She stared off into space.
“What . . . um . . . what about Teresa?” she asked, quietly.
“The medical examiner’s office will be removing her body, and then we’ll go from there. It’s a process, miss.”
There was a good forty seconds of silence before Cash spoke again.
“How come only one of you cops has a helmet?”
Thick Sergeant Obarowski gave her a smile. “Not enough of them yet. We take turns wearing the ones we do get. Better than nothing, I guess.”
“Oh.”
“We have to keep them under lock and key. Seems they get stolen and taken home.”
“I wish we had them.”
Rob came in from the balcony, with the helmeted cop behind him.
“Do we really have to go to the police station, Sergeant? She has been through so much already.”
“Look, young man, it’s just a paperwork thing. A while back, this would’ve been a major case—two dead bodies in a motel. The local news would be all over this. But now this has become routine. You said the male victim on the balcony had been there for hours and nobody gave a rat’s ass. Not surprised.”
“But Cash—I mean Caroline—she could really use some food and rest, sir.”
“We’ll grab something for the three of you to eat and we’ll get her medical attention, but we do have to eventually go to the station. All of your accounts of what happened seem very credible, but—and I’m not implying this is the case here—some folks have used this epidemic we’re having as a chance to do away with people and claim self-defense. We’ve had cases where a true premeditated murder has occurred, and the perpetrator tried to claim that the victim had transformed into one of these, you know . . . ”
“Cannis,” said Cash.
“What?” asked Rob.
“She’s right,” said the cop. “That’s a new street term. Short for ‘cannibals’. Ah, whatever floats your boat.”
“But you saw Teresa’s body,” pleaded Rob. “The way she looked with the . . . ”
He waved his hand over his face.
“Yes. The eyes, the caked vomit,” replied the police sergeant. “That’s all in your favor. However, there is the issue of the weapon. I know we’re in some kind of an ass-ways wild, wild west these days, but a stolen police weapon is still kind of a big deal.”
“Sergeant,” said a monotone Cash, “I told you that a police officer actually told us to take that gun. We witnessed that horrific scene on the highway with the three cops. The one who survived is the one who told us. You can ask him yourself.”
“If we hadn’t listened to that policeman,” added Rob, “Caroline would be dead now.”
“Officer Pruyn, get us on the list for the van,” bellowed the sergeant to the third officer, who came out of the bathroom with Paul.
“Yes sir.”
“The van?” asked Rob.
“Just for transport, young man,” answered Obaraowski, “The three of us can barely fit in our former two-officer patrol unit, so we can’t take you all to the station in our car. It’s for your own safety as well. We’re gonna have to secure you all in the van so that if one of you does exhibit a change of behavior, you’ll all remain safe.”
Cash dropped her head as she spoke.
“Am I going to jail?”
“I wouldn’t worry much about that, miss,” he said. “Do you know that we can’t even keep two-person prison cells anymore? You have no idea the number of felons who are being released, just because the prison system literally has no room to lodge them safely anymore. Cruel and unusual punishment, they say. If they’re coming out, you ain’t going in, Caroline.”
Rob gave her a reassuring smile, as Officer Pruyn stepped back to radio for the transport van.
Sergeant Obarowski’s penetrating eyes gave Paul Bhong the once-over. “Nice Hello Kitty earphones,” he said, without expression.
Paul quickly looked down to see them dangling from his pocket in all their pinkness. Before he could formulate a response, a loud wail came from the front door.
“What the fuck is all this?”
The man was blocked from entering by Officer Johnson. It was Mackey, the motel manager—or maybe it was Jackie. His hands sat on his hips, and the unopened bottle of orange soda rolled around by his feet.
It seemed to be a new sun, but in reality, it had been right there for over four billion years. It carried the new day through the police station windows. Taken at face value, maybe if isolated in a photo, it might be interpreted as reassuring, even cheery.
But this was not a Polaroid.
The musty stench of the crowded lobby taunted Cash’s nostrils, staining the memory of the antiseptic air she’d underappreciated during her early morning stay at the hospital. She sat on a peeling hardwood bench with Paul to her right. To her left was a large, bald fellow with a fresh, rough, self-inflicted tattoo of a cross on his sweaty forehead. He smelled like olive loaf.
She tried to converse with Paul as the big guy feverishly fingered through the pages of a worn, black and white composition notebook. “They’ll soon grow horns,” he muttered to no one in particular.
The lobby was standing room only as the overworked cops tried to deal with a panic-stricken public. The police were, as usual, located behind a tall, intimidating desk with all doors to the work area behind the towering counter securely bolted. Now however, two helmeted officers stood on something no more elaborate than soapboxes, on each end of the lobby. In addition to their usual gun belt accessories, both men carried stun guns the length of a nightstick.
“They did your whole interview at the hospital?” asked Paul.
“Yeah, a detective even fingerprinted me and took my picture,” she smiled. “I hope I never have to see that photo. What a mess.”
“I’m sure you still look just beautiful,” responded Paul.
Cash didn’t answer. Though a compliment, it felt odd.
Olive Loaf Man had more to say, and somehow Cash welcomed the auditory break in the awkward silence. “Time, times, and a half,” he growled, as he tore through his pages of faded ink.
“Well, they bandaged you up good,” said Paul, trying to distance himself from his maladroit adulation.
“Yep. I hope they don’t take too long in there with Rob. I’m the one who . . . ” Her voice trailed off as a vision of Teresa’s comforting face graced her memory.
“Mrs. Larkin,” called out a desk officer. He was reading from a waiting list. A frail older woman stood and approached him.
The guy with the notebook wasn’t done yet. “Only the roaches shall remain. Happened before—Triceratops, Stegosaurus. Extinction event, you fucking Mouseketeers. Deal with it.”
Cash had no patience for all of this. She trained her big, tired, and empty brown eyes on him.
“How exactly is this an extinction event if it’s only happening in our country? Quit terrorizing these people. Things are bad enough, jackoff.”
He quickly closed his book and turned away from her. He mumbled under his breath as his teeth ground against each other.
“Switch seats with me, Carrie,” said Paul.
“No, it’s fine. Did they feed you and Rob? At the hospital, they gave me a piece of quarry rubble that they referred to as a bagel. All things considered, bad as it was, I loved it.”
“I’ve never been much of a bagel guy.”
“You ever been to New York?”
“No.”
“Then, you’ve never really had a bagel.”
“We got an egg on white bread and a cold coffee. Prisoner food they get from a diner.”
“Lucky you.”
“Never been back East. I do have friends up and down the East Coast. Well, internet friends, anyway. Mostly people who ride, or computer nerds.”
She nodded.
“So,” he continued, “what’s next for you? Did they tell you anything?”
“They gave me a court appearance ticket. The date is like six months away.�
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“They charged you with something, then.”
“I think it has to do with the gun. They basically told me not to worry. I told them I won’t even be in Vegas in six months. Didn’t faze them. The detective said in normal times I’d be held, or at least released on some pricey bail. They just let me go. No bail money or anything.”
“Yeah, those appearance tickets are usually dated for about one month away. The backlog must be insane these days.”
Cash gave him a look.
“I . . . I know people who get arrested,” he stammered. “Not speaking from personal experience.”
“Mr. Harris,” called out the desk cop. A lanky fellow with a young boy beside him walked up to the officer.
“ . . . unt,” whispered the sweaty lunchmeat beside Cash, face buried in his notebook.
She was hoping that she didn’t miss a C at the start of his grumble and convinced herself that he was not referring to her. She ignored it.
“They gave me a prescription for pain meds at the hospital,” she said to Paul. “For the bites.”
“Score!” he smiled, trying to lighten the mood. No response.
The big guy beside her was scribbling in his book and breathing heavily.
“I asked the ER doctor,” she said softly. “I asked her if, since I was bitten, I was probably infected, or whatever . . . ”
The scribbler tore out his page, crumpled it, and stashed it in his pocket.
“She told me that I was infected long before the bites, and that she herself and the cops and everyone else were also infected.”
“Yeah,” said Paul, as he touched her hand reassuringly. “We’re all in this together.”
She found the hand touching a bit strange, but it bothered her less than his previous oversteps.
A plainclothes cop emerged through the door, accompanying the frail woman who had been brought behind the desk moments earlier. He had his arm on her back, nearly holding her up.
“But I just want to sit here,” she pleaded.
“We can’t have that. We’re overcrowded as it is, ma’am.”
“It’s the only place I feel safe, young man. I can sleep right in that chair.”
“I can get you a van ride to a safe house. They’re popping up all over the city. You can feel secure there, Mrs. Larkin.”
“But my downstairs tenant, Harold, he says those places are not safe at all.”
“These days, they’re as good as it gets. At home, I can’t even sleep with my own wife.”
He led her out the front door into the Las Vegas heat.
“Dr. Hargrove,” called out the uniformed desk officer.
The nonsensical note taker beside Cash stood. He looked right at her, giving her a clear view of the cross dug into his damp head, tucked his book under his arm, and walked toward the police desk.
“Doctor?” she said to Paul, her sleepy eyes widening.
“Probably just the name he wrote down on that waiting list. I can call myself Commodore, if I want, or fucking Rear Admiral.”
From the face of the desk, the man turned back at Cash.
“Only happening in our country today,” he said, mimicking her voice, “But what about tomorrow?”
The cab smelled like the Marlboro Man had fucked the St. Pauli Girl in the back seat, while permitting the driver to watch under the condition that he swear off deodorant forever.
Rob sat in the middle with Cash and Paul on either side, behind the partition.
“You’d think they’d have a closer police station than that,” sighed Cash.
“They do,” answered Paul. “But not with those friendly homicide detectives that we got to meet.”
“And, worst of all, we don’t have a gun anymore,” added Rob.
The mention of a firearm, along with the word homicide, was not lost on the cab driver, who glanced in his rearview mirror.
“They are having NYPD tell Teresa’s family,” he added.
“What?”
“Babe, I didn’t want you to have to do that over the phone, and I’m not close enough to her family.”
“But strangers?”
“They lost Joy-Joy, and now Teresa,” whispered Cash. “And I killed T. How can I ever face those people again?”
Rob intertwined his fingers with hers. “They’ll understand,” he said. “Nothing is as it was.”
As Paul and Cash gazed out of their respective windows, Rob, sitting in the middle of the back bench, took note of the clear partition between them and the driver. Though the rest of the taxi interior was well-worn and had the scars of thousands of late-night Vegas transports, the partition appeared to be brand new; shiny, clear, not a scratch on it. There was a sliding window through which cash could be exchanged, and several small holes to facilitate conversation. Rob leaned forward and ran his finger along the holes as his mind flipped through various scenarios regarding Cash, marriage, and survival.
“You need seatbelt, please,” smiled the driver, through the mirror. “People get hurt if I stop short. Break nose on divider. Please all wear seatbelt.”
“Oh, sure,” replied Rob.
He and Paul dug behind themselves for the belts, feeling all sorts of crumbs and candy wrappers as they searched. Cash’s belt had been on the whole time, and her hands had already been sanitized.
“The partition looks pretty new,” said Rob. “Hopefully you haven’t been robbed or anything.”
“Divider not for robbers.”
The unlit neon clown was high in the sky and holding a pinwheel as he pointed at Circus Circus Hotel and Casino. Cash was trying to decide if the vintage display was happy or creepy as the driver continued, “Nobody is canni in my cab, yet. Thank God. Bad things happen to other drivers, though. You don’t worry either, my friends. I never flip to monster while driving. No crashes. Thank Jesus. One time I become monster at home, but I was alone. I wake up on floor and many things broken and smashed. Bad taste in mouth, stuff on face—but nobody hurt. Thank God and Jesus. Also, Uber and Lyft not safe for passenger.”
“None of us have turned either,” replied Rob. “You can feel safe too, I guess.”
Cash’s eyes were drawn to a car, up on the sidewalk, front end partially through a fence; the driver’s head resting against the closed side window. No pedestrians around the car, no cops or hotel security in sight.
“That man might be hurt,” she said loudly.
“That’s one-man canni crash,” he replied. “Nothing for us to do.”
“But he . . . ”
“People turn into monster, all alone in car. Then, the car crash. Monster stuck in car, growling, biting. Usually strapped in by seatbelt, too stupid to unlock belt or open door. Sometimes people watch from outside car—like looking into big cage or fish tank. Then after twenty minute, maybe longer, monster become person again and fall asleep. That man just sleeping it off. When he wake up, he call tow truck.”
Cash looked at Rob, as the driver continued, “You all have seatbelt on, right?”
Fifteen minutes later the cab pulled into the parking lot of In-room Hobo. Rob dug some cash from his wallet and stuffed it in the money drawer of the partition.
“Thanks for the ride,” he said to the driver. “Keep the change.”
“Jesus be with you.”
Cash emerged first, instinctively reaching out for Rob’s hand behind her. “Oh, no,” was all she heard from him as he flew past her, running across the lot.
An empty parking stall.
In the spot that was previously occupied by his ’83 Malibu, there was nothing but a collection of glass shards.
It was gone. His car. His father’s car. And all of the 8-tracks it contained. Everything his dad had left him. All gone.
Cash and Paul approached.
“Maybe it was towed, baby,” she said, without believing her own words.
“No. They broke the window.”
“Okay, we’ll call the cops. There aren’t too many cars like yours around. The
y’ll find it,” she said.
“The police aren’t going to look for it. They aren’t going to come here and take a stolen vehicle report. All of that shit is from a different time. Stuff like this is meaningless.”
“He’s right,” added Paul. “We could probably go to the station, wait around for three or four hours and file a report that way.”
“They still won’t have the time or manpower to look for my car,” said Rob.
Cash took his hand. “Tell them what it means to you. Your father . . . ”
“People are fucking eating each other, Caroline,” he said. “I’ve only lost a car.”
“I know some dudes who I can ask to look around for it,” said Paul.
“Uh . . . yeah. Thanks, Paul. That would be awesome,” answered Rob without much enthusiasm.
Cash smiled at Paul and touched his arm. “That’s very cool of you. You are one interesting fellow, Paul Smith-Bhong.”
He just laughed. “It’s not like they’re Special Ops or anything, but they do find things. Is there anything I can do for you guys before I take off? I’m beat.”
“All good,” said Rob. “We just need that sleep we can never seem to get. I’ll worry about everything else when we wake up.”
“Cool. Give me a shout later, or tomorrow, if you want. I’ll try and hit up those guys to look for your car before I crash.”
“Thank you,” said Rob.
As he turned to head for the staircase, Cash leaned in and gave Paul a quick hug. “Thanks for helping.”
“Oh . . . sure,” he replied with a smile, not expecting the brief embrace. “Maybe you guys would want to check in the office. They might’ve heard something, or there could be a security camera . . . ”
“In this place?” said Rob without turning around.
“Yeah,” answered Paul. “More likely a hidden camera in each room to watch people hump.”
“Ewwww,” said Cash. Paul gave her a grin and headed for his bike.
The front desk area smelled like fried onions and secondhand cleats.
“Didn’t see or hear nothin’, okaaaay?” yakked Mackey, as a watery condiment blend dripped from his chapped lips.
“Security camera?” asked Rob.
The manager shook his head as he ran his hand across his mouth, in lieu of a napkin.
Canni Page 9
