Kill Whitey

by Brian Keene

  Brushing aside some dangling spider webs, I stepped into the shadows and let my eyes adjust. Water dripped on my head. I looked up and noticed a rusty pipe was leaking. I wiped the wetness from my head, cringing as my hand came in contact with my crisped hair. It felt like steel wool—sharp and brittle. My fingers came away red. If I made it through this, I’d have to shave my head for a while, until my hair grew back—if it even grew back at all.

  “Sondra? Are you here? It’s okay to come out now. Whitey won’t bother you again. I killed him.”

  More silence. If Sondra was hiding somewhere in the gloom, then she was too terrified to answer me.

  I hid Whitey’s empty handgun beneath a moldering pile of old, greasy shop rags. They didn’t look like they’d been touched in years. With luck, they’d stay that way. If I’d been thinking clearer, I would have hid the gun better, but in my state of mind, it was the best that I could do.

  “Sondra? We’d better talk, don’t you think? Whitey said something…well, something that’s kind of fucked up. A couple things, actually. I need to know if he was telling the truth.”

  No response. I started to get angry with her again. Whitey wasn’t lying. Of that I was convinced. I’d seen his expression. Heard his voice. The baby was his, and he’d been trying to stop Sondra from killing it. It would have been almost noble if he hadn’t killed three of my friends in the fucking process. Pro-life. Pro-choice. Didn’t fucking matter because this time, both ended in death. Sondra had lied to me. And then, on top of all that, there was the little matter of some missing money. Was she planning on stringing me along about that, too? Was that what my friends had died for? Was it worth my life being destroyed?

  As I reached the far wall, I noticed a gray metal door, concealed in the shadows behind a pile of debris. I approached it slowly. The dust on the floor around it had recently been disturbed. There were footprints and a large mark where the door had opened and then closed again. I tugged on the handle. It wasn’t locked. The hinges creaked loud enough that even I could hear them. Daylight streamed through the open doorway, temporarily blinding me. Shielding my eyes against the glare, I peered outside. The exit led out into a vacant lot behind the warehouse. Tall weeds swayed in the breeze. All around me were more decrepit warehouses and buildings. I didn’t see any cops. There were no police sirens or helicopters, but given my injuries, I wasn’t sure that I trusted my hearing. Stepping out into the sun, I crouched down behind an empty oil drum and took a good look around, checking everywhere. There was no sign of Sondra—or anyone else. I was pretty sure the coast was clear. The question was, for how long?

  “Sondra,” I called. “Where are you?”

  Still no answer.

  Unsure of what to do next, I sat there for a bit, catching my breath and trying not to shake. I was exhausted. My hands kept trembling, and despite the day’s heat, my teeth chattered. My bloodstained clothes were stiff and sticky and chafing my skin in some places. I needed a shower, a whole bottle of Advil, an ice-cold beer, and twenty-four hours of sleep. After that, I needed to cry. And clear things up with the police, if that was even possible. And bury my dead friends. And cry some more. And check on my cat. And try to return to a normal life—a life that seemed to be slipping farther and farther away with each passing moment.

  After a few minutes, the ringing in my ears faded to background noise, even though the pain in my head remained. I tried shouting again, hoping I’d be able to hear her this time.

  “Sondra? Come on out now. We need to talk. It’s okay! Whitey’s dead. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

  My voice echoed back to me. A big crow took flight from a nearby telephone pole, squawking in anger at the disturbance. He sounded as pissed off as I felt. A mosquito buzzed around my face and then landed on my arm. I slapped it, leaving behind a splash of blood. I swept the crushed remains to the ground. One more little death in a day full of them.

  “Sondra?” I cupped my hands around my mouth. “Enough of this bullshit! You need to be straight with me. Whitey said something about money. And he said something else, too. He said that—”

  Tap-tap-tap…

  I glanced around. Something was tapping against glass. I wasn’t sure where the sound had come from. At first, I thought maybe I’d imagined it. But then I heard it again, louder this time.

  Tap-tap-tap…

  I scanned my surroundings, studying the buildings, trying to find the source. I spotted movement behind a dirty window on the second floor of a nearby building. I stood up and stared harder. There was a figure behind the grime. It was Sondra, and she wasn’t tapping on the window—she was pounding on it with her fists hard enough to shake the glass. Although my hearing was returning, it was far from normal.

  I shuffled out from behind the barrel and limped towards her. She beat the window harder.

  “What?” I cupped my ear with my hand. “I can’t hear you, Sondra!”

  She pointed at me, shouting something. I couldn’t make it out, so I guessed.

  “Me? I’m okay. Don’t worry. Whitey’s dead. Wasn’t so hard to kill, after all. Now come on down before the cops get here.”

  She shook her head and pointed again. Her movements were frantic.

  “I’m telling you, I’m fine, goddamn it! Now get down here.”

  She began yanking on the window, trying to open it. I saw her straining, but it must have been nailed shut. Frustrated, Sondra pointed again and screamed. Then two things dawned on me. The first was that Sondra wasn’t pointing at me.

  She was pointing behind me.

  And the second thing was that I was a fucking idiot.

  “Oh shit…”

  Slowly, I turned around.

  Whitey’s fist smashed into my jaw. My vision blurred. I stumbled backward, my mouth filling with blood again.

  “So, Mr. Gibson, shall we try this once more?”

  I swore, and then he hit me again.

  seventeen

  Blood dribbled down my chin. One of my bottom teeth was loose and it wiggled back and forth when my tongue brushed against it. Doing so brought a fresh wave of pain, so I stopped. I curled my hands into fists, spaced my feet apart, and got ready for the next punch.

  Whitey was in bad shape. He looked like he’d been dipped in a vat of blood. There wasn’t an inch of his body that wasn’t crusted with gore. The crotch of his pants was a torn and mangled mess. Sunlight shone through the bullet hole in his forehead, and when he started to swing at me again, I caught a glimpse of the back of his head—except that there was no back. His hair and scalp and skull were missing, replaced with a huge, gaping wound. I could see inside of it, and what I saw could only lead to madness because nobody, descendant of Rasputin or not, could survive such an awful wound. His brains were…scattered. Incomplete. And yet here he was, beating the shit out of me.

  I dodged the third blow easily enough. His fist swung past me and I felt the air whoosh by the side of my head. What little hair I had left fluttered in the breeze. Whitey staggered, knocked off balance by his own thrust. Taking advantage of his forward momentum, I threw a punch of my own, aiming for his stomach, and connected hard. My fist sank into his abdomen. Whitey gasped and spit flew from his mouth, but instead of collapsing, he grabbed my wrist and yanked on my arm, twisting it behind me. The pain was excruciating. It felt like he was tearing my arm out of its socket. I fell to my knees, unable to do anything except scream.

  Laughing, Whitey wrenched my arm further behind my back and shoved me to the ground. My face flattened against the dirt. Stones dug into my cheeks. Dust filled my mouth and nostrils. I couldn’t breath. His foot slammed down on the back of my neck, holding me in place. His grip on my arm tightened. I managed to twist my head an inch to the side, and sucked in air.

  “Let go of me, you fucker!”

  “Nyet.”

  I coughed. He pushed down harder with his foot.

  “There is no time to be cruel,” Whitey said. “No time to torture you, as much as I would
like to. So, although it is against my wishes, we will have to make this quick. Pity. I would have enjoyed hurting you, Mr. Gibson. You personify everything that I hate about your country.”

  My hearing was still wavering in and out, and I could barely hear him.

  “Eat shit and die, you Commie fuck.”

  “A perfect example of what I mean. Goodbye, Mr. Gibson. I hope that she was worth it.”

  The pressure on the back of my neck went away for a second. I sucked in more air. Dirt filled my lungs. It tasted sweet. Then his foot came crashing down again, right at the base of my skull. My loose tooth ripped free and my mouth filled with warm blood. Before I could spit, something inside my neck popped. It was a terrifying sound. As I groaned, my body went numb. My limbs tingled as if they were asleep. My vision blurred again, and when I blinked, things remained unfocused.

  Oh shit, I thought. He fucking broke my neck! I’m paralyzed…

  Whitey kicked me again, but this time I couldn’t really feel it. Drooling blood, I tried to crawl away, tried to turn over, shield myself, do anything to ward off the blows, but my arms and legs refused to cooperate. My spirit was strong but my body had surrendered. This was it. I was going to die. I didn’t feel regret or sadness. Even the fear was gone. I just felt anesthetized. My surroundings went from blurry to black. Somebody was screaming. I figured it must be me.

  “Sondra,” I whispered. “I’m sorry…”

  “Ah,” Whitey taunted. “You see? Even now, you call for her with your dying breath. You lift your head to the sky and—”

  Suddenly the blows stopped and Whitey grew silent. Sensing commotion above me, I tried to focus and clear my head. Shadows danced across the ground.

  “Don’t move,” someone bellowed. The voice was deep and authoritative and not fucking around. “Get down on the ground and place your hands behind your head.”

  It was the police. Had to be. Inside, I cheered. I’d never been happier for the cops than I was at that moment. I tried turning my head so I could see them. Pain lanced down my spine, but I managed to do it. Then I wiggled my arms and legs, sighing in relief. I wasn’t paralyzed. I just hurt like a son of a bitch. Once I’d turned enough to see what was happening, I stayed still, urging my body to recuperate.

  There were two police cars parked side by side with their doors open and lights on. Blue and red reflections flashed off the buildings around us. Four cops stood behind the open car doors, their feet spaced apart at shoulder-width. Three of them had their guns drawn and pointed at us. The fourth was holding his radio handset. He looked younger than the rest—more nervous. I figured he was calling for backup, but when he spoke, I realized their car radio doubled as a loudspeaker.

  “Get down on the ground,” he repeated, “face away from us, and put your hands behind your head.”

  Still looming over me, Whitey said, “We will finish this later, Mr. Gibson.”

  “Don’t bet on it, you fuck.”

  I doubt he even heard me. My voice was barely a whisper.

  “You!” The young cop sounded like he was ready to snap. His voice was high and shaky and he spoke with a rapid-fire delivery. I guessed he was a rookie. “I’m not going to tell you again, shithead. Get down on the fucking ground now, facing away from us, and put your fucking hands behind your fucking head. Do it!”

  Whitey raised his hands over his head and then slowly turned sideways and faced them. I could still see his expression. He seemed calm, almost serene.

  “Get down,” all of the officers shouted at once. “Get down on the ground!”

  Whitey’s smile was terrible to behold.

  “I am unarmed,” he said, turning his back to me. “And was only defending myself. This man tried to kill me.”

  I stared into the exit wound in the back of his head. Flies circled it, looking for a place to land.

  One of the cops, an older guy with salt and pepper hair, motioned at Whitey with his pistol. “Mister, I don’t care if he raped your dog and murdered your wife. Get down on the ground now or we will open fire.”

  Whitey flattened his hands across his scalp and interlaced his fingers. Still smiling, he took a single step forward.

  “Boo!”

  The three armed officers were visibly startled. The fourth, the young cop on the radio, dropped the handset and fumbled for his sidearm.

  “Jesus,” he gasped. “Look at his fucking head. That can’t be…”

  “Down,” the older cop shouted. “Last warning, shithead!”

  Whitey took another step towards them. His smile grew bigger.

  “His head,” the younger officer moaned. “Look at it, Bakken! He’s been shot. Guy can’t be walking around like that. Half his brains are fucking gone, man!”

  “Shut up, Collins,” the older cop—Bakken—snapped. His eyes never left Whitey. His pistol shook in his hands, the barrel bobbing up and down.

  One of the other policemen, a beefy guy with red hair, spoke up for the first time.

  “Buddy, you’ve got until the count of three to get down on the ground or we will blow you out of your shoes.”

  Shit, I thought, how many final warnings are you gonna give him? Shoot the fucker already.

  “One,” the redheaded cop said, his voice steady.

  “Two,” Whitey answered, still walking forward.

  “Oh Jesus,” the young cop, Collins, whimpered. “Mister, you’re hurt. Hurt real bad. Just lie down and let us get you some help. Please?”

  “Two,” the redhead counted, apparently disregarding Whitey’s attempt to do the same.

  I held my breath. This was not going to end well. Not at all. It was going to go bad real quick and I was stuck in the center of the storm.

  Whitey and the redheaded officer spoke at the same time.

  “Three.”

  Hands still on his head, Whitey kept moving towards them, almost as if he were out for a leisurely stroll. He closed the distance quickly, only a few feet away from the patrol cars. Cursing, the cops opened fire. The redhead shot first, and the others followed his lead, squeezing the triggers. Their pistols spat smoke and flame. The noise was overwhelming. Whitey jerked and stumbled as the bullets tore through him. As I watched, exit wounds appeared on his back. Gore splattered the ground—and me. Screaming, I scurried backwards like a crab. Whitey lurched over, clutching his stomach. Then he straightened up again and continued forward. His hands were slick and red. Even though his back was to me, I was sure that Whitey was still smiling. I could see it reflected in the policemen’s horrified expressions. Their screams matched my own.

  Whitey crossed the distance between them in four quick strides. The cops fired another volley. I counted eight shots, and saw the bullets exit the Russian’s body, saw them tear and rip and shred. Saw entire portions of his torso get obliterated. The damage didn’t slow him. Before the officers could fire again, Whitey fell upon them. He kicked the open car door, knocking Collins backward. The rookie careened off the car and fell on his ass. Whitey grabbed Bakken’s pistol. The weapon discharged inches away from his chest. Whitey wrestled it free from the older cop and then turned it on him, shooting Bakken in the chest. Unlike Whitey, the cop stayed down. Blood bubbles popped on Bakken’s chest as he struggled to breathe. Collins gaped. The redhead and the other cop opened fire again. Whitey’s laughter was louder than the gunshots.

  Taking advantage of the confusion, I fled before I could see anything else. More police sirens echoed across the industrial park, audible above the screams and gunshots. I heard a helicopter whirring overhead, and the sky grew dark. A shadow passed over me. I looked up and saw a flash of light from the side of the chopper. A second later, I heard the rifle crack. The helicopter swooped lower, kicking up mini-tornadoes of dirt and dust. The engine whined. A police sniper leaned out of the side, clutching a rifle. I glanced back one more time at Whitey and the police. The cops’ uniforms were as red as Whitey’s clothes now. He was repeatedly slamming the car door shut on Collins’ head. There wa
s a loud crack, and blood streamed down the young cop’s face. Mercifully, it looked like the rookie was already unconscious.

  I envied him.

  Even though it hurt like crazy, I ran towards the deserted building where Sondra was hiding. Turned out it was an old machine shop. The door was boarded up but one of the windows was broken—probably by Sondra. Shards of glass littered the ground around it. I huddled against the wall, my body wracked with pain.

  The sniper perched in the helicopter fired again. Plumes of dirt sprang up around Whitey’s feet as the bullets plowed into the ground. For a specially trained police marksman, the guy was a lousy fucking shot. Either that, or Whitey had the reflexes of a ninja. I couldn’t hear the gunfire. The whirring chopper blades drowned out all other sound—except for the dying men’s screams.

  I climbed through the broken window, careful not to cut myself. The cops had their hands full with Whitey, but even if they had seen me duck inside, I no longer gave a shit. My body was in agony, and each movement brought a fresh bout of pain. My neck, back, shoulders, arms and legs throbbed. I remembered the sound my neck had made when Whitey was stomping me. Maybe I should stop moving before I fucked myself up worse. Didn’t they say you weren’t supposed to move accident victims? What if I paralyzed myself? But if I did, then I wouldn’t be able to feel anything, and that would be okay. A painless existence seemed preferable at that moment. My blistered scalp tingled like someone was jabbing pins into my head. My ears still hummed. The pain was almost unbearable, and even as I forced myself forward, I really just wanted to lay down and die.

  I wondered if Whitey ever wished for the same thing, and if so, how I could make that dream come true for him.

  eighteen