“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.
Well, I vowed, not this time.
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—Lake Pinchot State Park, 1 Mile Ahead. I breathed a sigh of relief. Almost over now. End of the road.
Another car appeared on the horizon, racing towards me. My heart pounded and my breath caught in my throat. I figured it was the cops, at first, but there were no flashing lights or sirens. As the vehicle drew closer, I saw that it was a blue Chevy Nova, completely restored, chrome rims, custom paint-job—the works. Any other time, I’d have slowed down and admired it. The motor hummed, much louder than the forklift’s engine. Megadeth’s ‘In My Time of Dying’ blared from the speakers. I could feel the bass, even over the forklift’s vibrations. The irony of the song choice was not lost on me. I wondered if Whitey appreciated it, too. Probably not. He didn’t strike me as a fan of Dave Mustaine. The Nova’s driver raced past us without slowing. Maybe he hadn’t even noticed us. If I’d had a car like that, I probably wouldn’t have been paying attention to what was around me either. I’d be too busy eating up the highway.
I took the exit for Lake Pinchot. Asphalt gave way to gravel and stone. The forklift bounced along the stone road. The propane tank rattled behind me, but I didn’t slow down. I willed the forklift to go faster. Whitey grew active again. Once more, he gripped the bloodstained forks and pushed himself backwards, dragging his ruined flesh across the steel. Luckily, each bump impeded his progress. I started aiming for potholes, mindful to hit them slow so the impact wouldn’t knock him loose. I wanted him shaken—not freed.
Both the lake and the surrounding State Forest were open to the public. There were no guards or rangers or gates. We passed a few signs. One said ‘Welcome to Lake Pinchot’ and another was a list of rules and regulations—what time the park closed, warnings about campfires and alcoholic beverages—stuff like that. I didn’t see anything that told me murder was prohibited.
Whitey had given up on trying to free himself. Maybe he’d realized it was futile and had resigned himself to his fate, or maybe he was reserving his strength, preparing to make a final attempt when the time was right. I don’t know. But he went limp again. His body was motionless—lifeless—except for his eyes. They still moved, promising menace and death and butchery.
I drove down a wooded lane and into the park. Oak, pine, maple, and elm trees loomed over us on each side. Even though the sun was still shining from between the steadily darkening clouds, there was no light beneath the foliage. The deep shadows among the tree trunks reminded me of our flight through the sewer. I wondered where Sondra had gone and if she was okay. The cops were probably swarming the lumber yard by now. Had she been caught, or had she got away? Maybe she was following me. I hoped not. Chances were good that the woman in the Ford Taurus had called the police on her cell phone. I checked the rearview mirror again, but there was still no sign of pursuit.
Whitey’s head slumped forward and his eyes fluttered twice, then closed. He didn’t open them again.
“Hey,” I shouted. “Wake up. We’re almost there.”
Suddenly, there was an explosion overhead. I jumped in the seat, my fingers tightening around the steering wheel, and my foot slipped off the throttle. Immediately, our speed decreased. I accelerated again, glancing around to see where the shot had come from. Another loud boom echoed across the park, and I realized that it wasn’t gunfire. It was thunder. The storm drew closer.
The noise disturbed Whitey. He opened his eyes again and looked around, as if unsure where he was. Then his gaze fell on me and his eyes narrowed.
My stomach fluttered.
There was a parking lot near the lake. I’d expected to encounter a few swimmers or fishermen, maybe even some boaters or campers, but instead, the lot was deserted. A small shack stood between the parking lot and the shoreline. A giant plywood ice cream cone was nailed to the roof. A large sign advertised sno-cones, pizza, french fries, hot dogs, and ice cold beverages, but the door was shut and a ‘Closed’ sign dangled from the counter window.
The sky grew darker. Thunder rumbled again. Something cold splattered against my burned scalp. Then another. Fat raindrops pelted the forklift. Then the clouds opened up and the rain began in full. Lightning flashed across the horizon, zigzagging between the clouds and then striking somewhere deep inside the forest.
I drove past the concession stand and onto a grassy area. It had been mowed recently. The grass clippings were fresh. I looked around again, searching for a groundskeeper, but we were alone.
It seemed fitting, somehow. Felt right.
Along the shoreline was a concrete boat ramp and a long, wooden pier that extended out over the lake. I considered both, and then, after a second’s hesitation, I turned towards the pier. The supports were made out of telephone poles and the boards were thick and sturdy. It looked solid enough. I was sure it would hold the forklift’s weight.
We clattered out onto the pier. It groaned beneath us, but held. I took my foot off the accelerator and pumped the brakes, slowing us to a crawl. The rain fell harder. Another loud blast of thunder cracked overhead, and I ducked instinctively. My heart rate increased. I was terrified and excited at the same time. I wondered what Whitey was feeling, but his eyes were closed again, and he wasn’t moving.