Canni

by Daniel O'Connor

  The VP’s words hung in the air with the boisterous cheers, many decibels above the ticking clock and the panting dog.

  President Collins leaned in closer, “I don’t feel worthy to be called their commander-in-chief. If I were on that raid, I’d be like a lost kitten compared to those men.”

  “George,” responded the vice president, pulling his younger friend closer, “your strength lies within having the fortitude to make the calls. You have to face the American people when things go wrong. I’ve watched you telephone and personally visit the newly-widowed. You are the commander-in-chief, and the men and women of our military honor and respect that fact. Vince Lombardi wasn’t much of a football player. He certainly wasn’t going to run the sweep for the Packers. But the Super Bowl trophy bears his name. The team takes their strength from their leader. You exude that strength. You must never doubt that. If you waver, so will the team.”

  “I won’t,” he answered. “They are just so monumentally impressive that I have my ‘fanboy’ moments. I can always count on you for a good slap in the face. Even with my history papers at Princeton.”

  “Well, I just remember your blank stare when I asked you to name the U.S. Presidents who were members of the Whig Party.”

  The president grinned. He patted his second-in-command on the back. The cheering began to subside with a collection of hugs.

  Then came a transmission from one of the Black Hawks.

  “Security issue on Vesey Two helo.”

  The room went still.

  The deep grunts and muffled thuds of a struggle blasted through the transmitter.

  “Do we have video on the chopper?” asked the president.

  “Working on it, sir.”

  “We have a canni situation on Vesey Two,” stated the helicopter pilot, calmly and clearly.

  The conflict grew louder.

  “Almost have video.”

  “Possibly more than one infected threat,” offered the pilot.

  The noises coming from the chopper seemed more concerning than the placid tones of the pilot’s voice would indicate.

  “Video now.”

  The shaky and grainy image showed two helmeted SEALs bounding wildly about the chopper’s cramped interior. At least five other members of their team tried to subdue them. The only passenger strapped into a seat was the one prisoner they carried aboard Vesey Two. He wore no helmet and his eyes were wide. He screamed something in his native tongue. The only other words came from the pilot.

  “Vesey Two requesting permission to land. Situation red.”

  “If you need to, do it.” came the response, “Be fast, because they will be on your ass.”

  “They are not the prime concern at the moment, sir.”

  The president turned to one of his military advisors. “Shouldn’t they have all been belted into their seats? How can we have a couple of infected SEALs tearing up that chopper?”

  “Sir, I can only assume that they flipped before they strapped in. Once they are onboard in a situation like this, they secure any prisoners, then themselves, but they will lift off before they are all seated. Time is an issue in a mission like this.”

  “But two of them becoming that way simultaneously?”

  “I have no answer for that, Mr. President.”

  “Sir,” added another official, “it might just be a function of probability. If these events are increasing in number and/or frequency, the lone attacker at any given location might soon be the exception, rather than the general rule.”

  Those words fluttered in the air of the Situation Room as the helo did the same above the desert. The transmitted image from Vesey Two was dark and pixelated.

  “Non-lethal force!” was the garbled message.

  President Collins spoke again to the staff in the room. “Maybe the stress level of a mission like this can trigger the infection. I assume we are looking into that.”

  “Of course, sir. But to SEALs, this is like our grocery shopping. At home, they are people; on missions, they are machines.”

  “Non-lethal!”

  “Get him outta the fucking cockpit!”

  The image went black. Transmissions ceased.

  Nothing for nearly forty seconds, then:

  “This is Vesey One. Vesey Two is down. Crashed. Rescue/recovery to commence.”

  The three other Black Hawks headed toward the crash site. Video from one of them appeared on the White House monitors. The sandy terrain was a mass of fire and black smoke, helo pieces strewn everywhere.

  The only sounds now were the ticking clock and the panting dog.

  Two hours later, long after a particularly thirsty canine was awarded a cold bowl of water and a hefty can of food, the president and vice president entered the Oval Office. Already within were two helmeted guards along with a man and woman in blue janitorial gear. The man, a middle-aged fellow with rough, dark skin—apart from a large, pink burn scar on his right cheek—emptied a trash can into a wheeled bin. He blinked a lot. The female was a blonde, no older than twenty-three. She ran a vacuum across the thick oval rug. It sucked up any lint that tainted the plush presidential seal. She shut her Hoover off when Collins and Montgomery entered. The older fellow went right on with his cleaning duties, but she froze, staring at the world’s most powerful man and barely noticing his second-in-command.

  “Let’s go,” said one of the guards, as he pointed the cleaners toward the door. “My apologies, sirs. We did not expect you at this time.”

  The young woman unplugged the vac, not bothering to roll up the cord as she moved as fast as she could. She knocked over the upright, whispering under her breath as she retrieved it. She then nearly jogged out of the room, dragging the machine behind her. She did manage to smile at President Collins; maybe even batted an eyelash.

  The older janitor never even glanced at the two dignitaries. He casually returned the small trash can to its place beside the most important desk in the free world, got behind his rolling dumpster, and pushed it slowly toward the exit, blinking and grimacing along the way. He quietly whistled something. The president, his mind racing with other things, still picked up on the melody as something from his childhood but couldn’t pinpoint it. Under different circumstances he’d have asked the custodian right then, but it wasn’t the right time.

  The female porter stood outside the office, waiting for her slow-footed partner. She was still smiling.

  When both were finally beyond the room, they encountered a third member of the cleaning crew, also wheeling a trash bin. An officer began to close the heavy white door.

  “You guys too,” said the president to his protector.

  “But, sir . . . ”

  “If you hear a racket, come in and do what’s necessary. But for now, outside, please.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They left. Collins and Montgomery were the only people in the room. They sat down, not at the desk, but on two cream-colored couches that faced each other across a small coffee table. The table sat beneath a large bowl of fresh fruit. The president grabbed an apple and tossed it to his friend. He then took one for himself.

  “When Cannis take down our SEALs, we are in big fucking trouble, Owen,” said the president.

  “George, the SEALs could’ve handled it, but they chose not to kill their infected brothers. They tried to subdue instead of eliminate. Fatal error.”

  “They’re human.”

  “Ten of our best, gone just like that.”

  “Not to mention the loss of a captive who could’ve been an enormous asset in getting to the bottom of this shit. Whoever concocted this pathogen, or whatever it is, might know how to reverse its effects or even just minimize them.”

  “Well, as you heard, the thinking is that our mission did not get any major players, but maybe we grabbed someone who can send us in the right direction.”

  “Time is of the essence and our SEALs just took a major hit,” replied the president.

  “Our guys will do their best
to get the right info.”

  “I know.”

  “George, I am fully aware that you are opposed to enhanced interrogation . . . ”

  “You can say torture, Owen.”

  “Whichever, you might want to think about adjusting your displeasure barometer in a case like this.”

  President Collins rolled the apple around in his palm, peeling off a dangling piece of red skin.

  “You’ve been my educator and my friend for decades, Mr. Vice President,” he said, “But even you have no answers as to why we are despised by so many.”

  “Well, I don’t claim to have all the answers,” he replied, “but, I always have the obvious ones. Here in our land, we strive to treat women as equals, we have progressed in the understanding that skin color is the most insignificant difference imaginable, and we have recognized that marriage between two consenting adults is a right to all. Most of those who hate us, also hate all of the above. I don’t mind being despised in the company of all of that.”

  “Looks like we’ll be hated for a long time, no matter how we explain ourselves.”

  “For certain. You know, if these people who wish to vanquish us ever become infected themselves, they will quickly discover that your flesh, though slightly overcooked, and mine, horribly under-done, the meat of my Ellen, and your Madison, and that of my straight son and my gay son, all taste exactly the same.”

  “Truer words never spoken.”

  “And the world will witness your White House nuptials. You tell Madison not to worry. That wedding will happen. It’s just been delayed. And my grandson will be the ring bearer. He’s been practicing already.”

  “I believe you, Owen. How is that little tornado of a boy?”

  “My Gregory. He’s just amazing. Killing it in first grade. I will be taking him to his first baseball game come summer, God willing. He’s a Nationals fan. I tried to get him over to the Phillies, but his dad won’t have any of that. I think the team wants me to throw the first pitch, but I’m gonna require that Gregory be right beside me.”

  “Well, I know you’ll toss a better fastball than I did.”

  “George, I think Gregory can throw a better ball than you.”

  LAS VEGAS

  When Cash awoke the following morning not much had changed. There was Rob, half-seated in his bed, sound asleep. She had noticed him sitting there and watching her as she tossed before dawn, but she was too exhausted to argue over the same issue again. Now the tiny spotlights of sun squeezed their way through any crack, vent, or crevice and shimmered through the darkness of the Las Vegas tunnels. On her way to wash up she ran into Paul, who had been coming to check on her and Rob. She explained that Rob was still sleeping and that their schedules were screwed because of how he guarded her at night. She learned that Russo had requested a favor from Paul; that he go on a “junkyard run”. The purpose was to obtain various parts, vehicle batteries and the like, that could be of use to the community.

  Paul asked Cash to go with him.

  If she thought about it for too long, she would have likely refused, but she wanted some time out of the tunnels. Rob was out cold, and the trip represented a bit of freedom to her. Mainly, Cash wanted to see daylight. She told Phaedra and some others to tell Rob where she went.

  Paul’s helmet didn’t fit her perfectly, but she still felt safer with it on, and she was grateful that he was kind enough to go without head gear so that she might wear it. Blasting through the sunny Las Vegas streets had her temporarily forgetting all the bad in the world. They were headed not to the junkyard but to Paul Bhong’s apartment. He’d told Cash that he couldn’t carry all of the parts Russo wanted within the limited storage of his Harley. He’d have to borrow his buddy’s car which was at his apartment complex. Somewhere not far from the M Resort and Casino, they passed another bike that was flat on its side in the middle of the parkway. No rider. It was a reminder that Cash didn’t need. She knew that should she or Paul flip while riding, disaster would follow. Still, she was having a large case of the “fuck its”, and the warm, dry breeze felt wonderful. She also noticed that, with her arms around his waist, Paul’s midsection was hard and taut; more so than she’d imagined.

  And she had imagined.

  Cash had never been on a motorcycle before. She’d been too afraid, much like her thoughts about flying. But she enjoyed sitting atop the roaring Harley. It made her feel free.

  They stood outside Paul’s apartment.

  “Give me just one second,” he said as he entered, leaving the door open a crack and Cash standing behind it.

  She heard Paul’s footsteps scurry across the floor behind the door. There were some squeaking noises, perhaps metal-on-metal. Something sounded like a coiled spring, then some muffled thuds. More footsteps and Paul was back, opening the door.

  He hadn’t lied when he told Rob and Cash that he lived in a tiny dwelling. It was basically a studio, with a small bathroom off to the side. Kitchen appliances were against one wall, with a sofa, one chair, and a desk with a decent-sized computer monitor atop it on the other side of the room. No traditional television or stereo system. Everything was based around the desktop.

  “Well, now you see why I couldn’t offer my home to you guys,” he smiled. “We’d have killed each other. Even before the canni epidemic.”

  Cash laughed. The air-conditioning felt nice, too.

  “Please have a seat,” he said, pointing to the couch.

  “Is this where you sleep?”

  “Yeah. It’s a fold-out. I closed it up while you waited outside. Tried to be gentlemanly and all.”

  Point scored.

  Cash looked at the bathroom.

  “I would kill to take a shower.”

  “Oh, uh, um . . . sure. Let me check for shampoo and body wash. There are clean towels. I have a hair dryer . . . ”

  “All good, Paul,” she smiled. “Anything will be better than a garden hose in a sewer. I brought my toothbrush too.”

  “Oh, okay. Let me show you how to work—what am I saying, you know how to work a shower.”

  She could sense that the normally confident and cool Mr. Bhong was not quite as slick when alone with one female.

  “I will go and borrow the car while you shower. I’ll be back in like five minutes.”

  “I’ll be showering for longer than that.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I mean, I live in a subterranean tunnel, dude.”

  “Sure, Carrie. Shower for as long as you like. I have some online stuff to do too.”

  She heard the apartment door close just as she turned on the water. It took a few minutes to warm up, so she used that time to brush her teeth. It was probably the most dimly lit bathroom she’d ever occupied. There were three vanity bulbs above the sink, but two were burned out.

  Typical single dude.

  Stepping into the shower, the hot flow from overhead felt wonderful. The lock on the bathroom door didn’t work, but she got it to stay closed, and she didn’t expect Paul to burst through and jump into the shower with her.

  It may have briefly crossed her mind, but she didn’t expect it.

  As she lathered up, Cash thought about how she’d one day love to have one of those fancy showers with four or five nozzles blasting her with water from all directions. She loved being clean, and that would be the epitome of a good wash.

  It was kind of sexy, too.

  She never felt better or more alive than when in a steamy, soapy shower. Her brain told her that had to change. She had to appreciate life and take everything she could from it. There were too many fears, too many hang-ups. But they were difficult to overcome. Worse so since what happened with Teresa. Maybe this new world with the specter of sudden and immediate death being a constant would show her how to live, no matter how many days remained in her coffer.

  As she rinsed some scented soap out of her eyes, she noticed that the dim bathroom seemed to have brightened. She pulled aside a section of the blue plastic curtain.r />
  The new illumination was coming through from the main room.

  The door was opening.

  “Paul?” she asked, as anxiety clashed with arousal.

  No reply.

  The door inched open a bit more. She could see the invading light; it shone upon her clothes and underwear, which were neatly stacked upon the closed toilet lid, but there was no shadow within.

  “Paul?”

  Silence.

  “Okay, very funny. Slasher film garbage. You got me, okay?” she added.

  The door stopped moving. No sounds came from the other room. She turned off the shower water.

  Then the only sound came from the droplets that plopped behind her.

  “Warning: if that’s you, I am gonna be pissed.”

  Then an entirely different thought came through.

  What if it isn’t Paul?

  She studied the small room for a weapon. Could she pull the towel rod off the wall? Would it be worth it? The heavy lid over the toilet tank—that’s the one.

  Cash grabbed the big bath towel and secured it around her wet body.

  After a bit of hesitation, she quietly emerged from the bathroom. She saw no one at first. It’s not like there were many hiding places in the tiny apartment, and there was one comforting thought:

  Cannis don’t hide.

  There was one spot where the wall ducked in, over by the kitchen area. It was the only place anyone could be where she couldn’t see them. She moved toward it, water running down her legs, beneath the towel, and onto the tiled floor. She held the off-white slab of thick, toilet porcelain with both hands. It was cold and damp. Her hands were shaking.

  The entry door flew open.

  There stood Paul, car keys in hand.

  “Whoa! What the fuck, Carrie?”

  He took a half-step back behind the door.

  “Thank God,” she said, lowering the toilet lid.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah. The bathroom door opened and I . . . ”

  “Damn. It always does that. I live alone, so I really . . . ”

  He walked over to take the lid from her hands. He stood right in front of her. Her in that towel, wearing no makeup, and her wet hair. It may have had almost the same effect on Paul that it had on Rob. Almost. As he took the lid, his pinky grazed hers. Her eyes glanced up at his. Beads of water slid down like teardrops from her bare shoulders to the towel that covered her from chest to thighs.