Kill Whitey

twenty

We fled down the hallway and back into the deserted machine shop. The room was full of smoke, but I still didn’t see any flames. Most of the building seemed to be made of concrete, so it was possible that it wouldn’t catch on fire. Maybe Whitey had been telling the truth when he said it was just the vehicles that were aflame. The smoke rushed towards us as we entered the room, clinging to our bodies and crawling up our noses and down our parched throats. We dropped to our knees, coughing and gagging. My eyes watered and it was hard to see.

“Is no good,” Sondra choked. “We will not breathe if we are to stay here.”

“You’re right. Let’s see if we can get out the way we came in.”

Sondra shook her head. “Is police there.”

“Not anymore. Whitey killed them all.”

“But more will come?”

“Yeah, I’m sure there are more cops on the way, along with firemen and Quick Response units and who knows what else, but if the fire is keeping them away, we might be able to squeeze past unnoticed.”

“I do not think it will work.”

“Well, if you’ve got a better idea, I’d love to hear it.”

When she didn’t respond, I crawled towards the first room. After a moment’s hesitation, Sondra followed me. I turned back to her and smiled in encouragement. Both of us were coughing, and snot ran down our faces. We weren’t a pretty sight, but Sondra was still the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, even in her current condition.

The first room was filled with a cloud of thick, black smoke, hovering just inches from the floor—an almost solid wall that obscured everything else. The sirens were louder here, and even though we couldn’t see, we knew there were a lot of cops and other personnel right outside the building. We heard them shouting to each other.

“So much for that,” I said. “They’ve probably got the fucking place surrounded. Now what?”

“Larry,” Sondra wheezed, “I am feeling sick. My throat…it burns.”

“Smoke inhalation. We need to get lower. Let’s try the basement.”

As we crawled towards the back room again, I noticed that Sondra’s foot had stopped bleeding. The bottom of her sock was red. I started to comment on it when behind us, we heard a series of muffled thumps, followed by a hissing sound. As I looked back, something soared through the smoke and landed on the floor in the main room. It was about the size of a baseball. As it rolled towards us, I saw that it was a grenade.

“Shit! Get down.”

Sondra flattened against the cement and I climbed overtop of her, shielding her body with mine. I squeezed my watering eyes shut and tensed, waiting for the explosion. Waited for the shrapnel. This was it. We were going to die.

But nothing happened.

The hissing grew louder. I opened my eyes. A cloudy substance was leaking out of the grenade, mixing with the smoke. I pulled my bloody shirt up over my mouth and nose, and motioned at Sondra to do the same.

“Gas,” I hissed. “Those motherfuckers gassed us. Head for the stairs and hold your breath as long as you can. Hurry!”

Holding our breath, we made it to the basement stairs. I glanced down the hallway, worried that Whitey might have already freed himself, but the smoke was too heavy and I couldn’t see the break room. My burning lungs felt like they were going to burst. We plunged down the stairs, taking them two at a time, and came out into a basement. The air was clearer, and we stood up, gasping for breath.

“Is dark,” Sondra said. “I can’t see.”

“Our eyes will adjust eventually. I’m betting that the cops are getting ready to storm the building. Keep going, while we still can.”

“You go first, yes?”

“Sure. Take my hand.”

“Don’t let go.”

“I won’t.”

We started forward. I went slowly, only able to see a few feet ahead of me. The basement level consisted of a long hallway with multiple doors on either side. The floor was covered with dust. Each door had its designation stenciled on it. We passed by the boiler room, the generator, the electrical room—Shock Hazard, the sign warned us—the pump room, a janitor’s closet, an HVAC room, and several storage areas. At the end of the hallway was a freight elevator. I hadn’t seen the elevator on the floor above us, and figured it must have been hidden behind debris.

“Dead end,” I said, feeling the walls in the darkness. “Can’t go this way.”

The air was still relatively clear, but my eyes were beginning to sting. It was simply a matter of time before the smoke made its way downstairs, bringing the tear gas with it. We reluctantly started back the way we’d come.

“I don’t know what to do,” I apologized. “I’m sorry.”

Sondra started to speak, but Whitey’s sudden and enraged cry cut her off.

“SONDAAAAAAA!!!”

“Oh shit,” I said. “Guess who’s back?”

“Is no guess. Is Whitey.”

There was the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor, followed by a crash that reverberated through the ceiling. Dust fell from the light fixtures, irritating my burned scalp.

“Noh more gamesh,” Whitey shouted. His voice sounded weird. “Noh more tahk. Onlee tym fo killingh nohw, Mishar Gibshon.”

I tried the doors for the boiler room and the electrical room, but they were both locked. Next, I tested the door to the pump room, sighing with relief when I found that it was unlocked. Hurrying, we slipped inside and shut the door behind us. Sondra gasped. With the door closed, it was pitch black in the pump room. I waved my hand in front of my face but couldn’t see it. I felt a sudden surge of hope. Whitey wouldn’t be able to see us either. My excitement fizzled when I remembered that he could apparently track us anyway via some extrasensory connection with the baby. There was nowhere we could hide, not even in total darkness.

Above us, I heard Whitey’s muffled footsteps coming down the stairs.

“Listen,” Sondra whispered.

“I hear him. I’m sorry, Sondra. Get behind me. When he comes in, I’ll bum rush the son of a bitch while you get away.”

“Nyet. Not Whitey. I hear water.”

I tuned out the approaching footsteps and listened, but didn’t hear anything. My hearing was still wavering in and out, but I’d thought it had been improving.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Da. Am positive is water. It sounds like it is beneath us.”

“My hearing must be more fucked up than I thought. Can you find the source?”

I felt her kneel beside me in the darkness and heard her palms slapping at the concrete floor as she explored. Her perfume lingered, faint but reassuringly present. She moved away from me, and even though I could still hear her, I suddenly felt very alone.

“Here,” Sondra cried. “I find a…how you say? Grape?”

“A grape is a fruit. You mean a grate?”

“Da. Grate. Is water beneath.”

“Let me see.”

I dropped to the floor and felt my way over to her. Groping in the darkness, my hands found her shoulders. I followed Sondra’s arms downward, brushing against her breasts, until I felt the grating. It was made out of metal and cold to the touch—probably made of iron or steel, and molded in a checkered mesh pattern. There was definitely water rushing below it—fast, judging by the sound. I slipped my fingers between the squares and pulled. Squeaking, the grate moved a few inches.

“It’s loose,” I whispered. “If the pipe down there is big enough for us to crawl through, we may have a chance.”

“What is it?”

“It’s the sewer. Must run beneath the entire industrial park. I’m hoping the pipes are big ones. They should be, given the amount of stuff that probably flowed through here when these companies were still open.”

“Sewer? Where the poop goes?”

Even though I couldn’t see her face, the disgust in Sondra’s voice was unmistakable.

“Not poop,” I whispered. “At least, not anymore. This whole complex is deserted, just like the two buildings we’ve been in. Nobody flushes their toilets anymore.”

“Then what is the water?”

“I don’t know. Probably run-off from the fire trucks outside. All that water from their hoses probably went down into the drains. If it can get out, then so can we. Now help me lift this damn thing.”

She grabbed hold of the grating and together we lifted it out of the way. The water got louder. So did Whitey’s footsteps. I felt the edges of the hole. It was big enough for us to slide through. Then I spit into the darkness and heard it splash into the stream.

“Not too far of a drop. Ladies first.”

“Larry, I am afraid. You will go first, yes?”

“Elloh,” Whitey called. “Eye ahm comyngh fo eww, lihttul meyz.”

This time I was sure of it. Whitey’s voice had definitely changed. His words were slurred, almost unintelligible. Even so, he still sounded sinister and his intent was clear.

A thunderous crash from upstairs echoed throughout the building. Seconds later, booted feet charged across the floor. The ceiling vibrated. Shouts followed.

“Cops are inside,” I said. “We’ve got to go now.”

I scooted over to the hole and dangled my legs through the opening. Then I turned around and slowly lowered myself down into the sewer. It was shallow enough that my feet touched the bottom while my head and shoulders were still at floor level. I gasped as the cold water rushed into my shoes. The sudden shock cleared my head.

“It’s not deep,” I said. “Come on.”

I moved out of the way and Sondra followed me into the hole. There was a small amount of light in the tunnel—not enough to really see by but enough to let my eyes adjust. I couldn’t find the source. As my vision adjusted, I made out Sondra’s form—a beautiful, slender shadow. When she turned my way, I saw flashes of white from her eyes. Trying to be quiet but quick, I pulled the grating back into place. It wouldn’t stop Whitey, but maybe it would prevent the police from figuring out where we’d gone.

In the darkness, Sondra’s hand found mine. Our fingers intertwined.

“Can you see?” I asked.

“Nyet. Not so much.”

“Then just hold onto my hand and don’t let go.”

The air quality was better in the sewer pipe. The smoke and tear gas hadn’t reached this far and we could breathe freely again. It was stale and humid, and there was a faint hint of rotten eggs, leftover from when the system had been active, but it was a lot fucking better than the atmosphere above us. The corrugated tunnel was broad and round. I could sense the walls, but I couldn’t see them. I let go of Sondra’s hand for a moment and stretched my arms out, but my fingertips barely touched the sides. It wasn’t very high, though, and we had to stoop over as we walked. My head kept brushing up against the ceiling, bringing fresh pain to my blistered scalp. The water was only ankle deep, but it was cold. My feet and toes quickly grew numb. At least I wasn’t barefoot. It would have been much worse had I not been wearing the shoes Yul had given me. I wondered how the icy temperature was affecting Sondra.

I took her hand again. “You okay?”

“Is very cold,” she gasped. “And bottom is slimy. But I will be okay.”

I thought about the cut on her foot. What if it got infected. Who knew what kind of bacteria were down here? I decided not to mention it. We had enough things to worry about.

“Let’s try to keep quiet,” I whispered. “No more talking until we get further ahead.”

The light vanished again, plunging us back into total darkness. We slogged forward, trying to move as silently as possible, taking slow, measured steps so the water wouldn’t splash around our feet. I gripped Sondra’s hand, making sure she stayed close. It sounded like she was limping slightly, one foot dragging through the water. I wondered if she was having flashbacks to the ship again—of being locked inside that pitch black cargo container.

And then I wondered if that had all been a lie, too, and I hated myself for it.

The tunnel ran in a straight line, heading deeper and deeper beneath the abandoned industrial park. The silence and darkness were overwhelming. The quiet was broken only by the running water, my sloshing shoes, and Sondra’s chattering teeth. Otherwise, it was still. Even Whitey seemed to have disappeared, as if the darkness had swallowed him, too. I felt like shouting just to prove that we still existed, that we were still alive, despite the mobster’s best efforts. I longed for some light—a match, a cigarette lighter, even the dim blue glow of a cell phone. Whatever. Just a spark. Anything would be better than this solid wall of black. Moments later, I banged my forehead on an overhanging pipe. Cursing, I wondered how far we could go without being able to see. What if there was a sharp drop-off or we tripped and broke our legs? What if we came to an intersection or a dead end? What then?

I’d never been claustrophobic, but I was at that moment. I felt the weight of the industrial complex crushing down on us. It was suddenly hard to breathe. My chest tightened and my throat constricted. The darkness pressed against me. Something tickled my ankle below the surface and I squeezed Sondra’s hand hard enough to make her cry out.

“What is wrong?”

I didn’t respond. What was down here with us? What was hiding in the dark, watching us even now? Rats, certainly. Wouldn’t be a sewer without some fucking rats. Cockroaches and beetles. Worms, of course, and maybe even leeches. Possums, raccoons, other vermin—rabid or just pissed off that humans were trespassing in their hood. Probably snakes, too. Pennsylvania had water snakes, black snakes, copperheads, rattlers, and harmless little garter snakes. I shuddered, thinking back on Whitey’s story about cutting off the black snake’s head and watching it continue to wriggle. What if one swam right between my legs? I’d never be able to see it in the dark. I’d never been afraid of snakes before, but the darkness has a way of changing your fears.

We needed a light, but none was forthcoming. I tried to figure out how far we’d gone. I hadn’t heard the grating move, but surely Whitey knew where we were. Maybe we’d gone too far to hear it. But if the cops had caught Whitey and entered the sewers, we’d have heard them and seen their flashlight beams. Instead, there was more darkness.

You know the old adage about when you die, you see a bright light at the end of the tunnel? Right then, I would have happily let Whitey shoot me through the head if it meant I’d see that light. Any light would have been better than this—even if it meant finality.

Sondra pulled me to a sudden stop. The water swirled past us. I couldn’t hear her breathing.

“Sondra? What’s—”

“Is something there,” she whispered. “In the dark.”

We stood still, holding our breath. Then I heard it, too. A splash, followed by a soft grunt. The sound faded. The water got colder.

Or maybe it was just me.

I led Sondra onward. We didn’t speak. We didn’t have to. We both knew who it was.

Eventually, I felt a warm draft of air on my face. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from, but it brought the stench of burning fuel with it. I figured we must be beneath the wreckage of the police cars. There was no sign of activity—no sirens or radios or shouting. Maybe we were too far underground to hear them. We continued down the passage, moving faster now. The pipe got bigger, tall enough that we could both stand up without banging our heads. The breeze faded and the cloying dampness returned. Something—a rat, maybe—squeaked in the darkness. I looked around in vain, trying to catch a glimpse, and that was when I saw the light at the end of our tunnel.

Except that it was at the wrong end. It was behind us.

Sondra must have noticed it to, because she drew closer to me. I felt her body press against mine. She was shivering.

Back there in the darkness was a soft, blue glow. It was too faint to be a flashlight and too focused to be a flame. As it drew nearer, I figured out what it was—a cell phone, flipped open to illuminate the way.

“Ew kaht eshkayp,” Whitey called. “Shtop wunnig.”

His bizarre speech patterns were even more distorted as they echoed down the pipe.

Wunnig…nig…nig…

“We must have really fucked you up with that soda machine,” I shouted. “Why don’t you just give it up?”

Up…up…up…

Instead of answering me, Whitey growled. The cell phone’s illumination drew closer. Suddenly, there was a flash of white light. The report followed a second later. The bullet whizzed by us.

“Hit the deck,” I shouted, flinging myself into the water.

Sondra stood there, staring into the darkness. The gunshot reverberated through the pipe.

“Sondra!” I grabbed her leg and yanked her down.

Whitey fired a second shot. The bullet whined overhead, ricocheting off the walls.

“Come on,” I said.

We ran, not caring now about whether anyone could hear us or not. It was pointless. Whitey knew where we were. Maybe we’d get lucky. Maybe the cops would hear the gunshots and storm the sewer. I cast a glance over my shoulder as we fled. He didn’t shoot at us again. Maybe he was out of bullets or trying to save ammunition until he had a clearer target. The cell phone’s glow grew smaller. Whitey was having trouble keeping up.

Then we saw daylight up ahead, streaming down through another sewer grate. Dust particles floated in the beams. Pausing, I stretched, trying to reach the iron bars, but the grate was too high. We ran on, passing more grates along the way. I guessed that we were beyond the industrial park now—maybe running alongside a road or some suburban street. The drains were evenly spaced, probably used for storm run-off.

Our surroundings soon became clearer. The stagnant water wasn’t flowing in this section of pipe, because it had been choked off with garbage. There were leaves, food wrappers, empty bottles, crushed beer cans, cigarette butts, and other blocking the pipe, and a thin layer of rust-colored scum clung to it all. My nose wrinkled in disgust. Then I realized that the surface wasn’t as still as I’d first thought. There was movement in the water. Mosquito larvae wriggled around our feet. Again, I thought of the cut on Sondra’s foot. Something scurried to my right. I turned to see cockroaches scuttling up the curved tunnel walls. Shuddering, I looked behind us again. There was no sign of our pursuer.“We’ve lost him,” I said. “That soda machine must have fucked Whitey up more than we thought. He’s slowing down. If we can keep ahead of him, we might actually make it the fuck out of here alive.”

“He will keep coming,” Sondra moaned. “Even in this condition, he is…what is word? Determined? But he is weak now. Maybe we can kill after all.”

“Maybe,” I agreed, thinking of Rasputin finally succumbing to death when he was trapped beneath the ice, “but I don’t intend to stick around and find out. Let’s keep moving.”

The pipe walls rumbled, sending ripples through the sludge. The cockroaches scurried away. A big truck roared overhead, its tires humming on the asphalt, the motor rumbling.

“We must be under a main road,” I said. “Maybe we’re far enough away that the cops won’t find us. Maybe they’re still searching the machine shop or some of the other abandoned buildings. If so, we might be in luck.”

Sondra’s expression changed from helpless to hopeful. When she spoke, the resignation was gone from her voice.

“What will we do, Larry?”

“First thing,” I told her, “is to find a way out of this fucking sewer. I’m sure by now that the cops know who we are, so they’ll be watching the airlines and shit. But I’ve got some money on me. We can hitch a ride to Harrisburg or York and make it to the Greyhound terminal.”

“Will the bus people not be looking for us, too?”

“We don’t need identification or a credit card to get a ticket. We can pay cash, no questions asked. They don’t give a fuck who we are.”

“They do not check for terrorists?”

“Hell, no. They’re too busy checking little old ladies at the airport.”

She looked doubtful, but said nothing.

“So,” I continued, “we’ll hop a bus and ride out of town—some place where Whitey can never find us. You said it yourself. He’s getting weaker. If we keep running, and he doesn’t get the baby, maybe he’ll just fall down and die. I mean, even Rasputin hadn’t taken the damage that son of a bitch has today. Maybe he’s close to death.”

“That would be nice.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “It would.”

The tunnel intersected with several other pipes. All of them varied in size. After a quick debate, we decided to stick to the main passageway. More traffic rumbled by overhead. The sounds and light were getting louder and brighter by the minute.

“To take this bus,” Sondra asked. “Will they not see our clothes?”

I hadn’t thought about that. No way we were getting on a bus or even hitching a ride along the highway with the way we looked. If anything, someone passing by would think we were accident victims and call the cops. We were covered from head to toe in blood and grime—some of it fresh and some of it dried. Sondra was shoeless. I was hairless and blistered and had spent most of the day getting the shit kicked out of me. We looked like hell.

“We’ll steal some clothes,” I said, leading her forward. “Just like we did this morning. Find a stream or a pond and clean ourselves up some. Don’t worry. That’s the least of our problems.”

“Saaaaaahhhhhhnnnnnddddaaaaaa…”

Whitey’s voice was faint, but insistent. He was still back there, still on our trail, following us like a determined beagle tracking a rabbit. He was the hunter and we were the prey.

Yeah. Our appearance really was the least of our problems.

We had more pressing matters to contend with.

I wondered what it would take to put Whitey down once and for all.

How did you kill a man who was death?