“Can you hear me?” he yelled.
She began to come into view. He first spotted a wrinkled hand, then the matted strings of gray hair.
“Ma’am . . . ” he began.
Before he could continue, he saw the blood. Her face was down, dragging against the pipe’s bottom. The blood was pouring from her neck. It covered her shoulders. Her limbs were limp, yet here she came, gliding toward him as if being pulled.
Or pushed.
Amid the ruffling in the pipe and the rushing of the water came the gurgled strain of heavy breaths. The witch slid closer. Soon her arms dangled from the edge of her circular steel lair. Rob could tell that her head was almost fully detached. Much of the flesh from her neck was gone.
She dropped out of the pipe, brushing against Rob’s torso to the rambling tide below. He watched her wash away, but only for an instant. That’s when another arm came out of the darkness of the pipe, blood up to the elbow.
“Cash?”
This time, he uttered her name as a whisper.
His love’s face emerged from the blackness. She was alive.
Morosely, she was also a full-on canni.
The rafts full of cops had entered the tunnels.
Cash glared at Rob. She was still chewing and swallowing bits of the witch. Blood dripped from her chin, red as her eyes. He took three steps back.
“Hey . . . hey, baby. It’s Rob. Let’s be chill, okay?”
Her eyes remained fixed on him, but she seemed most intent on loading a last clump of skin and fat into the salivating froth of her gaping jaws. Rob hoped they could just wait out her episode without her attacking and then walk out together. The look in Cash’s eyes hinted at other outcomes.
He heard shouts in the distance. “Metro Police! Is anyone here?”
Rob considered calling out to them, but he feared that should Cash pounce on him the cops might shoot her. Would they use a Taser? Some type of tranquilizer dart? He didn’t know, and despite being in Vegas, it wasn’t the type of gamble he wanted to take.
She finished her swallow and inched closer to the edge of the pipe. Her eyes focused solely on Rob, like a mountain lion ready to pounce.
He steadied himself. “Carrie,” he said, “let’s chill. Your boy would like to live a bit longer, if that’s cool with you.”
Her neck arched back. Head went high. She exposed her teeth.
“If we can hang on for just a bit,” he said, “this will pass, and the cops will take us out. Then we can find a way back home.”
She lifted her butt. Got on all fours. Her head came back down and one hand lifted, almost reaching out toward him.
“We can go back to Brooklyn,” he said.
For an instant, he thought he might be getting through to her. His hope faded when her mouth snapped open like a leatherback sea turtle.
“Cash!” he barked more firmly. “We were going to . . . ”
She rocked back with a deep growl. Rob knew that her next motion would be a forward spring and a powerful leap from the pipe.
“We were going to get married, baby . . . supposubly.”
Her motion paused. The pinky on her left hand began to tap feverishly on the bottom of the pipe.
All the cops in the rafts wore full-face helmets. It wasn’t for convenience. They paddled through the tunnels, slicing past the rats and the roaches with a large tactical lantern guiding their way. They had come upon a couple of floaters—police lingo for victims of watery deaths—but there had been no one for them to save.
Their light beam bounced up and down with the movements of their vessel. They had it trained ahead, but it would also hit the tunnel ceiling and the surface of the dirty water. Just past a divider, they spotted a figure. It seemed oddly configured, different than a human body.
“Get the light on that!” bellowed a sergeant.
At first, it looked like some kind of walking cross. Coming into closer view and being better lit, the image became clear.
It was Rob. He carried Cash in his arms, the way he’d always envisioned their honeymoon threshold. She was unconscious, arms dangling. He’d summoned some kind of strength that he’d only heard about in stories. He had become the mother who hoisted the car off of her pinned child.
“Make sure he’s normal,” offered one cop as they rowed closer.
“He’s squared away,” replied another. “You ever see a canni carrying someone to safety?”
Rob said nothing as the officers took Cash from his arms and placed her into a raft. He tried to climb in behind her but found a hand on his chest.
“Hang on, buddy,” said the voice from beneath the facemask. “We need to get you into the other boat. Those officers will help you in.”
He wanted to protest. Wanted to say that he needed to ride with his girl. Wanted to remove the cop’s paw from his chest. There was no more energy within. Before he knew it he was in the second raft. Went face first. The feeling of being off his feet, of having his legs out of that fucking water, was euphoric. If he could only muster the strength to smile.
For most of the ride toward the exit his eyes were closed. He could hear the voices of the police and the rush of the water. The rocking of the small vessel was surprisingly soothing. As the smallest bit of strength returned to his body, he raised his head, looking for the other raft. Looking for Cash.
He found her boat just a few yards behind, being rowed their way. Relieved, he lowered himself again. It was as his head returned toward the bottom of the raft that he discovered something bobbing about in the water and bumping up against his ride.
Once outside, the police and EMT crews placed Cash onto a stretcher. She remained unconscious. They had a cart ready for Rob as well, but he decided to walk. Pale, scratched, and bruised, he spotted Don Russo, Paul, and John G among the crowd. Russo’s shotgun was gone; ditched into the water when the police arrived. There were a lot of people milling about, all of them exhausted. Rob then realized exactly how many folks called those tunnels home.
“Gums?” was the first thing he heard as he approached the group. It came from the mouth of an older woman. He ignored it and went to John.
“You okay, Johnny?” he asked, his knees wobbling.
“Yes. I’m fine. Is Caroline . . . ?”
“She’ll be okay. As long as she wakes up as herself.”
“Gums?”
Russo spoke. “You seen Spats in there?”
Rob nodded, then added, “I’m sorry.”
“Shit,” replied Russo.
“Gums?” asked the woman, again. Rob looked over at her. Her mouth was agape, and devoid of teeth.
Russo interjected, “They called her man ‘Gums’. You can guess why. You see him in there?”
Rob felt dizzy. His heart was pounding. He knew he’d seen her man and had taken his eyes out. He wasn’t sure how to reply.
“Maybe,” he said. “There were some people roaming around. It was dark.”
He saw her face change. It relaxed. She sensed hope.
Paul stood there, ignored by Rob. He watched as his shaken friend turned again to Don Russo.
“I found this, Russo,” declared Rob. “It came back to you.”
He reached out and revealed something small and wet in his upturned palm.
It was Don Russo’s Pimple Ball.
The naked man accepted it with a smirk. Then, with a splash, Rob collapsed to the muddy ground.
He sort of knew he was dreaming, but it was terrible all the same.
“Hey baby,” said Cash to Paul. She cooed it again, more slowly. Her underwear was pink.
“Come on,” was all that Paul replied. His underwear was gone.
“Baby . . . ” she hushed one more time.
Rob opened an eye. The room was brightly lit and he was flat on his back.
“Baby,” said Cash, “I’m here.”
“Come on,” said Paul from someplace beyond Rob’s vision. “Come on, buddy. Wake up.”
There was Cash at his
bedside, a little sliced and diced, but she was herself, and not some crazed monster.
“Cash,” was all he said. His throat felt like sand, and he was unsure if this might actually be the dream.
“It is me, Rob. I’m here. You saved my life.”
He tried to process it all, but his brain was hazy. Cash continued. “You were dehydrated and exhausted, baby. You’ll be fine, though.”
His eyes moved to check if she was wearing nothing but pink underwear. Not the case, so that was good. She leaned in closer. “I have some great news. I haven’t told anyone else yet.”
He studied the scratches on her cheeks; lines dug by the nails of the witch. It gave him fuzzy thoughts of Tic Tac Toe. Her lips were against his ear, touching, as she whispered.
“I think I’ve found the cure.”
He lost consciousness again.
VIRGINIA
The list had been hand-scrawled. The top right corner of the page sported a half-circle imprint of the damp bottom of a Diet Mountain Dew can.
We are trying everything but are under-staffed.
Some subjects have remained in altered state for much longer. Some may be permanent.
Some seem to have prior health conditions reversed. For lack of a better term: Cured.
Activity around the facility had been so busy and behavior so odd that V. Anderson had come to her own conclusion: the president was coming. She assumed she might have to meet with him face to face for a progress report. The opportunity didn’t thrill her.
The rumble came quickly. V went to investigate. Doors opened. A herd of helmeted security entered. She thought she spotted a glimpse of President Collins within the wave of armed beef, but he was immediately ushered past that goddamned door to which she had no access. The slim frame, and stern face, of Dr. Papperello-Venito came at her quickly.
Here, thought V, another brilliant medical mind—as is Dr. Martinez—that my brother fancied in a wholly non-medical manner.
She still wore her smile of remembrance as the White House doctor extended a hand.
V spoke, “Nice to see you, Dr. Pepper . . . er Papper—”
“Papperello-Venito. It’s not that difficult.”
Fucking hyphens, thought V as she shook hands with her superior.
President Collins alone walked into the holding cell. The woman, all smooth skin and raven hair, was chained to a desk. Despite recent wear and tear, she appeared at least ten years younger than her forty-two years. There was the hint of an eyebrow raise and a slight dropping of her lower lip at the sight of the world’s most powerful man.
“Eileen O’Dowd,” said the president.
“Doctor Eileen O’Dowd,” she replied, brow returning to place.
“Forgive the oversight,” he answered. “I decided that if I came . . . ”
“Where’s the other black fuck? Your designated baby-killer?”
“Black fuck? I had you pegged for many things, but white supremacist wasn’t one of them.”
“Well, he is black, and he is a fuck of all fucks, so I’m actually just stating fact.”
“He’s a patriot.”
“Patriotic baby-killer.”
“Not to get off on the wrong foot, but ‘baby-killer’ is all over your resume, Dr. O’Dowd.”
“Yours too.”
“I came to see you personally. No threats of violence against you or your family. I just came to see if I can understand the motives of you and your colleagues and to see what we can do to put an end to all of this. I don’t have the luxury of time, so there’ll be no song and dance. We need a cure or an antidote. We need it yesterday. You’ve made your point, I would guess. The world has taken notice. Now, let’s move forward from here. No one that you love or that I love has to die. No one needs to be interrogated. No need for me to call on that ‘other black fuck’. Just you and this ‘black fuck’. I came to you first because you were once an American, but I will offer the same to the two men we have in custody. There is no need for any of you to die, either after a trial or in the course of events.”
“Mr. President, you’re full of more shit than a Diaper Genie. You opened by saying there would be no threats of violence, and five sentences later you mentioned my death occurring ‘in the course of events’. Try your luck with the others. I would be honored to die for our cause.”
President Collins tried door number two. The North Korean scientist said nothing. No statements, no proclamations, no anti-American jabs, no “black fucks”. Nothing.
In the third room, despite twelve minutes of questioning, the dark-skinned doctor had only one thing to say to the U.S. commander-in-chief.
“You die as canni, no?”
“I’d say ‘yes’ to jazz, but not fucking smooth jazz.”
“We have to agree, and we have to agree right now.”
The four helmeted Secret Service Agents were new to this type of arrangement.
“Anything except hair metal and boy bands.”
“I don’t care at all.”
“Nothing after 1989.”
They stood in a circle. President Collins was about to have a confidential meeting with a guy they only knew as a White House custodian. They’d ordinarily be ordered to wait outside the door. With the new risks involved, a system had been implemented whereby they could remain in a room, but they had to have loud music piped into their helmets so they would be unable to hear the conversation but could still act should anyone become a monster.
“I’m pulling rank. It’s gonna be old school funk. After this, we’ll set up a rotating schedule.”
Collins stood there with his arms folded. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I’d like to get started.”
“Yes, sir,” answered the team leader, fumbling with the headset controls. “We’re ready.”
The agent lowered his face shield. Collins recognized the strains of the Gap Band’s “Jam tha Motha”, but it wasn’t so loud as to be distracting. The president then took a seat next to Joe Isley. They stared at the three monitors, each framing one of the captured scientists.
“You are a good man, Mr. President,” said Joe.
“You think? I mean, do you really believe that?”
“Yes, sir, I do. You didn’t have to come down here. Didn’t have to personally meet with these murderers. Your kind heart brought you here. Tried to spare them the horrors to come.”
Collins had already noticed the piece of luggage on the floor beside Isley’s leg.
“Well Joe, I know that we are different, but you are a good man as well. I don’t believe that you enjoy what you do for your country, yet you do it without hesitation.”
Isley exhaled. “Sir, it sometimes gives me pleasure.”
“I’m betting it’s not actual pleasure. Could be a form of satisfaction.”
“Maybe, cockmouth. Sorry, sir.”
“All good, Joe. What actually brings you pleasure?”
“Hmmm. Don’t know. Used to be a good game of chess.”
The security detail tapped their feet to the funk.
“Chess?” smiled the president. “I enjoy that. Not that I’m any good. Maybe one day we could have a match.”
“I haven’t played in years. Many years,” answered Joe. His left foot touched the zippered bag beside him.
“So, let’s do it. Once we get past all of this.”
Joe Isley was honored at the invitation, but he didn’t reply. He desperately wanted to open his bag and deploy its contents on the three who sat in the holding rooms. His armpits grew moist. The hushed and trebled beats of the security helmet funk sounded like a ticking clock.
“Why did you abandon chess, Joe?”
“Oh, I don’t know, sir.”
“Yes you do. You don’t have to tell me, but if you let it out, you might just have the desire to play again.”
Isley wondered which option might get him and his bag into those rooms sooner.
“Sir, promise me that you won’t use any of what I tell you to find out who I
really am.”
“Joe, if I really wanted that, I probably could have done it already.”
“In grade school, I was a chess champion. Best in the county. Got an enormous trophy.”
“Okay,” smiled Collins. “Perhaps we shouldn’t play.”
Isley was focused. Ignored the quip.
“I practiced against my sister’s boyfriend, Troy. He was older, a high school senior. Good player, but I was better.”
The muffled music ticked along.
Isley continued. “Troy liked me. Was very impressed with my game. I worked lots of ‘em; King’s Indian, either attack or defense, Alekhine, you name it.”
“I’ve no idea what any of that is.”
Joe didn’t pause. “One night, we played to a draw. One of Troy’s better games. I said goodnight to him, my sister, and our parents, and went to bed. Had school early the next day.”
Isley’s leg was around his bag and drawing it closer.
He went on, “At 12:17 AM, Troy woke me up. He told me he was sorry. As I shook the cobwebs from my brain, he took me around the house, holding my hand. He led me to my parents’ room and then to my sister’s. Troy had murdered them all. Slit their throats. He and everything else was covered in blood. At first, I couldn’t even stand. Went to my knees. I assumed that he’d kill me next, but he told me that I was meant to do great things in this world. Said something about me being the first black International Chess Master. He told me my future was bright, and he wished me luck. Like I said, at first I couldn’t even stand, but pretty soon I could. After Troy gave me a hug, with that blood getting all on my clothes, he turned to walk out the front door. Well, Mr. President, I killed him then and there with that big, heavy chess trophy. Broke his head. Broke the trophy. Broke my hand, too. Don’t know how many times I hit him. He sure couldn’t be recognized. Looked like jelly and bread.”
Collins sat silently. He gazed at the monitors, at the people who had attacked his country. The security officers tapped their feet ever so slightly to the music. Joe Isley wasn’t completely done, though.
“Twat.”
A nap had long been customary for V. Anderson after a long day’s work; much more so in recent weeks. She awoke in the guest room of the home that belonged to her late brother. A phobia had developed soon after she blamed herself for his death, so she avoided her husband and children. She was intent on not killing any of them. Draped in the Pittsburgh Steelers jersey that her spouse had given her long ago, she sprang from the bed.
Canni Page 25
