Canni

by Daniel O'Connor

  As they prepared for the next battle, and the inevitability of a fat, wild cannibal landing on top of them, he got stuck.

  The enormous spare tire of flab around his mid-section could not fit through the window. No matter how hard he pushed and writhed, he was unable get his bloated core past the shattered opening.

  It took a while for the door-blockers to realize that Henry was stuck. They still had to apply pressure to the door lest it swung open, but there they were, all bent over and pushing, with a roaring, leaking, bleeding canni wedged into the window frame above them.

  A horn honked frantically as an old pickup truck drove up onto the sidewalk, bright head beams glaring. It maneuvered into place and began to back slowly toward the front bus door. As it inched closer to the bus, the folks by the door moved aside, with the dazed and injured Willie having the presence-of-mind to grab his blind friend’s hand. The pickup was right up against the door, denting it a bit. The canni wiggled and screamed as it hovered above the truck’s bed, halfway out the window.

  The group all either sat on or collapsed to the concrete ground, exhausted. They didn’t take their eyes off the canni, though, in case it did flop out of that bus.

  The pickup driver got out of his truck. He was a frail senior, much older than even his ride. He removed his wire-rimmed glasses, spit on the lenses, and wiped them with a hanky. Returning them to his wrinkled face, he stared at the scene before him.

  “The devil’s work,” he said.

  All was quiet—save for the trapped cannibal, lots of breath-catching, and at least one hushed prayer. The hope was that Henry would return to normal in a few minutes and they’d deal with excavating him from his jagged glass cage. Someone would need to call for paramedics, but these days, the wait was eternal.

  One of the church ladies, her lovely pastel outfit now wrinkled and covered in fluids, took out her phone. She wasn’t older than forty, but she had a Jitterbug cell with giant buttons. After she pressed the first one, her companion, in an equally pastel and filthy dress, stood straight up, eyes wide, and roared. She vomited all over herself, turned to the group, and in a haze of disorientation, decided whom to eat.

  Before she could choose her victim, her church-going best friend dropped the Jitterbug, stood, and gave her a blast of pepper spray right in the eyes.

  The newly-infected woman ran in circles, screaming and clawing at her eyeballs. She bounced off the rear of the charter bus as her fellow canni continued his violent struggle at the front door.

  “Blinded bitch,” burped one of the exhausted drunks from his spot on the ground.

  “What?” asked the sightless man, as he had his arm around the injured Willie.

  “Not you, bro,” whispered the lineman.

  The female canni bolted across the waiting area, swinging her arms and biting at the air. She slammed into the side of the depot building, fell down, and then struggled back to her feet.

  His shirt patch read JD. He was the second mechanic to emerge from the building. He brought with him a tire. No rim. Just a tire with a donut hole in the middle. He sauntered up to the crazed and blinded female. Raising the big rubber wheel high, he slammed it down on her. Perfect fit. It wrapped around her like an enormous Hula Hoop, settling tightly just below her shoulders. Her arms trapped against her sides, she toppled over to the ground, temporarily sightless and temporarily starving. She chomped at the air, with her tire permitting her to roll in a circle, she as the axle with only one wheel.

  There they all were, on the ground, at night. Bus and pickup headlights on. One canni trapped in a Greyhound, one wrapped in a Goodyear.

  “Can we please get an ambulance for Willie?” said the blind man, hugging his injured friend.

  The church lady picked up her Jitterbug and, hands shaking, dialed again.

  The attackers were both still frothing and groaning, each neutralized—one literally and one figuratively—by spare tires.

  LAS VEGAS DRAINAGE TUNNELS

  “Don Russo will see you now.”

  The music was lowered, but not entirely turned off. People filed out from behind the Raiders curtains. Most of them eyeballed Rob, Cash, and Paul as the partiers broke off into various directions within the tunnels. There was the occasional smile, but many seemed to be sizing up the visitors as possible intruders. A couple of them did point at Paul, or pat his shoulder, as they passed. He was happy that some remembered him.

  They followed Skunk Breath behind the curtains.

  The lights, in a rainbow of colors, still danced. A couple of small, battery-powered color globes continued to spin. There were no beds, dressers, or makeshift closets to be seen; only some homemade cabinets holding the stereo setup and rotating disco balls.

  Other than the one who had led them into the area, there were three more men waiting there. None paid them any mind. Two of them chatted with each other while the third scanned an iPod that had a long RCA cable running from it to the stereo receiver. That fellow, they deduced, was Don Russo, as his tattooed and naked ass stared them in the face from the far wall. Everyone else was clothed. As Russo turned, Rob first thought he was a black man. Then he was pretty sure he was a white guy, maybe Italian. Then, he changed his mind again, deciding that Don Russo was probably black. Cash didn’t try to guess. She was too busy trying to keep her eyes above his waist.

  He held the iPod in his hand as its long cord tethered the music player to the stereo. He looked like some kid hanging on to a stringed kite handle, if the kid was two hundred seventy pounds and looked like he just strode out of San Quentin without his clothes. He stared at his three visitors but said nothing. His glare seemed to last all night, but was, in reality, just over a minute in duration.

  “Feets don’t fail me now,” he said, to no one in particular, yet he was eyeballing the three.

  Rob and Cash didn’t know whether to ignore the odd comment, laugh, or look to Paul for guidance. They chose the latter. Paul smiled, so they did their best to follow suit.

  “Hello there Paul Bhong, Smith, or whatever the fuck,” said Russo, “How’s dad?”

  “Ah, you know.”

  “Come over here,” said the naked man, waving his hand, the iPod, and the black cord.

  “Wait here,” said Paul to his two friends, as he stepped toward Russo.

  Once Paul reached him, the tattooed leader raised the volume on the dance music again, preventing Rob and Cash from hearing their conversation.

  They had an animated discussion, with Paul turning back to look at his friends more than once. Skunk Breath had joined the two other men in a separate dialogue several feet from their boss.

  “We got a funky situation,” sang the vocoder-ized voice over some pounding drums that blasted from the stereo.

  Finally, Paul returned to his friends.

  “Okay, so I explained your situation,” he said, music still pumping.

  “Cool,” said Rob, giving Cash a smile.

  “The thing is,” said Paul, “they aren’t too stoked to add members that they consider to be overheads; you know, not legit tunnel dwellers. He sees you guys as a product of the current situation—the infected. He said you would have never set foot in here prior to the incident.”

  Russo tapped his feet at the other side of the enclosure, mouthing along to the lyrics. “We got a funky situation . . . ”

  “But you made it sound like he owed you a favor,” answered Rob.

  “Well yeah, but, um, he’s protective of his people down here. Trust is a big deal.”

  “Trust?” snapped Cash. “One of these skells stole our luggage!”

  “Skells?”

  “It’s her Brooklyn coming out,” said Rob. Cash kicked his shin.

  “Well, I doubt it was these guys who took your bags,” replied Paul. “These tunnels are loaded with people. Russo’s crew are just a small number of them.”

  “So, he doesn’t want us?” asked Rob.

  “I didn’t say that. Also, I bet he can get your suitcases
back by tonight. Don Russo is extraordinarily persuasive.”

  “Okay, so what does he want?” asked Cash, hurriedly wiping off something that she felt, but could not see, on her wrist.

  “I’m just the messenger,” said Paul, “but Mr. Russo has requested a sexual favor as a show of good faith and trust.”

  Rob pulled Cash to his side. He sized up the three male Russo-followers in the “room”. They were all rather thin, not fully nourished. He might be able to take them all, especially if Paul helped. Russo was another matter. He wasn’t exactly an Adonis—layers of fat had grown over his muscle—but he had an aura of strength and looked like he could more than handle himself.

  “You have to be as fucking crazy as that asshole,” said Rob to Paul. “Do you think for one second that I would let that dirty freak anywhere near my girl? I’d rather die right here.”

  Paul looked back at Russo.

  “We got a funky situation,” sang the naked tunnel dweller, seemingly oblivious to all else.

  “Rob,” said Paul, staring straight into his eyes, “he wants the sexual favor from you.”

  Rob found himself on his knees beside Don Russo’s bed. Cash and Paul stood behind him. He was going through the luggage which had been returned to them as soon as Russo sent word out into the tunnels that he’d consider it a personal favor should these possessions reappear.

  “Looks like everything is here, Cash.”

  She patted his head as she stood beside Paul.

  “Thank you, Mr. Russo,” said Rob.

  “Feets don’t fail me now,” he replied.

  “Huh?”

  “That was the album playing when you all crashed our jam. I say album loosely ‘cause it was on some bullshit computer file instead of a thick slab of vinyl, but it was Herbie Hancock’s Feets Don’t Fail Me Now. 1979. A lot of folks hate that record because they thought it was beneath the jazz master to drop a simple disco joint, but we like it ‘round here.”

  Rob looked up at the naked disco lover, who sat cross-legged on his mattress. Skunk Breath stood near the bed.

  “Thank you for recovering our luggage, Mr. Russo.”

  “All good. That’s what we do down here: take care of each other. Also, sorry about the blow job request. No hard feelings that you refused. Probably my fault, but I have no patience for fence-sitters.”

  Rob turned to Cash. “Fence-sitter?” he mouthed.

  “It’s the art of the deal, right?” continued Russo. “Ask for the moon, settle for some cheese.” He picked at the graying-brown curls atop his ample head. Neither Rob nor Cash could determine his age. He could have been anywhere from thirty-five to fifty-five.

  “So, since you’re mechanically inclined, we got a few generators that shit the bed. Get them up and running and you’ve earned your entry into our safe little community. As for Cash here . . . ”

  “Caroline,” she corrected.

  “Noted. We’ll find something for Caroline to do, too.”

  That sentence, mostly in the way he uttered it, had her feeling dirtier than all the insects and rodents in the tunnels combined. Rob zipped the luggage and stood beside his girlfriend—maybe more in front of her—keeping her away from Russo.

  “Skunk here will show you to your mattresses,” said Russo, “We had a couple of friends go out for some silver mining a week ago Tuesday and they never came back. Their loss is your gain.”

  They actually call this fucker “Skunk”? was the first thought in Rob’s head, quickly followed by Silver mining?

  Then, nobody said anything. For quite a while.

  Nobody.

  “You’re overwhelmed,” said Russo. He repositioned his exposed penis without a thought to the fact that four other people were in front of him. “It’s an adjustment, living down here, but you’ll get used to it. We seem trapped, but in truth, we’re free. You’ll see.”

  Midnight traffic bounced on the manhole cover above them. The penis adjustment had Rob standing even more prominently in front of Cash, shielding her as the Secret Service did Ronald Reagan after those shots rang out. This did not go unnoticed by their host.

  “Yeah, keep your girl safe,” he said, long fingernails picking at his scalp, “I’m the loco one, right?”

  Rob’s every muscle wanted to get Cash out of there, but his brain told him otherwise.

  “I’m a lunatic because I refuse to wrap myself in the clothing of your people?” asked Russo. “You were born naked, brother. So was Miss Brooklyn behind you. Would it bring you comfort if I wore a nice shirt and pants? I used to. But, that bare, exposed, newborn me was doing just fine. Then your society wrapped me in your shirts—the ones woven from racism, sexism, and homophobia. The trousers, the dungarees, britches, pantaloons, if you like, they were stitched with poverty and greed, with patches on the knees for lifelong groveling. Yes, be afraid, modern day lovebirds, I am the crazy one.”

  Rob and Cash were assigned separate beds; side-by-side, but with a small dresser between them. The furniture was chipped and peeling, with a bit of duct tape securing one of the drawers. Everything was elevated on bricks and blocks. Paul was still with them as they examined their living area. Also standing there was a short, stout fellow with piercing blue eyes and almost no teeth. He was known as Hoffman and had a bit of an accent, probably German. Skunk had passed the newbies off to Hoffman so he could return to his post at the south entry of Russo’s bunker.

  “I will try to allow you privacy, but I must be nearby. It is how we all stay safe,” said Hoffman.

  “What do you all do if someone turns?” asked Paul.

  “Well, we have strength in numbers,” answered their protector. “We have sacks for over the heads, some mace, other things, too. We have had nobody become cannibal in our home, so luckily we have not had to use anything yet, on our own people.”

  “So no one has flipped in the tunnels?” asked Rob.

  “In the tunnels, I think yes. In our area, no. We will not permit anyone, especially monster, to enter our area. You and the young lady are safe here.”

  He gave them a wide, generally toothless grin and stepped away.

  Cash pulled the cover back on her mattress, seemingly inspecting for bugs. Rob moved closer to Paul and whispered, “Thank you for this. This place is crazy as all fuck, but I feel I might be able to keep her safe here. Especially since it seems that Russo prefers my ass to hers.”

  “Don’t be so sure about that,” answered Paul. “He enjoys girls, too. You’ll probably see him in bed with three at a time.”

  “Well, it’s not gonna be with this one,” said Rob.

  Four hours later, with Paul long gone, Cash half-slept in her bed, tossing about. Her sneakers were still on. Rob knew she was having more nightmares about Teresa. He studied her from his mattress, sitting straight up, eyes heavy but focused. The watchers had just switched shifts and they had patrolled this section several times already. Still, Rob felt he should protect Cash as she slept. He wasn’t ready to trust anyone.

  The tunnels at night were noisier than he’d expected, mostly from the Las Vegas traffic overhead. When there came a sound that originated from within the tunnel system, it seemed to reverberate throughout.

  The echo drifting through as he watched Cash twist on her bed was that of a distant barking dog.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  It is not often that a canine can be found in the Cabinet Room of the White House, but there sat a rigid, black and tan Belgian Malinois in a leather harness. Beside the large dog was his handler, wearing a dark-visored helmet. Four other similarly-attired agents stood throughout the expansive room. At its center was an oval mahogany conference table with twenty leather chairs, all filled. Suits, pant-suits, and military uniforms with lots of scrambled eggs and fruit salads adorning them. Bronze Stars were not in short supply. Pens and paper sat in front of each attendee. No computers. A handful of lower-level staff ringed the table, carrying plastic bags.

  The early afternoon sun shone through the Ro
se Garden windows as the President of the United States cleared his throat and spoke.

  “Who ordered the Cheesy Gordita Crunch?”

  “I did, Mr. President,” responded the Vice Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  The Commander-in-Chief closed the wrapping and handed the taco to an aide who carried it to the general.

  The Secret Service dog licked its chops.

  “Not sure how I wound up with the Gordita Crunch,” said the president. “Does everyone else have what they ordered?”

  “Yes, sir,” came the responses.

  “Good, then. Where were we?”

  “All non-essential personnel please vacate the Cabinet Room,” said the Chief of Staff in his best command voice.

  The staff members who had brought the Taco Bell bags into the room quickly exited to the hallway.

  “Warren,” said the president, “are we closer to finding the people behind this?”

  “I can say that we are, sir.” replied Warren Hamburger, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. “Now, I don’t mean in general; I mean the exact scientists who concocted this menace, and the people who paid, coerced, or ordered them to do it. They had literally hundreds of pilots who spent years preparing for this. But we are closer. Not there yet, but getting better intel every day. Every hour, in fact.”

  “Good. It can’t be that hard to find someone with both the genius and malevolence to carry this out. I want them.”

  George Edward Bernard Collins was not a president who would talk around an issue. He got where he did by saying what he meant. He won the election by minimizing the talking points and engaging voters by being as close to a “regular guy” as a presidential nominee could be. Being African-American, he steered clear of race talk, saying that it should not be a central issue of his campaign. He wanted to focus on being an American, as all of the voters, regardless of skin tone, were. He would joke that he had blown the chance to be the first black president anyway but was proud to be the first unmarried POTUS elected since Grover Cleveland, and now he would just like to be an effective American President.