Kill Whitey (14 page)

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 was 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

I stood there in the wreckage of the abandoned machine shop and tried not to pass out. The room seemed like it was moving, almost as if the building were a living, breathing thing. The walls rolled like the tide. I felt weak and dizzy, and even though it was chilly inside the machine shop, I was covered in sweat. It ran into my eyes, stinging them and further blurring my vision. I reached out and steadied myself against the side of a metal shelving unit. My legs tingled. Slowly, I eased myself to the floor and closed my eyes.

Outside, the battle continued, but the gunshots and screams were distant things that didn’t affect me. I knew I should run, knew that I should find Sondra and get away—or at least get some answers—but I just didn’t care anymore. Gasping for breath, I realized that I was going into shock again. This was the second time in less than twenty-four hours. No wonder my body was rebelling against me. I didn’t like me very much right now either.

Jesse, Darryl and Yul were dead. I would never see them at work again. I’d never drink a beer or watch the World Series with them. We’d never listen to the new Mastodon disc together. We’d never tell each other jokes. Never again would Darryl bitch about his ex-wife. Jesse would never see another naked woman. Yul would never get to tell Kim that he loved her. They were gone. Dead. So were a bunch of innocent cops—slaughtered in the line of duty by some Russian fuck who could still walk around despite the fact that half his brains had been blown out the back of his fucking head. They were all dead, just like my friends.

All because of some fucked up bullshit.

All because of Sondra.

That bitch.

I hated it when men referred to women as bitches. Didn’t like it when I heard it at work or in a bar. Didn’t care for it in my music. Thought it was misogynistic crap that ought to be abolished along with racism and homophobia. But despite my feelings on the term, I thought it about Sondra now, because that’s what she was.

Her lies burned like my scalp.

My vision cleared, and so did my head. I focused on my anger. It kept me strong. Kept me going. Gave me a purpose and reason to live. Then that feeling gave way to fear again.

Something exploded outside, and the entire machine shop quaked. Broken light fixtures swayed back and forth. Huge chunks of yellowed plaster fell from the cracked ceiling. Glass shattered, spraying across the floor. Whatever it was that exploded, it had been big. The helicopter, maybe, or one of the police cars? I heard flames crackling outside, and smelled burning fuel. The tremors continued, rocking the shelving unit I was sitting against, showering me with dust. I sneezed, spraying blood from the hole where my tooth had been. Wisps of black smoke drifted through the broken windows.

Sondra…

The physical pain was nothing compared that what I felt inside. The emotional hurt and betrayal. All of this had been her fault. Because of her lies.

I’d only been trying to help. But what was the old saying? No good deed goes unpunished? I’d been punished—in spades. I’d let my little head do the thinking for my big head, and in the end, a lot of innocent people had paid the price for my stupidity. For my needs.

I’d been lonely. Then Sondra came into my life and I wasn’t lonely anymore.

And now, here I was by myself again, lonelier than ever before. Abandoned and forgotten, just like this building. Falling apart. Friendless. Women come and go, but your friends are always there, standing beside you through thick and thin.

Until a woman comes between you and them.

Yeah, maybe a lot of this was Sondra’s fault. Maybe she was guilty.

But so was I.

That was the worst pain of all.

I closed my eyes and shivered, waiting for the world to stop. Waiting for the cops to arrest me or for Whitey to find me and put me out of my misery. I didn’t care which, as long as it took the hurt away.

Suddenly, I felt warm breath on my face. Cool hands brushed against my forehead and stroked my cheeks, fluttering like butterflies. Fingers felt my neck. Then they were gone. I heard rustling movement to my right and smelled perfume—a familiar fragrance. I slowly opened my eyes. Sondra was crouched at my side, peering out the window at Whitey’s confrontation with the police. Her expression told me all I needed to know about how the cops were faring.

“Hey.” My voice was raspy. I tried to say more, but I couldn’t. Considering how I felt, that single word was like Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address.

Sondra scurried away from me, her eyes wide and shocked.

“Larry,” she gasped, “you are not dead?”

“No.” Blood dribbled down my chin.

“I think you were dead.”

“Not yet.”

She glanced toward the window. “Whitey is not dead, too.”

I struggled to sit up. “Imagine that.”

“We go now,” she whispered. “Get away before they find us. You can stand, yes?”

“No, I doubt it.”

She moved towards me. “I will help.”

“Don’t bother.” I paused, taking a deep, painful breath. “And stop fronting.”

“What is ‘fronting’? I no understand.”

“You understand more than you let on. You know what fronting is. It means stop with the bullshit. Stop with the lies. You don’t give a damn about me or anyone else, so save the phony concern for one of your johns.”

Sondra flinched as if I’d slapped her. Despite my pain, I grinned. It felt good, hurting her that way after all she’d done to me.

“Larry, you are injured. You not know what you say.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying, you fucking whore. You lied to me, and my friends are dead as a result. You strung me along from the moment Darryl and I found you hiding beneath my car. We should have fucking left you there when we had the chance.”

“Nyet.”

“Nyet,” I mocked. “
Nyet, nyet, nyet
…speak fucking English or die, bitch! You think your hero, Jennifer fucking Aniston, talks like that? Do you think she walks around all day saying, ‘Nyet’? Hell, no. You’re in America. Learn the goddamn language. Half the time you make sense and the rest of the time you sound like a fucking retard.”

A single tear rolled down Sondra’s cheek. She didn’t speak, didn’t utter a sound—just stared at me with those shocked, wounded eyes. I watched the tear slide down her face and fall to the floor. It seemed to take an eternity. Something dark twisted inside of me. I wanted to hurt her the same way she’d hurt me. I wanted more tears. One simply wasn’t enough. It wasn’t even close.

“You are like all the others,” she said. “You are a bad man.”

Then I got my wish. The first tear was followed by more. The floodgates opened and tears streamed down her cheeks. Sondra buried her face in her hands and wept.

For a second, I felt guilty about what I’d said, but then I remembered how Darryl had looked, lying on my kitchen floor, and what Yul had sounded like, breathing his last breath. The darkness swelled inside of me, eating away at my guilt and replacing it with a grim sort of satisfaction. Steeling my resolve, I sat up the rest of the way and took another deep breath.

“The truth hurts, doesn’t it Sondra? But you know what hurts worse? You know what’s really eating at me? That I’m guilty, too. That I let you do this to me.”

There was another explosion outside, followed by more shouts and emergency sirens. Radios squawked and flames crackled. More smoke poured into the machine shop. Even inside, we could feel the heat. The single shot gunfire was joined by the concussive buzz of automatic weapons, which meant that the York County Quick Response Unit was on hand—complete with body armor and grenades and hostage negotiators. They even had a remote-controlled robot that was capable of storming the building all by itself. I’d seen it on the news once, when they used it during a bank robbery. The robot could end this whole thing very quickly.

Unless, of course, Whitey had fucked the robot up, too.

“Larry,” Sondra sobbed. “Is not so. I thought you and I were to be special. We were—”

“Don’t pretend you care about me,” I interrupted. “The only reason you came down here was because you wanted a better look at what was happening outside. You said it yourself. You thought I was dead. You don’t give a shit about me. Admit it.”

Sondra shook her head. Her face glistened with tears.

“Is not true. I care very much for you.”

“Oh yeah? Is that why you lied to me? You always lie to the people you care about?”

“I no lie.”

“Then where’s the fucking money you stole from Whitey? Huh? Forget to tell me about that? And why’d you tell me you didn’t know who your baby’s father was, when all along you knew it was him?”

“Da. I knew it was Whitey. But I not let him kill baby. So I get away. I tell you this before. Is not lie.”

“Bullshit. Whitey told me what was really going on. He said that
you
were the one who wants to kill the baby. He was trying to stop you from getting an abortion. Now, I’m a pro-choice guy, but still…you should have just told me the truth.”

“I did tell truth,” she insisted. “Yes, I should have been honest. Should have told you Whitey was father. But I not lie when I say he want to kill baby. Whitey do. He want to kill baby very bad. He needs to. Especially now.”

Testing my strength, I crawled away from the shelving unit. Every muscle cried out from the strain, but I didn’t pass out, so I continued. The smoke made my eyes water. I wondered if the machine shop could catch on fire. The walls were cinderblock, but what about the rest?

“You must believe,” Sondra said. “Whitey will hurt baby now more than ever.”

“What do you mean?” I asked through gritted teeth. “Why the urgency?”

“Whitey needs the baby. Needs something inside it. Just like Rasputin did. There is secret to their powers. There is reason why Rasputin have so many children. Reason why many were kept secret.”

“What?”

“To…how you say? To grow again? Re something…”

“To grow again—you mean regenerate?”

“Da, that is word. To do that, Whitey needs stem. So did Rasputin.”

“Stem?” I wasn’t sure what she was talking about.

“Da. Stem. They must come from his bloodline.”

Outside, the violence intensified. A stray round punched through the cinderblock wall just a few feet away from us. Sondra screamed.

“Come on.” I grabbed her arm. “Let’s get the hell out of the way before you catch a bullet. I want to hear the rest.”

“And then?”

“Who cares? You’re on your own. I don’t give a shit what happens to you after that.”

“Is not true.”

“Try me.”

Still crouched, we made our way to the center of the room

“We must get out of building,” Sondra said. “Must get away!”

“Not until you finish telling me what the fuck is going on.”

“But we will be killed!”

“Fine by me. Perfect end to a perfect fucking day.”

Crawling across the dirty concrete floor, we avoided broken glass and rusty screws. The machine shop was a mess, even worse than the warehouse had been. Piles of junk and debris lay everywhere. It was murky, but not dark. Enough daylight came through the broken windows and holes in the roof, so we could see pretty well. There were signs of water damage on the ceiling, and pools of sludgy, oily water covered the floor. The oil slicks glittered like rainbows on the surface of the puddles. Black mold clung to the walls and pipes.

We made it to the center of the room. Behind us came the sound of breaking glass as another window was shot out. I searched the room and saw a gray door at the rear of the building. A greasy, broken sign above it advised us that safety goggles and hearing protection must be worn at all times beyond that point. I giggled at the warning. Too late. My hearing might already be fucked and goggles weren’t going to offer much protection against Whitey. The sound of my laughter scared me. It must have frightened Sondra too, judging by her expression. She wasn’t crying anymore. Instead, she looked terrified.

“Come on.” I tottered to my feet, pulling her up with me. “There’s a door over there.”

“You can walk?”

“I don’t know. Let’s find out together.”

A third bullet crashed through the wall, ricocheting around the machine shop. Shouting, we both ducked low and waited for it to pass.

“Yeah,” I said when the coast was clear. “I think I’ll manage.”

The doorknob was greasy and slick, but it turned in my hands, unlocked. I hurried Sondra through the doorway.

“Do not push, Larry. You are hurting me.”

“Then we’re even. You hurt me, too.”

I closed the door behind us and then looked around. We were in another empty room, this one darker than the first. There were only a few windows, and all of them were boarded over with thick sheets of plywood or painted shut with black paint. The only source of illumination was from a single dirty skylight. A row of tool benches and work stations lined one wall. Brackets were drilled into the floor at various points, indicating where machines had once been—die presses, drills, vices, and who knew what else. A patch of sawdust covered one section of floor, the remnants of an ancient oil spill. Little piles of mouse shit and dangling spider webs filled the corners. We could still hear the chaos outside, but with the door closed, it was muffled. At the back of the room was a dark, narrow hallway and a stairway leading down to a basement level.