Canni

by Daniel O'Connor

  He also didn’t know that Joe was canni.

  Then came the growl and the vomit. Polish Joe tore into the pack of tunnel dwellers. Screams and chaos. Rob immediately went to Cash. Polish Joe went to Phaedra. His teeth were clattering, scraping against her forehead and nose, when some of the men leaped upon him. He tossed them aside like a handful of kittens and was back at Phaedra. Before he got to her soft, white neck, Skunk hit him with a blast of pepper spray. Joe let go of Phaedra and spun wildly. The men tackled him again. He went down, reaching and grasping for anything he could eat.

  He found Skunk’s right leg. From the tunnel floor, he reached up blindly and found the textured, rough skin of the man’s lymphedema. Its texture was not unlike that of the Pimple Ball that Russo had chucked down the tunnel. A can of shrimp pellets fell from Joe’s pocket and spilled out.

  With men upon him, Polish Joe was still able to thrust upward and sink his vomit-coated teeth deep into the bulbous flesh of Skunk’s elephantiasis.

  The eruption of the scream came along with the explosion of blood, fluid, liquid proteins, cellular debris, and bacteria. The concoction spilled all over Joe’s face as he tore off a chunk of the substantial mass. He’d severed nearly one hundred blood vessels with his one bite. Skunk went to the ground reaching for his leg. He was almost convulsive. Red fluid went everywhere. Spats, Hoffman, and others tried to subdue Joe with little success. John G, during his first minutes of sight, joined the other men atop Joe. Rob was torn between joining the fray or remaining in front of Cash. He stayed.

  Polish Joe got a hold of Hoffman’s wrist. With his teeth. They sunk in, along with much of the fluids from Skunk’s punctured growth.

  “Out of the way!” yelled Don Russo.

  The men scurried from atop Joe. Hoffman slid to the side, his arm still in the jaws of his attacker.

  They heard the pump action, then the blast.

  Russo blew a hole in Polish Joe’s chest with a 12-gauge Remington. In the tunnels, the blast sounded like something from an atomic test site. The echo went on for too long. Joe’s blood mixed with Skunk’s and formed a fresh lake of death.

  The dwellers were stunned, but Russo got them refocused. “We got to tie off Skunk’s leg above the knee and get him to a medic. He’ll bleed out. Now! Take Hoffman, too.”

  As he stood there naked but for the shotgun, he inhaled the scent of gunpowder and realized what many were thinking.

  “I had no choice.” he said. “We couldn’t dance around with him while Skunk bled. We couldn’t lose our best security men trying to corral him. Who knows what might’ve happened? He almost got Phaedra, for Christ’s sake.”

  Skunk was loaded into a wheeled office chair and rushed toward the closest exit. Hoffman ran along side, wrapping up his own wrist. Spats and some others moved toward Polish Joe. He was flat on his back, motionless, with an enormous hole in the middle of his chest.

  “Drag his body to the wash feeder,” ordered Russo.

  The spilled shrimp pellets crunched under the feet of those who grabbed onto the fallen dweller.

  Cash was frozen in the same spot since it all broke out. She finally looked to Rob and spoke. “So much for nobody flipping in the tunnels, then.”

  Russo heard and responded as if insulted. “Polish Joe was not part of our bunker. He was a loner. None of our people have turned into that. None.” All Rob could think of was the phrase, Fuck Lindenhurst.

  A trail of blood and pellets remained in the wake of Joe as he disappeared down the tunnel. John G still couldn’t see well enough to accompany Skunk and Hoffman or even to drag Joe to the wash. He sat back down on the bed.

  Cash put her hand on his shoulder as Russo presented more orders.

  “Rob and John, with so many gone, I’m gonna need you men to work security right now.”

  Before they could reply, a call came from down the tunnels. “Hoffman went down, we need more help getting the injured topside!”

  “Shit,” sighed Russo. “Rob, I need you to go help them. Those men need treatment.”

  Rob froze. He didn’t want to leave Cash. He thought about taking her, but that would mean leaving John behind and, in Rob’s mind, alone. His newly-sighted buddy would still be too slow to tag along on a hospital run.

  As if reading his mind, Russo, still brandishing the shotgun, interrupted. “Don’t make this more confusing. If you take Caroline or Eyeballs with you, you guys are done here. We don’t tolerate selfishness. We need people here to keep the place secure.”

  “Go,” said Cash.

  Rob’s brain ran through all possibilities.

  “I’ll watch out for her,” said John, “and she’ll do the same for me.”

  “They’ll be fine,” said Russo.

  Rob took a deep breath and looked Russo in the eyes. “Give her the gun,” he said.

  “Whoa there,” replied Russo.

  “You want her to act as security,” said Rob. “Hand the gun to Cash.”

  “I don’t even know if she can handle . . . ”

  “I can,” she said.

  Russo scratched his scrotum.

  “We need help!” came the voice from the tunnels.

  “They need me,” said Rob. “I’ll go as soon as Cash gets that gun.”

  “Fuck the world,” sighed Russo almost passively. He handed the Remington to Cash. She stood and became rigid and alert, as if receiving some sort of commendation.

  “Keep ‘em safe, babe,” smiled Rob. Then, he was gone.

  John looked over at Cash. The shotgun appeared much larger than it had when Don Russo held it. He stared down at the blood, fluids, skin chunks, and shrimp pellets that covered the ground.

  John G put his dark glasses back on.

  Rob had expected bright sun, but he welcomed the overcast as he, and six others, including Phaedra, pushed Skunk and Hoffman in separate office chairs toward Flamingo Road, and Desert Springs Hospital. The journey wouldn’t be short, but there had been no response from the overloaded 911 system, and no one was stopping as they tried to flag down passing vehicles.

  That was when they spotted the idling and occupant-free swimming pool service pickup outside a supply shop.

  People are still using their swimming pools? was Rob’s initial thought. He then debated in his mind if that was a positive or negative comment on society. He hadn’t reached a conclusion by the time they had loaded everyone in and stolen the vehicle, with Rob at the wheel.

  John G had gained the power of vision, yet with his glasses on he still relied on his other senses, the ones that had comforted him for his entire life. Based on the scent of the air, the feeling on his skin, and the methodical sound that the others had yet to hear, he was the first in the tunnels to know.

  It was raining.

  Cash, standing guard like G.I. Jane, looked up at the cardboard that Russo’s men had taped over the small openings. Coming slowly but increasing rapidly through them were the drops of water.

  What neither Cash nor John knew was that the rain had begun twenty minutes earlier in the surrounding hills, and it came hard. Now all of the accumulated rainfall was headed down to the valley. Coming toward the drainage tunnels like Niagara Falls. The thunder blasted almost as loud as the shotgun had minutes before. John and Russo flinched. Cash didn’t blink.

  In the Desert Springs emergency room, Rob couldn’t actually hear the TV news broadcast over the chaos. The staff had taken Skunk and his deflated lymphedema into the back but had not yet turned their attention to the pale and unconscious Hoffman and his wrist. Rob did, however, spot the words FLASH FLOOD ALERT on the screen.

  The original plan was to return the stolen pickup to the supply shop where they’d hijacked it, but now Rob raced past that location with Phaedra beside him. The rains were heavy and the visibility poor. They had left the others to stay at the hospital with their wounded comrades. As the pickup approached the tunnel entrance nearest their bunker, it created waves on either side, as if in a flume. Phaedra rubbed Rob
’s shoulder as the tunnel opening came into view. She gasped.

  There were people everywhere, standing or squatting in knee-high water.

  And that was outside the drainage tunnels.

  The water could be seen blasting out of the underground maze like something in a white-water rafting ad. Rob was out of the truck and running—never turning off the ignition.

  “Cash?”

  He splashed down to where most of the crowd stood, still gasping for air and completely soaked.

  “Cash, where are you?”

  She was nowhere to be seen.

  He found John G.

  “Buddy, are you okay?”

  John nodded.

  “Where is Cash? Was she with you?”

  “She was at first,” answered John between gulps of air, “but then . . . she was gone. I don’t even know what happened. The water took us all. I called out to her . . . ”

  Don Russo was doubled over, sucking wind. He had the shotgun, though.

  “Where is she?” asked Rob. “Did she get out?”

  “I don’t know. I can barely breathe. Not sure if we lost any.”

  “You managed to save that fucking gun.”

  Those were Rob’s last words before he waded toward the tunnels. He was trying to decide if he’d be better off trying to swim when John yelled out, “Rob, there are canni everywhere in there! It’s fucking nuts! Be careful!”

  As Rob entered the tunnel system, he had but one tool: the flashlight app on his phone.

  The tunnels already smelled different. It was as if the water had dredged up everything that was foul and made soup. He waded against it. He knew it must have been much stronger before, when it washed everyone out.

  Almost everyone.

  He was in near-complete darkness and activating his light app when the first body floated by face down. It was a man. He thought about checking on him on the small chance he was breathing, but feared that Cash might be drowning at that very moment. He trudged onward.

  “Cash!”

  Her name echoed down the tunnels. All he heard in return was his own voice. Then from a distance came a growl.

  Fuck me.

  The deeper he went, the more insects he spotted on the walls. His light focused on roaches and spiders, who seemingly had been more aware of the impending flood than their human counterparts. They’d sought high ground before the waters reached the drains. He carried on against the black tide. Just as he was about to call out to Cash again, it came out of the water.

  Canni.

  Rob tightened for battle.

  It was an older man, unfamiliar to Rob. Water poured off of him as he gasped for air. Then, just as Rob was deciding what to do with his phone, the man submerged again.

  Okay, this is worse.

  Preparing for an attack on his legs, Rob heard a splash behind him. The canni had resurfaced. This time, however, he held an obviously dead and partially eaten Spats in his arms. He went back to feeding, ignoring Rob, before the water took him away again.

  “Cash!” he yelled once more.

  The water rippled. Rob shone his light.

  Rats. Maybe a dozen of them. Pretty good swimmers. They drifted past Rob, swimming with the flow. They had made the rational decision to head for the exit. Rob continued on in the opposite direction.

  He could tell that the sun was breaking through the clouds because shards of light had begun to filter through to the tunnels, just a few rays here and there. He pushed forward, putting his phone away; the incoming light, though not much, was enough to guide him, and he wanted both hands free. He could feel himself stepping on things. His mind ran the gamut from hypodermic needles to dead rodents to severed body parts.

  “Caroline! It’s Rob! Are you here, baby?”

  Nothing but echo and the thrash of rushing water. Rob felt it in his knees. He was winded. Every step was a mountain climb. He had to keep his eyes trained on the water before him lest something else surface and attack. He wouldn’t allow himself the thought that Cash might have perished, either from the flood or at the hands of a canni. If he dwelled on that, his remaining strength could abandon him.

  The slivers of light helped him along. They also illuminated the breathing thing behind him which lowered itself upside down, like a drenched bat. Rob never saw the canni with its feet wedged into an overhead grate. Never knew it was there—until it dropped to the water.

  Rob heard the splash, got soaked by the wake, spun around, and saw nothing but the ripples.

  Then he felt it at his legs.

  He tried to kick free. No luck. He tossed his phone into the mouth of a dry overhead pipe, sucked in as much air as he could swallow, and went under.

  The canni was trying to gnaw at Rob’s legs, right through his pants. Rob had his eyes open, but tunnel water had much less visibility than the average lake or swimming pool. Still, he’d rather have his attacker biting at a pant leg than his throat, so Rob pushed hard on the thin man’s balding head, in an effort to keep it down.

  The strength of the canni was apparent and Rob was growing weaker. He knew he couldn’t fight for long. Its head was moving higher.

  As the hungry assailant rose, mouth agape, Rob knew that he had filled his lungs with air before submerging, but the canni’s lungs were likely filling with water with each attempted bite. Rob wrapped himself around the infected man’s head, bringing it into his chest, and he went down on his back, betting that his strong young lungs would outlast his attacker’s. He could feel the movements of the canni’s mouth against his shirt but hadn’t felt the sting of a bite. It seemed more intent on devouring Rob than in surfacing for air.

  As the struggle continued, the thought crossed Rob’s mind that the canni might outlast him. Maybe it could remain submerged longer than he, no matter the amount of water it took in. All at once, panic struck. Now Rob fought to emerge and suck for air but he couldn’t break free.

  If he knew that Cash had died in those tunnels, Rob might have just released his air and taken his chances at joining her in eternity, but there was some hope that she was alive and he couldn’t abandon her this way.

  As his air escaped, his thumbs searched for his attacker’s eyes.

  He found them and pushed. He didn’t expect to go that deep, and it felt like jelly. Instinctively, he pulled them both out. One thumb had an easier time than the other.

  Regardless, the canni let go and Rob blasted through the surface. He was dizzy and choking when the monster came out of the water. One eye socket was just a bubbling fountain of blood, but the other was worse: an eyeball swung from it like a hypnotist’s pocket watch.

  Face covered in blood, it opened its jaws wide. That’s when Rob saw why he hadn’t been bitten.

  The fucker didn’t have a tooth in his mouth.

  It clattered about and stumbled away aimlessly. Rob sucked in some more air, took his phone from the pipe, and marched on to find his girl.

  Outside, Don Russo, his people, and other tunnel-dwellers continued the battle to regain their strength and faculties. The sun was high and strong, but the water remained and they were all still in it, to varying degrees. At least the temporary lakes at street level were nearly still. It was through these waters that Paul Bhong arrived on his Harley.

  Rob was nearly shot. He’d gained some momentum from his battle with the canni, but that temporary rush had vanished and his legs were like rubber. He carried on through the black tide, saving his phone battery and using the trickle of available light from above.

  Just past a divider in the distance, something forced him to activate the flashlight app. It moved slowly but was steadily approaching.

  “Cash?”

  It was a faint hope but proved to be wishful thinking. This figure was larger, broader. Rob trained his light on it. Something seemed off. The bright beam seemed to pass right through it. Rob considered stopping, but every second mattered and this approaching being possibly stood between him and Cash.

  After another
moment of convergence, the light hit it just right. A chill wrapped around Rob as he saw the face, pale as fresh snow. It stepped closer. The spotlight hadn’t shone through any solid matter. There was a hole.

  Here came the bloodied frame of Polish Joe, without haste. Much of his chest was absent. Don Russo had blasted through it with his shotgun. Rob tensed, ready for more combat. He hastily shoved his phone into another pipe, knocking some cockroaches to the drink below. His cell quickly came riding back out on a rush of water and more roaches, splashing into the depths. Joe was ten feet from Rob.

  Shitfuck.

  Joe was upon him.

  Then, he was behind him.

  Polish Joe, bloodied, white, and missing his middle, walked on, never so much as glancing Rob’s way.

  There was no time to digest what he’d just seen, so Rob pressed on sans flashlight app.

  “Cash?”

  The echo had become familiar.

  Up above, Russo and his tunnel neighbors had their situation officially confirmed as serious by something that had become almost as rare as Halley’s Comet.

  The police had arrived. Lots of them.

  “There are people still in the tunnels.” yelled Paul. “They’re in there with Cannis.”

  The cops unloaded rafts from the back of a truck.

  Rob’s body ached. He wondered how much longer he could hold his own against the waist-deep current. He doubted he could survive another canni encounter. The tunnel seemed darker than ever. To his left was a large pipe opening that was different from all the others. He’d seen it before. The white paint gave it away.

  It was home to the Witch of the Wash.

  Rob assumed that, since the giant pipe was high in the wall, the witch may have decided to ride out the flood within. He considered that Cash may have also crawled in to escape the waters.

  He peered in.

  He already missed his flashlight.

  “Cash?” he yelled, then, “Hello, ma’am? Are you in there? Have you seen anyone else?”

  A ruffling sound was heard. The rushing water was loud, so he leaned his ear in closer to the pipe. The sound grew closer. There was some light filtering in from high, but it didn’t reach within the pipe.