Brian Keene: Kill Whitey

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?

Ten minutes later, we came to a vertical shaft. Rusty iron rungs were embedded in the wall, leading to a manhole cover twelve feet over our heads. Thin beams of daylight shone through the small access holes in the lid. I climbed up the ladder. My shoes were wet and I slipped on the rungs a few times, but managed to hold on. When I reached the top, I listened for traffic. I heard a distant ‘ Beep Beep Beep ’, like the sound a garbage truck makes when its backing up, but that was all.

Looping my left arm around one of the rungs, I pressed against the manhole cover with my arm and shoulder, and shoved. It wasn’t bolted down, but it was heavy as hell. Grunting, I strained with the effort. The pain in my back and neck flared up again, but I ignored it. We hadn’t come this far just to end up trapped because I was too weak. Fuck that shit. I looked down at Sondra. She peered up at me from the bottom of the shaft. Her face was a perfect oval. I’d always thought you had to look towards Heaven to see an angel, but my angel was down the other way. When she smiled at me, I found my strength. I pushed harder and the iron lid slid to the left, revealing more daylight. I blinked, temporarily blinded, and shoved the cover the rest of the way. Then I climbed out of the hole and wiped my hands on my pants. When Sondra reached the top, I gave her my hand and pulled her out. We collapsed on the ground, gasping for breath.

We lay on our backs, staring up at the sun. Its warmth radiated over our bodies. I don’t know that I had ever felt anything so wonderful. I smelled wildflowers and grass, fragrant and sweet. A black and yellow butterfly landed on Sondra’s toe and fluttered its wings. She giggled and sighed. An ant crawled up my arm and I shooed it away, careful not to crush it. There had been enough death for one day, and I couldn’t stomach anymore—not even an insect’s. Maybe I’d found religion after all. Birds chirped and whistled overhead. The beeping sound continued from across the field, faint enough to be unobtrusive. Sondra kissed me and I kissed her back. Our tongues entwined. Her mouth was wet and warm. I shivered. She cooed softly. We embraced, and I ran my fingers through her soft hair.

Heaven.

It was the perfect moment, but there was no time to enjoy it.

Breaking our kiss, I rolled over and sat up, studying our surroundings. We were in a vacant lot, about five-hundred feet from a lumber yard. I recognized the place right away. I’d gone there with Darryl a few months ago, when we’d picked up some plywood and two-by-fours that his father needed to build a rabbit hutch. The memory made me sad. I wondered if Darryl’s parents knew yet what had happened to their son, and if so, did they blame me?

“What are you thinking?” Sondra asked.

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.