Kill Whitey (18 page)

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.”

“But what about police?”

“Fine,” I said, still not turning around. “Don’t find help. Hide. Do whatever. Just stay the hell out of the way. I’ve had it with this shit.”

Sondra didn’t respond. Neither did Whitey. He smiled at me, his crooked jaw making his cheek bulge. His head was tilted sideways and he struggled to lift it.

“Look at you,” I said. “You can’t even hold your head up right. You should be dead. Give it up, man. You take anymore damage and there won’t be anything left of you. Is that what you want?”

He didn’t answer me.

“Is she worth it?” I asked. “Is Sondra worth all this?”

“Ahshk yersehlf teh saym kwestuhn.”

Ask yourself the same question…

Whitey drew closer with each plodding, off-balance step, dripping pieces of himself in his wake. He left a trail of DNA behind him. I had the crazy notion that if we made him chase us long enough, he’d just fall apart in front of our eyes—disintegrate into a pool of jelly. I could smell him as he got nearer. He reeked—blood and shit and the seeds of infection. Walking road kill, out for revenge.

“Forget about it,” I said. “Even if you got the baby now, it would be too late. Wouldn’t it? Sure, maybe you can survive poisoning or a gunshot wound. But all this? No way you can regenerate all this damage, Whitey, no matter how many stem cells you eat. Not even Wolverine could heal this shit.”

“Eww wood be zurpryzed. Itsh nevar too layt.”

I stood my ground, disgusted by what approached me, but ultimately unafraid. Whitey was unarmed now. No guns or knives or mafia cronies. He couldn’t even kick me again. Maybe he was indestructible, but that no longer meant he was unstoppable. All he had left was the will to keep going, and I intended to take that option away from him. I sized him up, planning my attack. If I could take out his other leg—break it or cut the fucking thing off—there was no way he’d be able to follow us, unless he crawled along on his hands. So maybe I’d cut those off, too. And why stop there? Decapitation sounded like a great idea. The grand fucking finale. Immortal or not, nobody, not even Rasputin, could survive without a head.

Could they?

Whitey got nearer still, close enough for me to see the steam rising from his open wounds. Whatever his condition, his body temperature was still warm inside. His blood still flowed. How did he remain standing? The blood loss alone should have kept him down. Maybe his mutant genetics replenished that first.

Or maybe he was just driven. Determined.

“Hey,” somebody shouted. “Are you folks okay? What’s going on over there?”

I turned my head slightly and saw that it was one of the workers. They’d finally noticed us.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” the other worker said. “This is private property.”

“Please,” Sondra spoke up. “We are to be needing—”

Whitey darted forward with a speed that belied his injuries. I shouted in surprise. Despite the horrific damage to his body, he’d been faking. He was quicker—and stronger—than I’d thought possible.

“Motherfucker!”

I ducked my head, stuck my right shoulder out, and plowed into him. Our arms encircled each other, squeezing tight. It was like grabbing a butchered side of beef. Whitey was slippery and hot, and as we slammed together, my face sank into a gaping wound in his chest. Slick warmth smothered me, filling my nose and mouth. My hands slithered through the wetness. His blood ran down my throat. Stumbling, we both fell backwards, still holding on to each other. I hit the pavement first—and hard. Whitey’s full weight crashed down on me, crushing the air from my lungs. The impact brought back all of my temporarily forgotten pains.

“Hey,” one of the workers yelled. “We don’t want no trouble. Knock it off! This ain’t no boxing ring.”

“Jesus,” the other gasped. “Call an ambulance, Leon. Call the cops. I think these are those guys that were on the news.”

“Fuck me running. Let’s get them, Frank.”

“Screw that! You know how many people they killed?”

The two men ran towards us as they argued. I managed to get one arm free and I reached out, trying to wave them away. Whitey’s hands wrapped around my throat and squeezed, cutting off my windpipe. My eyes bulged from their sockets.

“Frank,” Leon said, “he’ll kill that guy if we don’t so something. Give me a hand, now.”

Ignoring my warning gestures, they approached us from each side and seized Whitey, pulling him off of me. His hands clawed at my throat, then were wrenched free. I gulped air. Leon and Frank gasped, their expressions a mixture of shock and disgust. Leon let go of Whitey and stared in horror at his bloodstained palms.

“An ambulance,” he choked. “Fuck that. Better call a goddamn hearse. This guy is dead.”

Grunting with rage, Whitey struggled in Frank’s grip. The worker shoved him back down and leaned on his chest with both knees. The Russian squirmed.

“But he’s dead,” Leon mumbled. “Look at him. He’s fucking dead. This shit ain’t right.”

“He’s not dead,” Frank shouted. “He should be, but he’s not. Help me hold him, Leon. He’s fighting like a greased monkey.”

Whitey tried to break free. His fingers clawed at Frank’s face. The workman punched Whitey in his already broken jaw. Whitey screamed, then went limp. His eyes rolled shut. He could still feel pain, even now.

“There,” Frank sighed. “That’ll teach him. “Call the cops, Leon.”

“Get out of the way,” I warned them. “You don’t know what you’re messing with.”

“You stay put, buddy,” Frank said. “You know how many people you murdered today?”

“It wasn’t me,” I explained. “We were on the run. They were trying to kill us.”

“Bullshit! They said on the news that—”

Before he could finish, Whitey’s eyes flashed open. He grabbed a utility knife that was hanging from Frank’s tool belt. With one quick motion he thumbed the button, pushing the razorblade out of the hilt, and slashed the worker’s throat. Squealing, Frank tottered backward. At first, there was no blood—just a thin, even cut, barely noticeable. Then a few drops of crimson bubbled out of the wound. A second later, the slit grew wider. It looked like Frank had grown another mouth. Blood sprayed out of the gash, showering both Whitey and his victim.

Screaming, Leon abandoned his friend and turned, fleeing across the lot. So much for solidarity. Maybe they weren’t a union shop. He shouted for help, his voice hoarse and panicked. His hardhat fell off and rolled across the pavement as he ran. The forklift still beeped between the rows, its driver apparently oblivious to what was happening.

Whitey clambered to his feet, still clutching the bloody razor knife. I glanced around for Sondra, but she was gone.

It was just the two of us.

Last man standing.

Man—or whatever the hell Whitey was.

“Put the knife down,” I said, “and fight like the man you pretend to be.”

Whitey didn’t answer me. He couldn’t. The swelling in what was left of his face had tripled now. His mouth hung open. Frank’s punch had shattered his already broken jaw. But he didn’t have to speak. His eyes said it all. They promised death.

And then he lurched forward to deliver it.

Frank’s blood dripped from the razor. My bravery vanished. I backed away from him, colliding with a stack of two-by-fours. Whitey closed the distance between us, and there was nowhere for me to run. Sweat and blood ran into my eyes, but I was afraid to blink, afraid to look away, even for a moment. I stared at the blade, unable to focus on anything else.

Whitey moaned.

“Can’t speak anymore, can you?”

He grunted in response, and stepped closer to me. The flies I’d noticed circling him earlier had landed. I heard them buzzing inside the hole in his head. I wondered if Whitey could hear them too. Pressing back against the stack of lumber, I braced myself for his inevitable attack.

The forklift’s engine revved louder. I wondered where Leon had gone, hoping that he’d called the police.

“Come on,” I rasped. My mouth was dry, my throat parched. “What are you waiting for?”

Whitey lunged, slashing at me with the knife. I side-stepped the attempt and grabbed his arm, trying to twist it behind his back. He yanked his arm away, breaking my grip, but doing so caused him to lean on his bad leg. Wailing unintelligibly, Whitey stumbled and sprawled on the ground. He managed to hold on to his weapon. I dashed past him, searching for something to even the odds.

Groaning, Whitey crawled after me, swinging the knife back and forth through the air. I spotted a length of two-by-four lying nearby and ran for it, intent on bashing the rest of his fucking head in. But before I could retrieve the club, the forklift rounded the corner. Luckily, it wasn’t carrying a load. If it had, the driver wouldn’t have seen me and I’d have been run over. Instead, he slammed on the brakes even as I skidded to a stop. The horn blared and the driver shouted something at me. I couldn’t hear him over the rumbling engine. A yellow, domed safety light turned atop the wire mesh roll cage.

I glanced back. Whitey clutched a skid with his free hand and slowly pulled himself to his feet. A glistening loop of intestine slipped from his belly. Whitey ignored it. I thought about his ancestor, fleeing his assassins while trailing his insides behind him. I ran around to the side of the forklift and leaned against the roll bar.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” the driver exclaimed. “What’s wrong with that guy?”

“Never mind that,” I said. “I need help. Have you seen a woman running around here?”

The driver stared at me like I was insane. Who knows? Maybe I was.

“Where’s Leon and Frank?” He put the forklift in neutral and swung around to face me. “What’s going on here? This looks like—”

“Frank’s dead,” I told him, “and Leon went for help. Have you seen a girl?”

“Jesus,” the driver repeated, his eyes not leaving Whitey. His face turned pale. “His guts are falling out. What happened? We need to call an ambulance right now. Get him to lie down. Keep him warm.”

I grabbed the driver by his shirt collar and balled it up in my fist.

“Hey—”

“Listen to me. What’s your name?”

“What is this? What are you—”

“Your name. Now!”

“R-Richard…”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Whitey shuffle towards us. Richard grabbed my wrist, but his grip was weak. His attention was still focused on Whitey.

“Okay, Richard. We don’t have—”.

“Your friend,” he interrupted me. “He’s gonna die if we don’t get him some help. Don’t you understand that?”

“He ain’t my friend, Richard, and he won’t die. He can’t.”

Richard started to speak, but I yanked him out of the seat and flung him to the ground. He squawked in surprise and fright, and the impact knocked the air out of him. He lay on the pavement, gasping for breath and staring up at me, wide-eyed. When he started to speak. I shook my head.

“Stay there,” I shouted, swinging myself up into the driver’s seat.

I’d driven forklifts plenty of times before, both at GPS and other jobs I’d had. This one was pretty standard. Big front tires. Propane bottle strapped in behind me. Engine in the back. Hydraulic lift. The forks could be tilted up and down as well as side to side, so they’d fit easily under different sized skids. In addition to being adjustable, the forks were also tapered—wide at the back and narrower near the front. The whole thing was a piece of cake, really. The first thing that had gone easy all day long.

Richard scurried backward. There was a dark urine stain on the crotch of his jeans. Beads of sweat glistened on his upper lip and forehead, and ran down his cheeks.

With a garbled moan, loud enough to be heard over the engine, Whitey charged. I dropped the forklift into drive and raised the forks, drawing them close together at the same time so that there was no gap between them. Stopping in his tracks, Whitey gaped as I bore down on him. His eyes went wide. The utility knife slipped from his grasp and clattered onto the pavement. He started to turn, but I gunned it. The engine rumbled. Whitey threw his hands up in front of his face and screamed.

The forks speared him, punching through his abdomen and through the other side. Still rolling forward, I raised them higher, lifting the impaled Russian off the ground. I gave the throttle more gas and steered towards the stack of two-by-fours, tilting the forks up and backward so that Whitey wouldn’t slide off. I rammed into the lumber at full speed, jarring the forklift. Whitey slipped further down the forks. Blood gushed from his gaping mouth. His hands clawed at the gore-slicked steel thrusting from his body.