and what I saw there made me smile.
Fear.
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.
The Taurus beeped again. Still not looking back, I waved the driver around. Instead of passing me, he followed along right behind, his front bumper nearly rear-ending the forklift. I glanced back. The forklift weaved. The car was close enough that I could see the occupants now. The driver was a middle-aged, balding white guy wearing glasses and a floppy-brimmed sunhat pulled down over his forehead. A woman who was probably his wife sat next to him, gesturing wildly and apparently screaming at him, judging by how wide her mouth was open and how quickly it was moving. In the backseat, two little heads that probably belonged to his kids bobbed up and down, jockeying for a better view of the crazy man on the forklift. The driver blew the horn again, leaning on it this time— long and loud. Then he flashed his headlights at me.
“What am I supposed to do?”
Neither Whitey or the driver answered me—not that I’d expected them to.
I couldn’t pull over. No fucking way. The lumber yard and fields lay behind us and now the road was cutting through the forest. The trees grew close to the roadside, and there wasn’t enough room for the forklift. More importantly, stopping or slowing down now would only increase Whitey’s chances of escaping. True, he was still now, just hanging there, impaled and limp. But he wasn’t fooling me. I’d seen this act before. The man who couldn’t die was playing dead. Soon as he saw an opening, he’d take it, and someone else would die for my stupidity.
I stuck out one arm and waved the Taurus around again. This time, the driver took the hint. Accelerating, he went around me, giving the forklift a wide berth and swerving into the oncoming lane. As they pulled even with us, the car slowed again. All four family members stared in horror. The woman had a cell phone pressed to one ear, but her mouth hung open, unmoving. The kids gaped, expressions of horror frozen on their faces. There were two of them—a boy and a girl. The girl had pigtails. The boy had his finger up his nose. Apparently, he was so shocked by what he saw that he’d forgotten all about it.
Whitey became animated again. He raised one arm and waved at them. The little boy pulled his finger out of his nose and waved back. Whitey’s face twisted into a garish smile, made hideous by his multiple injuries—all tendons and teeth and sinew. Wet and red. The little boy began to cry.
The Taurus sped away, still hugging the oncoming traffic lane. It swerved a little, as if the driver was having trouble. I pitied them. The perfect, All-American Nuclear Family, out for a day’s drive. Maybe heading out on vacation—Ocean City, Baltimore, Washington D.C., Hershey Park, or one of a hundred other nearby destinations. Summer vacation. Making memories that would last a lifetime. But now they’d taken a detour and seen something else they’d never forget. This memory would never fade, especially for the children. They’d see it for the rest of their lives, every time they closed their eyes.
The madness and grotesqueries that always swirled around in Whitey’s wake had infected someone else.
I swore they would be the last.
The car got back into our lane about two hundred yards down the road. I did the same. The tires crunched over a bottle and then the ride smoothed out again. Whitey was motionless again. Just hanging out. I suppressed a giggle. It scared me. I was afraid that if I started laughing now, I wouldn’t be able to stop.
We passed a sign on the right—
