Kill Whitey

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 by 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.

A wire-mesh fence surrounded the site, but the crooked gate hung open, damaged by previous trespassers. We barreled right through the gap. Our bumper side-swiped the rusty gate, sending it crashing against the fence. Behind us, the Lexus slowed, barely making the turn because of the flat tire. Sparks flew up from beneath the car. Whitey was running on the rim. Yet still he followed, pushing the battered car onward. Sondra was right. He kept coming and coming. The Energizer Bunny of Death.

“Larry,” Yul coughed. “Pull over. Please?”

“Just hang on, man. Not now.”

We fishtailed, sending a cloud of dirt flying into the air behind us. I hoped it was enough to obscure Whitey’s vision. Spinning the wheel, I guided us past stacks of old skids, broken machine parts, rusty equipment, and forgotten dumpsters. We raced between two rows of metal drums. The stenciling on their sides was worn and faded. No telling what was inside them. Motor oil. Tomato paste. Toxic waste. Or maybe they were empty like the buildings around us.

Empty… like I’d felt ever since pulling the trigger.

I negotiated through the debris, splashing through puddles and darting between warehouses and sheds without slowing, trying my best to lose our pursuer. The maze of silent buildings swallowed us whole.

“Sondra, is he back there?” I couldn’t see because of all the dust.

“Is hard to tell. There is much cloud in the way. If not now, then not for long, I think. He will find us.”

“If the cops don’t first,” I muttered. “Jesus…”

“You killed those guys,” Yul said. “Shot them without even reacting.”

“In case you were fucking sleeping, dude, they shot at us first.”

He stared at me like he’d never seen me before. “What are you talking about? I was there with you in the parking lot.

“They shot at me first back in my apartment. I wasn’t taking any chances this time.”

“What? At your apartment?”

“It’s a long story, man. I’ll explain later.”

“But who were they?”

“The Russian mafia.”

“Fuck you, Larry. I’m serious.”

“So am I. You remember when we went to the Odessa?”

“Yeah.”

“Remember all those bad ass Russian guys, and the one with the white hair? The one in charge?”

“Yeah. Jesse said he was…” Yul’s eyes got big. “Jesse was right?”

I nodded.

“Does he know?”

“Who?” The Hyundai bounced over a rutted dirt field.

“Jesse. Does he know he was right?”

“Yul.” I spoke softly. “I told you, man. Jesse and Darryl are dead.”

He closed his eyes and shook his head. His lips and hands trembled. He took a deep breath and exhaled, breathing out the after-stench of puke. I turned away from him. In the backseat, Sondra watched our rear, looking for Whitey.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “It all happened so…it just…”

“They’re dead.” Yul’s voice was flat, toneless. His eyes were still shut. “I thought maybe you guys were playing another joke on me. Fuck With Yul Day. But you’re not messing with me. This is really happening. I went to work this morning and now…they’re really dead.”

“Yeah.”

“And these Russian guys killed them?”

“They…yeah.”

Yul put his hand to his mouth. “I think I’m gonna be sick again.”

I pulled behind an old boiler that some company had left lying out to rust, and turned the car off. I flexed my fingers. They felt numb. Yul flung the door open and collapsed in the dirt. He had the dry heaves.

“Let’s get inside one of these buildings,” I said. “Find a place to hide before somebody sees us.”

Sondra and I got out of the car. I made sure to grab the now empty 9mm, and stuck it in my waistband again. No sense leaving behind the incriminating weapon. I wished for a moment that I’d thought to do the same with the empty .38 back at the convenience store. I should have tossed it into the dumpster with my cell phone. Of course, when the cops found my Cherokee, they’d probably search the dumpster anyway.

Yul sputtered and gagged. As we helped him up, he glanced down at my feet.

“Where are your shoes?”

“Don’t worry about our shoes right now, dude.”

“Hold up a second.” He pulled away from me and went back to the car, rummaging around in the back. He grabbed a gym bag, unzipped it, and pulled out a ratty pair of running shoes. “You’re a size ten, right?”

I nodded.

“These should fit you then. Trying to get in shape for Kim, so I’ve been running every morning after work.” He looked at Sondra. “Sorry, I don’t have a pair that would fit you.”

Sondra shrugged. “Is okay.”

Grateful, I slipped the running shoes onto my aching feet. Then we abandoned the car and hurried towards a nearby warehouse with broken, boarded up windows and faded green siding. The ground around it was covered with bird shit and garbage. Pigeons cooed on the roof. In the distance, we heard a car engine revving. The engine sounded as sick as Yul. Fainter still was the wailing sound of emergency sirens.

“Is Whitey.” Sondra quickened her pace. “We go faster.”

I’d noticed something about Sondra’s usage of the English language. Sometimes she spoke fine, and other times she sounded like she’d just learned her first American words. At first, it was cute. Then it became a little annoying. But now, I’d figured it out. It seemed like the more stressed she got, the more broken her English became.

“I’m dizzy,” Yul moaned. “Wait up a second.”

“Nyet,” Sondra snapped. “I said we go faster. Hurry.”

I grabbed Yul’s arm and steadied him. “Let’s listen to the lady. Come on.”

He looked up at me and flashed a weak smile. “It’s going to be okay, right, Larry?”

“Sure,” I lied. “We’re gonna be fine.”

“I’m worried about Kim. She doesn’t know where I am.”

Even with everything that had happened, Yul’s first concern was for Kim. I thought about how nice it must be to have someone in your life like that. Someone that you cared about above everything else. Someone you’d move mountains for. Someone you’d kill for. I wanted a love like that.

And then I looked at Sondra and realized that I already had it.

“Let’s get inside,” I said.

Sondra and Yul flattened themselves against the side of the warehouse while I reached through the broken glass and pressed on the plywood covering the window. It was brittle and loose, deteriorated from constant exposure to the elements. The windows were low to the ground.

There was still no sign of the Lexus, but it sounded closer than before. As I pushed on the plywood, the engine sputtered and died. There was a faint thump—a slamming car door, and then a muffled shout. Whitey was back to speaking Russian again.

“What’s he saying?” I asked Sondra.

“The many ways he will kill us. None of them are quick.”

“Fuck this shit.”

I walked backwards a few paces and then ran at the wall, leaping into the air and kicking the plywood. It splintered. Even though the window was set lower than normal, I fell flat on my ass. Standing up again, I kicked the plywood repeatedly until it gave way and collapsed. After I’d brushed the glass out of the way, Sondra climbed through the window, followed by Yul. I took one last glance around and then ducked through after them. If Whitey had heard the commotion, there was no sign. He’d gone quiet again. The only sound was the far-off sirens.

Once inside the warehouse, I leaned the plywood back up against the window and braced it with a stack of empty wooden crates. If anybody inspected it too closely, they’d see that it wasn’t nailed, but hopefully it would be enough to fool them at a passing glance.

Our eyes adjusted to the gloom. The warehouse was a hollow, empty shell—just a massive room with miscellaneous debris scattered about. Rows of steel girders, spaced apart about every ten feet, ran from the floor to the ceiling. The concrete floor was cracked and pitted. Murky sunlight filtered down through dirty skylights and dust motes floated in the beams. Spider webs and grime coated everything. The air smelled stale and musty, but beneath it I could smell us—me and Sondra’s sweat, Yul’s vomit-stained clothes. Fear. And something else, bitter like ammonia.

I sniffed. “Yul, did you piss yourself?”

“Leave me alone.” He pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open.

“Who are you calling?” I asked.

“Kim. I need to let her know that I’m okay. You know this shit is gonna be on the news.” He glanced at the phone, and then snapped it shut in frustration. “Damn it! There’s no signal in here.”

“Come on,” I urged. “We can’t just stand here next to the window. Whitey or the cops will hear us. We need to hide.”

“But don’t we want the cops to find us?”

“No,” Sondra and I said at the same time.

Yul flinched. “I don’t understand any of this.”

“Look,” I said. “You’re not in trouble. You can always say we took you hostage. But Sondra doesn’t need any cops right now—and in truth, I probably don’t either.”

We ventured farther into the building. Rats squealed in the dark corners. Flies crawled over the skylights and boarded-up windows, and gnats flitted about. Sondra jumped when a cockroach crunched under her shoeless foot. We listened for sounds of pursuit, but if Whitey was out there, he was keeping quiet. None of us were wearing watches. I asked Yul to check the time on his cell phone, but the building was still blocking the signal.

“You know,” I said, “you could have bought a better cell phone—one that would show us the time without having to be logged onto the network. I don’t know why you have that cheap piece of shit.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t know we were going to be hiding from the Russian mob. Next time, I’ll buy a better one.”

Despite our fears, we both grinned. Sondra shivered. It was cold inside the structure. Damp. I put my arm around her shoulder and she smiled.

Maybe I hadn’t lied to Yul. Maybe we would be okay after all.

At the far end of the warehouse was an open door, big enough to allow forklifts to pass by each other with full loads. There was another empty storage room on the other side of it. A concrete stairway led up to a second floor in the rear of the building, and a service ramp on the side headed down into a basement level. It was too dark down there to explore.

“Let’s head down there,” I suggested. “It’s dark enough to hide us.”

“No,” Sondra said. “Is too much like ship. I no like the dark now.”

Yul reached for a light switch but I stopped him, keeping my voice low.

“Even if there is power, we don’t want the lights on. Might as well just shout, ‘Here we are’ until they come running.”

“True that. Sorry. I’m just… look, somebody needs to tell me what’s going on. From the beginning.”

So I did just that. As we searched the second room, looking for a place to hide, I filled Yul in on everything that had happened. All the shit. I left nothing out. He took it pretty well, all things considered. Maybe he was in shock, or maybe it was exhaustion, but he seemed to accept it all—the murder of our friends, the news that the mob was after us, the fact that I’d killed some people and now the cops were after us, too, and the damage to his car—with resigned, sullen acceptance.

In the rear of the empty bay was an assortment of broken skids and cardboard shipping containers, the kind used to package refrigerators, dish washers, and other big appliances. Loops of plastic and metal strapping lay scattered around the pile. We hid behind the stack, crouching against the wall. By the time I’d finished telling Yul about the fucked up series of events that had landed us in this situation, we’d finally had a chance to catch our breath.

“So this Whitey guy wants to force Sondra to have an abortion,” Yul said. “And she’s on the run. And you shot him at your apartment, but when he showed up at GPS, he didn’t seem too fazed by it.”

“No,” I agreed. “He sure as hell didn’t. And I shot him again. You saw me. You both did. I shot the fucker in the head. His fucking ear was hanging off. But he still managed to follow us. Got the stamina of a bull. Or a pro wrestler.”

“Sounds like he’s the Soviet version of Jason Voorhees.”

I grinned. “There ain’t no more Soviets, Yul. Just gangsters.”

“What is this Jason?” Sondra asked.

“He’s the villain in a series of horror movies,” I explained. “Friday the 13th? You never saw those in Russia?”

“They have Jennifer Aniston in these Friday movies?”

“No.” I stifled another grin. “She wasn’t in them. But Jason was. You must have seen him before. Played by Kane Hodder and some other guy.”

“I met Kane Hodder once,” Yul said. “He was at a convention. Wanted thirty bucks for an autographed picture.”

“That’s how those guys make their money,” I said.

Sondra stared at us in confusion.

“I’m sure you’ve seen Jason,” I told her again. “Big dude with a machete and a hockey mask?”

Yul nodded. “He always wears a hockey mask.”

Sondra frowned. “And this Jason is like Whitey? ”

“Yeah,” I said. “Sort of.”

“But Whitey not wear hockey mask. Is very vain. Wears nice clothes. Expensive.”

“That’s not what we mean. See, Jason kills people. Lots of people. He’s a serial killer. Slaughters surplus teenagers out in the woods—and once in Manhattan.”

“And in space,” Yul said. “Don’t forget about when he went to space.”

“That one sucked.”

“Are you high, Larry? That was the best of the series!”

Sondra looked even more confused. I glared at Yul, and he fell quiet again.

“See,” I told Sondra, “in the movies, Jason can’t be killed. He’s murdered all these people—like, over a hundred—but he can’t be stopped. They’ve stabbed him, shot him, hung him, drowned him in the lake, and cut his fucking head off. The FBI even mortared his ass, but he always comes back. Jason just keeps on coming. He’s—”

I stopped in mid-sentence, my words dying in my throat. Sondra’s eyes were wide and frightened. She had that same look I’d seen on her face when she was hiding beneath my Jeep. I reached out and touched her hand. Flinching, she pulled away from me.

“Sondra, what’s wrong?”

“This Jason,” she whispered, “is very much like Whitey. Very much.”

This wasn’t the first time she’d made a weird reference like that regarding Whitey, and despite how I felt about her, I was getting tired of that vague shit. Things were off the hook, too far gone to keep secrets or tell half-truths now. Darryl and Jesse were dead. I was a murderer, even if it was in self-defense. Playtime was fucking over, far as I was concerned.

“Sondra,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm and neutral and my body language non-threatening, “is there something you haven’t told me about Whitey? Because if there is, now would be a real good time to tell it.”

She lowered her face, staring at her lap. “Da.”

“What is it? And why wait until now to tell me?”

“Because I am being afraid you not believe me. Is, how you say…difficult?”

“Try me.”

“Okay,” Sondra said. “I tell you.”