Canni

by Daniel O'Connor

  “Didn’t think so,” said Rob.

  “Well, we’ve seen kids just hanging out in your lot,” interrupted Cash. “Maybe you should get a camera or hire a guard.”

  “We usually don’t have no trouble, bright eyes. None at all, really,” he replied, the words riding out on a caramelized belch.

  “Did you notice . . . ?” began Cash, before Mackey interrupted her.

  “No trouble till you all got here,” he said.

  “Listen, dude . . . ” said Rob.

  “You trashed the room,” said Mackey. “Got cops running all around the place. You nearly got my brother killed by some big, naked, colored guy who was only getting’ his fuck on, not doin’ nothin’ wrong, okaaaay . . . ”

  “That big guy is now dead, you know,” added Rob.

  “Yeah, you all happened to be there when that happened too,” coughed Mackey. “Then your other girlfriend winds up as a corpse, now you have stolen car problems . . . ”

  “Let’s have a little compassion about our friend,” said Rob, noticing Cash’s face when Mackey referred to Teresa.

  “What I need,” said Mackey, “is for you two to be gone from the premises.”

  “Gone?”

  “Yeah, gone.”

  “We prepaid for this shithole,” said Cash, raising her voice, “and we haven’t done anything wrong.”

  Cash was Brooklyn tough, but she was tired, angry, and losing hope. Rob could hear the slight change in her voice. Tears were on the way.

  “Your pre-pay won’t even cover the cost for the smashed windows and all the room damages.” Attempting a show of force, Mackey reached down and gently placed his signed baseball bat on the counter. “You all are from New York, right? Did you know this bat is signed by Yankees legends Derek Jeter and Mariano Rivera?”

  He grabbed a soiled rag and ran it down the bat, as if he were shining it up. “I really need you to check out, now.”

  Rob smiled, “One, we are going to our room and going to sleep. When we wake up, we’ll leave. If that is not agreeable to you, feel free to call the cops. If and when they respond to your call, in maybe three days, we’ll be long gone. Two, I’m no expert, but those signatures seem to have been signed by the same person.”

  Rob took Cash by her hand and they left the office, with Mackey examining the signatures.

  They must’ve slept for fourteen hours. The room was now 3 AM dark, the night’s breeze invaded through the shattered front window, only to be intercepted by the curtains, and there were blood stains on the carpet. Cash couldn’t sleep anymore and her mind was filled with memories of her lifelong best friend. The school talent shows. The junior and senior proms. High school graduation. Trips to the beach. Those final, sweet words T had said about Rob.

  Cash looked over at her sleeping boyfriend. He seemed to be in the same position all night, but she had fallen asleep first, so maybe not. He slept on his side, with his back to her—not the usual way he’d curl up close, with his protective arm around her. His pillow almost covered his head.

  She didn’t want to wake him since rest was in short supply, and she really didn’t want to start this day in which they would have to search for a new place to stay and have no car in which to do it. She thought about a rental but didn’t know how much cash would be available on their credit cards with new hotel fees and whatever damage charges Mackey decided to add to their bill now piled on.

  She grabbed the TV remote and flicked it on, immediately muting the sound. Doing the time change math, she figured her favorite early morning reruns might be on now in the West. She ran through the channels until she found it.

  Success!

  The pretty woman in the black and white broadcast was hopping around like a trained seal.

  Cash managed the slightest smile as she lost herself in I Love Lucy.

  It was funny, even with the sound off. Cash probably would know most of the dialogue from memory anyway. The show had a calming, soothing effect on her. It provided her first real memory of television—well, maybe after Barney the Dinosaur.

  She grabbed the bottle of sanitizer from the nightstand, along with a tissue and cleaned off the remote and her hands.

  Cash often fantasized about living in a fictional world like Lucy’s. It seemed like such a happier and simpler time and she’d thought that long before the current world almost literally went to hell. Lucy had a great best friend in Ethel. Cash’s own Ethel was gone.

  Lucy would’ve never killed Ethel. No matter what, she thought.

  The guilt was coming back. Cash knew it would be there, just beneath the surface much of the time, but present nonetheless—forever.

  Of course, she thought, in Teresa’s mind, she would’ve been Lucy, and I would be Ethel.

  A smile came, and then vanished just as quickly.

  Ethel would’ve never killed Lucy either.

  Beneath the blankets and pillows, Rob moved a bit.

  Cash thought about the fictional relationship between Lucy and Ricky. They seemed so perfect for each other, so deeply in love. Cash did feel love for Rob but wasn’t sure it reached the Lucy/Ricky level. Did any real-life romance? She knew—and Teresa had told her—how much Rob loved her. She never doubted that. But she would occasionally wonder if he truly loved her, or if he loved having her as his. He was too protective, sometimes overbearingly so.

  The covers tugged a bit in the glow of the TV screen as he made some sort of muffled sound.

  Probably dreaming.

  When her mind drifted to his possessive behavior, and his issues with jealousy, she would often blame herself for being too picky. She knew women who were saddled with men who cheated, men who ignored them, even men who beat them.

  Still, she wanted Lucy and Ricky.

  She wanted Hollywood romance from Pretty Woman or An Officer and a Gentleman.

  He needn’t be a ringer for a young Richard Gere, but she was hoping for something more relaxed.

  Love me, care for me, but don’t own me.

  She thought if Rob had just a touch of the free spirit within Paul, he would be perfect.

  Thinking of Paul made her uneasy. He was too touchy, and a bit forward, but he seemed so effortless and liberated. She’d never met anyone quite like him. He was mysterious.

  Rob moved again, but this time she heard a different sound; a metallic rattle. She thought of a tin cup against jail bars. He grunted too, but it sounded muffled.

  She leaned over, but his head was still beneath the pillow.

  Cash got out of bed, being careful not to wake him. Wearing a Homer Simpson t-shirt and a pair of sweats, she found her way around by the light of the television, as no outdoor illumination, streetlight or otherwise, could penetrate the heavy curtains. She crossed by the foot of the bed, her own body temporarily blocking the glow from I Love Lucy.

  Another rattle.

  As she got around to his side of the bed, she was standing on a bathroom towel; it had been placed over the dried stain of Teresa’s blood. The darkness and her thick socks prevented her from realizing that fact, but the dim television glare did manage to illuminate Rob’s figure on the bed.

  She reached to remove the pillow that covered his head. The blankets were pulled up to his neck.

  Ricky Ricardo pounded furiously on the congas, but the muted TV kept them silent.

  She was careful not to wake him, even as she saw his head.

  It was covered, like a Klansman, with an off-white pillowcase. There were crude holes cut out for his eyes and nose. None for the mouth. She could see his eyes were still shut. She pulled the blanket away just a bit. Around his neck was a protective wrap, fashioned out of tied-together t-shirts. Looked like a multi-colored neck brace.

  She pulled the blankets a bit further down and discovered the source of the rattling noise.

  Handcuffs. Obviously lifted, borrowed, or unofficially exchanged for the gun at police headquarters, Rob had gotten himself a set of cuffs and had shackled himself to the bed frame
.

  As she stood on the section of carpet where her best friend died, she recalled some of Teresa’s last words. They were about Rob.

  He is a bit overbearing at times, but he thinks he’s protecting you, and he would never, ever hurt you, Carrie.

  There he was, bound to the bed, completely helpless should Cash turn as Teresa had, his only form of protection being some shirts around his throat. But he had gone to great lengths to ensure that he would not hurt her should he transform while she slept.

  Cash felt guilty about her Richard Gere thoughts and her Lucy and Ricky fantasy. She wondered if she had ever witnessed a scene of such selfless love.

  Then she considered the possibility that Rob may not have stolen a handcuff key.

  They carried their luggage down the steps from the bird shit balcony in the midday sun. Rob glanced over at the parking space where he’d last seen his car—as if it might’ve reappeared.

  “I really can’t believe you can unlock handcuffs with a bobby pin,” said Cash, still in her Homer Simpson shirt and well-worn sweats.

  “Do you mean you can’t believe that cuffs can be opened with a bobby pin, or you can’t believe that I can do it?”

  “Oh, shut up,” she smiled. “I’m impressed, okay?”

  “It’s much trickier if you’re cuffed behind the back.”

  “Still, it’s not something I thought you knew.”

  “Hey, I’m from Brooklyn.”

  Maybe he does have a little Paul Bhong in him, she thought.

  “No more of that stuff, though,” she said. “I could’ve really hurt you if I had flipped during the night.”

  “Nah,” he smiled. “I love when you bite me.”

  “I’m serious. Either we’re both cuffed, or no one is.”

  They approached the door to the motel office.

  “Let me wait out here with the luggage,” said Cash. “I hate the way he looks at me.”

  “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

  “I’ll be right here. You can see me through the freaking window, Dad.”

  There he goes again.

  “I’d really rather you next to me,” he said.

  “Nope.”

  He stacked the suitcases up and looked through the window to be sure he’d be able to see her from inside. As he entered the office, he heard the TV in the back room. Sounded like porn. He was hoping for Jackie, who was a crude slob, but an improvement over Mackey.

  “Hello?” he yelled.

  “Harder,” cried the girl in the video.

  Rob looked back toward the window to check on Cash. She was scrolling in her phone and biting a fingernail. She wondered if Rob had ever contacted his pal, John G, to either cancel, or update their plans to meet. Rob had told her that John was not a guy who was always tied to his phone. Seems he was a free spirit.

  There was a bell on the front desk and Rob tapped it.

  Turned out to be the dinner bell.

  Here came Mackey—or maybe it was Jackie—from the back room. His eyes were fiery, and he spewed blood, vomit, and flesh. He flew over the counter like an Olympian. His sweaty forehead slammed into Rob’s face as they both fell backward into a display of Las Vegas sightseeing brochures and then to the ground. The last thing Rob saw before the canni was fully on top of him was Cash, still outside the window, twiddling on her phone.

  If he kills me, he’ll kill her next, was all Rob could think, If I can just hold my own for a few minutes, maybe he’ll change back.

  The attacker’s teeth clattered above Rob’s face, and his breath reeked—well, truthfully, it had always been pretty bad. Rob managed to get his forearm between their faces.

  Let him chew on that for a few minutes.

  His dripping canines were a bit longer than the assortment of other teeth he had. There weren’t too many.

  Which one of those dickheads had all the missing choppers?

  Didn’t matter. The teeth were digging into Rob’s arm when he heard it.

  Clunk.

  The attacker went limp and collapsed onto Rob. He pushed him off and saw Cash standing there, holding Mackey’s prized and possibly Jeter and Rivera autographed, baseball bat.

  “I’m a Mets fan,” she said, as she hurled the weapon back over the counter.

  Rob exhaled. Cash put her hand out to help him to his feet.

  “We should call an ambulance for him,” he said, as he stood.

  “By the time they get here, he’ll be awake. All he’ll have is a headache. Your arm okay?”

  “I’m fine. Let’s call a taxi and find somewhere normal to stay.”

  Rob put his hand on the door handle. Sounded like the girl in the porn video screamed, “Smack my ass, Supreme Overlord.” Then they heard another sound.

  He came stumbling out of the back, eyes wide, a curtain of blood pouring from his ruptured throat. The other brother. Jackie. Or maybe Mackey.

  He took two steps, then fell, face first, to the office floor. Rob hopped the counter to check on him. Cash kept her eyes on the unconscious canni.

  “He’s gone,” said Rob, as the boisterous girl in the video pretended to climax.

  They left the office and grabbed their luggage. The door closed behind them. The two brothers were sprawled on the tiles, the front desk dividing them.

  The door opened once more. Rob reentered and dropped his room key on the counter. Then he left again.

  VIRGINIA

  “Yes, Santa Claus, there is a Virginia.”

  Dr. R Anderson was mumbling to himself as he pondered some graphics on a map of the United States on his desktop computer. He was focused on his home state.

  He sat at a cubicle just off the bright and cheery kitchen in his ranch home. Fifteen feet away, his sister was plopped at the granite counter, her laptop, tablet, and several notebooks spread before her. Twelve feet from them was a small bathroom, which R had reinforced with several locks and a security bar. The plan was if either of them flipped the other would run and secure themselves in the bathroom. They could also then climb out the window if need be.

  “What are you grumbling about?” she asked. “I can’t hear anything with this racket.”

  She was referring to AC/DC’s Highway to Hell album blasting from the living room.

  “Racket? That’s music, my dear. Helps me concentrate. Besides, we are supposed to have two days off because of our injuries. I deserve to have some enjoyment.”

  “Sure, let’s just go out to the lake for some fishing while the country collapses.”

  “Not fair. I’m working with a head wound and everything,” he said between Diet Mountain Dew gulps. “I might be concussed.”

  “Poor baby with that bump on your head,” she answered. “By the way, by my calculations, right about now, a security guard at work is shitting out my right shoulder.”

  “Well, your brother is taking good care of you,” he said, as he switched back and forth between his research and an internet motorcycle forum.

  “I won’t argue with that. No way I could get any work done at home with Joe and the kids.”

  “I know they miss their Mommy. They doing okay?”

  “As good as can be while usually locked in separate rooms, all wearing goalie masks.”

  R left the chat room and returned to his work.

  “I still think our focus, at least initially, should be to find some type of indicator as to when a transformation might happen. A warning sign. Would solve a lot of issues until we find a cure.”

  “We need a cure.”

  “I know. I just mean that it might be easier to find a marker . . . ”

  “A cure.”

  “If we look at these episodes as seizures,” he said, “there may be warning signs that we haven’t isolated yet. Odors, mood swings, even just an aura of sorts . . . ”

  “This isn’t epilepsy.”

  “If we focus only on a cure, we may lose everybody. However, if we can predict when an individual is likely to have a cannibalistic
episode, much of the battle is won. No more family members killing each other. No more soldiers attacking their own. No more vehicle accidents due to being infected. Then we focus on a cure, which could take years to perfect—the clinical trials, FDA approvals . . . ”

  “That’s all out the window. If we find anything close to a cure, it will be implemented almost immediately. It has to be.”

  On his desktop screen, R watched grainy footage of seven or eight churchgoing men, all in suits, desperately trying to control, and pin to the floor, an elderly priest who had become canni while on the altar.

  Alarming as it was, Dr. R had seen his share of horror in the United States Army, just like his father and grandfather before him, so his daily function was rarely altered by external forces or images.

  “Hey V, ya feel like a calzone?”

  LAS VEGAS

  The shelter had only been active for a few days and it already smelled like corned beef hash and piss. This one was in the gymnasium of a high school that had become the victim of Clark County budget cuts. The beds were in perfectly formed rows. There was a large section that consisted only of blankets on the hardwood. It was stuffy and warm; the air conditioning was on, but sorely in need of a tune-up. The shelter was quieter than Rob and Cash had expected, just the occasional cough and the echoes of crying babies. At strategic points throughout the cavernous room stood members of the National Guard, some with the masked helmets, some without. The woman by the check-in desk had introduced herself as Steph, but her accent transformed it into Staph for the two New Yorkers’ ears.

  “We walked here from Las Vegas Boulevard,” said Rob as he wiped the sweat from his eyes. “We were tossed out of our hotel. Our car was stolen. Her best friend just died. We’re thousands of miles from home. I just want to keep her safe.”

  Cash stood behind him next to their luggage.

  “I am sympathetic,” said Steph, as if trying to convince herself. She had the body shape and neck of a Narragansett Turkey. “I truly wish we could accommodate you folks. You’ve been through so much, but we all have. We must give priority to those with small children. We also try and care for our seniors. Between all of that, there just isn’t room for young and strong people such as you all.”