Kill Whitey

“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…”