Kill Whitey

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.