Final Destination: Destination Zero

  PROLOGUE

  From Borderlands Patrol, cover date: December 2004. The one with Elvis piloting a flying saucer on the cover.

  REAPER FURIOUS, NOT JUST GRIM

  By Staff Reporter

  LA rock band The Vipers found themselves dancing with their namesake over the summer, when the club they were playing in collapsed. The disaster has had positive repercussions, with Governor Schwarzenegger enacting a review of building codes in Southern California in the wake of the tragedy. So far, so LA Times. What the regular newsies didn't print puts a new slant on things that is very different from the straightforward safety issues publicized by the Governator.

  According to the band's semi-official fanclub website, further deaths were avoided because lead singer Jess Golden had a clairvoyant experience, allowing her to warn some of the potential victims. The story goes, says webmaster Skyblaze, that after the disaster, Death was so irritated at this interference that he returned to stalk the survivors, many of whom died shortly afterwards.

  It's a ridiculous theory, of course, harking back to the so-called Mothman death list, the supposed spate of deaths in the biochemical research industry, or the curse on the archaeologists who opened up Tutankhamen's tomb. It seems a required part of our modern mythology that hit lists crop up after any major events. Thus confident, the Borderlands Patrol set out to debunk the story. And couldn't.

  It turns out that several prominent survivors of what we might call the Vipers Incident have indeed died brutally in a series of so-called accidents. Club bouncer Sebastian Lebecque was immolated in a motorcycle crash, while other survivors perished in bizarre incidents such as falling elevators. the Borderlands Patrol was unable to contact Jess Golden for comment-because she has dropped off the face of the Earth. Her checking accounts and credit cards haven't been used in over four months. Her ATM PIN number hasn't been used in the same time. She hasn't been seen from or heard of since July.

  Is she dead? Hiding? Abducted by aliens? Nobody seems to know. Not her fan club, her family, her manager, or-so they say-the police.

  There is one other possibility. Could she be in protective custody-or indeed hostile custody-of the Federal Government? It's not beyond the bounds of possibility. Someone or something arranged a lot of very neat and very specific accidents for her friends. There's one other reason to suspect the motives of the authorities: according to a former LAPD patrolman, who wishes to remain anonymous, the disaster was caused by police incompetence, in the form of a drugs bust gone wrong. The LAPD rubbishes such suggestions, of course. But they would, wouldn't they.

  Whichever way you look at it, Jess's disappearance has done her career the world of good. Sales of The Vipers' single abum have tripled since her vanishing, leading some fans to speculate on a publicity stunt. But those who knew-or know-Jess and The Vipers say that it's not her style, and that they believe she is hiding from something. Something that killed several of her friends and acquaintances.

  The Borderlands Patrol has no answers for this mystery but suggests that if you ever find yourself walking away from an accident, perhaps it's wise to keep an eye over one's shoulder.

  ONE

  Patricia Fuller woke to the sound of rain on the roof. February in LA, she thought, when the temperature could still be below seventy, and the danger of dry brush fires turned to the danger of muddy landslips. You gotta love it, she told herself.

  Patti forced herself out of bed, barely remembering to switch the coffee machine on before heading to the shower. The steam that gathered in the shower cabinet matched the weather outside. Of all the urban myths Patti had heard over the years, the one most people still seemed to believe in was that it was sunny year-round in LA. Angelenos seemed to forget the rain about thirty seconds after it had stopped.

  It was also just about the only urban myth that Patti wished was true. Most urban myths were about bad things--rodents in fast food, violent gang rituals, pets slaughtered in supposedly comedic accidents.

  Patti was tall and athletic, with shoulder-length dark hair that thankfully didn't frizz when rushing out to work still damp. After showering, she dressed in black jeans and a black halter-top. A leather jacket-black, of course-would keep the rain off.

  The fridge was typically empty-she made a mental note to remember to do some grocery shopping sometime, then mentally round-filed it with the all the others she had made over the weekend. Her faithful steed, a little three-door Saturn, would transport her perfectly well to the Coco's she often passed on Sherman Way. It was on her way to the 101 and Hollywood Freeway anyhow, so she might as well take advantage of it.

  She paused by the automobile, looking up at the ashen sky. It was solid monotone gray, as if the artist who colored in the sky hadn't shown up for work this morning, and had just left the bare firmament showing. Grimacing, she climbed into the vehicle, and set off. Normally she listened to hiphop while driving, but about thirty seconds of Snoop Dogg today proved that hip-hop and gray rain clouds didn't go together. She stopped the disc and tuned into a news channel for the rest of her trip to Sherman Way.

  The news didn't entertain her much. It was the usual round of Iraq, the economy, soccer and some so-called celebrities bitching at each other. It was as boring as the gray overhead.

  A half-hour breakfast in Coco's let the traffic on the 101 thin out somewhat. Why sit and stew in the car in a tailback when you can sip coffee and eat pancakes while watching the world go by?

  Patti watched the road outside, trying to judge from the traffic on the street how good or bad the traffic on the highway would be. Sometimes she wondered how many of the drivers or passengers were also her readers, and how many would be the subjects of an article by herself or someone like her. Not many, in either case, she suspected. They were mundane, and the only borderlands they were likely to cross were on a day trip to Mexico.

  After enough coffee, she felt hyper enough to face the office, and work. The traffic also seemed to have eased, so she left a tip on the table, and left. It took another hour to get down to Vine and the offices of the Borderlands Patrol. The entrance was a narrow doorway squeezed in beside a McDonalds half a block along from Mann's Chinese Theater. Patti had often wondered how and why the magazine's offices were in the heart of tourist tinsel town when it had nothing to do with movies, but nobody seemed to know. The rumor was that the offices had been bequeathed to the company by some paranormal believer of a movie star. Since none of the qualifying stars that Patti could think of were dead, she didn't believe a word of it.

  The offices of The Borderlands Patrol were perfectly normal. Comfortable chairs, pastel carpets, desktop workstations with flat-screen monitors, and not an "I Want To Believe" UFO poster in sight.

  Patti exchanged smiles and nods with various staff writers, sub-editors and artists as she strolled through to the editor's private sanctum. She rapped on the door and Matt Lawson opened it. "Where have you been?"

  "Living life," Patti told him. "That's what it's for."

  The wiry, curly-haired editor grinned. Today he was wearing a Linkin Park T-shirt. "Not here. We're supposed to be professional geeks, Patti. Professional means we should be working, and geeks means we should... Well, you get that one, yeah?"

  "I get it." She took a seat and pulled a sheaf of papers from the small rucksack on her shoulder. “I've brought along the notes I made on my trip to England. I've still got interviews with the witnesses to transcribe, but I think you'll like the way it's going.”

  "Hm-hm," Lawson said, skimming through the papers. "Yeah, it looks like it should make a great spread. Pictures?"

  "I've emailed in the JPEGs. The film's in for developing."


  "Cool. Well, while you're waiting, I wondered if you could help fill a gap in April's issue."

  As if she was going to turn down some actual paid work. Not in this life. "What sort of gap?"

  "Four-page spread. Kelly's Echelon exposé hasn't panned out-something about a hard drive crash, he says." Patti raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. "Anyway, I was remembering that story of yours looking back at the TR3 having been tested out of Andrews in the '90s..."

  "Yeah, I remember.” The most recent albatross around Patti's neck; how could she forget? "It's plausible, and there are some things in legit aviation and military magazines that would back it up, but the air force still stonewall my queries." She grimaced. "They put me on hold for an hour till I get sick of it and hang up; they lose mail."

  "What about an FOIA request? You mentioned that before.”

  "I did, but you wouldn't authorize the fee as a legitimate expense, and I don't make enough here to be able to spare it out of my own pocket." She hoped her tone and him having brought up the subject would combine to solve that problem.

  "Today I'll authorize it,” he replied, sounding only slightly pissed. “I've already made an appointment to pick up files from the Civic Center tomorrow. You can go along."

  “All right,” she replied, not wanting to let him know how ecstatic she was at his turnaround. It didn't do to let people who thought they had influence over you know how you felt. There was only one person she immediately wanted to share her joy with, and she would see him in the evening. This time, she would have to shop for breakfast foods: enough for two. She hoped Will was having at least a good a day as she was, rain notwithstanding.

  ***

  Six-two and athletic, with a neat crew cut, Will Sax looked like he should have been the squad leader of a bunch of Marines, or perhaps the pitcher for a pro baseball team, rather than the supervisor of the home entertainments section of a Circuit City store in Northridge. His height could have been intimidating, but he was lanky and laid back rather than imposing. He had a square chiseled face and hair that hadn't been its original brown since the eighth grade.

  It was five minutes to opening time, and Will was jamming on an electric guitar that was plugged into the most expensive amp in stock. That was then output to the speakers concealed throughout the store's ceiling panels. They weren't the best speakers in the world-frankly, they sucked like a hooker who'd been living on a diet of lemons-but they did play to the whole store, and that was what appealed to him. In five minutes, now four, they'd start excreting the bland lift muzak that kept customers docile. Or, worse, manufactured plastic boy or girl bands.

  Right now, though, they were all his. "Sir?” A voice, almost dripping with audible acne, said behind him. It was the kid in charge of the kitchen appliance section. “Mister Flanagan is in the parking lot."

  Will's hand slipped on the steel strings, nearly relieving him of the eternity ring Patti had given him last Christmas. "Shit!" Panicked, praying that he could get the guitar out of the way before Flanagan, the store manager, saw what was happening. He pulled out the leads from the amp and switched it off, then, carrying the guitar, ran for the customer service office. There he switched on the regular loop for the speakers, then he ran for the staff locker room. He threw the guitar in his locker and the door closed with about five seconds to spare.

  Flanagan was doing a quick tour of the store when Will got back to the home entertainment department that was his domain. "Ready for another day of the War on Skinflints, Will?” Flanagan asked.

  "Ready and willing, Chief.”

  "Good. Let's see a continued upwards progression in targeted retail bullseyes, eh?”

  "Uh, yeah," Will agreed, with no idea what the guy was talking about. Will hoped he had meant, "sell more” because that seemed like the best interpretation that he could think of.

  "Good, good." Flanagan smiled. "Get to it, guys. Make me proud."

  Will flipped the finger at his back. His boss's pride was nothing on earning his paycheck. He straightened his shirt and turned to face the employees of his department. He knew just by looking at his team that it was going to be a long day. Most of them were college or university students looking to earn an extra buck between classes. Most of them would quit soon to do something they found more interesting, and they already knew that. Knowing it, their hearts wouldn't be in it during their shift, and they'd just be marking time until they could get out of the store and back to having fun. That meant they'd screw up, and he'd have to work extra to cover for them.

  Naturally, Will wanted to quit as well. As soon as the band got a gig or a contract that paid more than five hundred bucks, he'd be as gone as the rest of them. Well, maybe not for just five hundred.

  At least he didn't have any sort of age difference issues with the team, as they were all much the same age as himself. The difference between them was that he didn't have enough money-or, if truth be told, the inclination-to go to college. Whereas his team just wanted extra fun money, he needed to keep a roof over his head.

  Independence sucked, he decided. On the other hand, he didn't have to worry about mom walking in on him and Patti now that he was in his own place, so there was something to be said for it after all.

  ***

  Later. The evening sky was dry and clear, the rain having spent itself as it moved inland. The streets around the City of Industry were already dry again, having barely been kissed by the damp weather.

  A bone-crushing impact slammed Hal Ward sideways, his head snapping to the right sharply enough to make him see stars. His ears rang from the sound of the collision. Metal screamed in what could be taken for pain by a listener in the right mood, and glass tinkled to the floor pan under the gas and brake pedals, bizarrely audible despite the cacophony all around. The safety straps held, but painfully, and the colorful helmet he wore deflected the glass fragments away from his eyes.

  Despite all of this, Hal's only reaction was to whoop with delight, and enjoy the rush of blood that he could feel throughout every vein in his body. The impact might have been jarring, but it was also exciting, hyping him up to a state where he wanted to leap out of the car and shout "HELL YEAH!" loud enough to break as many zoning ordinances as he could.

  Instead, he gripped the steering wheel and twisted it hard; trying desperately to catch up with the armored muscle car that Pete Martin was riding. His helmet kept out some of the engine noise, but there was so much of it that there was really no escape. The whole of the Industry Hills circuit was filled with the roar of thousands of combined horsepower, spread out over twenty automobiles. The crowd was probably roaring too. They certainly had been before the race started. Eight thousand people all cheering on their favorite riders, or their favorite marques, and all imagining that their rider would hear his name and be inspired to win.

  On the race line itself, even before the engines powered into life, the roar of the crowd was just a general roar. Even a CIA spook whose whole raison d'etre was to analyze the sounds from bugs wouldn't be able to tell who was shouting what.

  There was no joy in trying to really work out how many of the crowd was cheering for a given driver, so every driver just told himself that they were all cheering for him. Maybe some of the guys secretly thought that no one was cheering them but, if so, they kept their fears to themselves.

  The Industry Hills circuit was short for racing cars-it had been intended for bikes-but a demolition derby didn't require long straights of rolling road for speed. In fact, the harder it was to drive without damage, the better. That was why they called it demolition derby.

  Hal was enjoying himself thoroughly by the middle of the race, and was tempted to burst into song. He resisted the urge; he had given in once, in his debut season three years ago, and the race had been stopped while fire trucks and paramedics ran rings round his automobile like Indians round the settlers' wagons in an old Western. The pit guys, when they could catch their breath from laughing so
hard, had told him that everyone had thought he was on fire because of the noise he was making.

  Now he only sang in the shower, after the race. He was usually still hopped up on the adrenaline for hours after the race, and didn't care what people thought of his singing then.

  ***

  After a day spent in libraries and archives, Patti needed a break. Worse than that, she needed company of the sort that wouldn't mind when she kicked off her shoes and tossed her shirt aside to cool off. That was what friends and lovers were for.

  She had driven up to Northridge before rush hour could really get started. Better that than end up trapped Downtown for hours. Now her Saturn was pulling into the parking lot of Circuit City. The store was closed, but Patti could hear an unstoppable beat, a panzer column of musical notes, driving out from the doors.

  She went round to the staff entrance, and knocked. A moment later, Will Sax opened the door, singing along to the beat in a bad approximation of German. At first glance he looked like he might be a jock, but Patti knew he was too interested in kicking back and catching some rays to put in the effort required for athletic pursuits.

  "Rammstein?" she asked.

  He shook his head. "Laibach. Better than the crap we put on for the shoppers while the store's open, huh? This is how to put a shit load of the best new speakers to proper use, y'know what I mean? It gives me the shits when some couple come in to pick up a kick-ass sound system and I just know they're going to be playing, like, Celine fucking Dion or something."

  "What's wrong with her stuff?" It wouldn't be Patti's choice of music to work out to with the speed bags, but she found it relaxing after delivering an article on deadline. On deadline, to the minute, rather than the date.

  "Or, worse," he went on, "some kid coming in to waste one on their collection of Titney's CDs." He gave a wistful sigh. "Man, these things are made for real music.”