Kill Whitey

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.

The sniper perched in the helicopter fired again. Plumes of dirt sprang up around Whitey’s feet as the bullets plowed into the ground. For a specially trained police marksman, the guy was a lousy fucking shot. Either that, or Whitey had the reflexes of a ninja. I couldn’t hear the gunfire. The whirring chopper blades drowned out all other sound—except for the dying men’s screams.

I climbed through the broken window, careful not to cut myself. The cops had their hands full with Whitey, but even if they had seen me duck inside, I no longer gave a shit. My body was in agony, and each movement brought a fresh bout of pain. My neck, back, shoulders, arms and legs throbbed. I remembered the sound my neck had made when Whitey was stomping me. Maybe I should stop moving before I fucked myself up worse. Didn’t they say you weren’t supposed to move accident victims? What if I paralyzed myself? But if I did, then I wouldn’t be able to feel anything, and that would be okay. A painless existence seemed preferable at that moment. My blistered scalp tingled like someone was jabbing pins into my head. My ears still hummed. The pain was almost unbearable, and even as I forced myself forward, I really just wanted to lay down and die.

I wondered if Whitey ever wished for the same thing, and if so, how I could make that dream come true for him.

eighteen

I stood there in the wreckage of the abandoned machine shop and tried not to pass out. The room seemed like it was moving, almost as if the building were a living, breathing thing. The walls rolled like the tide. I felt weak and dizzy, and even though it was chilly inside the machine shop, I was covered in sweat. It ran into my eyes, stinging them and further blurring my vision. I reached out and steadied myself against the side of a metal shelving unit. My legs tingled. Slowly, I eased myself to the floor and closed my eyes.