Dead Man's Hand by Grace Quon

Days later, I was the last one alive.

The crimson from Jack’s slashed neck had dried on the tabletop. Cody hung from the rafters, body drifting in a non-existent breeze. Will had tried to run: he lay next to the saloon doors, an axe embedded in his head.

On the table, lay the last hands each had played. Identical: two black aces, two black eights.

The stranger’s pointed teeth grinned. “Next.” His voice whispered of winds whistling through tombstones.

I picked up my cards, hands shaking. Two tens.

The stranger was already re-dealing. “Let’s see how long your luck holds.”