Canni

by Daniel O'Connor

  “I’d prefer you did not.”

  “Excellent. You mentioned equipment. That button thingamajig on their wrists . . . ”

  V was pointing at the guard nearest her seat.

  “Yes, the possible malfunction. Are you entirely sure you pressed it during your struggle?”

  “Pressed it? I still have the imprint in my forefinger.”

  “We’ll need you to send the entire unit to us for examination.”

  “Have you had other issues with these units, Dr. Papperello-Venito?” asked R. Anderson as he sipped his diet soda. “Also, it seems it’s a bit of a crapshoot as to if an affected person actually has the time to activate their device.”

  “It’s the best we can do at this point. The demand will be incredible. They’re needed in safe zones, schools, police departments, the armed forces. People will want them for home use. Hell, there are already illegal knockoffs on the internet. We’re trying to speed up production and outsource it, but the red tape is huge. One of your security team has offered to demonstrate the effectiveness of the device. Even the presidential detail uses them,” she stated, ignoring R’s question. “Please step forward Officer Clayton-Cromartie.”

  V looked at her brother, “What, another hyphenation? It’s why I stick with my maiden name,” she whispered.

  The guard walked up and stood just behind the Andersons. Another helmeted sentry then moved into place behind the first.

  “Please proceed, Officer Clayton-Cromartie,” said Dr, Papperello-Venito.

  The guard placed his hands briefly on the sides of his helmet, as if to ensure its snug fit, then calmly lowered both arms and pressed the button on his wrist device.

  A brief click could be heard, and, though unseen by those in the room, a needle popped from beneath his helmet, pierced his neck, and sent him falling, unconscious, into the arms of his partner behind him.

  “Excellent,” said Dr. Papperello-Venito from her White House perch. “They are quite functional.”

  “That one worked,” said R. “But the one my sister pushed didn’t . . . ”

  “Please refrain from familial references in the work place, Dr. Anderson. Let’s adhere to a professional code.”

  V. Anderson stood from her chair, despite her obvious pain, “Dr. Pappelito, rather than focus on how my brother refers to me, I think we should look into the fact that your fucking sleepy button only works some of the time. Not to mention that, in your brilliance, you just incapacitated another member of our security team, when we were weakened already. Your problem is that your mechanism is wireless. Wireless! At home I have to reset my wireless router every time we use the microwave. There is a section of my backyard that never has cell service. My husband set up our home with wireless speakers, so our “fancy” total home music system sounds just a bit better than a Mexican broadcast signal on an AM radio in Anaheim. Maybe in five or ten years, it’ll all be better, but for now, why don’t you run a ten-cent wire from the wrist transmitter into the goddamned helmet?”

  “Wireless really sucks,” added R. Anderson, Diet Mountain Dew in hand.

  Dr. Papperello-Venito just stared.

  “Good day, doctors,” she said, as she ended her transmission.

  The Andersons looked at each other. They turned their attention to their unconscious protector as V spoke. “When do you think he wakes up?”

  “Who knows?” answered her brother. “But I will say that Dr. Pepperoni-Venetian could be a double tight ass. You know, both her persona and her physical composition. I’d like to see how feisty she is after she leaves 1600 Pennsylvania for the evening.”

  LAS VEGAS

  Rob and Paul each carried armfuls of chicken as they climbed the stairs to their motel balcony. Under Rob’s arm was a bottle of Orange Crush from a gas station mini-mart. Upon reaching the balcony, it was all still there; the bird shit, the blood, the glass, and the body. Some insects had found their way to the wide-eyed corpse.

  Reaching the door, Rob knocked.

  “Who loves orange soda?” he yelled, hoping Cash’s response would be “Kel loves orange soda!” —a famous line from Kenan & Kel.

  He was hoping the food and drink might brighten the mood.

  No answer.

  He knocked again, harder.

  Just the sound of a near-empty city bus rumbling down the boulevard.

  “Cash! Teresa!” He was thumping the door with all he had.

  “Relax, bro,” said Paul. “They’re probably asleep. Remember the weed.”

  “Teresa didn’t smoke.”

  “Maybe she did after we left. Don’t panic. Let me call T’s phone.”

  Paul rested his chicken bag between his body and the window as he dialed. He gave a reassuring nod to Rob as he waited for the call to go through.

  They heard the muffled sound of Teresa’s ringing phone from within the room. By the second ring, Rob was putting the chicken and soda on the dirty balcony concrete.

  After the fourth ring the call went to voicemail, and Rob was hurling his body into the door, trying to break it down.

  “Help me out!” he yelled to Paul.

  Bhong dropped his bag and drove into the door with Rob. Nothing.

  “Step back,” yelled Rob. He then slammed his foot into the door, right by the lock. Nothing.

  “What the fuck?” he screamed, as he ran down the balcony, grabbed a slatted steel trash can, ran back, and hurled it through the glass window. The noise cut through the Las Vegas night, echoing through the parking lot below.

  Rob was first through the window. A shard of glass sliced his forearm, but he didn’t notice. Paul was directly behind him. In a blur, they first saw that the chair had been propped against the door lock, as it had been when they were in the room earlier. Next, they noticed that the TV was still on, but the girls weren’t on either bed.

  On the floor, just beyond the disheveled sheets hanging from the far mattress, were Cash’s bare feet. They were motionless.

  “God, no.”

  Rob bounded around to the far side of the room. That’s where they were, both Cash and Teresa. Blood was everywhere; on the carpet, the side of the bed, on both girls, even on the nightstand and the wall behind it. A table lamp was broken on the floor beside them, next to Paul’s bike helmet, which was on its side in the blood puddle. Rob rushed to Cash’s side as Paul went to Teresa. Both were face down.

  That’s when he noticed the smell.

  Gun powder.

  Rob felt for a pulse on Cash’s neck. He didn’t know if he’d found one, or if it was coming from his own shaky fingers.

  He turned her face-up. Her eyes were closed. He put his ear over her nose and mouth. Yes, it was there.

  Cash was breathing.

  He looked for the source of the blood. She had wounds on her neck, shoulder, and left arm and some scratches on her face.

  “She’s alive,” he said, just as he turned to face Paul. He was about to ask about Teresa when he saw her face. Paul had turned her over, but immediately saw no reason to check for signs of life.

  Teresa’s eyes were open and red. Foamy vomit covered her mouth and chin. Blood poured from her nose. She had a bullet hole in the left side of her skull with a larger exit wound on the right. It was the source of the blood spatter on the nightstand and wall. The gun had been under her body but could now be seen by Rob and Paul.

  They sat in silence for a moment, not knowing what to do. A warm, dry breeze filled the room through the broken front window, curtains dancing like ghosts. The room was lit by only the glow of the television.

  Nick Nick Nick Nick Nick Nick Nick Nick Nickelodeon.

  “I don’t want any ambulance,” mumbled Cash as Rob and Paul assisted her to the bed closest the window and furthest from Teresa’s body, which Paul had covered with a sheet. A light had been turned on and the television off. Cash sat on the bed, staring at the dark, blank TV screen. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she produced no sound. Paul tried to close the dancing curtains a l
ittle tighter. The glass shards crackled on the carpet beneath his feet.

  “We have to get your wounds cleaned up, baby,” said Rob. “You need to be examined . . . ”

  “Bites,” she said, still staring at the blank screen. “They’re all bites.”

  “Okay,” he said. “A hospital . . . ”

  She put her bloodstained finger to his lips. “No.”

  Paul’s phone was in hand. He’d been ready to dial. He returned it to his pocket.

  “Take your phone out,” she said, never looking at him. “You do need to call the police. I just killed the best friend I ever had.”

  Cash took the corner of the bed sheet and used it to try and remove the drying blood on her arms.

  “We can get you all cleaned up, with all the best sanitizers, at a hospital. How ‘bout it, Cash?” offered Rob.

  “My name is Caroline.”

  She rubbed the sheet harder against her skin.

  There was a sound by the window. Rob looked at Paul, who cracked some more glass as he stepped to pull the curtain aside. He nudged his head out, being careful to avoid the jagged remains that had sliced Rob’s arm.

  A coyote. The American jackal. Fangs bared, ears pointed, it tore at the bags of chicken outside their door.

  “All good,” said Paul, as he turned to Rob. “Just an animal.”

  “Before we call the police,” said Rob softly, as he ran his hand gently along his girlfriend’s hair, “why don’t you try and tell me anything you might remember about what happened. I know you did nothing wrong, but we may have to be careful about how we explain this to the authorities.”

  Paul walked toward the bathroom, as to give a bit of privacy.

  She looked down at her arm, still scouring.

  “I shot her. More than once, I think. I murdered Teresa.”

  “No baby, it wasn’t murder. I saw her face, and your bites. She became . . . she changed. That’s clear.”

  “We were laughing, Rob. Just talking like any other night; watching TV. Then . . . ” she stopped talking, stopped rubbing her arm. Rob just waited and tousled her hair. The bathroom faucet began running, heard through the open door.

  “Just tell me the same way you’d tell the police,” he said.

  “She charged across from this bed to mine. Took us both to the floor. I managed to get up and run toward the door.” She looked around the room, “Where is Paul?”

  “What? Paul?”

  “Where is he?” asked Cash. “He needs to call the cops.”

  The faucet turned off.

  “He’s just in the bathroom, Caroline. What happened after you ran toward the door?”

  She looked up from her arm, gazed into Rob’s eyes. “That’s weird,” she said. “You never call me Caroline.”

  “Cash,” he said. “Can I call you Cash?”

  “Whatever.”

  The water was running again in the bathroom. Cash resumed rubbing.

  “She caught me before I reached the door. She was making loud, horrible noises. She was so strong. I turned to push her away . . . ”

  The tears came. They seemed to wash Cash out of her detached state. The tautness abandoned her body. The rubbing ceased.

  “I grabbed whatever I could,” she said. “I hit her with Paul’s helmet. Over and over. She was tearing at me, Rob . . . ”

  From the bathroom, it sounded like Paul dropped a plastic cup. Rob glanced in that direction but quickly returned to his girlfriend.

  “I know, Cash,” he whispered.

  “The helmet didn’t faze her. I bashed the hell out of her, but nothing. We tumbled to the floor and the lamp fell on us. I tried to hit her with that too. I punched and kicked. She . . . she was ripping pieces off me.”

  Her head dropped into her stained hands. Rob exhaled. Helplessness engulfed him. The curtains flitted ethereally in the arid desert breeze. There was the ruffling of the chicken bags just beyond the shattered window. It meshed with the sonance of sobs and the babble of the running faucet. Rob took a peek at the oozing slice on his forearm, as he caressed Cash’s quivering shoulder.

  “Then I saw the gun under the bed,” she wept.

  He leaned closer and kissed the top of her head. She raised her eyes.

  “I just had to stop it,” she said, almost pleadingly. “Rob, she was hurting me so much. Biting and clawing. Choking. She was killing me.”

  “I know, sweetheart.”

  “I yelled, ‘It’s me, Teresa! T, it’s Carrie. Stop!’ But . . . she . . . just came for more.”

  He wrapped both arms around her, the blood from his wound knitting with hers.

  “You did what you had to. Different times, different rules.”

  The small pink bathroom cup rolled out onto the floor of the main room.

  “Paul?” said Rob.

  No response.

  “You okay in there?”

  Just the dribble of the faucet. Cash turned to look toward the bathroom. Rob stood and headed cautiously for the running water. He paused by Teresa’s covered body. The bike helmet and gun were beside her. He reached to pick up the helmet. Then he glanced over and saw Cash looking so helpless on the bed. He picked up the gun instead.

  “Hey, Paul,” he tried, one final time.

  The absence of response had him stepping quietly toward the bathroom, 9 mm behind his back. He was almost at the pink plastic cup, as it rested on the soiled carpet. As Paul had left the door open, Rob wasn’t sure if he should slowly peek into the lavatory or just quickly charge in. Various movie and TV cops flashed through his brain.

  What would they do?

  It just confused him.

  He reached the doorway and decided to go with the slow, one-eyed peek.

  There was Paul, standing and facing the mirror. He had one leg up on the toilet, head tilted back, and to one side, elbow firmly braced against the edge of the small sink.

  Paul stared into the cloudy mirror. He was desperately attempting to pop a problematic pimple under his chin.

  Rob immediately spotted the Hello Kitty buds in his oblivious cohort’s ears. The tinny fast-paced music sounded as if one had thrown a rave within an aluminum kettle.

  As Rob fully entered the doorway, he bent to pick up the fallen cup behind him.

  “You guys good?” yelled Paul, music still assaulting his ears, “Carrie okay?”

  He raised his left hand, giving Rob a hopeful thumbs-up sign, while keeping the fingers of his right hand around his pimple. Then he pointed to his headphones. “Wanted to give y’all some privacy.”

  Rob looked back at Cash. “All good, baby,” he smiled.

  She felt a tad better, considering she was still stuck in the worst day of her life, so she decided to call the police herself. Whatever fate awaited her, it was time to face it. She felt heart-shattering guilt over Teresa, but maybe Rob was right; she had no real choice. As Rob entered the bathroom to talk with Paul, Cash looked over at Teresa’s iPhone, still there on the bed. She picked it up and tapped it. The device was still on Twitter. The prior trending topics had changed just a bit. Walkers, #zombies, and cannibals were still near the top, but a new phrase was currently the most popular topic on the country’s Twitter feed. Some type of abbreviation. A cannibalized abridgement of an actual word. Chic slang for the suffering.

  #Canni

  “This idiotic helmet makes me nuts,” said the cop. His face could not be seen through the visor. It was the same type of helmet worn by government security. No markings of any kind. No mention of Las Vegas Metro P.D. Had the same wireless trigger mechanism on his wrist.

  He finally sat on the edge of the bed after interviewing Cash, jotting down notes. Another officer had questioned Rob just outside the open motel room door, beside what remained of the chicken bags, and a third cop spoke with Paul by the bathroom. Only one of the officers had the fancy new helmet.

  Teresa’s body remained under the bloodstained sheet on the floor by the bed.

  The cop removed his headgear.
He was sweating beneath it.

  “I gotta take this off now and then; annoying as hell.” He wiped his forehead and thick mustache as he smiled at Cash. “So you’re sure the dead guy out on the balcony had absolutely nothing to do with the incident in this room?”

  “I’m sure. I’ve told you that already.”

  “Yeah,” said the cop, “but two rooms, two smashed front windows, two bodies . . . ”

  “Johnson!” came the husky bellow from the balcony, “Why is that helmet off your head again?”

  “It’s makin’ me crazier than a funeral clown, that’s why, Sarge.”

  “Well, you’ve had riot gear on before, haven’t you?”

  “Yeah, but . . . ”

  “No different. Do me a favor; put it on and keep it on. And a funeral clown is not a thing.”

  The sergeant’s order, as usual, was framed as a request. He was medium height but quite broad-shouldered and he always spoke in command voice. As his subordinate grudgingly put the helmet back on, the supervisor pointed him toward the balcony door.

  “Wait out there with the boyfriend. Keep your eyes on the rest of us.”

  As the officer left, the sergeant sat down on the bed.

  “Caroline, I’m Sergeant Obarowski. I’m very sorry you lost your friend here today. It’s obvious that you’ve been through hell.”

  “Thank you. That other cop was a little harsh. I’m not proud of what I’ve done, but I’m not hiding from it either.”

  “I understand.”

  “That cop kept asking me about what happened in the other motel room. I told him what I could, but I wasn’t in that room. What happened here was not related to that . . . other than the same thing happened to the girl in the other room . . . ”

  “Don’t you worry about all that,” smiled the policeman. “The glass patterns corroborate your story; broken glass inside this room and outside that other room. Other things too, but I won’t bore you with all that. However, despite my ego, I am not the final arbiter of these things, so we will need you and your friends to come down to the station while we get Crime Scene in here for some pictures and stuff like that. We might need to have you make a stop at the hospital and get those bites examined.”