Kill Whitey

For the first time since this whole mess had begun, Whitey was afraid.

That almost made things worth it, but then I remembered Darryl and Jesse and Yul.

“How does it feel?” I laughed. “How does it feel, you motherfucker? You’re gonna die!”

Whitey shook his head back and forth, spraying blood in all directions. His hands grasped the forks again, and this time they didn’t slip off. Slowly, incredibly, he began to push himself backward, trying to free himself from impalement. I spun the steering wheel and turned the forklift in a tight circle. The rear tires ran over a steaming pile of Whitey’s guts, flattening them across the pavement and squishing between the deep tread.

“You know, Whitey,” I taunted, “it’s too bad they didn’t have forklifts when Rasputin was around. He sure as shit wouldn’t have survived this either. Would have saved everyone a lot of trouble. Instead, they had to drown the bastard.”

Defiant, Whitey continued pushing himself up the tilted forks, trying to reach the end. I was wrong. Even this—impalement by heavy machinery—hadn’t killed him. But I knew what would. Drowning had worked on his ancestor, so it was good enough for him, too. At last, I knew for sure how to kill Whitey. I knew how to succeed where bullets and fire and stabbings had failed.

“Sondra,” I hollered, “if you can hear me, stay put. I’ll be back. I promise. Just wait for me here.”

Stomping the throttle, I raced down the row, passing by skids of lumber and building materials, and headed for the main gate. In the rearview mirror, I glimpsed Richard kneeling in the wreckage and throwing up on the scattered two-by-fours. I passed the flatbed truck and continued towards the exit. As we sped by the guard shack, I spotted Leon through the window. He was shouting into the telephone. His face was haggard and white. When he looked up and saw us, the phone slipped from his hand. I resisted the crazy impulse to wave at him. Instead, I tilted the forks as far back as they would go, impeding Whitey’s progress. He slid towards me again, smashing into the hydraulics.

“Don’t worry,” I yelled. “Almost done here. We’re just gonna go for a quick little ride. I know just the place for you.”

Something black and round slid out of Whitey’s chest and plopped onto the pavement. I ignored it. I’d become immune to the gore and the violence, immune to the ever-increasing atrocities. Whitey was nothing more than meat, and it was time for the slaughter.

I forgot all about Sondra and the lumber yard employees and the cops and my dead friends and my cat, and focused instead on my destination.

The shores of Lake Pinchot waited for us as the sun climbed high into the sky.

Looked like it was going to be a beautiful day.

Then I saw the dark clouds on the horizon that spoke of the storm to come.

twenty-three

The gate was one of those chain-link jobs—part of the fence surrounding the lumber yard. It stood wide open as we approached. I barreled out into the road and turned left, heading for the State Park. Whitey’s body and dangling limbs shook as we bounced along. Each time he moved, more blood spurted from his mouth and more pieces of his insides splattered onto the asphalt. He’d stopped struggling. Maybe he was too weak or maybe the jostling kept him from trying. He just hung there from the forks, wriggling and jittering like a butterfly beneath a collector’s pin.

The forklift’s top speed was around twenty miles per hour. I kept the throttle open, silently urging it to go faster. There was no doubt in my mind that Leon had succeeded in calling the cops. A few minutes ago, I’d wanted them to show up. Now I didn’t. Not until I was finished with Whitey, and Sondra and the baby were safe once and for all.

Not until I’d had my revenge.

My grin felt savage, as if it were twisting my face into something unrecognizable.

I checked the rearview mirrors as we cruised along, looking for police cars or other emergency vehicles, but the road was clear. Indeed, it was deserted except for one car that came up behind me, moving fast. I swerved over to the side of the road and the terrain grew bumpier, jostling Whitey even more. The car, a beige Ford Taurus, refused to pass me. Instead, the driver slowed down and blew his horn.

“Go around,” I shouted, not looking back.

The forklift rattled and shook, and I was worried that Whitey might slip off. The forks were still tilted, but he could shift suddenly to the side. If that happened, the forks would rip right through his torso. Maybe that in itself would be enough to kill him, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Not now, when I had him succumbed and trapped. We were too close.