Canni

by Daniel O'Connor

  “Maybe we should all get inside these vehicles and lock the doors.”

  After a brief flash of red, the normal lighting returned in the elevator. The movement stopped ten seconds later. The door glided open. Awaiting their arrival were two people in lab coats and two large helmeted guards. Just behind their greeters stretched a long tunnel. A two-car tram sat idling with a helmeted female driver at the wheel.

  “I’m Dr. Anderson,” she said with hand outstretched. “Thank you all for coming.” She introduced the man beside her, adorned with small eyeglasses and a large pink polka dot bow tie, as Professor Daniele. One of the guards lifted his face visor. It squeaked like a rusty cemetery gate.

  “I am Lawrence. My partner here is Maurice. The tram operator is Curly.”

  Dr. Anderson’s eyebrows rose, apparently finding the security introductions a bit unnecessary.

  “We are going to need your phones,” said Lawrence, holding out a plastic bag. The group complied, with Rob stating, “John and I don’t have phones.”

  “We know,” answered the guard. “You were scanned in the elevator. We are only interested in recording devices or weapons. You’re all good.”

  “Figures,” sighed Paul, another viral video opportunity gone.

  The guard squeaked his visor back down over his face.

  V. Anderson had a question for the group. “Did you get the Snickers with almonds?”

  Rob opened the paper bag and Cash reached inside, searching for the correct bar. She handed it over to a smiling V.

  “Thank you,” she said, dropping the candy into a lab coat pocket. “Let’s hop into that oversized golf cart, shall we?”

  Russo had his flashlight sticking out the window of the Explorer. He shone it into the brush, looking for anything that moved. Phaedra sat beside him with Hoffman in the back seat. He trained the light up ahead, on the pickup. It just sat there, engine running. There seemed to be two silhouettes in the cab. Probably Cammo Dudes, he figured as he shut his light.

  “I wanna go in that store,” he said. “I’m hungry. You guys want anything?”

  “Nah,” said Hoffman.

  “I want to come with you,” answered Phaedra. “I’m tired of just sitting here. It’s eerie.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Hoff, lock the doors when we get out.”

  The two of them exited the SUV and walked across the small lot toward the store.

  There came three loud yelps, followed by a long, pained howl.

  “What the fuck?” grumbled Russo.

  “Coyote,” smiled Phaedra. “Alerting the rest of its group to its location.”

  “Hmmm,” he replied, as he tugged on the front door of the mart. It stuck at first but opened on the second attempt, after the click. They strode in and headed toward the refrigerated section across from the counter.

  “No shoes, no shirt, no service,” said the counterman, eyes on his phone.

  Russo did an about-face and stalked toward the counter, with Phaedra behind.

  “I got shoes on, partner; it’s where I keep my money.”

  “You are otherwise naked,” replied the shopkeeper, eyes now on the pair. “The lady may make a purchase. You need to wait outside.”

  “Technically,” said Russo, then standing right at the counter, “if I was to put on a shirt, I could make a purchase.”

  “Your genitals are exposed.”

  “The sign mentions shirts and shoes, bucko. You sell any of them goofy alien shirts? I could put one on.”

  “We don’t sell shirts. Or pants. Or alien anything. Now, if you don’t leave, I’ll be forced to phone the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Department, and they absolutely hate to be called out here in the middle of the night.”

  “Let me buy the food,” said Phaedra to Russo. “Go outside now.”

  “Our peeps came in here,” said Russo to the counterman, “but they never came back out. Where’d they go?”

  The shopkeeper dialed his phone.

  “Okay, chill out now,” said Russo. “I’m leaving. She’s buying. One thing, though; every single place we passed in this town has some kind of Martian or E.T. stuck to the building. How come you got nothing?”

  The tram ride through the tunnels was longer than they’d thought. They finally disembarked and proceeded to another elevator. Everyone got in, with the exception of Curly, the female driver. There were nine in all. Dr. Anderson, Professor Daniele, and the two guards stood facing their visitors as the lift ascended.

  Awkward silence.

  “The new world,” said the professor, adjusting his bow tie. “Everyone faces each other in elevators.”

  The door opened. They stepped out to find themselves at another door; a heavy steel contraption. The professor took a card from his coat pocket and swiped it through a reader on the wall, twice. The door rumbled open. Before them was a maze of hallways, branching out in all directions. It was all stunningly bright, albeit with no sign of people. Daniele tapped a button to close the door behind them.

  “Too sweet,” gasped Paul Bhong. “Area 51.”

  “No, Homey,” replied the professor.

  “Homey?” laughed Paul, putting his fist out to the professor for a bump.

  “I wasn’t referring to you as a homey, sir. That is the name of this place; Homey Airport.”

  “Doesn’t look much like an airport,” replied Paul, putting his fist away.

  V. Anderson winked at him, nodded, and silently mouthed the words Area 51.

  The steel door thundered as it closed behind them. Then came the squeak of Lawrence’s face shield. “Don’t tweet about this when you get home. We’ll be watching,” he said through a grimace that he passed off as a smile.

  Squeak. Visor down.

  The hallways were basically frozen. Frigid air blasted down from the vents overhead. Cash shivered. The cold brightness reminded her of when her Uncle Reg took her to an Islanders/Rangers hockey game when she was a little girl. The PBA tickets had them sitting just off the ice. She was chilled that night too, but her uncle bought her an official jersey, and she wrapped herself in it while munching popcorn. The jersey got her feeling warm, her uncle had her feeling safe. She tried to channel all of that as they approached yet another door, with red lettering.

  POST INCUBATION SPECIES IDENTIFICATION

  Professor Daniele grabbed the handle, and stared into Paul Bhong’s expanding eyes. He pulled it open.

  It was a cafeteria.

  “Never gets old!” laughed Daniele. “Wish I had a picture of your faces.”

  Phaedra walked toward the SUV, munching an apple. Russo got out of the vehicle and opened her door for her. She tossed a banana back to Hoffman.

  “I should march back in there and beat that dickhead’s ass,” huffed Russo. “Like my money’s no good for him.”

  “Come on now. He’s cool. He was born in Santa Monica and listens to punk.”

  “He told you where he was born?”

  “Yep. I asked. Doesn’t hurt to be friendly.”

  Russo tore open a bag of corn chips, popped some into his mouth, and turned the flashlight back on. The pickup remained in the same spot up the road. He turned the light toward the roadside, hoping to see coyotes. Up the closest hill among the cactus and yucca trees moved something larger. Looked like a woman with long, stringy hair. She wore a dirty and torn pink housedress. There appeared to be no purpose in her walk. She’d amble slowly one way then just change direction, only to return to her original path a moment later. Russo’s light beam was right on her, but she paid it no mind, as she continued up the hill in the darkness.

  The cafeteria was large but empty. Two workers in kitchen garb, a man and woman, toiled behind the counter. There were several long tables, all empty save for one. As Professor Daniele led the group toward the chosen meeting spot, the singular person awaiting them arose from her hardback luncheon chair.

  “Welcome. I am Dr. Papperello-Venito, from the White House.”

  They all shook hands
and exchanged pleasantries, and, once seated, the White House doctor spoke again.

  “Not to be curt, but time is, of course, a factor, so before you reveal your information to us, I understand you have certain requests—dependent, obviously, on the premise that your information is of value.”

  “Are we so insignificant that we must meet in the lunchroom?” asked Rob.

  “Hey now,” said V. Anderson, “you’re in Area 51, aren’t you?”

  Squeak.

  “Homey Airport,” interrupted Lawrence the guard, as he lowered his faceguard with another creak.

  “Rob,” added Cash, “if we were unimportant, the boss lady from Pennsylvania Avenue would not have come all this way.”

  “Maybe,” replied the doctor, “I just wanted to visit Vegas before we all go tits-up. Please just tell us what you want.”

  “There is something I want to say that is more important, just in case you think we are a bunch of idiots or scam artists,” said Cash. “We have lost people. I shot and killed the closest friend I’ve ever had because she was in the grips of this disease and was in the process of slaughtering me. Dr. Chuang?”

  “I became infected and ended the lives of my fiancée and his daughter.”

  John G added, “I was attacked by a stranger and had my life saved by other strangers, all while I was blind. Then, I was granted eyesight only to see the worst things I could imagine.”

  Rob cleared his throat. “I used to work with a guy called M.B. A master mechanic. Single father, a little older than me. He taught me a whole lot about engines, and even more about life. He opened up his own shop, in Pennsylvania, offered me a position, but I couldn’t leave New York; certainly wouldn’t leave Cash. M.B.’s daughter is an adorable little thing. She has challenges, bound to a wheelchair. She killed her father in their backyard.”

  The government employees turned toward Paul Bhong. “My mother spoke for me as well,” he said. “I’ve had canni experiences, but nothing to compare with my mom or my friends. Maybe you experts should talk.”

  V. Anderson reached across the table and put her hand on Cash’s. She then looked into the eyes of Dr. Chuang. “I have been in this seizure state more times than I’d like to remember. My brother, an American hero, died as a result of one. He died because of me.”

  She turned to her boss, Dr. Papperello-Venito. The supervisor responded, after a moment. “Well, we lost our vice president. He was a friend, but it is a loss for our entire country. We’ve lost Navy SEALs. I mourn the loss of Dr. Anderson’s brother, who worked tirelessly for the cause.”

  “My man, RA,” sighed Paul.

  “As for familial losses,” continued Dr. Papperello-Venito, “just a distant cousin. Hadn’t seen him in decades. He was a public works employee up in Minnesota. Operated a snowplow.”

  They turned to Professor Daniele.

  “Also a distant cousin,” he said, leveling his pink bow tie, “FBI agent. Done in by a serial killer. Unrelated to all of this but painful and tragic nonetheless.”

  Russo downed the final corn chip, and let the empty bag fall to the floor of the SUV. Phaedra had nodded off beside him, as had Hoffman in the back seat. The slow-walking woman in the hills had long moved on. He reached again for the flashlight and trained it on the desert.

  Nothing.

  Then, he moved it toward the white pickup. It was still there as the light hit it, only now it was moving. Not driving, just moving. Rocking in place. It was too far away for Russo to hear any sound. The rocking—hell, it was almost bouncing—had him thinking that maybe the two security officers within were fucking. It had crossed his mind to explore Phaedra in the Explorer, but he didn’t want Hoffman to be there for it.

  His mind raced about sex a bit more, until he came to the conclusion that one of the pickup’s occupants had flipped and was currently murdering the other. Seconds later, all movement ceased.

  “So, you want a private plane ride back to New York,” said Dr. Papperello-Venito, “get John back safely to Cali, find a secure, decent place to live for your tunnel friends. That’s it, right?”

  “I guess,” answered Cash, “though Rob did have his car stolen . . . ”

  “And I have a brave friend who is searching for his sister,” added John.

  “Done, done, and done,” replied the White House doctor. “If, and only if, your information is of any true value. We have all been through misery, and I have no doubt about your intentions. I respect that you brought a medical doctor with you and we are ready to hear you out. I must add, though, that your credibility has been diminished in my eyes, including your own, Dr. Chuang, because each and every one of you have responded to our invitation and entered our government facility stinking to the Milky Way and back of cannabis.”

  V. Anderson and Professor Daniele nodded in agreement. The three officials scanned the five visitors across the table as the two guards looked on. One by one, Cash, Rob, and their friends did proud the grins generated by both Cheshire Cat and the Joker of Gotham City.

  V dropped her Snickers bar on the table.

  “No fucking way,” she mouthed, almond nougat on her teeth.

  Squeak.

  Dr. Papperello-Venito turned to snap at the intrusive guard with the noisy face shield.

  There stood Lawrence, face contorted, eyes afire, dripping teeth bared.

  “Run!” screamed the second officer, Maurice, as he charged at his infected partner. Chairs toppled over as everyone bolted in all directions. Rob had Cash by the hand, heading for the kitchen. The two workers had already vanished. Paul took his mother in a different direction, north, with Doctors Anderson and Papperello-Venito not far behind. John G found himself heading toward the east doors with Professor Daniele. The canni lifted his partner and tossed him over the abandoned table, watching the others scatter like roaches in a light beam. The hungry attacker growled, searing eyes darting from runner to runner.

  The only one not fleeing was the fallen guard, just getting to his knees. The canni chose him and leaped over the table. Professor Daniele spotted this just as he and John reached the door. He paused. John grabbed him. “Professor, let’s go. I’m sure help is on the way.”

  “I . . . I . . . ” mumbled Daniele, aware that there was but a skeleton crew of security for this wing, at this hour. His body tensing, he grabbed John’s hand, “I hid in the clouded wrath of the crowd; when they said ‘sit down’, I stood up. That’s Bruce Springsteen.”

  “Cool, but Bruce also said Born to Run.”

  Daniele shoved John out the door, saying “Get out while you’re young.”

  Just before he ran toward the canni, Professor Daniele had one final decree,

  “Growin’ up.”

  John found himself alone in a hallway. He wasn’t sure where his friends were, after the scattering. Blasted with icy air and intense light from above, he slinked along knowing that some doors could be opened freely, but important ones, like exits, required a pass key.

  Where to hide in the kitchen? The first under-counter doors that Rob pulled open contained the two cooks, each doubled over and brandishing an enormous knife. He closed them and moved on with Cash’s arm in his grasp. His plan was to find a place for his girl and then go out and find John. They spotted another sub-counter pair of doors and opened them; nothing within except some pots. Working quietly, the pair transferred all of the cooking gear to the floor, hoping that a canni wouldn’t use deductive reasoning should it stumble across the lot, and thrashing noisily through the metal minefield could alert the hidden as to its location. Cash hunched in. Rob kissed her as he prepared to close the doors and hunt for John.

  “Don’t go,” was all she said.

  Rob knew exactly how tough his girl was; he’d seen it for years, but it had become more apparent in their current situation. Yet as she looked up at him from within the cabinet there was a pleading in her eyes. He truly loved John, but how could he leave Cash there, alone? He struggled to stuff his tall, broad-shouldered frame
in beside her. His body was a pretzel, but he was going to ride this out beside her. He convinced himself that John was probably safe somewhere with the others. He rationalized that there was probably some room containing a half-dozen people ready to defend each other, so it wouldn’t be prudent to leave Cash there on her own. He reached to pull the cabinet doors closed behind them.

  “Wait,” she whispered.

  She popped out quickly and grabbed a large jug of cooking oil, bringing it with her as she ducked back in and closed the doors.

  The stuffy, cramped janitorial closet housed five buckets, four mops, three brooms, and two Washington, D.C. doctors.

  “We should be okay,” whispered V. Anderson. “If he doesn’t stumble across us for fifteen minutes or so, he’ll likely revert back and pass out.”

  “If we don’t succumb to these bleach vapors first,” replied Dr. Papperello-Venito.

  “Shouldn’t a security team be here momentarily?”

  “The professor said it was a skeleton crew, but one would think . . . ”

  “I hope those kids are all okay,” answered V. “We signed up for this; they didn’t.”

  “They’re not actually kids. We have servicemen and women younger than they are.”

  “Yes, but signed up is again the key phrase.”

  Dr. Papperello-Venito produced a packet of tissues, handed one to her associate, and stuffed two rolled pieces into her nostrils. Muffled sounds could be heard outside in the distant halls. It was impossible to decipher them clearly.

  Adjusting her impromptu nasal filters with her left hand, Dr. Papperello-Venito placed her right on V. Anderson’s shoulder. “I want to tell you,” she whispered, “that your brother was a good man. You already know that, but I haven’t had the opportunity to offer you my thoughts.”