Kill Whitey

by Brian Keene

  We needed a light, but none was forthcoming. I tried to figure out how far we’d gone. I hadn’t heard the grating move, but surely Whitey knew where we were. Maybe we’d gone too far to hear it. But if the cops had caught Whitey and entered the sewers, we’d have heard them and seen their flashlight beams. Instead, there was more darkness.

  You know the old adage about when you die, you see a bright light at the end of the tunnel? Right then, I would have happily let Whitey shoot me through the head if it meant I’d see that light. Any light would have been better than this—even if it meant finality.

  Sondra pulled me to a sudden stop. The water swirled past us. I couldn’t hear her breathing.

  “Sondra? What’s—”

  “Is something there,” she whispered. “In the dark.”

  We stood still, holding our breath. Then I heard it, too. A splash, followed by a soft grunt. The sound faded. The water got colder.

  Or maybe it was just me.

  I led Sondra onward. We didn’t speak. We didn’t have to. We both knew who it was.

  Eventually, I felt a warm draft of air on my face. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from, but it brought the stench of burning fuel with it. I figured we must be beneath the wreckage of the police cars. There was no sign of activity—no sirens or radios or shouting. Maybe we were too far underground to hear them. We continued down the passage, moving faster now. The pipe got bigger, tall enough that we could both stand up without banging our heads. The breeze faded and the cloying dampness returned. Something—a rat, maybe—squeaked in the darkness. I looked around in vain, trying to catch a glimpse, and that was when I saw the light at the end of our tunnel.

  Except that it was at the wrong end. It was behind us.

  Sondra must have noticed it to, because she drew closer to me. I felt her body press against mine. She was shivering.

  Back there in the darkness was a soft, blue glow. It was too faint to be a flashlight and too focused to be a flame. As it drew nearer, I figured out what it was—a cell phone, flipped open to illuminate the way.

  “Ew kaht eshkayp,” Whitey called. “Shtop wunnig.”

  His bizarre speech patterns were even more distorted as they echoed down the pipe.

  Wunnig…nig…nig…

  “We must have really fucked you up with that soda machine,” I shouted. “Why don’t you just give it up?”

  Up…up…up…

  Instead of answering me, Whitey growled. The cell phone’s illumination drew closer. Suddenly, there was a flash of white light. The report followed a second later. The bullet whizzed by us.

  “Hit the deck,” I shouted, flinging myself into the water.

  Sondra stood there, staring into the darkness. The gunshot reverberated through the pipe.

  “Sondra!” I grabbed her leg and yanked her down.

  Whitey fired a second shot. The bullet whined overhead, ricocheting off the walls.

  “Come on,” I said.

  We ran, not caring now about whether anyone could hear us or not. It was pointless. Whitey knew where we were. Maybe we’d get lucky. Maybe the cops would hear the gunshots and storm the sewer. I cast a glance over my shoulder as we fled. He didn’t shoot at us again. Maybe he was out of bullets or trying to save ammunition until he had a clearer target. The cell phone’s glow grew smaller. Whitey was having trouble keeping up.

  Then we saw daylight up ahead, streaming down through another sewer grate. Dust particles floated in the beams. Pausing, I stretched, trying to reach the iron bars, but the grate was too high. We ran on, passing more grates along the way. I guessed that we were beyond the industrial park now—maybe running alongside a road or some suburban street. The drains were evenly spaced, probably used for storm run-off.

  Our surroundings soon became clearer. The stagnant water wasn’t flowing in this section of pipe, because it had been choked off with garbage. There were leaves, food wrappers, empty bottles, crushed beer cans, cigarette butts, and other blocking the pipe, and a thin layer of rust-colored scum clung to it all. My nose wrinkled in disgust. Then I realized that the surface wasn’t as still as I’d first thought. There was movement in the water. Mosquito larvae wriggled around our feet. Again, I thought of the cut on Sondra’s foot. Something scurried to my right. I turned to see cockroaches scuttling up the curved tunnel walls. Shuddering, I looked behind us again. There was no sign of our pursuer.“We’ve lost him,” I said. “That soda machine must have fucked Whitey up more than we thought. He’s slowing down. If we can keep ahead of him, we might actually make it the fuck out of here alive.”

  “He will keep coming,” Sondra moaned. “Even in this condition, he is…what is word? Determined? But he is weak now. Maybe we can kill after all.”

  “Maybe,” I agreed, thinking of Rasputin finally succumbing to death when he was trapped beneath the ice, “but I don’t intend to stick around and find out. Let’s keep moving.”

  The pipe walls rumbled, sending ripples through the sludge. The cockroaches scurried away. A big truck roared overhead, its tires humming on the asphalt, the motor rumbling.

  “We must be under a main road,” I said. “Maybe we’re far enough away that the cops won’t find us. Maybe they’re still searching the machine shop or some of the other abandoned buildings. If so, we might be in luck.”

  Sondra’s expression changed from helpless to hopeful. When she spoke, the resignation was gone from her voice.

  “What will we do, Larry?”

  “First thing,” I told her, “is to find a way out of this fucking sewer. I’m sure by now that the cops know who we are, so they’ll be watching the airlines and shit. But I’ve got some money on me. We can hitch a ride to Harrisburg or York and make it to the Greyhound terminal.”

  “Will the bus people not be looking for us, too?”

  “We don’t need identification or a credit card to get a ticket. We can pay cash, no questions asked. They don’t give a fuck who we are.”

  “They do not check for terrorists?”

  “Hell, no. They’re too busy checking little old ladies at the airport.”

  She looked doubtful, but said nothing.

  “So,” I continued, “we’ll hop a bus and ride out of town—some place where Whitey can never find us. You said it yourself. He’s getting weaker. If we keep running, and he doesn’t get the baby, maybe he’ll just fall down and die. I mean, even Rasputin hadn’t taken the damage that son of a bitch has today. Maybe he’s close to death.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “It would.”

  The tunnel intersected with several other pipes. All of them varied in size. After a quick debate, we decided to stick to the main passageway. More traffic rumbled by overhead. The sounds and light were getting louder and brighter by the minute.

  “To take this bus,” Sondra asked. “Will they not see our clothes?”

  I hadn’t thought about that. No way we were getting on a bus or even hitching a ride along the highway with the way we looked. If anything, someone passing by would think we were accident victims and call the cops. We were covered from head to toe in blood and grime—some of it fresh and some of it dried. Sondra was shoeless. I was hairless and blistered and had spent most of the day getting the shit kicked out of me. We looked like hell.

  “We’ll steal some clothes,” I said, leading her forward. “Just like we did this morning. Find a stream or a pond and clean ourselves up some. Don’t worry. That’s the least of our problems.”

  “Saaaaaahhhhhhnnnnnddddaaaaaa…”

  Whitey’s voice was faint, but insistent. He was still back there, still on our trail, following us like a determined beagle tracking a rabbit. He was the hunter and we were the prey.

  Yeah. Our appearance really was the least of our problems.

  We had more pressing matters to contend with.

  I wondered what it would take to put Whitey down once and for all.

  How did you kill a man who was death? />
  twenty-one

  Ten minutes later, we came to a vertical shaft. Rusty iron rungs were embedded in the wall, leading to a manhole cover twelve feet over our heads. Thin beams of daylight shone through the small access holes in the lid. I climbed up the ladder. My shoes were wet and I slipped on the rungs a few times, but managed to hold on. When I reached the top, I listened for traffic. I heard a distant ‘Beep Beep Beep’, like the sound a garbage truck makes when its backing up, but that was all.

  Looping my left arm around one of the rungs, I pressed against the manhole cover with my arm and shoulder, and shoved. It wasn’t bolted down, but it was heavy as hell. Grunting, I strained with the effort. The pain in my back and neck flared up again, but I ignored it. We hadn’t come this far just to end up trapped because I was too weak. Fuck that shit. I looked down at Sondra. She peered up at me from the bottom of the shaft. Her face was a perfect oval. I’d always thought you had to look towards Heaven to see an angel, but my angel was down the other way. When she smiled at me, I found my strength. I pushed harder and the iron lid slid to the left, revealing more daylight. I blinked, temporarily blinded, and shoved the cover the rest of the way. Then I climbed out of the hole and wiped my hands on my pants. When Sondra reached the top, I gave her my hand and pulled her out. We collapsed on the ground, gasping for breath.

  We lay on our backs, staring up at the sun. Its warmth radiated over our bodies. I don’t know that I had ever felt anything so wonderful. I smelled wildflowers and grass, fragrant and sweet. A black and yellow butterfly landed on Sondra’s toe and fluttered its wings. She giggled and sighed. An ant crawled up my arm and I shooed it away, careful not to crush it. There had been enough death for one day, and I couldn’t stomach anymore—not even an insect’s. Maybe I’d found religion after all. Birds chirped and whistled overhead. The beeping sound continued from across the field, faint enough to be unobtrusive. Sondra kissed me and I kissed her back. Our tongues entwined. Her mouth was wet and warm. I shivered. She cooed softly. We embraced, and I ran my fingers through her soft hair.

  Heaven.

  It was the perfect moment, but there was no time to enjoy it.

  Breaking our kiss, I rolled over and sat up, studying our surroundings. We were in a vacant lot, about five-hundred feet from a lumber yard. I recognized the place right away. I’d gone there with Darryl a few months ago, when we’d picked up some plywood and two-by-fours that his father needed to build a rabbit hutch. The memory made me sad. I wondered if Darryl’s parents knew yet what had happened to their son, and if so, did they blame me?

  “What are you thinking?” Sondra asked.

  I shook my head. We’d come farther than I’d thought. The sewer tunnels had led us to the outskirts of Lake Pinchot and the State Park, less than a mile away. I’d been swimming and fishing there many times. There had been some controversy lately, because the countryside around the lake had been re-zoned for residential usage. The manhole we’d surfaced from had been put in the field as an access point for public utility workers, probably with the intent of one day developing this lot into a housing development.

  I stood up and brushed weeds from my head, wincing when my hand grazed my scalp. I’d been so at peace that I’d forgotten about the burns. They weren’t hurting now except when I touched them. I wondered if that was good or bad. Blisters popped beneath my fingertips, leaking fluid. My fingers came away slick.

  I offered Sondra my other hand and helped her up. Then I motioned to the manhole cover.

  “Help me get this lid back in place.”

  We bent over and slid our fingers into the access holes, but before we could move it, a gunshot rang out. There was a flash at the bottom of the shaft. The bullet slammed into the side, chipping the concrete. Sondra and I ducked out of the way.

  “Goddamn it!”

  “Kihl ew bof,” Whitey screamed. “Wayt nd cee! Kihl ew bof.”

  I wasn’t sure if his words were English or Russian or some bizarre mixture of both, but in the end, I guess it didn’t matter. Whitey was speaking the language of rage. He was a linguist of violence. He had a thousand different words for death and murder in his thesaurus, and there was no doubt in my mind that he intended to use every one of them on us.

  Another shot rang out. We dashed through the field, heading towards the lumber yard. The tall grass and weeds clutched at our legs, and we had to struggle not to trip and fall. Insects took flight, disturbed by our charge. A grasshopper landed in Sondra’s hair. She grabbed it, squashed it in her fist, and flung it aside. I don’t think she was even aware of it. Green bug juice ran between her fingers.

  Maybe it was just my hearing, but the world seemed to hold its breath. The birds fell quiet. The beeping sound ceased. All I could hear was Sondra’s gasps and my own phlegmatic wheezing. My lungs ached like the rest of my body.

  More shots went off behind us, but Whitey’s aim seemed to be as fucked up as his voice. When they stopped again, I risked a backwards glance. Whitey dragged his left leg behind him. It was bent at an unnatural angle below the knee, twisted and crooked like a broken tree branch. He stumbled after us, tossing the empty handgun aside. I thought about all the empty pistols we’d left in our wake. They told a story—one that no one else would ever believe.

  “Eyll kihl ewwww…”

  “Jesus, Whitey,” I hollered, “give it the fuck up!”

  “Nehvar!”

  Sondra and I crashed against an eight foot tall chain link fence that surrounded the lumber yard. On the other side were tall stacks of wood and building supplies—patio blocks, masonry stone, and piles of mulch. Beyond them, I heard trucks and forklifts. The gunshots had probably been drowned out by the engines or disregarded as a backfire. We climbed the fence and scrambled over the top, leaping to the ground. Then we darted between skids of railroad ties and landscaping beams, and tried to lose Whitey in the maze. The fence rattled behind us as he slammed into it.

  The scent of pine and oak filled my nostrils, a welcome change from smoke and sewer. We emerged into a wide, blacktopped area. Two men stood by an idling flatbed truck, drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups and laughing at something. Both of them wore yellow hardhats and orange safety vests. Leather tool belts were strapped around their waists, laden with hammers, utility knives, tape measures, and other small equipment. They didn’t notice us. The truck belched smoke from its tailpipe.

  “Come on,” I whispered to Sondra, “before those guys see us.”

  As we darted across the lot, Sondra cried out. I turned around. She was on her hands and knees. She’d tripped, skinning her hands and elbows. Blood dripped from several nasty-looking cuts. I ran back to her and helped her up. She stood on one foot, swaying back and forth. I noticed that the cut on her foot had opened up again.

  “Are you okay?”

  Sondra shook her head. “Is hurting very bad.”

  “I’m not in too great of shape myself, but we’ve got to keep going. Can you walk?”

  “Nyet. Not this time. My ankle. There is sharp pain, like knife.”

  The two workers still hadn’t noticed us. In a nearby row, a forklift was moving skids and the engine’s noise covered Sondra’s cries. I thought about attracting their attention anyway. Maybe using them to distract Whitey. But then I decided against it. There were too many dead bodies on my conscience already. I didn’t need two more. Besides, these guys weren’t involved. It wasn’t fair.

  I crouched down and examined Sondra’s ankle. It didn’t look broken, but it was swollen and bruised. When I prodded it with my index finger, Sondra nearly collapsed.

  “Is no good,” she sobbed. “I cannot run like this. One foot is twisted and the other is cut.”

  Whitey roared in triumph, stumbling out from behind a stack of oak paneling. He tottered on his one good leg. Stepping in front of Sondra, I stood to face him. Again. Maybe I should have been surprised that he’d managed to climb the fence, especially with his fucked up leg. But I wasn’t. It was getting to be old ha
t. I accepted it and prepared myself. My hands curled into fists. My temples throbbed.

  “What do you want?” I shouted. “How much more of this can you take? It’s over, Whitey. Let it the fuck go.”

  The Russian smiled, and then threw his head back and laughed. When he did, I at last understood why his voice had become unintelligible. His tongue was missing. All that was left was a red, bleeding stump, flapping around in his shattered mouth. It looked like a raw piece of liver. He’d bitten the rest of it off when we dropped the soda machine on him. Then I noticed the way his jaw moved. It was broken.

  “Ish jush starringh, Misher Gibshon.”

  “Just starting? Are you fucking crazy?”

  Grinning, he nodded.

  “Okay, motherfucker,” I said, answering the challenge. “Then let’s finish this shit once and for all.”

  twenty-two

  Whitey charged.

  Well, I guess charged isn’t the right word for it. Charge indicates speed and he was anything but fast. Shambled is more like it. The son of a bitch could barely walk, let alone run. He dragged his shattered leg behind him like dead wood.

  “Kum ohn, Mysha Gibshon.”

  Come on, Mister Gibson. I was beginning to understand him despite his new speech impediment.

  “Run, Sondra.” I didn’t look back at her. Instead, I kept my attention focused on Whitey. “Go find help.”