Kill Whitey

by Brian Keene

  I was worried about the Jeep. We needed another vehicle. If we carjacked someone, we’d just be back in the same situation as soon as they called the cops. Only way to prevent them from doing so was to kill them, and I couldn’t do that. Not an innocent. Not someone who wasn’t trying to kill me or those I cared for. I thought about stopping by a car lot and taking something for a ‘test drive’, but there were no car lots open this time of morning, and Sondra and I weren’t exactly dressed like we were shopping for a new vehicle.

  We passed by a home along the river—a tiny trailer with a morose doghouse and sagging shed in the backyard. Both were in better condition than the trailer itself. There was a clothesline in the yard. Whoever had done laundry had forgotten to bring the clothes inside. They flapped gently in the light breeze. I stopped along the road, killed the engine and lights, and quickly nicked a shirt for me, a pair of gray sweatpants for Sondra, and socks for us both. The shirt didn’t fit me very well, but it would have to do. At least we weren’t half naked anymore. Too bad the rest of our clothes were still bloody. If I’d had more time, I would have stolen an entire wardrobe for us.

  Finally, I came up with a plan.

  In Craley, I pulled behind a convenience store and flipped my cell phone open. Then I reconsidered. I’d watched enough cop shows to know that they could track you by your cell phone, ATM, and credit card usage. I’d used it to call Jesse and Yul. If the cops were tracking us, then they’d focus on that location. Instead of calling, I turned the phone off and opened the door.

  “What are you doing?” Sondra asked.

  “Getting us a ride.”

  I got out of the Jeep. I’d parked next to a garbage dumpster and it reeked. Bees and flies swarmed around me. They were up early, too. The ground was littered with broken bottles, cigarette butts, candy wrappers, and used condoms. Then I walked around to the front of the store and breathed a sigh of relief. There are fewer pay phones these days, because everyone uses cell phones. Luck was with us. The store had a pay phone next to the ice machine. I dialed information, got the number of the taxi company, and then called for a cab. I gave the dispatcher our location and hung up. Then I returned to the Cherokee, dropping my cell phone into the garbage dumpster on the way back.

  “Come on,” I told Sondra. “We need to be ready. Cab’s coming to pick us up.”

  “Cab? What is cab?”

  “You know. A taxi cab?”

  “Da, I know what is taxi. But we cannot be in front of store. What if we attract much attention?”

  I glanced around. “It’s pretty secluded back here. And it’s still early. And I doubt Craley’s got much of a rush hour, anyway. But we’ll wait at the corner of the building. Nobody can see us, but we’ll be able to see the parking lot.”

  “What about your Jeep?”

  “We’ll leave it here. Soon as some employee comes out back to smoke, they’ll find it. But we’ll be gone by then. The cops won’t be looking for a taxi. We’ll make it to GPS, at least. Then we can get Yul to drive us somewhere till we figure out what to do next.”

  I grabbed the 9mm and stuffed it in my waistband. Then I pulled my shirt down to cover it. The gun was heavy and bulky. The metal felt cold against my skin.

  Yawning, Sondra got out of the Cherokee. She looked tired. We both were. On a normal day, I’d soon be getting off work. Then I’d come home and sleep until about three in the afternoon. But this wasn’t a normal day. When I’d fantasized about days and nights spent with Sondra, they’d been exotic. Mystical. Hot. Not this. There were no gunshots or pissed off mobsters in those dreams. No death. And yet here she was. Daydreams were now reality.

  I wondered if I’d ever have a normal day again.

  twelve

  The taxi driver, a middle-aged Hispanic guy, couldn’t have cared less about us. He didn’t talk much. Just asked us where we were going, checked out Sondra’s ass in the side mirror as she climbed into the back seat with me, and that was it. I figured he’d at least comment on the dried blood, but he didn’t. Maybe he’d seen worse. Or maybe he just didn’t give a shit. I’d hoped he would have the radio on so I could find out if there was any news about us, but instead, he listened to Spanish music discs. They made my head hurt even more than it already did.

  Sondra and I didn’t speak. We rode in silence, except for the music. Occasionally, the driver glanced in the rearview mirror, trying to catch a glimpse of Sondra’s cleavage. Her nipples were taut against the shirt’s thin fabric.

  I had the driver drop us about a mile from GPS. I paid the guy in cash and tipped him five bucks. Not enough that he’d remember us, but not so little that he’d remember us either. With any luck, he’d forget about this fare by the time he picked up his next one.

  The sun was up now; gray murk gave way to daylight. We cut across a grassy field. Sharp stones jabbed us through our socks and birds took flight, squawking at the intrusion. We slowed down as we approached the parking lot. With any luck, nobody in the guard shack could see us if we approached from this angle, rather than the road. I checked my watch. Yul would be getting out any minute now. It was almost time for shift change. The Glock rubbed against my ass, chafing my skin. Sondra took my hand and squeezed it. I squeezed back.

  “I don’t see any cop cars,” I said. “That’s a good sign.”

  “Da.”

  “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

  We stepped out of the high grass and onto the blacktop. Our socks were soaked from the morning dew. There were a few guys from the day shift sitting in their cars—listening to Howard Stern or smoking one last cigarette or finishing their coffee before they checked in at the guard house and trekked up the hill to the building. None of them looked at us. They were too caught up in their own thing. I was suddenly hit with a sense of longing. I used to be one of those guys. Yesterday, I had been. But not anymore. I wanted to go back to my boring, lonely life. These guys didn’t know how good they had it.

  A long line of tractor trailers was backed up at the gate. That was good, because it meant the two rental cops inside the guard shack had their hands full checking seals and bills of lading and weren’t paying attention to the parking lot.

  Yul’s car, a red Hyundai Accent, was parked in the corner of the last row at the back of the lot. Out of sight and out of mind. Sondra and I approached it with caution. I studied the other cars around it, checking to see if there was anybody inside them. They were all empty. I tried the Hyundai’s rear door. Yul always forgot to lock his doors, and today was no exception. Grinning, I cast one last look around and then we hopped inside. We ducked down, keeping our heads below the windows, and waited.

  “Well,” I said, “so far so good. That went a lot easier than I expected.”

  Within minutes, the parking lot came to life as the early shift got off work. We kept our heads down, but all around us were the sounds of car doors slamming, co-workers talking and shouting, engines starting, horns honking, sub-woofers booming bass lines from the latest hip-hop songs. Typical morning.

  I missed it. I’d had a thousand mornings just like it, but had taken them for granted. Had dreaded them, in fact. Now, I would have given anything to have them back again. A million work days were better than this.

  A shadow passed over us. I looked up and saw Yul standing at the driver’s door. He glanced around the parking lot, looking for us, unaware that we were hiding just inches away from where he stood. He put his key in the door, turned it—locking the door—and then frowned in confusion when the door wouldn’t open. I suppressed a giggle. Shaking his head, Yul turned the key again, unlocking the door. He still hadn’t seen us. He opened the door and slid behind the wheel. Then he slammed the door, rolled the window down, and put the key in the ignition.

  Before he could start the car, I said, “What’s up, Yul?”

  His body jerked. Arms flailing, Yul gave a startled cry.

  “Settle down,” I said. “It’s just me.”

  “Larry!” Yul turned ar
ound. “Jesus fucking Christ, you scared the shit out of—”

  He stopped in mid-sentence, staring at Sondra. His mouth hung open.

  “Hello.” Sondra smiled. “You are Yul, no?”

  “No. I mean y-yes. I mean…aren’t you the girl from the Odessa?”

  “Da.”

  “What are you doing in my backseat?”

  “Hiding.”

  Blinking, Yul turned his head slowly to me and then back to Sondra again.

  “Hiding? Hiding from who? Larry, what the hell is going on? You call me at work and say there’s a family emergency. My boss was pissed as shit about that. Then I find you in the backseat of my car with a stripper. No offense.”

  Sondra shrugged.

  “Where’s Darryl and Jesse? What’s—”

  “Yul,” I interrupted, “just shut up for a minute. We’re in a world of shit and I need your help. Darryl and Jesse…”

  “What about them? And you’re bleeding! Where did all that blood come from. That’s gonna be a real bitch, trying to get it out of the upholstery.”

  “Relax. It’s not my blood. And I’ll pay for the clean up.”

  “Did Darryl and Jesse—”

  “Yul,” I whispered, “they’re dead.”

  He paused before speaking. “What?”

  “Darryl and Jesse are dead, man.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure about Darryl and I’m pretty sure about Jesse.”

  “How? What the fuck happened?”

  Before I could explain, we heard tires screeching. Sondra and I sat up and Yul whipped around. A black Lexus skidded to a stop in front of the Hyundai, blocking us from leaving. Sondra screamed. So did I. Yul just gaped in confusion. The stench of burned rubber filled the air.

  Otar leapt out of the Lexus on the driver’s side. Another Russian who I didn’t recognize got out of the passenger’s side. Whitey climbed out of the back. His shirt was bloody from where I’d shot him, but otherwise, he seemed fine. He moved quickly. Calmly. Showed no sign of weakness or pain.

  “Who the hell are these guys?” Yul hollered. “That white-haired guy—isn’t he from the strip club, too?”

  Instead of answering, I flung my door open and knelt on the pavement, using the car door as a shield. I pulled the Glock and took aim at the guy closest to me—the one whose name I didn’t know. Whitey dived back inside the car. Otar dropped to a crouch and raised his gun. I was quicker. My first shot caught my target in the neck. Blood splattered the Lexus. He grabbed at his throat and fell.

  “That’s for Darryl, you motherfuckers!”

  Otar squeezed off a shot. The bullet glanced off the pavement at my feet. Pebbles and fragments of blacktop nicked my skin. He fired again, missing a second time. I shot at him and missed too. The trigger surprised me. I barely had to touch it and the gun would go off.

  Sondra and Yul shrieked inside the car. Bystanders fled from the parking lot, running towards the guard house and the field. A few of them sped away in their cars. The cops would be here soon, if they weren’t already on their way.

  “Start the car,” I shouted at Yul as I fired another shot. The Lexus’s front tire exploded. I had two bullets left.

  “What, Larry?”

  “Start the fucking car, goddamn it!”

  The Hyundai sputtered, belching exhaust as it came to life. Yul was shit when it came to engines and preventative maintenance.

  Otar ducked inside the Lexus, huddling beneath the dashboard. I couldn’t see him or Whitey from where I crouched. Their driver’s side door still hung open. Quickly, I shoved Yul into the passenger seat, keeping my head low.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Stay down,” I warned. “And brace yourselves.”

  Laying the 9mm on my lap, I dropped the car into drive and floored it. The Hyundai shot forward and slammed into the Lexus. I threw it into reverse, backed up, and then rammed them again, clipping the driver’s side door. The door snapped off. Our tires bumped up over it. We pulled alongside them, the cars scraping against each other with a horrible metallic screech.

  Otar must have been stunned. Before he could react, I grabbed the 9mm, stuck it through the window and shot him in the chin. The entire bottom half of his face disappeared. I’d been aiming at his forehead. Otar flopped in the seat, his hands and legs jittering uncontrollably. Between the seats, I saw a flash of white hair as Whitey jostled to get lower. I took aim and fired again. White turned red. I think I may have been laughing. Whitey screamed.

  Yul cowered next to me, sobbing. His legs were curled protectively in the fetal position, and he’d wrapped his arms around his head.

  “I got him,” I said. “I got the fucker.”

  “No,” Sondra cried from the backseat. “You not kill him.”

  For a second, I didn’t understand what she was saying. I thought she was suddenly regretful that I’d killed Whitey. But then I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. Whitey sat up in the back of the Lexus and pointed a pistol at us. He was smiling. The side of his head was scarlet and gore dripped from his hair. Something dangled on the side of his head, smacking against his cheek. After a moment, I realized that it was his ear. I’d shot his ear off. It hung by just a thin strand of gristle.

  Whitey spoke, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying.

  I stomped the gas pedal and metal screeched again as the Hyundai tore free of the battered Lexus. I dropped the 9mm into my lap again. There was a gunshot, and Yul’s back window shattered, spraying fragments of glass all over the interior. For a second, I thought maybe my gun had gone off accidentally, but it was Whitey shooting at us. Sondra screamed, but I had no time to turn around and make sure she was okay. I was too busy steering us towards the exit, making sure I didn’t mow down our fleeing co-workers. The Lexus’s car door was stuck in our undercarriage and we dragged it about twenty yards before it finally came loose and clattered behind us. The Hyundai shuddered. Yul did, too.

  “Oh God,” he moaned. “Oh God, oh God, oh Jesus fucking Christ!”

  As we bounced out onto the road, I glanced in the rearview mirror. Sondra sat up, picking shards of glass from her hair and brushing them off the seat.

  “You okay?” I asked. “Are you hit?”

  “No. Am fine. But we must go faster.”

  “Fuck that,” I said. “This shit ends now. I’m calling the cops.”

  “My fucking car,” Yul cried. “They shot at us. Oh sweet fucking Jesus, what was that shit? Who were those guys?”

  I’d never heard Yul curse as much as I had in the last two minutes. Instead of answering him, I focused on the road.

  “No police,” Sondra said, pointing behind us. “Is not time.”

  I looked up and saw that she was right. The Lexus was swerving out of the parking lot, directly on our ass. Whitey was behind the wheel, driving on a flat tire and missing a driver’s side door.

  “Fuck,” I shouted. “What does it take to stop this guy? He’s like the fucking Energizer Bunny!”

  Sondra bowed her head. “Da. He is like bunny. He keep going and going till he catch us. Is no stopping Whitey.”

  “Great,” Yul groaned. “You picked a fight with the god-damned Terminator. He’ll be back.”

  “Shut up, Yul.”

  I focused on driving.

  Things got worse.

  thirteen

  Yul threw up on himself. One moment he’d been pawing at my shirt, begging me to stop the car, demanding an explanation, pleading with me to tell him what was happening. Suddenly, he leaned forward and threw up all over his lap. Sounded like he was choking. The stench was overpowering, but I ignored it, focusing instead on Whitey. The Russian hadn’t gained on us. The damage to the Lexus had slowed him down and I didn’t intend on giving him a chance to catch up.

  “Pull over,” Yul spat. Long ropes of drool dripped from his chin. “I’m sick.”

  “Can’t pull over now, man. Hold it!”

  His argument was cut short b
y another round of retching.

  “Is still coming,” Sondra said.

  For a moment, I wasn’t sure if she was talking about Whitey’s Lexus or Yul’s puke. Both were insistent. I pressed the gas pedal down as far as it would go. The engine protested and the speedometer crept to ninety. The car shook, clearly not liking being pushed like this. Behold the inherent problems with a four-cylinder engine. To make matters worse, we had less than a quarter tank of gas left. As I watched it, the needle crept lower, edging into the red.

  “Damn.” I slapped the steering wheel with my palm.

  Sondra leaned forward. “What is wrong?”

  “We might be fucked.”

  Yul vomited again. Puke splattered all over his shoes and the Hyundai’s floor. Gagging, Sondra rolled down her window. I hollered at Yul to stop it.

  “Listen,” Sondra said. “Is police sirens.”

  I heard them, too. They sounded like they were all around us, but when I scanned the horizon, I didn’t see any. We were on a narrow service road, just minutes from GPS and the Interstate. The cops were probably converging on our workplace right now, coming in from different locations around the county. When they learned that we’d fled, and got the make and model of our vehicle, they would spread out and search the area. Probably put up road blocks, too, just like on television. Call in S.W.A.T. or bring out the police chopper and shit. Throw down some of those spike strips. We needed to get off the road and ditch the car immediately—if not sooner.

  I made a sharp left and swerved across the road, heading towards an abandoned industrial complex—the natural landscape of Central Pennsylvania. We still had GPS and places like the Harley Davidson and Starbucks plants or the paper mill, but they stood alone, tenacious islands in a post-apocalyptic landscape of shuttered factories and dilapidated warehouses, stubbornly refusing to give up the blue-collar ghost to the Chinese and South American invaders. The North American Free Trade Agreement and others like it were the tactical nuclear strikes that destroyed us in the end. Now, our state was a monument to the shattered dreams of a hundred thousand working class heroes. It sometimes seemed like if you threw a rock in York County, you’d hit a deserted industrial park. A few of them had been rented out or converted into apartments, but most of them were populated only by spiders and rats and other scavengers—homeless people, guys down on their luck, scouring the buildings for copper and aluminum and other scrap they could sell at the junkyard. A day’s work for a day’s pay—enough change for a bottle of cheap booze or some meth. These places were built with blood and sweat, but it was despair that held them upright. Maybe it’s like that all across America. I don’t know. All I know is that it was fucking depressing.