Kill Whitey

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.

“An ambulance,” he choked. “Fuck that. Better call a goddamn hearse. This guy is dead.”

Grunting with rage, Whitey struggled in Frank’s grip. The worker shoved him back down and leaned on his chest with both knees. The Russian squirmed.

“But he’s dead,” Leon mumbled. “Look at him. He’s fucking dead. This shit ain’t right.”

“He’s not dead,” Frank shouted. “He should be, but he’s not. Help me hold him, Leon. He’s fighting like a greased monkey.”

Whitey tried to break free. His fingers clawed at Frank’s face. The workman punched Whitey in his already broken jaw. Whitey screamed, then went limp. His eyes rolled shut. He could still feel pain, even now.

“There,” Frank sighed. “That’ll teach him. “Call the cops, Leon.”

“Get out of the way,” I warned them. “You don’t know what you’re messing with.”

“You stay put, buddy,” Frank said. “You know how many people you murdered today?”

“It wasn’t me,” I explained. “We were on the run. They were trying to kill us.”

“Bullshit! They said on the news that—”

Before he could finish, Whitey’s eyes flashed open. He grabbed a utility knife that was hanging from Frank’s tool belt. With one quick motion he thumbed the button, pushing the razorblade out of the hilt, and slashed the worker’s throat. Squealing, Frank tottered backward. At first, there was no blood—just a thin, even cut, barely noticeable. Then a few drops of crimson bubbled out of the wound. A second later, the slit grew wider. It looked like Frank had grown another mouth. Blood sprayed out of the gash, showering both Whitey and his victim.

Screaming, Leon abandoned his friend and turned, fleeing across the lot. So much for solidarity. Maybe they weren’t a union shop. He shouted for help, his voice hoarse and panicked. His hardhat fell off and rolled across the pavement as he ran. The forklift still beeped between the rows, its driver apparently oblivious to what was happening.

Whitey clambered to his feet, still clutching the bloody razor knife. I glanced around for Sondra, but she was gone.

It was just the two of us.

Last man standing.

Man—or whatever the hell Whitey was.

“Put the knife down,” I said, “and fight like the man you pretend to be.”

Whitey didn’t answer me. He couldn’t. The swelling in what was left of his face had tripled now. His mouth hung open. Frank’s punch had shattered his already broken jaw. But he didn’t have to speak. His eyes said it all. They promised death.

And then he lurched forward to deliver it.

Frank’s blood dripped from the razor. My bravery vanished. I backed away from him, colliding with a stack of two-by-fours. Whitey closed the distance between us, and there was nowhere for me to run. Sweat and blood ran into my eyes, but I was afraid to blink, afraid to look away, even for a moment. I stared at the blade, unable to focus on anything else.

Whitey moaned.

“Can’t speak anymore, can you?”

He grunted in response, and stepped closer to me. The flies I’d noticed circling him earlier had landed. I heard them buzzing inside the hole in his head. I wondered if Whitey could hear them too. Pressing back against the stack of lumber, I braced myself for his inevitable attack.

The forklift’s engine revved louder. I wondered where Leon had gone, hoping that he’d called the police.

“Come on,” I rasped. My mouth was dry, my throat parched. “What are you waiting for?”