Canni

by Daniel O'Connor

  Paul inhaled deeply and walked away with the porcelain cover.

  “You know how ironic and racist it would be if you killed a Korean with china? You could start World War III like that, Caroline. My people are like tigers, yo. Keepin’ it straight since ’48. I was born during the Seoul Olympics. That makes me South Korean royalty, girl.”

  She had to laugh at his nervous rambling.

  “You were born in South Korea?” she asked, skeptically.

  “South . . . er, California. But I can still represent.”

  “By using the name Smith?”

  “I hear you. I just get tired of the shitty jokes. You know, ‘Hits from the Bhong” and stuff.”

  “Right. Screw those morons. You did mention a hair dryer.”

  “Yeah, I have one. You know it’s better to let it dry on its own. There’s no humidity here. It won’t get all, you know, whatever that is that girls try to avoid.”

  “Still, the dryer would be great,” she grinned.

  “Cool,” he said as he fumbled through a desk drawer, locating the dryer, “Take your time, I need to catch up on some stuff,” he added, powering up his desktop.

  “You wouldn’t have a flat iron?”

  “Come on, dude. Do I look like I’m in a boy band?” he replied.

  She giggled and returned to the bathroom, pushing the door almost-closed. He thought he heard her towel hit the floor, knowing he may have walked away from a chance at witnessing it.

  Then he put on some headphones and she ignited the noisy dryer.

  The bathroom mirror was foggy, and the faint light of the one working vanity bulb wasn’t much help. Still, Cash wiped the mirror clear and went to work on her damp, tussled locks. The

  door remained open just a crack, and she heard nothing but the whir of the 12-volt dryer motor. “On Melancholy Hill” by Gorillaz was the song that filled Paul’s head. He signed into an internet forum of which he was a regular. It was titled NO CAGE.

  He typed under the name Paul Rider.

  “Super hot girl naked in my bathroom right now. I am typing in biker chat. Story of my life.”

  “u b fucked dude,” came a reply.

  “She’s cool too. Didn’t shade me about my shitty apartment.”

  “tell her u put all ur cash into ur bike. that’ll make her hot n sweaty.”

  “Dunno if you are fucking with me or serious, but that is what I do with my cash lol.”

  Paul scrolled through some other posts:

  “Best bet I’ve found is an AGM, along with a BatteryTender plugged into it every night. HD sells a good one (and probably most expensive), as does AutoZone . . . ”

  “prob a dead battery. Just buy a stock OEM Yuasa battery and be done with it.”

  “yo, Paul Rider, you heard from RA? He aint been on. Wanna ask about Sturgis this year—if this fuckin world still functions.”

  Paul responded, “Nope. Haven’t seen him on. He’s prob busy.”

  “better hope he don’t find out u r 2 chickenshit to nail dat hottie in ur toilet. RA will road rash your ass.”

  “It’s not that,” wrote Paul. “even if she’d bite, she’s got a fiancée. Or at least a boyfriend—IDK. Wouldn’t be cool.”

  “Whaaaaaaaaaaaaat? Hit it. The world is ending, bro. U risked ur life just bringin another person into ur home. She owes u.”

  Paul looked over at the door, it was still just a bit ajar. A portion of the damp towel could be seen on the floor behind it. All he could hear was the music coming through his Koss headphones.

  He turned his attention back to the monitor. He scrolled around for other biker posts.

  “Anyone ever tried ‘Dyna Beads’? I’ve never tried em. I’m just getting comfortable with electric start.”

  He signed into his YouTube channel, Bhong Rider, to check for updates.

  21 subscribers.

  LAS VEGAS TUNNELS

  “This is bullshit, man,” growled Rob as he barreled quickly through the tunnels, holding his phone high, trolling for a signal.

  Phaedra hurried behind him, the occasional ray of daylight causing her red locks to glow.

  “But Paul is your friend.” she offered, “You seem overly concerned.”

  “Paul is a fairly likeable guy who we’ve only known for a few days. The word ‘friend’ is a bit strong at this point.”

  “But he brought you to us. He’s keeping you and Caroline safe.”

  “Forgetting the whole ‘friend’ debate, if Cash is going around Vegas with just him, neither of them are safe. Is that so hard to understand?”

  He stopped abruptly as his phone indicated a possible signal. Phaedra gave his back a caress.

  “You are so wound,” she said. From behind, her hand went to his right shoulder, while her other palm landed on his left. She squeezed them tightly.

  “Your shoulders are too rigid,” she whispered, “Strong, but bound with tension.”

  His brief signal vanished.

  Cash, her hair still a bit damp, sat in the passenger seat of a black Santa Fe. She tapped the electronic door lock on her armrest. Paul steered them into the junkyard.

  “We’re driving through the main entrance?” she asked. “I was under the impression we were stealing things.”

  “We are.”

  He pulled his borrowed SUV up to the guard booth. A large female filled the entire space. She was reading porn and smoking a cigar. Her clip-on tie had come loose and dangled from her shirt button. Paul lowered his window.

  “Russo,” was all he said.

  “Uh-huh,” replied the woman, without looking up.

  They drove in.

  Cars everywhere. Trucks and buses, too. Some in neat rows, others stacked on top of each other. Some just burned-out shells. Miles of refrigerators, washers, and dryers.

  “So, just the name Russo gets you in?” she asked.

  “In some places.”

  “That’s crazy. We’re talking about a homeless, perpetually naked, sex addict.”

  “He gets things done for people. They return the favor.”

  Cash pressed the door lock button one last time, just as her phone rang. An Electric Light Orchestra “Telephone Line” ringtone.

  “Rob is probably freaking out,” said Paul.

  “It’s not Rob,” she replied, looking at her screen. “It’s my aunt. A video chat.”

  Cash took a deep breath, fearing the worst. She touched the answer button.

  “Hi Aunt Margie. Is everything okay?”

  Cash knew immediately that her aunt was in a hospital. The wall behind her was bare and harshly illuminated.

  “As okay as can be,” smiled Margie. “We are all just concerned for you, and your uncle and I wanted to see you and know you’re safe.”

  “We’re doing fine, Aunt Margie. No need to worry.”

  “And Rob is good?”

  “Yep.”

  “And Teresa?”

  Cash went cold. Teresa’s family had been notified of her death, but this was the first realization that her own relatives were still unaware. She wasn’t ready.

  “Um, how is Uncle Reg? We’ve been thinking a lot of him.”

  “He’s a trooper, Carrie. You know that. I’ll put him on, but first the girls want to say hello.”

  The camera panned to Cash’s cousins, Laura and Jennifer. They were a couple of years her junior, and maybe the closest relatives she had. They were actually her friends, and she missed them. Seeing their faces made her forget where she was, and that Paul was sitting beside her.

  “Hey ugly!” said Laura.

  “Why didn’t you take us to Vegas, bitch?” joked Jennifer.

  “They have enough pole dancers here,” she answered.

  “You should know.”

  Cash smiled broadly. The girls made no mention of the evil that had consumed the country. For a few seconds, all seemed normal. Then Aunt Margie had the phone again.

  “Carrie, here’s your uncle.”

  The screen w
as now full of Uncle Reg. He sat on his hospital bed, frail and colorless. Cash remembered he’d always had a deep tan. He’d been a man of strength and vibrancy. A proud cop.

  “Reg, it’s Caroline. Talk to her!” ordered Margie.

  Incoming Call—Rob, read the screen message below her uncle’s face. She had no real choice but to press the red button.

  Decline.

  Cash heard Paul’s fingers tapping the steering wheel, and she didn’t know if it was his habit or a sign of impatience. She also didn’t care.

  “Hi, Uncle Reg!” she said loudly, adding her brightest smile.

  His eyes turned up toward the phone camera lens. He stared.

  “It’s Caroline,” she said. “I miss you!”

  He continued to stare without expression. She noticed that Paul’s finger-tapping had ceased.

  “Caroline?” responded Uncle Reg, as if trying to place the name.

  “Hi!” she said again, not knowing what else to add. She repositioned her phone, hoping he might get a better view of her face, to help him recall. A portion of Paul came into view behind her, but she didn’t take notice. It was just a glimpse of his hands on the top of the steering wheel, motionless, not tapping.

  Uncle Reg’s eyes widened. He stared into the camera lens. He was looking past his niece. He raised a shaky finger.

  “Look . . . behind . . . you,” was all he said.

  Cash was surprised by her uncle’s words, but she obliged him and turned her head. There beside her sat Paul Bhong doing nothing special.

  “Rob,” said Uncle Reg. “Hello, Rob. Caroline and Rob.”

  Not knowing what to do, Paul flashed a huge smile and waved.

  “Is Rob there?” said Aunt Margie. Cash could hear her cousins’ clamoring as well. They all squeezed into frame, shouting out greetings to Rob.

  Then they saw Paul and his grin. He flashed a two-fingered peace sign.

  “Rob is back at . . . the . . . hotel,” said Cash, moving the camera away from Paul.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Is Teresa with you?”

  “That was our friend, Paul,” answered Cash.

  “Where are Rob and Teresa?”

  “Uncle Reg, I am so happy to see you. I can’t wait to come and visit in person again. I’m gonna sneak in some of those brownies. And freezing cold milk. Whole milk. Not that low fat junk they give you over there.”

  “Brownies,” he said. “Caroline and Rob.”

  “When will you be home, sweetie?” asked Aunt Margie.

  “Not sure yet. Taking it day by day, with all that’s . . . you know.”

  “I know, dear. Be careful, all of you. The girls are telling me to ask if there might be a ring on your finger, but I told them . . . ”

  “No ring.”

  Awkward silence. Paul began tapping his fingers on the wheel again. Cash was searching for a way to end the video chat.

  “Brownies,” said Uncle Reg.

  “Yeah, brownies for sure,” smiled Cash. “Okay, guys, I have to go now. I love you all and will see you soon!”

  “We love you, Carrie! Nice to meet Paul. Give our love to Rob and Teresa!”

  She ended the call and sat there, pressing the door lock button. The sound played off the beat of Paul’s finger-tapping.

  Paul loaded a car battery into the trunk of the Santa Fe. He placed it beside five others.

  “Russo loves his batteries,” he laughed. “Recharges them with some small solar panels and a charge controller.”

  “He’s got it all figured out, huh?” replied Cash as she leaned on a junked, simulated wood-paneled 1978 Dodge Aspen. Behind her were the rows upon rows of discarded vehicles. In front of her and behind Paul and the borrowed SUV were rows of everything else. Plenty of refrigerators, washers, and dryers. Almost everything was worn and rusty, yet the bright Vegas sun bounced off of all of them, almost proudly.

  “I think I see a portable generator,” said Paul. “Russo would love to have that baby. I don’t know if he cleared it with the owner, though. Batteries are fine, but I don’t want to take anything that hasn’t been agreed upon.”

  “We are in a junkyard, Paul, not the fucking Louvre.”

  “No. Deals are deals. Russo lives by his word. You don’t know the etiquette of the underground homeless, Carrie. You’re lucky.”

  “I’ll help you lift it.”

  “No. Seriously, I have to ask first. I can’t call Russo. He has no phone. No reason to with no service in the tunnels. I’m gonna walk back to the guard booth. I’ll ask her if it’s okay.”

  “No. You keep doing the grunt work. I can go talk to the porn queen. Better than loading batteries. What do I ask?”

  “Just ask if we can take the generator. If she doesn’t know, maybe she can call the owner of the yard.”

  “Cool. Don’t go anywhere,” she said. “This place is huge. Be right there when I get back.”

  “I’ll be here. Don’t get lost. Hit my phone if you do.”

  Cash headed off in the direction of the main entrance, recalling that they entered through the gate and made one right, then a left. She strode through the sun-drenched graveyard of all things deemed worthless, gazing at the tall, chain-link fence that ringed the entire property. She accepted that she was in a salvage yard, yet if she merely stepped through the gate, she was not. She wondered how long it would be before those gates marked no differentiation.

  Paul Bhong was staring at her ass.

  He stood there with a crusty battery in his hands, but he was watching Cash stroll away in her cutoff shorts. Some decent part of his soul told him it was the wrong thing to do, so he turned his attention back to a different trunk, the one he was loading. He’d had a history with trunks. Always found the best stuff locked in the back of junkyard vehicles. Sometimes even cash.

  Cash made her second turn and she spotted the front entrance and the guard booth. There was something on the pavement beside the booth door. A bit of movement.

  As she came closer, she realized it was the pornographic magazine. There is was, flat and open on the ground. The breeze was turning the pages. It landed on a shot of three people standing; two men and a woman. The female was in a handstand.

  The guard booth was empty. The front gate was still open. There was no back in five minutes note.

  Paul was opening trunks. He recalled some of his greatest finds, besides money. There was a great set of vintage Klipsch stereo speakers, a box of more than a hundred Hot Wheels toy cars, even an object that he later learned was an articulated robotic arm used by NASA. It was his greatest scrap score, and he sold it to a collector for a thousand bucks. He didn’t give everything he recovered in the junkyards to Don Russo.

  About forty yards behind Paul, in the direction Cash had gone, something scampered past the row of vehicles. It bounded rapidly. He thought he’d heard something, but when he turned, it was gone. He stood for a minute, wondered if there might be a loose junkyard dog. Then, the thought of a possible canni crossed his mind.

  He was hoping for the junkyard dog.

  Paul took out his phone, about to call Cash. Then he thought better of possibly setting off her ELO ringtone if canni or canine lurked nearby. He also didn’t want to start the noisy engine of the SUV, so he walked, trying to have his feet barely touch the ground, toward the front gate.

  Cash walked too. She almost called out for the guard. She almost grabbed her phone. Like Paul, she caught herself in time. They were adjusting to a new world. She felt a chill despite the nearly ninety-degree heat. She told herself that she was overreacting. Surely, the guard would come walking up any minute and they’d both have a laugh. Then she recalled how the portly female security officer didn’t look like someone who might ever actually have a laugh.

  Cash made the first turn. All appeared fine. She’d just have to walk this row, make a left, and Paul would be there in sight, loading that trunk. They could just hop in the Santa Fe and leave.

  All she could hear was th
e sound of her own feet. She was treading as lightly as she could, but to her, she sounded like Godzilla on the streets of Tokyo.

  If a cat jumps out at me now, I will scream like I’m on a fucking birthing table and apologize to every shitty horror movie director who has ever walked the earth.

  Cash heard every twist and turn of the Las Vegas breeze as it whipped in, around, and through each piece of junk in that yard. Anything that could sway swayed. Anything that could flap flapped. Whistling wind is a real thing, and the haunting sound took Cash back to a literature class where she had learned of the Fable of the Seven Whistlers; a septet of birds who would warble the high tones of impending death.

  She studied the hills of salvage, searching for anything with wings.

  With nary a bird in sight, she’d made it to the final turn. As she took a left onto the final long row, she saw Paul walking toward her, thirty yards away.

  But it was what was behind her friend that caught her attention. She slowed her walk.

  It was the junkyard guard.

  She was standing way back by the Santa Fe, her back to both Paul and Cash. Paul had no idea she was there. He was smiling at Cash and about to speak. Cash put a finger to her lips and pointed. Paul remained silent and turned to look behind him. Cash stopped walking altogether.

  They both hoped that the guard might have been just out looking for them and was waiting by their SUV.

  But then they saw the large officer leap, in one bound, like a cat, to the roof of the vehicle. It shook under her weight. Her back was still to them, but she began to turn, surveying the yard from her higher vantage point.

  Vomit landed on the rear window of the SUV, like the droppings of a pterodactyl. Even from their distance, Paul and Cash could see the red eyes.

  And those eyes locked on the both of them.

  The Santa Fe trembled again as the infected guard leaped off. She fell as she landed, but looked up again, teeth bared and dripping. Her clip-on tie flapped in that whistling wind.

  “Cash, run!” yelled Paul. “Don’t wait for me!”