LAS VEGAS
In the hospital lobby, Cash was on the phone with the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.
“Well, I have waited on hold for more than an hour,” she said. “Maybe that shows how serious I am.”
“Miss,” replied the CDC rep, “with all due respect, that just shows that you are determined. It has no bearing on the credibility of your information. However, please tell me all about your cure, and we will add it to the hundreds, maybe thousands, of others, and we will eventually get to it. That’s the best I can do.”
Cash bit her lip. “Okay, the cure is as follows; fill your mouth with water, place your thumbs in your ears, forefingers pressing your nostrils together, hold your breath, jump up and down and swallow the water.”
“Great,” sighed the rep. “That’s your solution for the virus, then?”
“Virus? I was calling about hiccups.”
She hung up with a customary “Asshole”.
VIRGINIA
They were just pliers. The kind found at any Home Depot. Joe Isley held them up to the light for no reason other than to watch it reflect off the tool. Well, maybe to heighten the tension for the Middle Eastern terrorist, who sat naked and chained before him. Isley then sat on the floor, sans mat and placed his left hand on the man’s cold foot, sans glove.
“Theoretically, I know I should probably have you strapped to a table with me hovering over you in the dominant position,” said Isley. “But, I prefer this view. I can get right up close to the toe.”
The room wasn’t particularly large, but it was barren, so there was a touch of echo to Isley’s words.
“You have nice, long toenails,” he continued, “so I can probably get them off without hammering a skewer between nail and toe. That’s a bit of good news for you, I suppose.”
The chained man ground his teeth then spat at his captor.
Joe Isley placed his pliers down and got to his feet. He went over to his small piece of luggage and retrieved a rag. As he moved behind his prisoner and gagged him, he offered more words. “The thing about gags is they muffle screams. I was hoping for some nice, clear howling, so now we’ll both have to work a little harder for that, okay? Don’t disappoint me.”
The scientist wiggled and grunted as Isley went on. “I will do you the courtesy of asking you one final time, and please take note: I will not do any moronic shit like asking you the same thing after each toe; I’m going to go through all ten pretty quickly. So,” Isley cleared his throat, “are you prepared to tell us everything you know about the virus, its creation, and any possible cures?”
He retrieved the pliers, put his hands on his hips, and waited.
No response, so Isley grabbed his bag.
As he sat back down on the floor and clutched his captive’s foot again, he had some final words, “Full disclosure: it’s not going to be toenail, toenail, toenail—it’s going to be toenail, toe, toenail, toe.”
Joe Isley removed a large pair of clippers from his luggage.
75.
That was the number worn by “Mean” Joe Greene during a Pittsburgh Steelers’ four-time Super Bowl championship dynasty in the late 1970s. A soft-spoken gentleman off the field, Greene would wreak havoc on the gridiron, tearing through anything in his path to attack whoever possessed the football.
V. Anderson’s self-reinforced sleeping quarter featured mattresses up against the walls, three bolt locks on the door, and boarded-up windows. A telephone sat, hidden within a bolted closet.
She had flipped to canni three times, including the incident that caused the death of her brother, and she feared that she’d become a “perm”, as some referred to infected victims who remained in their murderous state. Her family had strict orders that if they hadn’t heard from her for forty-eight hours, they should send authorities to investigate this particular room. Her kin should not, under any circumstances, come to check on her themselves, and they should warn the responders that she was likely in the mind of killing anything in her path.
She bolted from her sleep in a manner so fierce that she would have swatted Joe Greene away like a pollinating honeybee.
LAS VEGAS
Cash’s phone was in Rob’s hand. He sat in the hospital lobby, speaking with a White House operator.
“Yes, I probably sound insane, and I know you get a lot of these calls, but if you can put me through to someone with some authority—I am not asking to speak with President Collins—I can tell them what we know.”
“Sir, just leave your name and number with me, along with your comment or suggestion and I will forward it to the proper agency. We do appreciate your taking the time to contact the White House.”
“Comment or suggestion? Oh, never mind.”
VIRGINIA
“That is one fine-looking toenail,” smiled Joe Isley.
His captive’s yells were muffled by the rag in his mouth, but his eyes screamed for him. Sweat synthesized with tears. Isley held the nail, clasped by his pliers, up to the light. Blood poured from the parent toe.
He peered into the eyes of the terrorist, said nothing, placed his pliers down, lifted his heavy pair of clippers, and lopped off the entire nail-less toe.
V. Anderson hurled herself against the bolted door. She clawed at the wood as she growled. If this canni version of herself had access to even ten percent of her normal brain capacity, she would be out of that room in seconds, free to hunt, kill, and eat whomever she desired. But she had learned that these creatures seemed to be almost totally about physical strength and the innate desire to hunt and survive. In her usual state, Dr. Anderson feared that these mutated beings might eventually gain more ability to reason and analyze, but at this moment, she was nothing but a raging bonehead.
She slammed her skull against the door.
LAS VEGAS
Hospital lobby. Paul Bhong had reached the KTNV news desk.
“I will tell you,” he said, “but we want it to go national.”
“I can’t promise you that,” replied the young news intern. “I can tell my boss, and she can run with it if she chooses. We might mention it on the air—the local news—if it passes muster.”
“This is crazy important. You do know that, right? We might have a freaking antidote for this whole mess, brother.”
“I know you don’t want to tell me, but I have to ask: is this the elderberry syrup and vodka thing?”
“What?”
“Lily of the Valley? Mistletoe?”
Click.
VIRGINIA
Isley had added a tourniquet by the ankle, but with three toes gone it was getting messy all the same. The fourth toenail refused to come off in one piece.
“Shit,” sighed Joe. “Now I have to use the skewer and hammer on this one.”
The scientist grunted. He shook his head violently. His face was soaked and pale. He hurriedly mumbled something through his gag. Seemed different than his prior verbalizations. With skewer in hand, Isley had a question. “You wanna tell me something?”
The man nodded frantically.
“Okay, then,” huffed Isley as he got to his feet. He went around just behind the doctor and loosened his gag.
“Let’s have it, then,” demanded Joe.
“I . . . I . . . will tell your leader. I will tell the president, only.”
Joe Isley returned the rag to his captive’s mouth, sat down, and shoved the skewer beneath the man’s half-toenail.
“Wasting my time. That ship sailed for you, homeboy. You tell me now. No one else will be here for you.”
LAS VEGAS
John G held Paul’s phone in his hand.
“Yes,” he said, “I would like you to connect me with Ms. Oprah Winfrey.”
Click.
VIRGINIA
Isley’s prisoner was howling again, eyes wider than ever.
“You ready now?”
He nodded feverishly. Isley pulled the gag out.
“Speak.”
The sweat-s
oaked scientist gasped for air, then closed his eyes before he spoke. “I will tell you exactly what I wanted to tell your president.”
“Let’s hear it.”
The man opened his dark eyes and stared directly into Isley’s.
“You die as canni, no?”
After one final skull slam against the bolted door, V. Anderson collapsed to the floor.
LAS VEGAS
Paul Bhong was on the phone with his mother.
“Trust me, mom, it’s legit—at least it really seems to be. No one gives a fuck—sorry—no one wants to listen to any of us. No one. You’re a respected doctor. Maybe they will pay attention to you . . . Yes, I understand that you’re putting your reputation on the line, but if we are right, you’ll have done something wonderful for humanity. Just think about it for a bit. Think medically. Maybe it will make sense to you. Please.”
VIRGINIA
Joe Isley was sweating almost as much as his prisoner.
“Well, that’s ten toes. Not sure if what you got now can still be called feet. Maybe hooves? Shit, what do I know? Anyhow, you’re a tough prick. In some ways, I admire that. Not enough to give a fingerfehler fuck about you or to ease up in any way but still, nice job. So, my crew is gonna come in now, take you to medical so you don’t die, let you mend for a bit, then we’ll get back at it.”
The scientist was barely conscious, but he mumbled something through his rag.
“I know,” answered Isley. “You’re probably thinking that I’m going to take your fingers next, but you’ve proven that you’ve got a decent tolerance for this sort of thing. I have other plans. Hang on. Sneak preview!”
Isley disappeared behind a door. The toeless man opened one eye. What he saw next was a bit blurry, but there was no mistaking it. Isley returned with a blindfolded teenage boy. The kid had headphones on, hands in his pockets. His captor guided him to the middle of the floor; actually had him standing in the blood, and upon the severed toes.
The bleeding man howled as he recognized his son. Isley marched right up to his delirious detainee and whispered into his ear.
“He’s next.”
V. Anderson had been unconscious for hours. The first things she noticed when she awoke on the bedroom floor were her nail gun of a headache and how her mouth tasted like a yeti’s taint. She thanked the universe for permitting her to emerge from the cannibalistic state yet again and wondered how many times might be the charm before she would be doomed to remain trapped in that hell permanently.
Three sliding bolts later, she was at the bathroom mirror staring at the bruises on her forehead. After a colossal dose of Colgate and Listerine, she was in her late brother’s sunny kitchen and de facto workspace. She schlepped past the array of laptops and notebooks, both hers and her sibling’s, and advanced to the coffee maker.
With her caffeine brewing, she stared back at the laptops. Ambling across the tile, she tapped her brother’s device and it lit right up. There had been something on her mind for days. R. Anderson had been an immensely popular figure on the internet, though never under his real name, and his online friends deserved to know that he was gone. If she didn’t tell them, who would?
She knew he always forgot his passwords so he had them saved, and she could quickly access his favorite sites and chatrooms. As she began to inhale that calming scent of coffee, she came across some of his inbox messages:
Hit me up bro
New Harley documentary on Netflix
thx 4 the Sabbath cd!
I’m a horny coed hungry for cock
Okay, that one was spam.
Where u been, R?
RA—Sturgis maybe?
U work for govt right? I have cure 4 canni. No bullshit
V shook her head and went to grab a cup for her java. Midway to the cabinet, she stopped. There was her bruised face staring at her from the microwave glass. She, her brother, their entire team, and many others had toiled night and day for a mere seed that might lead to a cure for this monstrosity. Surely, some internet gearhead wasn’t going to suddenly become Jonas Salk.
But, yet . . .
This guy—well he typed like a guy—knew that her brother worked for the government. R told that to almost nobody. Yeah, he probably told him he was a mechanic for the department of something-or-other, but still, there was some small level of trust involved.
V ran through what might have been her brother’s responses to her indecisiveness.
Don’t waste your time, sis. Think logically.
You think my friends are idiots? Contact him! What do we have to lose?
Click on that one from the horny coed.
LAS VEGAS
Upon leaving the hospital they journeyed directly to the Fremont Street casinos. Those people back at the tunnels would need assistance and silver mining was one way to help. Rob and Cash took the east side of the Four Queens gambling hall and Paul and John G handled the west. Truth be told, John still couldn’t see clearly enough to spot any credits left behind in a slot machine, not in these dimly lit casinos, but he tagged along with Paul just to supply company, and perhaps guard his six against any possible canni attacks.
Eight cents. Twenty cents. Eighty-three cents.
The tickets printed out rapidly—some were accompanied by tinny music or animated explosions of coins—no matter the meager total of the cash-out. Rob and Cash were shocked by the number of slot machines that contained money deemed worthless by gamblers. They strode through the aisles holding hands; one checking the slots to their left, the other to their right. They giggled almost uncontrollably.
As Cash tapped an illuminated square button for a two-cent ticket, she noticed that security had already spotted them. Her smile faded. Then the guard looked away. Maybe he had larger concerns in the current climate, or maybe he was sympathetic. As she pondered, a heavy Midwesterner emerged from a nebula of cigar smoke.
“Hey y’all,” he smiled. “I been on a roll for twelve hours. Get yourselves some chow now.”
He presented Cash with a pair of twenty-dollar bills and was gone before she could respond.
“Sweet!” said Rob, still chuckling.
Cash was staring at her reflection in one of the nickel machines. She held forty dollars in charity, and two dollars and nineteen cents in assorted cash-out vouchers. There was a time not long ago that she and Rob stood out among the tunnel people. They were cleaner, brighter, and perhaps more alive. Her casino reflection had her looking worn. The dirty screen added to a perception of grayness in her current appearance. She had always been in color. Now she was black and white.
Paul arrived at his apartment after dropping his friends back at the tunnels. He stank of smoke; cigarettes from the casinos, marijuana from the ride in his borrowed car. He’d wanted to help his underground friends reestablish life in the drainage caverns, but he had a more important task at the moment.
But first, a shower.
He scrubbed himself down, his mind drifting to the fact that Cash had showered in this very stall on that day when everything changed in their relationship. He wished to have all of those thoughts evaporate within the steam. He had work to do.
His hair wet like fresh black ink with a white towel around his waist, Paul sat at his laptop. One message immediately stuck out:
Important news RE: RA.
He opened the missive.
I am RA’s sister. Call me VA. I regret to inform you that my brother has passed away.
Paul read that line three times before he could proceed.
Please forward this information along to his other internet associates. I am sorry for the impersonal manner, but that is the essence of online groups anyway. I read your message about the virus and your claim of a cure. If this is some sick biker joke or something, please stop. If you truly believe on the soul of my brother, and your friend, that you have some pertinent information, then reply to this message with more details and some evidence. Do not make light of my brother’s memory by jerking me off. Thank
you.
He inhaled deeply, trying to gather his thoughts for a heartfelt reply, albeit one that didn’t contain too much information. Rob and Cash had made it clear that since no one had given them the time of day with regard to their supposed antidote they now wanted to involve only serious people, and they wanted something in return. The sudden news that his cyberspace buddy, RA, was likely deceased kept pecking at his brain like a hungry raven. The fact that that brain was also floating in a marijuana haze didn’t help at all. His typing commenced at the same time that his doorbell rang.
His friends wouldn’t normally appear at his door without a warning text, especially at this late hour, and it certainly wasn’t the mail carrier. He opened the door and his mouth fell open.
“Mom?”
He’d seen her not too long ago before the world flipped upside down, but here she looked smaller, frail. She immediately disappeared into his embrace.
“You called for a doctor?” she whispered.
She had barely left her home since the day when, in her cannibal state, she brutally killed her beau and his teenage daughter at a barbeque. Dr. Anita Chuang knew her son needed her help, and she would do what she could by driving to Vegas from her Lake Elsinore home. It would be done in memory of Edgar and Verde, her victims.
The next morning the tunnels were returning to norm. People scurried about with boxes and salvaged furniture. Their subterranean world was doubly damp and offered a thicker stench than before the flood.
“Dank and stank,” was how Skunk described it upon his return from the hospital, obviously cured by the virus; with nary an after-effect from the chunk gnawed out of his lymphedema.
Canni Page 26
