain.
"Miss Christensen?" the handsome one said. "I'm Officer Clark." He gestured to his partner. "This is Officer Polanski."
Wendy nodded. She considered asking if the blond cop was related to exiled director Roman Polanski, but figured he'd either be offended or have no idea who she was talking about.
"We just need to get a quick statement," Polanski said.
Wendy sighed and gave the two cops the short version, the version without the pictures or the cold, creepy feeling she'd had just before the crash. The paramedic took the opportunity to continue to work on Wendy's arm while she spoke. Polanski listened intently and took careful notes, but there was something in Clark's eyes that made Wendy think he could sense something wasn't kosher. That realization made her want to get as far away from him as possible. As good as it would be to have someone official on their side, she was not dumb enough or naïve enough to think that a cop would buy into their crazy theories about the crash and the connection to the accident at Red River Park.
"Well then," Polanski said. "We're all done here, I guess."
"Can I give you a ride home?" Clark offered. "That truck is pretty much totaled."
Kevin gave Wendy a warning look and she got his message loud and clear. There was so much to talk about and Wendy couldn't help feeling a wave of paranoia. She didn't want to be around cops, or any adults for that matter.
"That's all right," she said. "We can walk to my house." She turned to Kevin. "I'll give you a ride back to your place from there, okay?"
"Isn't your car back at the cemetery?" Kevin asked.
"Nah," Wendy said, shaking her head. "My mom gave me and Julie a ride to the funeral."
Kevin nodded and turned to the police officers.
"Thanks anyway, guys," Kevin said. "We'll be okay. It's been pretty traumatic and all. We kinda need the walk to, you know, clear our heads."
Clark nodded. "Okay," he said. "If you're sure you'll be alright."
"Sure we're sure," Wendy said.
"Please keep in mind," Polanski said. "There are several new links on the McKinley PD website that will take you to various trauma counseling and support groups, if you feel any need for that sort of thing."
"Thanks," Kevin said, trying to sound sincere. "That's great. We… ah... we really appreciate it."
"All right then," Clark said. "Take my card, in case you think of anything else that might be relevant to the accident."
He held the business card out to Wendy. "This is my private number," he told her. "Twenty four seven."
"Yeah, great," Kevin said, frowning as he intercepted the card and stuffed it into his pocket.
"Have a safe night," Clark said.
He and Polanski turned and headed back to their patrol car.
