Canni

by Daniel O'Connor

“He won’t notice,” said Rob, still annoyed at the general lack of attention being paid to “Steal Your Heart Away”.

  “Are you flying JetBlue?” asked Joy-Joy with some green beer still on her lips. “I hear they have seats that lie flat.”

  “We’re gonna be driving,” replied Teresa. “A great way to see the country!”

  “Good for you! Plus, who knows what these animals will do next? This could be anthrax or Ebola. Who in hell knows?” wondered Joy-Joy as she watched the muted television broadcast.

  “With or without terrorists, Carrie ain’t flying. That’s for sure,” added Laura.

  Cash grabbed a leprechaun balloon and bopped her cousin on the head.

  “I’m just jealous,” laughed Laura. “I wish Jen and I were coming along.”

  “We can all fit,” said Rob, as the song ended and he ejected his disc. “It’ll be tight, but you’re all pretty skinny.”

  “If only,” said Laura. “We need to be here for Dad.”

  “For sure,” answered Rob.

  “How’s he doing?” asked Teresa as she walked over to rub the shoulders of both sisters.

  “Good days and bad.”

  “Please give him my love. Uncle Reg was always the coolest guy in the room,” smiled Teresa. “I’m gonna come see him as soon as we get back.”

  “He’d love that,” said Laura.

  “But, in the meantime, you go kill it in Sin City,” added Jennifer.

  “Remember,” smiled Laura, “what happens in Vegas . . . ”

  LAS VEGAS

  Present

  “ . . . stays in Vegas,” whispered Cash. Her lips were chapped and dry. She sat in the darkness of her tunnel bed, feeling all alone in the world. The memories of a prior month seemed decades away. The sun was about to rise. Exactly twenty-four hours since she and Rob made love on the grass, less since she had seen the Witch of the Wash. Yet, those images along with her remembrance of St. Patrick’s Day in Brooklyn, had conspired to deprive her of sleep. She’d thought she was hallucinating moments before, as she saw Phaedra whisk by in a beautiful white wedding gown. It was explained to her that the bridal attire was used to garner sympathy in casinos while silver mining. Surely a new bride couldn’t be a homeless person scrounging for change. Cash was also feeling a rare touch of excitement, as Rob told her that John G was footing the bill for a taxi to take them around Vegas. John had said, “I’m fucking blind and I can’t stand the darkness of these tunnels. You guys must be ready to explode.” She looked forward to the respite.

  She heard voices in the distance.

  “The most brilliant business decision ever? Easy. The person who came up with the instructions: lather, rinse, repeat. They doubled their profits just by telling fuckers to use their shampoo twice as much.”

  It was Rob’s voice. Then she heard John’s reply. “I’ve saved some coin by not being able to read that canni shit.”

  “I don’t know—is that really canni?” asked Rob.

  “Seems so to me. Gouging consumers.”

  The voices grew closer. She could hear the tapping of the cane.

  “Well, they’re not forcing anyone. It’s more like a suggestion. You know what is real canni? Dickheads who leave their shopping carts around the parking lot, instead of putting them in a stall with the other carts. Letting the wind blow them into people’s cars. That’s some selfish canni shit right there.”

  “Agreed,” said John.

  They reached Cash, who was sitting on her bed. Just behind them were Hoffman and Skunk, but they continued on through the tunnel.

  “Hey, babe,” smiled Rob. He guided John to sit on his bed. The sun was just beginning to stream down through the grates. Broken light kindled his face as he spoke.

  “Good morning, Carrie. Ready for some fun today?”

  “Am I ever. Thank you, John. We need to get out of this cage.”

  “A cage is not a cage until the door is locked.”

  “Wow,” said Rob. “That is some heavy shit.”

  John answered, “A noose is but a rope until it’s used.”

  “You’re a smart dude, John,” said Cash. “I see why Rob likes you so much.”

  “Well, Rob always gets the girl,” smiled John, the light flickering on his dark glasses.

  “We are going to pay you back for this, bud,” added Rob. “I promise.”

  “Don’t be a dick,” said John. “We have to look out for each other since we are now seemingly in the middle of the food chain, I guess. You’re watching out for me every minute we’re together. I think the least I could . . . ”

  He stopped talking and grabbed the edge of the mattress with both hands. His cane fell to the floor as he squeezed hard.

  “Oh, shit,” said Rob, as he went right for Cash. He grabbed her and pulled her off the bed, wondering which direction would be the best escape route.

  A loud grunt from John just as Rob decided to take Cash in the opposite direction of the Witch of the Wash. His blind friend fell back onto the bed.

  “At least he won’t be able to see us.” said Rob. “We’ll come back and get him squared away when he flips back.”

  “Canni!” they both yelled. It echoed through the subterranean channels.

  “He can’t see anything,” hollered Cash. “Don’t hurt him. Just stay clear!”

  They heard Skunk and Hoffman running back their way. Then they heard John.

  “Stop . . . you two dickheads,” he was breathing heavily. “I’m not flipping, you cocks.”

  He was still grunting as his friends stopped running. Rob had Cash remain with the arriving Skunk and Hoffman, as he cautiously walked back toward John. He was still flat on the bed, covered in sweat, fighting to suck in the musty air. The light strokes from above were no longer on his face, but across his chest.

  “What’s going on with you, bro?” asked Rob. “Let me help you. You need a hospital?”

  John’s dark glasses were crooked, but they still covered his eyes. He reached out, searching for his friend. He inhaled deeply. Rob took his hand. It was damp and cold.

  “Rob,” said John between breaths, “I . . . I think I can see.”

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  President Collins sat alone in the Situation Room. He had never been in there without accompaniment. It seemed vast and cold. His trusted aid and mentor was gone. Though he was the most powerful man in the world, he’d always had his friend Owen to lean on. Maybe even hold his hand, in a manner of speaking.

  Collins had just left an Oval Office meeting with Admiral Lamb and Director Hamburger. They’d told him he should head to the Situation Room regarding a maintenance issue. That code was used because uniformed and helmeted Secret Service guards were present during that discussion. The president chose to exclude his advisors from his present location so that no security need be in the room. He was all alone. His protectors stood outside the door.

  He realized that he’d never been the one to activate the monitors before. It took a minute, but it wasn’t much harder than figuring out how to work a strange television set.

  Four monitors lit up. A handful of others remained dark. It was obvious that someone, probably Hamburger or Lamb, had set it up that way before Collins had come in.

  There was a face in each monitor. Live.

  One featured Joe Isley, not in any custodial uniform or even camouflage, but in a plain, white t-shirt. It appeared damp and soiled. The other monitors separately showed two men and a woman. Collins had expected to see people of middle-eastern decent, but only one of the men fit that profile. The second man and the woman were quite pale. He correctly pegged the fellow as a North Korean. Wasn’t that difficult. His guess on the woman was Russian, but he’d soon learn that she was born in the United States of America and of Irish/Italian descent. They were all at least forty years of age.

  “Hello, Mr. President. We got ‘em.”

  “Can they see me, Joe?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Are you telling
me that these are the actual scientists?”

  “Yes, sir. We also retrieved two laptops, three thumb drives, and a cellphone.”

  “You got them already? How is that possible?”

  “We work hard. We go in a straight line.”

  “Any casualties on your team?”

  “Nothing major,” he answered, through a grimace and several blinks.

  Collins studied the three images. They looked tired. Disheveled. Maybe a little frightened. There were no signs of physical injury on any of them.

  “They don’t look like you roughed them up much.”

  “They were our prizes, Mr. President. We treat them as gently as possible. When it’s their turn to speak, things might be different, motherfucker. My apologies, sir—my affliction.”

  “Right. I honestly can’t grasp this; the fact that you’ve caught them all.”

  “Regretfully not all, sir. We lost one. He died trying to use children as a shield.”

  “I see. And those children?”

  “We go in a straight line.”

  President Collins paused. This was something that went against all he had ever stood for. He had to balance whatever Isley’s team may have done against the probable impending death of the country he loved so. His finger tapped the console.

  “Joe, have any of them mentioned a possible cure for this?”

  “We have yet to reach the questioning stage. I thought you and your staff might want to be involved in that.”

  “Almost no one on my staff knows you exist.”

  “They don’t have to know who brought them in. But also—GoFuckYourselfCunt—they might not have the stomach for what may need to be done to get them talking. Again, my apologies.”

  “So, these scientists haven’t said anything to you, yet?”

  “Apart from cussing us out, not really. That mid-East extremist scumbag says the same thing over and over, for now anyway.”

  “What is that?”

  “Check it out, sir.”

  With four blinks and a grunt, Joe Isley left the frame for a minute. He then appeared in one of the holding rooms to the side of the darker-skinned captive, who was chained to a table. He motioned to someone off-camera to raise the mic level.

  “You got something to say, murderer?” asked Isley of his prisoner.

  The man looked at him, then turned his attention forward, as if knowing that someone important was watching. He smiled. His eyes were black as a shark’s as he spoke directly to the president whom he could not see.

  “You die as canni, no?”

  LAS VEGAS

  They were giving John G some water. A crowd had gathered around him. Even Russo was there. The sun wasn’t fully up yet, but even so, Skunk, Spats, and Hoffman were taping cardboard over any overhead slots that let the light shine through. Russo’s orders.

  John would lift his dark glasses for a few seconds then drop them down again. He grimaced each time.

  “Give him some room, guys. Please,” asked Rob.

  “This shit is crazy, bro,” said Don Russo.

  “Should we get you to a hospital, Johnny?” asked Rob.

  Cash’s hands covered her mouth.

  “No. All good,” answered John. He lifted his glasses again. Eyelids opened. Tears poured. He closed and reopened his eyes a few times, but the glasses remained off. Phaedra joined the group, along with two more young women.

  “I’m seeing shapes. No. I’m seeing even more than that.”

  John was breathing heavily. He poured sweat.

  “Have some more water,” said Rob, crouched before him. As Rob held the cup, John grabbed his arm.

  “Brother,” said John, “I’m not gonna do any corny shit like run my hand over your face, and I’m sure as shit not going to sculpt you, but Rob, I can fucking see you right now.”

  Smiling broadly, Rob lifted the cup.

  “Say something,” said John. “I want to see you use that familiar voice.”

  “Um, hello . . . there . . . John. Have . . . some . . . water.”

  “What the fuck with the slow talking? I’m gaining sight, not learning how to speak.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “Sorry,” chuckled Rob. “Do you really see me?”

  “Yes. I mean, I’m guessing this is what you’d call blurry, but I do see your features.” He closed his eyes again and wiped away the moisture.

  “You okay?” asked Rob.

  “Yeah. This is just a whole lot to take in. I don’t know what the hell is happening to me.”

  He opened his eyes again. He scanned the darkened enclave. A horseshoe-shaped crowd stood before him. His gaze fell upon one female.

  “You’re Cash.”

  “That’s right,” she smiled.

  “Wow,” he sighed. “You are beautiful.”

  She blushed a bit and it felt wonderful to hear as she wasn’t feeling her prettiest, considering the circumstances. Her confidence didn’t soar for long though as John spotted Phaedra.

  “Wow,” he sighed. “You are beautiful.”

  Then the leader came through the crowd. “John, I am Don Russo.”

  For the sake of history, the fourth human image captured by John G’s eyes was that of Don Russo’s dangling genitalia.

  VIRGINIA

  Deep beneath Dr. Robert’s barn, Dr. Martinez sat across from V. Anderson. V couldn’t help but notice those dark eyes that had mesmerized her late brother so. Damned if Martinez didn’t smell fantastic, too.

  “Remember the huge discussion about admitting patient number eleven to our study because he had prostate cancer?”

  “Sure do. He had a fairly low Gleason score.”

  “Yes, but he had a high PSA and was enlarged.”

  “Okay.”

  “V, he doesn’t have cancer anymore.”

  “What?”

  “His PSA is under two, and his prostate is small and sturdy.”

  “Well, a biopsy . . . ”

  “Done. No sign of cancer.”

  “Well,” asked V, “could the rumors be true?”

  “Did you see the woman on the news who said she just got up from her wheelchair and danced?” wondered Dr. Martinez.

  “No, but I saw the kid who said he’d been deaf since birth but was now listening to Kanye on headphones.”

  “Did he say which was worse?”

  V chuckled as she stood. “And what the hell is going on in the North Wing?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “It went dark, and my card won’t let me in anymore.”

  “Same.”

  “I understand the whole need-to-know scenario,” offered Dr. Martinez, “but we are all working towards the same goal. How can we be excluded from whatever they are doing over there?”

  “Can you cover for me?”

  Anything called The North Wing just sounds too serious. In reality, it was one section of the underground compound, separated, like all the wings, by a single locked security door. Twenty feet from that door stood a vending machine, one of the several frequented in better times by R. Anderson. He was irreplaceable, but his Diet Mountain Dew was not. It was back in stock. V sipped one for the entire half hour that she had eyed the wing’s door from her position of cover. The vending machine stood directly between her and the security door. On prior days, the sight of her lingering there might have caught the attention of anyone watching the security monitors, but now, as long as you weren’t eating anyone, there wasn’t the time nor the manpower to even give a fuck.

  Thirty-two minutes in, the door opened.

  V tossed her soda can into the trash as she bolted for that entrance. The exiting man had his back to her as she squeezed her foot in to block the door from closing. He was wearing janitor clothes.

  Joe Isley felt her trying to rush past him and he shot his arm out to block her way.

  “Pardon me, ma’am. Restricted area,” he smiled, with just the hint of a twitch.

  Her foot remained.

  “I know
two things,” she said. “One is that I am involved in top level government research at this facility, and two, no custodial employee would give a damn if I entered the North Wing.”

  “Not sure about all that, ma’am. Just doing as I’m told.”

  They remained wedged in the doorway as she replied. “You see the ID badge pinned to me? Why don’t you have one?”

  “I do,” he smiled. “Must have left it in my car, motherfuckingscumbag.”

  Stunned by his response, V responded as her brother might have, with a shot to Isley’s jaw. He saw it coming, but used it, and her included concentration, as an opportunity to kick her foot out of the entryway and close the door. Taking a jab to the face for a chance to secure the wing was an acceptable swap for Joe Isley.

  “I deserved that, ma’am. Sorry for the insulting words. My tongue is the cross I bear.”

  He turned and walked away, leaving Dr. Anderson at the locked door, mouth agape.

  LAS VEGAS

  The image that had been saved to the phone was that of a stunning blonde beauty. Rob had run far enough to get service, captured the picture from the internet, saved it to his photo collection, dimmed the screen significantly, and ran back.

  Now John G was sitting on the tunnel bed, gazing at the illuminated face of Scarlett Johansson. “Wow,” he sighed. “She is beautiful.”

  The crowd around him laughed. Don Russo’s genitals bounced with his guffaws. John took his eyes from Scarlett’s image and looked around at the group of tunnel-dwellers. They were the first people he’d ever laid eyes on. He assumed they weren’t the cleanest or most well-groomed folks that he’d likely encounter, but here they were, living like this in this new world, and they were all happy and excited that he had gained vision. He spotted the large, roundish lymphedema that grew from Skunk’s leg. Even absorbing his first visual evidence of human anatomy, he knew that mass of fluid and blood vessels to be abnormal.

  The group sported a variety of skin tones, from pale to dark. He was pondering how something so trivial could be the trigger for so much wrong in the world when he saw the man at the far back just behind everyone else and thus a bit more blurry. He had a fair but tanned skin shade. John didn’t know it, but it was Polish Joe.