FATE'S PAST

by Jason Huebinger

  “Never…”

  It was louder the second time, and Cameron could make it out. It was the whisper of a man, not far but not close. Not loud but not quiet. It was sustained and momentary, but it resonated in his eardrums. He looked to his left and right, but still saw no one, no source of the sound. But it was there.

  “Never give up, Cameron.”

  Cameron realized the sound was to his back, so he turned and looked straight into the green eyes of the old man. He towered over Cameron like a lion over its defeated prey, and Cameron braced himself for the bite. But none came—the man’s eyes just remained transfixed and unmoving, but in them, there was a flick of concern. Maybe even empathy.

  Cameron rolled over and pushed himself up to a sitting position. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked as he braced the ground with his hands and propelled himself to his feet. He brushed off any remnants of the earth and stared back at the old man with contempt and curiosity.

  A smile etched over the cracks of the old man’s withered face. “I am here because you are here.”

  Cameron stepped up to the man, his purpose returning. “I didn’t take you to be the pervy-stalker-old-man type.”

  The old man let out a crackling laugh, even pushing his head back a bit in enjoyment. When he was finished, his seriousness returned. “Ready to quit so soon, Cameron? I guess you have already forgotten the words of your mother.”

  Cameron could feel the muscles in his shoulders tense and his brow furrow. “What the hell do you know about my mother? Nothing, so drop it.”

  Cameron saw a faint and momentary hint of the evilness return to the old man’s eyes. “I know everything about her, as I know everything about you. I know where your journey began and where it ends. And it does not end here. In many ways, you have just taken your first step. And so it’s time to get moving Cameron. Unless you are afraid, but I’ve never known you to be a coward.”

  Cameron lowered his head a bit and gazed at the man from the roofs of his eyes. “You watch your tongue, old man. I don’t care about where you think I should go next. I only care about finding Carrie.” Cameron grabbed the old man’s left arm with his right hand, and the arm felt as though it was going to collapse under the weight of Cameron’s light grip. “Do you know where she is?”

  “I do,” the old man said coldly. “And if you wish to ever see her again, you will release my arm and listen to my words.”

  Cameron let go, and the old man rubbed the area where Cameron’s hand had been. “Now,” the old man continued, “if you want to see Carrie again, you will continue your journey. You will not stop, will not give in. You will suffer whatever comes your way. Understand?”

  Cameron nodded. He could not fathom that even further torment awaited him. “So, what next?”

  The old man pointed his head to a space behind Cameron. And he heard music. He turned to look towards the sound, but still could not make out what song was playing or from where the music flowed. But he recognized the music. He knew he had heard it before.

  When Cameron turned back around, the man was gone.

  Taking a few moments to gather his thoughts, Cameron started his trek towards the music. With each step, the music’s melody became louder, until he recognized it as “Across the Universe” by the Beatles.

  After traveling about fifty trees, Cameron came into a clearing and saw the same restaurant from earlier in the day. But, unlike before, the Christmas lights were blinking and he could see that there was a frenzy of activity within. He could hear sounds of buzzing, dinging, and yelling. As he drew nearer, he could also smell the faint aroma of cigarette smoke. He walked up to the door, and the “OPEN” sign was unlit. Undiscouraged and curious, he pushed the door open and was amazed at what the restaurant housed.

  A sprawling casino stretched out before Cameron. Dingy walls, stained floors, and musky air surrounded him. To his left was an endless stretch of slot machines, and each row had at least one player. To his right were the table games, to his front were the blackjack tables, and behind him were the roulette tables. At each table were three or more players, but each player looked strangely like his neighbor. He also noticed that all the patrons wore a similar outfit—white t-shirts, black pants, and white tennis shoes. All the gamblers were also smoking, and a fog lifted above each table like a rain cloud. He could not see any of the faces, because everyone’s back was to him.

  Momentarily stunned, Cameron took in a deep breath and walked towards the back of the casino. Somehow, he knew his destination.

  To his right was the sole craps table in the casino. It had no players, but a dealer lorded over it. His brow furrowed and his skinny fingers clenched a craps stick as Cameron approached.

  The dealer was the old man, as Cameron expected.

  Cameron walked up to the table and fixated on the old man’s eyes. When Cameron arrived at the table, there was a moment of silence between the two men before old man asked, “You playing?”

  “Yeah, I am.” Cameron scanned the table but found no indication of the possible stakes. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and opened it. As he did so, he noticed the old man waving his hand in Cameron’s general direction.

  “Your money is no good here, sir.”

  Cameron, perplexed, closed his wallet and slipped it back into his pocket. “What’s the minimum, then?”

  The old man’s face wrinkled with impatience. “You know the minimum.”

  The truth struck Cameron. He reached into his right front pocket, pulled out the ring, and laid it on the table.

  “You sure about that, son?” The old man stared at the ring, his doubt registered in his expression.

  “I am,” Cameron conceded. “Whatever it takes to find Carrie.” He had just laid his everything on the table, the only thing of material value he truly cherished.

  “Okay,” the old man said. “As long as you are aware of the stakes.”

  “I am.”

  The old man lifted the stick with a bent top. With the bent section of the stick, he shuffled eight dice arranged on the craps table. After a few moments, he slid the dice over to Cameron.

  Cameron analyzed the red dice. In the mess, he noticed a matching pair of fives, which he grabbed. The dealer removed the remaining dice from the table, gripped the ring with two fingers, and placed it off on a ledge to the side of the table. The old man sighed, looked at Cameron, and nodded.

  Cameron reviewed the table to look for any abnormalities. It was the same as every craps table he had ever seen. The odds were the same, the fabric covering the table was the same, and the bright colors outlining the possible bets were the same. But he realized there was something unique and monumental about this table. He understood that every moment of his life had been building to the next several casts of the dice. He was at the point of no return, and the prize was the only material possession he cared for. But, unlike in the forest, he felt the hope that radiated from the ring.

  Cameron grabbed the dice with purpose, shook, tapped twice with resolve, and tossed. The dice came up 4-4, and the old man took the ring from its place of rest and laid it on the table’s 8 section. The old man took his stick, and pushed the dice back to Cameron’s area.

  Cameron liked his roll. His favorite number was the eight. True, the 6 and the 8 had the same odds—6 to 5, but he far preferred his chances with an 8. There was something strangely beautiful about the symmetry of the dice when they came up 4-4, a white dot spotting each corner of both dice. The 4-4 also seemed far less cluttered than a 5-5 or 6-6.

  Cameron smiled as he grabbed the returned dice. He shook, cast, and the dice came up 1-1. “Craps! Craps!” the old man cried as he slid the dice back to Cameron.

  Cameron shook off his previous roll and threw the dice. Again, the dice came up 1-1. He was disgusted at his rolls, but also somewhat confused. The chances of rolling a 2 were less than 3%, but the chances of rolling snake-eyes twice were infinitesimal.
He looked at the old man, who stared back without a noticeable change in his expression.

  “Your roll, sir,” the old man said flatly, and Cameron chuckled. The consummate professional at whatever the hell he does, Cameron thought.

  Cameron took the dice, threw, and again saw 1-1. What the hell? he thought. In his many hours of rolling, he could not remember a time a roller had thrown snake-eyes three times in a row. Cameron weighed his options, and decided.

  “New dice,” Cameron yelled. Without hesitation, the old man slid the dice away from Cameron and turned a tray containing eight dice over the table. The dice scattered all over the table, but the old man’s stick collected them. He tossed and tumbled the dice, and then offered them to Cameron.

  Cameron reviewed the options and saw a 4-4. He grabbed them and nodded at the old man, who took possession of the remaining dice. He circled, shook, tapped, and tossed. 1-1.

  Cameron hit the side of the table out of frustration. “What the hell? Is the game fixed, old man?”

  The old man smiled in return. “The game is what it is. Just a game. No need for fireworks, sir.”

  Cameron swung a dismissive hand gesture towards the old man. “Just give me the damn dice.”

  “My pleasure,” the old man said.

  Cameron kept rolling, and kept hitting 1-1. Over and over, the damning single dots mocked him, laughing at his plight. He still had no concept of time, but if he had to guess, he would have guessed he rolled for hours before exclaiming, “That’s it. I’m out. Give me back my ring and keep your bullshit game.”

  The old man’s persistent smile morphed into a frown as the hue of his eyes deepened. “Sir, there is no ‘out,’” the man said with a monotone, no-bullshit quality. “There is no quitting this game. You win or lose. There is nothing else.”

  “Screw you, I’m out,” Cameron said as he raised his hands.

  Something pricked Cameron’s neck. The old man’s hand was now raised, his craps stick extended towards Cameron. He had not noticed before, but the end of the stick was sharpened to a point. The old man pressed the point deeper into Cameron’s neck as a drop of blood ran down to his shoulder.

  “Like I said,” the old man grumbled. “There is no quitting this game.”

  Cameron knew from the man’s expression and voice that he meant business, and Cameron did not want to discover the consequences of disappointing the old man. Also, Cameron remembered the old man’s words in the forest: “If you ever wish to see her again, you will release my arm and listen to my words.” Cameron was lost in another place, in an indeterminable time, and the only compass he had was the old man, regardless of whether this compass was properly aligned.

  “Fine,” Cameron acquiesced. “I’ll play your bullshit game.”

  The old man took the stick away from Cameron’s neck, who wiped the blood away and continued. 1-1 after 1-1, the dice laughed at Cameron’s efforts. Cameron tried rolling harder. He tried rolling softly. He grew so frustrated that he heaved the dice, and they bounced off the matt and over the table. After doing so, the old man asked, “Do you mind grabbing those for me?”

  Cameron obliged and walked over to the other side of the craps table. To his dismay, the dice read 1-1.

  Cameron picked up the dice angrily and rotated his arm. He had been rolling for so long that the muscles of his right arm tensed, but he did not trust rolling with his left. He had to continue, had to persevere. No matter if he rolled one more time or a million, he had to continue. He would let his snake-eyes continue to ride. He knew no other alternative.

  He walked back to the table and threw the dice onto the table. “Hey, do you happen to have a cig?” Cameron asked the old man. “I need something to take the edge off.”

  “Absolutely, sir.” The man reached into his pocket and pulled out an open pack of Marlboros and handed it to Cameron. Cameron tapped the pack twice and pulled out a single cigarette.

  As he handed the pack back to the old man, he asked, “How about a matchbook?”

  “Yes, sir.” The old man removed a matchbook and tossed it towards him. Cameron opened the matchbook, tore off a match, and swiped it against the pack’s coarse strip. Nothing happened. He tried again, and still there was no ignition. He ripped out a second match, and again it failed to light.

  “What the hell, old man?” Cameron asked. “Why won’t these matches light?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I cannot help you with that.”

  “Well, how is everyone else smoking?”

  The old man glanced in every direction. “Because, they are all playing a different game. I do apologize.”

  Frustrated, Cameron threw the pack of cigarettes onto the table. He rested his elbows on the table’s edge and placed his face into the palms of his hands. His thoughts tumbled as he felt the calming warmth of his breath captured within his hands. Cameron sat there for a few seconds before he felt a tap on the shoulder.

  “Mind if I try?” a female voice asked. Cameron looked at the source of the voice and stared at a tall, beautiful blonde sitting next to him. “Remember me?” she asked coquettishly.

  Cameron, bewildered, muttered, “How could I forget?” It was true; it would have been impossible for him to forget her. He had met her one fateful Vegas night. He had won a lot of money that night, but also lost it just as quickly because of her. Although they shared one night of passion, Cameron later learned that it was all a ruse. And the regret that followed him after that night kept him awake on more nights than he cared to remember.

  Sally Franklin sat next to him, wearing the same outfit she had in the restaurant.

  “What are you doing here?” Cameron asked, stepping away from Sally defensively. “Get away from me.”

  “Oh?” Sally asked coyly as she stepped forward. “Not happy to see me?”

  “No, not whatsoever. I’ve never been less happy to see anyone in my entire life. Get out of here.”

  Sally’s expression switched from flirtatious to business-like. Cameron had seen the transition before. “Cameron, look. I’m sorry about what happened between us. But that’s in the past. And I can help.”

  Cameron’s tone was an odd mix of loathing, curiosity, and hope. “How can you help me?”

  “Well, you are bound to the rules of your game. I am not.”

  Cameron understood her point, and almost rejected it. Yes, there was a chance that he could roll forever if he did not mix things up. But he despised the idea of placing his fate—and possibly Carrie’s—in the hands of someone he hated so much. He felt a pull towards her offer, and despite their shared repugnant past together, a part of him trusted her in that moment. A part of him knew that she was his only way to Carrie.

  And so he looked over at the old man and asked, “Is that cool?”

  The old man nodded.

  Cameron scanned the table to find the dice. When he found them, he swiped them and studied them in hands. He flipped and rotated the dice until they read 4-4. He then looked at Sally, who said, “It is okay, I promise. This is the only way.”

  Cameron’s curiosity got the best of him and he asked, “I’m wondering. How long have you been stuck here? In this place?”

  Her mood dampened as she looked around the casino. “No clue. No clock in this casino, or anywhere else. Know what I mean?”

  Cameron nodded. He knew all too well.

  She continued, “I can count the dudes though. You’re number ninety-six, and I don’t have any idea how many are after you.”

  “Jesus,” he said under his breath.

  “Yeah. I guess I’m a regret for a lot of people. Worst part is that I can’t remember, like, a bunch of the dudes. Definitely can’t remember the names of half of them.” She turned her head to look at him as she said, “I remember you, though.”

  “Wait, you told me in the restaurant that you forgot about me after you got your money.”

  She laughed. “How could I forget about you?” She looked
away. “Is it true what you told me that night? Did I really not tell you I was hookin’?”

  He nodded his head and said, “Yeah. I didn’t know. At least, I don’t think you told me. I just thought you were some chick who was into me.”

  She grinned. “Well now, aren’t you full of yourself. Just crazy, because that was the first thing I always told any dude. I don’t know, I thought I had. I really did. But I was high, ya know? It was all a haze. Who the hell knows what I said. I coulda said it, I coulda not.”

  “Trust me,” Cameron said. “You didn’t. If I knew you were a prostitute, I would have never slept with you.”

  “Whatever. I’m sorry anyway.” She looked him up and down and asked, “How bad did my money man tear you up? He never told me.”

  He instinctively rubbed the scar on his forehead before replying, “Pretty bad.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Figured so. He was like a rabid dog, man. Couldn’t keep him back when he smelled money. I shoulda let it go, not tell him that you didn’t pay. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s in the past,” Cameron said. “Just help me now and we’ll call it even. Deal?”

  She nodded. “Deal.”

  Cameron sighed, squeezed the dice, and handed them to Sally. She smiled back, winked with her left eye, and walked to the table. She tapped the table once, shook the dice near her right eye, and cast.

  Cameron looked anxiously as the dice danced upon the table. When they landed 4-4, he hopped with excitement.

  “Thank you, God!” Cameron exclaimed as he grabbed and hugged Sally, but she did not return his embrace. When he leaned back, he noticed her face was somber and apologetic.

  “I’m sorry, Cameron,” Sally whispered.

  “Huh?” Cameron uttered. “What are you talking about? We won!”

  “What?” she asked. “Cameron, look. It’s a seven.”

  Cameron looked back at the table, but still saw eight dots.

  “No, sir,” the old man interrupted. “You lost. I do apologize, but I am going to have to collect your wager.”

  Cameron looked in horror as the old man lifted and studied the ring with one of his wrinkled eyelids shut. Cameron cast a flummoxed look at Sally, who maintained the same sorrowful expression. He turned his head to gaze at the old man and yelled, “The hell you are!”