Toe Popper

by Jonny Tangerine

  But the dog wasn’t thinking of that now. His mind was busy cataloging smells. And he’d found one he couldn’t place - something strange, just under the surface. He began to dig.

  “Karl!” the voice, as always, urging him along.

  The dog glanced back. The bald man was chewing on a carrot stick, like it was one of his old beloved stogies.

  “Karl!” The dog ignored the man, he wanted to find this strange smelling thing. His paws unearthed the top. He licked it. Plastic. Not so interesting, but the strong smell inside…definitely something. Maybe sweet, maybe dangerous. “Karl!” Karl was tempted to bring the sweet plastic thing to the bald man, but then he remembered that the man usually yelled at him when he brought him gifts, the most recent being the delicious dead sea gull.

  Karl left the plastic thing in its hole, ran back to his master, the motion of his hind legs casting a thin cover of sand back on the device. He didn’t like the bald man that much, but he was a generous owner and never seemed to mind getting up early. The bald man loved his golden retriever, although he would often exploit him for the amusement of his friends. Saying

  “Yeah, Karl Marx isn’t my bitch, but he sure is neutered.”

  WEST COVINA, CA – 5:27 AM

  Lane crouched in the back of the FBI assault van. Agent Blake, in full gear, was beside him. Chewing gum. One of the hostage extraction members was absent due to a broken tibia suffered during off-duty motocross and Blake had volunteered to fill his spot. Lane was going in behind the front door team - six hostage rescue trained FBI special agents. He was supposed to look for booby traps. His cell phone was turned off inside the cargo pocket of his fatigues. He had a walkie-talkie with headset earpiece and microphone. Two men were assigned to take care of the mother and the other four were to secure Jenkins. The six man team coming in the backdoor were redundant - in case something went wrong with the front door team, or if they happened to encounter the targets first. Thirteen heavily armed men would soon be inside the small two story house. They would be watched over by four sharp-shooters using .380 caliber sniper rifles with bipods, covering the unscreened windows on the front and back. In addition, they were backed-up by ten regular special agents and eight sheriff units that would block traffic and provide a closed perimeter if necessary. Lane wondered if they would encounter dogs, and if so, what the plan for dealing with them was, no one had mentioned it in the briefing.

  Catherine and Zimmerman were in the unmarked Suburban behind Lane’s van. Catherine surveyed the silent street. They had beaten even the paperboy. With his radio earpiece, Lane heard Catherine tell the team. “Ladies and gentlemen. Greenlight. Greenlight.”

  The team was in the house in under three seconds. A blur going up the stairs. Lane glanced around the living room. There was a fifty-pound bag of Ozimandias cat litter leaning against the wall near the door. The coffee table in front of the couch held seven dishes of cat food - a name professionally stenciled on each one: Millionaire, Jeopardy, Wheel, Password, Feud, Greed, and Whammy. Trevor’s mom named her cats after game shows. Matchgame’s empty bowl was in the dish drainer in the kitchen, he’d recently passed-away.

  * * *

  Trevor sat on the toilet; constipated from the stolen light beer. To help himself along he thumbed a healthy dip of Copenhagen into the swollen well below his bottom teeth.

  The bathroom door was securely locked. He couldn’t trust his mom for a second.

  He’d forgotten to bring his own reading material so he was forced to page through a two month old Guideposts. He flipped past the article about a Christian family photographer in Appleton, Wisconsin, and the one about a Christian scientist who worked on the human genome project. He settled on the story about the Christian place kicker who played for the Miami Dolphins.

  Trevor moved his testicles aside and spit Cope down through his legs. And then he heard a crash downstairs and his mom scream. What the hell was it now?

  * * *

  When Lane reached the upstairs, he saw that four of the team members had Trevor Jenkins pinned face down on the floor of the hallway. He was wriggling like a gaft fish on the deck. “Get out of my room! Get out of my room!” Screaming like a tantruming child, his pants around his ankles.

  There was a deadbolt lock on his bedroom door, and a stolen “no trespassing sign”, but due to his trip to the bathroom, the door was wide open when the FBI arrived. Lane could hear a woman screaming curses from a bedroom at the end of the hall. He walked into Trevor’s room. A poster of a Budweiser swimming suit model, the tag-line in Spanish, hung above the bed – Christmas lights strung haphazardly around the edge. Beside this was a smaller poster of J. Edgar Hoover wearing a dress and a tattered pornographic centerfold that Trevor had brought home from prison. A small bookcase beside the bed contained several true crime novels, and a collection of Loompanics books - Manstopper, Kitchen Sink Explosives, Full Auto, and SS Interrogation Methods. A chrome .44 Magnum with laser scope was on the edge of the bed next to Trevor’s pillow. Directly across from the bed was a door full of knives. Trevor had purchased a 128 piece knife set on QVC and used the closet door to practice his knife throwing. It was an astonishing array – bowies, butterflies, Ka Bars, lockbacks, Ghurkas, skinners…

  Blake strode in from the hallway.

  “Anything?”

  Lane shook his head. He leaned down and lifted the edge of the bedspread.

  A calico cat sprang out from under the bed, ran past Lane’s boots and into the closet door Blake had just opened. Inside the closet Blake saw the rack of Chinese assault rifles and said. “Jackpot!” He pulled the cord for the light switch.

  Several months ago, for extra security, Trevor had removed the light bulb from the closet and carefully drilled a small hole in the glass. Through this hole he had poured several inches of black powder. He had then filled the remaining space with buckshot and closed the hole with model glue. As a precaution, he had gone to the basement and removed the fuse to his room before re-inserting the bulb in the closet socket. When the cord was pulled, the activated filament ignited the mix and blew off the northern hemisphere of Agent Blake’s skull.

  Lane turned and saw Blake pull the cord. There was a flash – the blast wave snapped Lane’s head back and turned off his brain before he even hit the floor.

  VENICE BEACH – 8:57 AM

  Napolion was running on Vivarin. Vivarin was a little more expensive, but the No Doz made him too jittery, he’d experimented. He hadn’t gotten home until 6:30 and he still hadn’t slept. But getting to the beach before 9:00 was the only way to get a parking spot in the summer. And with his kids, Troy and Helen, a good spot was more important than anything. The engine of his 78 Accord was burning oil, but for $600 he wasn’t complaining. Not having a car payment weighing down his nut made him able to afford the nine dollar beach parking.

  The kids were already amped . All their sand toys out. Swimming trunks on. Up and ready to go an hour after he got home. They’d been going bonkers in the car the whole way. He sparked a Parliament. With the kids he wouldn’t be able to sleep on the beach, but at least he could lie down. Stretch out on his Barney beach towel, his Shuggie Otis tape in the portable to keep his mood up.

  As he unloaded the hatchback he watched a Philippino family of four troop by – heavily loaded down with umbrella, cooler with wheels, six towels, two toy buckets, a rake, a castle shaped bucket, sifter, three shovels, rock crusher with spinning wheel, food bags, back packs, sun hats, wiffle ball and bat, and a hibachi. Napolion had strict rules about beach paraphernalia: one towel, one bucket, one shovel each. And sun screen for the kids in a bottle shaped like a tortoise. And the portable, and his Lakers visor, but that was it.

  Helen started to cry. She’d already stubbed one of her toes dancing in place.

  Napolion bent down to inspect the damage and heard a deep muffled thump, like a fireworks mortar. And then a scream that drained his adrenal gland.

  He looked over the Accord and saw the whole Philippino f
amily down in the sand. Bleeding. Scattered potato chips, sand toys and hot dog buns. The dad gasping, his hand on his spouting chest. The mother holding what used to be her knee. The children lying still in the sun, not moving.

  Napolion said, “Kids, back in the car. Now.” But it was an unnecessary command. They were already there.

  PEPPERDINE UNIVERSITY 9:15 A.M.

  Grover looked over the make-up exam again and felt a squirrelly fear in his stomach that seemed to flutter all the way down to his tightening scrotum. Homoscedasticity? His HP calculator (which was the only outside aid allowed) definitely did not have a function button for that.

  At the front of the room the Professor sat behind the desk, savagely grading the original exams - audibly sighing as his squeaky felt pen went to work. With an acute hangover thumping in his temples, Grover could actually smell the red ink. Why didn’t he study with Connie? He had three hours, no, less than that now. Fuck. The clock ticked on the wall. The room felt close, nervous sweat appeared in the small of his back. Fuck. Why did they even teach this class? Fuck.

  Regression analysis on his headache was much simpler; it all came down to two words – “if only.” If only he hadn’t looked under his bed. No, that wasn’t it, if only he hadn’t started playing Montezuma’s Revenge again. After accidentally retreating into the moat of Teotihuacan his powder had gotten wet. And the Aztec Demon had mercilessly beheaded him with an obsidian axe. Grover had invested over five and a half hours in that game and it was all for nothing. After his ignominious defeat, he’d looked under the bed for his Goldschlager, telling himself he’d just have a quick shot to clear his head and then really get studying. But instead of the Goldschlager (Todd had most likely pilfered it days earlier) he found a horrible biology experiment – i.e. his favorite Birkenstocks had been engulfed by furry, blue-green mildew. For the past two weeks, while he’d been wearing his Tevas non-stop, something had come alive in the dank darkness beneath his bed and reproduced itself endlessly in his cork sole. Horrified, Grover had picked the fuzzy sandals up with his fingertips and thrown them out the window.

  Then, too freaked out and distracted to study the old problem sets, Grover decided to stop by the Werewolf party. On his way there he began to fantasize about the Lithuanian exchange student, but when he arrived he discovered she’d already left for the beach with somebody else. Remorseful, he drank a little more than he was planning. Four Werewolves in twenty minutes made him a slightly unsteady, so he’d switched to beer. And then somehow, around 1 AM, he found himself banging on Connie’s door, simultaneously yelling and begging for hints to the final. But there was no answer….and he’d ultimately staggered back to his room and passed out in his bed. Fortunately he awoke with vomit in his mouth at 8, or he would never have made it to the make-up.

  Grover read over the assumptions again. And the hint. Maybe he could figure it out…maybe he should change majors again. Could nuclear physics be any harder than this?

  In his very first semester, Grover had taken an introductory psychology class. The professor had made them watch a movie that showed how pigeons (using conditioning) could be taught to differentiate between Monets and Picassos and then, with just a little more stimulation, between generic impressionists and cubists. Grover was pretty sure a pigeon could pass an Art History class, but he doubted they could get through econometrics. And now he felt like an albino rat trapped in a Skinner experiment. Pain. Everywhere he looked. And all he could think about was escape.

  USC MEDICAL CENTER – 6:00 P.M.

  Lane knew he was awake, but he couldn’t see. He was in total darkness. As his senses came back to him he moved his head slightly. A ripple of nausea. He felt with his hands, found steel rails on each side. A hospital bed. Moved his hands up to his face, bandaged, but no tubes in his arms, a good sign. He was no longer in his own clothes, and his boots were missing. He flexed his toes. He began to sense light seeping through the edge of whatever covered his eyes. Another good sign.

  He moved is head off the pillow and the ripple of nausea turned into a wave. His face was hot under the bandages. A voice said, “How are you feeling, Major?”

  It came back to him – Blake in the closet…reaching for the light switch…

  He didn’t answer. He felt hands on his hands. And then, farther away, “He’s awake.”

  Anti-septic smelling fingers unwrapped the bandages around his head. “This might feel a little bright at first. Open your eyes slowly…”

  Joel opened his eyes. His eyeballs felt gritty – scraping against the inside lids. The light was painful. Blurry. His vision cleared and came to focus on Catherine Mills, framed in the doorway.

  An obviously smart woman with a Ukrainian accent leaned over him and inspected his eyeballs. She looked about twenty. “Hello, Mr. Lane. I’m Doctor Irina.” She placed a fresh band-aid over his eyebrow. “Your corneas have first degree burns from the explosion. And you’ve suffered a grade 3 concussion.”

  Lane squinted at Catherine. She looked exhausted, purple circles under her eyes. Her face expressionless. “Blake?” She shook her head. “What was it?”

  Catherine glanced at Dr. Irina. “We’ll talk.”

  “Did you find any mines?”

  “No, but he’s got enough state weapons violations to go away for 100 years, even before the murder of a Federal officer.”

  Lane winced. “Where am I?” He touched his cheek and discovered another butterfly band-aid.

  Dr. Irina picked up a clipboard from the end of the bed. “USC Trauma Center. You’ve been out a long time. I think your body needed sleep.”

  Lane sat up and rubbed his neck. He wondered what kind of tests they’d run on his blood. “Do I have to stay here?”

  Dr. Irina wrote something on the clipboard. “As long as you’re not alone, it’s okay to be discharged.”

  Catherine spoke up. “I’ll look after him.”

  The three of them exchanged looks. A strange energy in the room. With a slightly crooked smile Irina said. “OK then, I’ll have the nurse sign you out.”

  “Are you Ukrainian?” Lane asked, guessing at her accent.

  “Israeli.”

  “Of course,” Lane said. And then in Hebrew, “Torah.” Thank you.

  LEXUS COACH EDITION – 6:30 P.M.

  Lane looked at the dash clock. He was having trouble computing hours in his mind. As Catherine peeled away from the USC parking circle he felt like he could feel his brain sloshing backwards in his skull. The hospital gave Lane a pair of goggle-ish wrap around sunglasses, but he continued to keep his eyes closed as Catherine talked. It seemed to help his dizziness. When he peeked, the streets were tinted green. The smell of Eucalyptus coming through the vents. And after he put his hands on the dash after a hard stop, Catherine seemed to ease her Formula One driving back a little for him.

  Major Joel Lane was wearing scrubs. The pants were too long, so he had stuffed them into the tops of his combat boots. Before he was discharged someone had given him a plastic bag filled with his fatigues, but he discovered the hospital staff had cut them off with scissors when he was admitted to the trauma center, so they were only good for rags now. He didn’t know what happened to his Eddie Bauer underwear, they were missing in action. Lane had checked the pants pockets and was happy to discover his Altoids tin and wallet were still there. He wondered again if his opiate abuse had been detected at the hospital. He had a puncture wound in his arm, and another one, twice as painful, on the back of his hand, but he figured they must have been for hydration iv’s. And Doctor Irina hadn’t hesitated sending him home with an envelope of Dilaudid and a prescription for fifteen more.

  Catherine took a hard left and said, “So you were right. They mined the beaches. Twenty-two dead. Fifty-three serious injuries – all civilian except two lifeguards. There’s a dozen at USC, thirty at UCLA, the rest down south.”

  Lane absorbed the news. It had finally happened. The mines had returned home. Like pollution coming back through the jet stream
.

  Catherine continued, “They were spread over forty miles of beach. Huntington to Malibu. Seemed to activate simultaneously. Limbs lost. It’s a nightmare. The governor has closed every beach in the state and mobilized the National Guard.”

  “Shouldn’t you be doing something besides driving me around?” Lane asked.

  “Actually I have a lot of time. I’ve been relieved of duty. Temporarily.”

  “Because of Blake?”

  “Because of Blake. Do you remember what happened?”

  “He pulled the light switch.”

  “It was filled with gunpowder.”

  “Not just gunpowder. Buckshot maybe.”

  “Something like that.” She handed him his cellphone. It was undamaged. “I recharged your phone. And you might need this.” She pulled his holstered firearm out from under the seat. “The vest is in the trunk if you want it.”