Brian Keene: Kill Whitey

“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.

“Is no good,” she sobbed. “I cannot run like this. One foot is twisted and the other is cut.”

Whitey roared in triumph, stumbling out from behind a stack of oak paneling. He tottered on his one good leg. Stepping in front of Sondra, I stood to face him. Again. Maybe I should have been surprised that he’d managed to climb the fence, especially with his fucked up leg. But I wasn’t. It was getting to be old hat. I accepted it and prepared myself. My hands curled into fists. My temples throbbed.

“What do you want?” I shouted. “How much more of this can you take? It’s over, Whitey. Let it the fuck go.”

The Russian smiled, and then threw his head back and laughed. When he did, I at last understood why his voice had become unintelligible. His tongue was missing. All that was left was a red, bleeding stump, flapping around in his shattered mouth. It looked like a raw piece of liver. He’d bitten the rest of it off when we dropped the soda machine on him. Then I noticed the way his jaw moved. It was broken.

“Ish jush starringh, Misher Gibshon.”

“Just starting? Are you fucking crazy?”

Grinning, he nodded.

“Okay, motherfucker,” I said, answering the challenge. “Then let’s finish this shit once and for all.”

Whitey charged.

Well, I guess charged isn’t the right word for it. Charge indicates speed and he was anything but fast. Shambled is more like it. The son of a bitch could barely walk, let alone run. He dragged his shattered leg behind him like dead wood.

“Kum ohn, Mysha Gibshon.”

Come on, Mister Gibson. I was beginning to understand him despite his new speech impediment.

“Run, Sondra.” I didn’t look back at her. Instead, I kept my attention focused on Whitey. “Go find help.”

“But what about police?”

“Fine,” I said, still not turning around. “Don’t find help. Hide. Do whatever. Just stay the hell out of the way. I’ve had it with this shit.”

Sondra didn’t respond. Neither did Whitey. He smiled at me, his crooked jaw making his cheek bulge. His head was tilted sideways and he struggled to lift it.

“Look at you,” I said. “You can’t even hold your head up right. You should be dead. Give it up, man. You take anymore damage and there won’t be anything left of you. Is that what you want?”

He didn’t answer me.

“Is she worth it?” I asked. “Is Sondra worth all this?”

“Ahshk yersehlf teh saym kwestuhn.”

Ask yourself the same question…

Whitey drew closer with each plodding, off-balance step, dripping pieces of himself in his wake. He left a trail of DNA behind him. I had the crazy notion that if we made him chase us long enough, he’d just fall apart in front of our eyes—disintegrate into a pool of jelly. I could smell him as he got nearer. He reeked—blood and shit and the seeds of infection. Walking road kill, out for revenge.

“Forget about it,” I said. “Even if you got the baby now, it would be too late. Wouldn’t it? Sure, maybe you can survive poisoning or a gunshot wound. But all this? No way you can regenerate all this damage, Whitey, no matter how many stem cells you eat. Not even Wolverine could heal this shit.”

“Eww wood be zurpryzed. Itsh nevar too layt.”

I stood my ground, disgusted by what approached me, but ultimately unafraid. Whitey was unarmed now. No guns or knives or mafia cronies. He couldn’t even kick me again. Maybe he was indestructible, but that no longer meant he was unstoppable. All he had left was the will to keep going, and I intended to take that option away from him. I sized him up, planning my attack. If I could take out his other leg—break it or cut the fucking thing off—there was no way he’d be able to follow us, unless he crawled along on his hands. So maybe I’d cut those off, too. And why stop there? Decapitation sounded like a great idea. The grand fucking finale. Immortal or not, nobody, not even Rasputin, could survive without a head.

Could they?

Whitey got nearer still, close enough for me to see the steam rising from his open wounds. Whatever his condition, his body temperature was still warm inside. His blood still flowed. How did he remain standing? The blood loss alone should have kept him down. Maybe his mutant genetics replenished that first.

Or maybe he was just driven. Determined.

“Hey,” somebody shouted. “Are you folks okay? What’s going on over there?”

I turned my head slightly and saw that it was one of the workers. They’d finally noticed us.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” the other worker said. “This is private property.”

“Please,” Sondra spoke up. “We are to be needing—”

Whitey darted forward with a speed that belied his injuries. I shouted in surprise. Despite the horrific damage to his body, he’d been faking. He was quicker—and stronger—than I’d thought possible.

“Motherfucker!”

I ducked my head, stuck my right shoulder out, and plowed into him. Our arms encircled each other, squeezing tight. It was like grabbing a butchered side of beef. Whitey was slippery and hot, and as we slammed together, my face sank into a gaping wound in his chest. Slick warmth smothered me, filling my nose and mouth. My hands slithered through the wetness. His blood ran down my throat. Stumbling, we both fell backwards, still holding on to each other. I hit the pavement first—and hard. Whitey’s full weight crashed down on me, crushing the air from my lungs. The impact brought back all of my temporarily forgotten pains.

“Hey,” one of the workers yelled. “We don’t want no trouble. Knock it off! This ain’t no boxing ring.”

“Jesus,” the other gasped. “Call an ambulance, Leon. Call the cops. I think these are those guys that were on the news.”

“Fuck me running. Let’s get them, Frank.”

“Screw that! You know how many people they killed?”

The two men ran towards us as they argued. I managed to get one arm free and I reached out, trying to wave them away. Whitey’s hands wrapped around my throat and squeezed, cutting off my windpipe. My eyes bulged from their sockets.

“Frank,” Leon said, “he’ll kill that guy if we don’t so something. Give me a hand, now.”

Ignoring my warning gestures, they approached us from each side and seized Whitey, pulling him off of me. His hands clawed at my throat, then were wrenched free. I gulped air. Leon and Frank gasped, their expressions a mixture of shock and disgust. Leon let go of Whitey and stared in horror at his bloodstained palms.