Brian Keene - Kill Whitey

Oh shit, I thought. He fucking broke my neck! I’m paralyzed…

Whitey kicked me again, but this time I couldn’t really feel it. Drooling blood, I tried to crawl away, tried to turn over, shield myself, do anything to ward off the blows, but my arms and legs refused to cooperate. My spirit was strong but my body had surrendered. This was it. I was going to die. I didn’t feel regret or sadness. Even the fear was gone. I just felt anesthetized. My surroundings went from blurry to black. Somebody was screaming. I figured it must be me.

“Sondra,” I whispered. “I’m sorry…”

“Ah,” Whitey taunted. “You see? Even now, you call for her with your dying breath. You lift your head to the sky and—”

Suddenly the blows stopped and Whitey grew silent. Sensing commotion above me, I tried to focus and clear my head. Shadows danced across the ground.

“Don’t move,” someone bellowed. The voice was deep and authoritative and not fucking around. “Get down on the ground and place your hands behind your head.”

It was the police. Had to be. Inside, I cheered. I’d never been happier for the cops than I was at that moment. I tried turning my head so I could see them. Pain lanced down my spine, but I managed to do it. Then I wiggled my arms and legs, sighing in relief. I wasn’t paralyzed. I just hurt like a son of a bitch. Once I’d turned enough to see what was happening, I stayed still, urging my body to recuperate.

There were two police cars parked side by side with their doors open and lights on. Blue and red reflections flashed off the buildings around us. Four cops stood behind the open car doors, their feet spaced apart at shoulder-width. Three of them had their guns drawn and pointed at us. The fourth was holding his radio handset. He looked younger than the rest—more nervous. I figured he was calling for backup, but when he spoke, I realized their car radio doubled as a loudspeaker.

“Get down on the ground,” he repeated, “face away from us, and put your hands behind your head.”

Still looming over me, Whitey said, “We will finish this later, Mr. Gibson.”

“Don’t bet on it, you fuck.”

I doubt he even heard me. My voice was barely a whisper.

“You!” The young cop sounded like he was ready to snap. His voice was high and shaky and he spoke with a rapid-fire delivery. I guessed he was a rookie. “I’m not going to tell you again, shithead. Get down on the fucking ground now, facing away from us, and put your fucking hands behind your fucking head. Do it!”

Whitey raised his hands over his head and then slowly turned sideways and faced them. I could still see his expression. He seemed calm, almost serene.

“Get down,” all of the officers shouted at once. “Get down on the ground!”

Whitey’s smile was terrible to behold.

“I am unarmed,” he said, turning his back to me. “And was only defending myself. This man tried to kill me.”

I stared into the exit wound in the back of his head. Flies circled it, looking for a place to land.

One of the cops, an older guy with salt and pepper hair, motioned at Whitey with his pistol. “Mister, I don’t care if he raped your dog and murdered your wife. Get down on the ground now or we will open fire.”

Whitey flattened his hands across his scalp and interlaced his fingers. Still smiling, he took a single step forward.

“Boo!”

The three armed officers were visibly startled. The fourth, the young cop on the radio, dropped the handset and fumbled for his sidearm.

“Jesus,” he gasped. “Look at his fucking head. That can’t be…”

“Down,” the older cop shouted. “Last warning, shithead!”

Whitey took another step towards them. His smile grew bigger.

“His head,” the younger officer moaned. “Look at it, Bakken! He’s been shot. Guy can’t be walking around like that. Half his brains are fucking gone, man!”

“Shut up, Collins,” the older cop—Bakken—snapped. His eyes never left Whitey. His pistol shook in his hands, the barrel bobbing up and down.

One of the other policemen, a beefy guy with red hair, spoke up for the first time.

“Buddy, you’ve got until the count of three to get down on the ground or we will blow you out of your shoes.”

Shit, I thought, how many final warnings are you gonna give him? Shoot the fucker already.

“One,” the redheaded cop said, his voice steady.

“Two,” Whitey answered, still walking forward.

“Oh Jesus,” the young cop, Collins, whimpered. “Mister, you’re hurt. Hurt real bad. Just lie down and let us get you some help. Please?”

“Two,” the redhead counted, apparently disregarding Whitey’s attempt to do the same.

I held my breath. This was not going to end well. Not at all. It was going to go bad real quick and I was stuck in the center of the storm.

Whitey and the redheaded officer spoke at the same time.

“Three.”

Hands still on his head, Whitey kept moving towards them, almost as if he were out for a leisurely stroll. He closed the distance quickly, only a few feet away from the patrol cars. Cursing, the cops opened fire. The redhead shot first, and the others followed his lead, squeezing the triggers. Their pistols spat smoke and flame. The noise was overwhelming. Whitey jerked and stumbled as the bullets tore through him. As I watched, exit wounds appeared on his back. Gore splattered the ground—and me. Screaming, I scurried backwards like a crab. Whitey lurched over, clutching his stomach. Then he straightened up again and continued forward. His hands were slick and red. Even though his back was to me, I was sure that Whitey was still smiling. I could see it reflected in the policemen’s horrified expressions. Their screams matched my own.

Whitey crossed the distance between them in four quick strides. The cops fired another volley. I counted eight shots, and saw the bullets exit the Russian’s body, saw them tear and rip and shred. Saw entire portions of his torso get obliterated. The damage didn’t slow him. Before the officers could fire again, Whitey fell upon them. He kicked the open car door, knocking Collins backward. The rookie careened off the car and fell on his ass. Whitey grabbed Bakken’s pistol. The weapon discharged inches away from his chest. Whitey wrestled it free from the older cop and then turned it on him, shooting Bakken in the chest. Unlike Whitey, the cop stayed down. Blood bubbles popped on Bakken’s chest as he struggled to breathe. Collins gaped. The redhead and the other cop opened fire again. Whitey’s laughter was louder than the gunshots.

Taking advantage of the confusion, I fled before I could see anything else. More police sirens echoed across the industrial park, audible above the screams and gunshots. I heard a helicopter whirring overhead, and the sky grew dark. A shadow passed over me. I looked up and saw a flash of light from the side of the chopper. A second later, I heard the rifle crack. The helicopter swooped lower, kicking up mini-tornadoes of dirt and dust. The engine whined. A police sniper leaned out of the side, clutching a rifle. I glanced back one more time at Whitey and the police. The cops’ uniforms were as red as Whitey’s clothes now. He was repeatedly slamming the car door shut on Collins’ head. There was a loud crack, and blood streamed down the young cop’s face. Mercifully, it looked like the rookie was already unconscious.

I envied him.

Even though it hurt like crazy, I ran towards the deserted building where Sondra was hiding. Turned out it was an old machine shop. The door was boarded up but one of the windows was broken—probably by Sondra. Shards of glass littered the ground around it. I huddled against the wall, my body wracked with pain.