Canni

by Daniel O'Connor

  In private, he would tease staffers that he was, however, the first full-blooded African-American U.S. President. “No white in these veins,” he’d say laughingly. If made public, such a statement might be fodder for the Sunday talk show circuit, and even produce whispers of racism and impeachment, but it was, to his mind, simply a goddamned joke—something with which the American people may have lost touch.

  President Collins had the country on the right track. Unemployment was down, along with gas prices. Wall Street had been doing well, likewise the housing market. There had been relative peace as far as military involvement went. World leaders had taken a liking to him. He could sense that the great majority of Americans, regardless of political party, saw him as a wonderful young president, not just a wonderful young black president.

  He had also planned to be married in office, and in the White House; the first such wedding since President Cleveland’s in 1886. It was going to be a doozy.

  Then, all of this shit happened.

  He knew that there would always be those who hated the United States of America. No matter the president, the party in power, or the state of the world in general, there forever would be those who despised freedom, and were sworn to topple it.

  This, The Flyover, had been their most devastating attempt yet.

  “I want to tell you all something,” he said. “A few of you are already aware of this, but I want everyone in this room to know: yesterday afternoon, for almost forty-five minutes, Vice President Montgomery was the Acting President of the United States. I spent part of that time trying to kill and eat my security detail. The rest of that time was spent recovering and being cleaned up. I remember none of it, but I am still here, as are the Secret Service members who subdued me. I want to thank them and the vice president for a job well done. The point of all this is that these bastards who did this, they did it to all of us. Their attack has infiltrated the White House. We need to find them, and we need an antidote for what they created. There are no other options.”

  He looked over at his vice president, who returned his nod. Owen Walfred Montgomery had known the president since he was his history professor at Princeton. The veep was twenty-eight years older than his boss but found that the teaching dynamic was a fluid one, and he had received at least as much knowledge from his former student as he had instilled.

  They had many a private joke that could never be made public, such as when President Collins referred to him as “O.W.M.”, which was public knowledge, he wasn’t just referencing his initials. He was lovingly calling him “Old White Man”, which is precisely—though not in those terms—what the pundits proposed as a running mate for the young black hopeful. Always good to have someone who looks a lot like prior presidents standing beside anyone who might not fit the male, white, seasoned mold.

  Vice President Montgomery, on election night, told his boss that his dream was to see the day that we had our first gay president. The newly-elected commander-in-chief responded, “Have you seen those powdered wigs on our forefathers? Come on, dude.”

  That was the closeness of their relationship. It made for a smooth one-two punch atop the Executive Branch. There was no filtering. No time to fret about feelings.

  Make it happen.

  That was their mantra, and they each had a little sign on their desks that would remind them of those words every day.

  “Where do we stand medically?” asked President Collins to no one in particular. He took a long sip from the purple straw in his icy Baja Blast.

  “We’ve had an incident with two of our top researchers, Mr. President.”

  The words came from Dr. Papperello-Venito. There was no Taco Bell meal in front of her.

  “How so?” he asked.

  “The Andersons, from Dr. Robert’s barn. One is deceased, the other injured, but she will be back to work. She apparently had an episode and her brother is dead as a result.”

  “We can’t have this,” he responded. “We don’t want any deaths, but we certainly do not want our top people—those who might lead the way out of this—being lost. We have to protect these people, maybe keep them apart from each other in some way . . . ”

  “Sir, it was an off-duty situation.”

  “There can’t be an off-duty anymore. Everything we have built since 1776 is on the line. All of those who have given their lives for our country deserve for us to prevail.”

  “I would like to say, sir, that though the Andersons are—or were—a bit different, and maybe not my favorite people, they were working from home, on their own time, still going above and beyond for our country when he lost his life.”

  Another doctor dryly interrupted, “He was getting a calzone.”

  “They were taking a fucking lunch break,” snapped Papperello-Venito. “Is your 7 Layer Burrito any different, Gordon?”

  “Okay, settle down,” demanded the president. “Please see that Dr. Anderson is recognized for his sacrifice. Now I know we have a whole lot more than just a brother and sister team working on this. What else can you tell me?”

  “Some of the incidents are lasting longer,” she replied. “Some of our case studies have been experiencing episodes of longer duration.”

  “How long?”

  “Some have been nearly an hour,” she said.

  “God,” groaned the president.

  The guard dog barked, startling most of the room.

  “Everything okay?” asked President Collins of the canine-handler.

  “I believe so, sir,” came the reply from under the visor.

  “And, more importantly,” continued Dr. Pepperello-Venito, “one subject has remained in the cannibal state for twenty-one hours thus far, has not slept, and has not returned to normalcy as we speak.”

  The president exhaled. This may have been his deepest fear: the possibility of irreversible flipping. For a moment, the only sound came from the panting Malinois.

  “Listen people,” he said, “We’ve got citizens medicating themselves with sedatives and booze. And I mean folks who have not done this before. You can’t buy pepper spray anymore. All sold out. Half the time it doesn’t even work on these things. Doors are being locked from inside and out. The locksmith business is booming. Never mind just killing each other, the average Americans are having episodes and running blindly into traffic, or off cliffs, overpasses, or bridges. You want to talk about the economy? One of this morning’s financial papers went with the headline, YOUR STOCK BROKER ATE MY STOCK BROKER. I don’t know, is that funny?”

  “Terrible,” mumbled Vice President Montgomery.

  “You know those secret drug tunnels between the U.S. and Mexico?” continued President Collins, “People are now using them to sneak out of our country. Even with the borders closed both ways, don’t you just get the feeling that somehow, someway, this is going to eventually become a worldwide issue? I hope to God not, but we have to anticipate the worst.”

  “Still no signs that the infection is transmitted by contact, or any means other than the initial exposure from the flyover, sir,” reminded Dr. Papperello-Venito.

  “Good news is always welcomed, Doctor,” he answered, though sounding skeptical. He sipped his Baja Blast. “A new wrinkle,” he continued, “is that there has been quite an uptick on murders. People are trying to use this situation to kill whomever they’d apparently always wanted to off. They try and pass it off as self-defense against a cannibal attack. Of course forensics can determine if the murder victim had been in an altered state at the time of death, but we just don’t have the time or manpower to keep up. Hell, are you all aware of how many convicted criminals we have been putting back on the streets since this happened? We can’t keep two to a cell anymore. You think cellmates were killing each other before all of this? So, we have no room to keep them safe, and they are back on the streets. The tentacles of this attack are extending farther and deeper than we had imagined. Every aspect of our daily lives has been altered. If we do not resolve this matter quickly
and definitively, our country, our freedom, and our lives, are doomed.”

  The big guard dog let out a deep growl and took a few steps toward the far end of the mahogany table. His helmeted handler held him back. All attention was now on the Belgian Malinois. The president looked down toward those in the area of the dog’s interest.

  “Everyone feeling okay?” he asked.

  All nodded or smiled. He turned to the dog handler.

  “Does the animal sense that someone might be about to flip?”

  “Unknown, Mr. President. It is a possibility. Also it might just be the Taco Bell.”

  LAS VEGAS

  The morning sun always found its way into the tunnels. It wasn’t a monumental display of light by any means, but through various grates and manhole covers, tiny beams would dart down from the heavens and dance like the slimmest of spotlights, occasionally being blacked out by passing traffic, be it vehicular or foot.

  As Cash opened her eyes, one of these dancing beams landed on a pretty young woman who stood beside her bed, smiling.

  “Good morning,” she whispered, “I’m Phaedra.”

  Cash was slightly startled, and the first thing she did was look over at Rob. He was there, sitting up on his mattress, pillow propped against the wall behind him, but he was sound asleep.

  “He watched you for a good five hours before he nodded off,” said Phaedra in a hushed tone, “We should let him rest. I can show you to, for lack of a better term, our bathroom. You can also wash up and brush your teeth, Caroline.”

  Cash rubbed her eyes, “You know my name?”

  “Sure. You’re one of us now.”

  “I don’t think we really need to hold hands,” said Cash as Phaedra led her through an adjacent tunnel.

  “Of course,” responded the soft-spoken girl with the flowing red hair. She abandoned her grip on Cash’s cold hand, but her smile remained. Cash sized her up to be about her equal in age, but she was either unburdened by the fact that life had led her to the tunnels or she was one hell of an actress. Also evident to Cash was that this girl’s hair was shiny and clean, not matted with filth like many others below ground. She looked as though she could be a mermaid. Maybe one who had been on dry land for too long.

  “Most folks don’t even think to bring a toothbrush, but I’m happy you did, Caroline. We have unopened extras if you needed one, though.”

  “I have floss too.”

  “Super! So, I am going to show you our lavatory facilities. In other words—buckets.”

  Cash had figured that she and Rob would just find a way to use some casino restroom whenever required, but she hadn’t realized how long of a trek it could actually be to exit the tunnels and walk to civilization. She then fixated so much on the word buckets that she ignored whatever Phaedra said next. Additionally, the word buckets began to change shape in her mind so much that it began to appear almost as if it were not a word at all. Surely it wasn’t spelled the way she always had thought. It didn’t look right. “Blah blah blah BUCKETS blah blah blah BUCKETS blah blah,” seemed to be what Phaedra was saying.

  Cash needed to refocus.

  “Drugs, honey?” were the first words that brought her back.

  “What?”

  “Not to pry, but you seem spaced. Are you stoned, Caroline?”

  “No. No way. I don’t use drugs. Maybe a little weed, but that’s all.”

  “Oh, okay. Most folks are down here because of drugs. Some gambling, but mostly drugs. We don’t judge. Don Russo won’t stand for people who can’t contribute, though. The drugs can’t interfere with chores. That would crumble our society.”

  “Sorry, but what did you say your name was?”

  “Phaedra.”

  “So Phaedra, I am not even, like, awake yet. This is a lot to process, you know?”

  “I’m sorry. You’re right. Let’s just concentrate on the buckets.”

  Somewhere down the tunnels, a sound.

  It was there, then gone. Silent. Could have been some kind of engine, or even a deep voice, or growl. With the echoes and muffled noises of the city above, it was difficult to identify.

  “The thing about these tunnel sounds,” said Phaedra as they stopped, “is that it’s so hard to tell how close they are. I’ve been here for two years and I still can’t tell. Once upon a time, there was what sounded like a toilet flush and it seemed so far away, but then it was right on us.”

  “Toilet flush?”

  “Oh, sorry. Especially with me showing you about the buckets, and all the lavatory talk, I understand your confusion. Totally my fault. A ‘toilet flush’ is when a huge flood comes though and washes everything out: people, belongings, everything. Luckily we are usually prepared, and they don’t occur all that often. We are in the desert, after all. But when they happen, they totally, totally happen. I’ve seen people drown.”

  Cash’s fears of possible Cannis in the distance were replaced by the threat of a flash flood.

  “Shouldn’t we get out? I have to get Rob!”

  “Oh, no. That’s not a flush at all. Look at the light streams coming in. The sun is out and strong. No clouds mean no rain. No rain means no floods.”

  Cash’s thoughts returned to default mode: fear of Cannis.

  “We all do our share of cleaning the buckets, Caroline. Even Don Russo. We take turns bringing them out of the tunnels and washing them out. It’s tedious, distasteful, and the worst job, but it needs to be done. Others—meaning folks who are not part of our Artsy Bunker—just do their business in certain sections of the tunnels, creating a disgusting mess that draws all the worst vermin. It never gets cleaned out until there’s a flush.”

  “So, when there’s a flush, we have to deal with waves of floating waste?”

  “Oh, that’s the least of our worries if we are caught in a flush.”

  Cash was getting itchy. She could feel a skin-crawl coming on.

  “There is a way to get way less bucket duty,” said Phaedra, stroking her crimson locks. “I don’t do it much anymore.”

  “How’s that?” asked Cash, rubbing each arm with its opposite hand.

  “Well, Don Russo gives out the assignments, of course. He really enjoys handsome people, be they male or female. He always calls me the “fairest of the fair”. Says I’m the loveliest girl in our world. I’m sure that will change with you here, but that’s fine,” she smiled.

  “He bases assignments on physical appearance?”

  “Not entirely that.”

  “And, by the way, you are very pretty, Phaedra. I’m sure you’ll still be the fairest to him, if that matters to you.”

  “It shouldn’t, but it does. People would say I have daddy issues. Oh, follow me through this chamber; it leads to our shower—well, actually a long garden hose that we have attached to a spigot behind an abandoned warehouse up above. I hope they never get their water turned off!”

  They stepped through the in-wall opening, into the next tunnel, a smaller, narrow space.

  “So Russo is a father figure to you?” asked Cash.

  “Ha! Not at all. People blame daddy issues for a variety of things. I never knew my real father. According to my mother, he was a famous singer. I promised her I’d never tell anyone who he is. Or was. He’s dead now. Died out here near Vegas, but I never met him. I can’t say for sure if he’s my father, but supposubly he is.”

  “FiveFourThreeTwoOne,” yelled Cash, quickly, while counting on her fingers.

  “What the heck was that?” laughed Phaedra.

  “Nothing,” answered Cash, inhaling deeply. She rubbed her arms frenetically.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. It’s a tic. When someone says that word, or non-word, actually. I count back in time to before they said it.”

  “What word?”

  “I can’t say it.”

  “Supposubly?”

  “FiveFourThreeTwoOne. Motherfucker! Sorry, that just came out. But please don’t say it. It’s not even a word.”
/>   “Of course it’s a word, silly. I don’t even know what you mean, Caroline. You nutty girl.”

  “The word is supposedly. Listen: sup-pos-ED-ly. That’s the word, not the other one.”

  “Sup-pose-UB-ly.”

  “FiveFourThreeTwoOne. Please don’t try again. Let’s just move on.” Cash counted on her fingers, rubbed her arms, and took three deep breaths.

  “Anyway,” continued the redhead, “I don’t think of Don Russo as a father. He’s my lover. He enjoys making love to attractive people. I know he’ll want you immensely. If you become one of his lovers, your chores and assignments will be much easier. You’ll be one of his favored followers.”

  Cash stopped walking, but continued scratching and rubbing.

  “Phaedra,” she said, “show me how to clean the shit buckets.”

  Thump, thud, smack. Thump, thud, smack. Thump, thud, smack . . .

  In Rob’s nightmare, those were the sounds he endured as Cash was having sex with an unknown hooded man as he was forced to watch while tied to a chair behind a huge glass wall. As the coitus concluded, the man rolled up the bottom of his hood and took a large, bloody bite out of the back of Cash’s shoulder.

  Thump, thud, smack.

  Rob opened one eye as he awoke. Nothing moved but his eyeball.

  Thump, thud, smack.

  He was grateful that the sounds were not emanating from his nightmare scenario, yet he was not thrilled to discover their actual source.

  There was Don Russo, naked, leaning against a tunnel wall. He was throwing a small ball, on an angle, at the floor. It would then hit the far concrete wall and fly back into his meaty hand.

  Thump, thud, smack.

  Despite the unusual and potentially unnerving sight, Rob had other concerns.

  “Where is Cash?”

  “No worries,” said Russo. “She’s being shown around by a lovely young lady.”

  He continued to bounce the ball as Rob stood.

  “Can that ‘lovely young lady’ stop a canni attack?” asked Rob, dryly.