Canni

by Daniel O'Connor

  He embraced her snugly, the throbbing of his wrapped finger stumps echoing his heartbeat as Russo’s naked ass trudged out into the black night.

  Within four seconds, Don was banging on the door. Huballa clicked him back in.

  “They’re all gone,” said Russo, through a blank stare. “I don’t see nobody. Phaedra, Hoffman, none of ‘em.”

  “Are the cars still there?” asked Rob.

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, let’s go check it out.”

  Rob looked to Huballa and Curly, as they were armed.

  “We have to stay here,” said Curly. “Our job is to protect people on the property. You are all welcome to remain.”

  Rob looked over at Paul and John. They got the message: they were going outside with him and Russo.

  “You stay here with the doctors,” said Rob to Cash.

  “Screw that,” she replied. “All for one.”

  Anita Chuang stood from her spot on the tiles. “I’m going out with my son.”

  Dr. Anderson, also plopped on the floor, leaned into Dr. Papperello-Venito, “That large naked fellow did participate in saving our lives.”

  “By roasting some pot?”

  “Yeah. That roasted pot is the reason we aren’t two piles of bones, doc.”

  “All right,” groaned the White House M.D. as she wobbled to her feet.

  “Doctors,” said Huballa, “we are responsible for your safety. I need to ask you to stay inside. Well, actually just the two of you,” he added, pointing at the government employees, and excluding Dr. Anita Chuang.

  Anita smiled at her son and his friends. “Looks like we are the real Expendables!”

  “We are all going out,” said V to Huballa. “You and your guns should really come too.”

  “Not our decision,” said Curly. “Rules and procedures.”

  The poor man’s Expendables filed out the front door.

  “We’ll be right here,” yelled Huballa, as he and Curly stood by the entrance, just behind the glass. “Come running if you have to.”

  The first thing Rob noticed was that the driver’s side window of the Explorer—where Phaedra and Hoffman had been—was a shattered mess. The group approached it together. The night was so still that they could hear each other’s respirations. The SUV was empty, but Russo spotted the flashlight on the ground beside it. He retrieved it and shone it toward the Cammo Dudes’ white pickup, the one that had been bouncing fiercely not long before.

  Both passenger side doors were open.

  “Well, toss my fuckin’ salad,” sighed Russo.

  “What is it?” asked Paul.

  “I think one of them Cammo Dudes turned Canni Dude in that truck, unless they were just fucking. He might’ve come out. Not ‘come out’ as in ‘gay’, but in actually exiting the truck.”

  Paul and Rob exchanged a glance.

  “Let’s check the other vehicles,” suggested Rob.

  Russo directed the light at Quinn’s pickup. Empty. They moved on to the first, and smaller, of the two vans. Rob went around, intending to open the rear doors.

  “Hold on,” said Russo, as he walked over and shone his light through the nearly black back windows. “Looks empty, but I can’t say for sure.”

  “How about this?” offered Rob. He put his mouth by the window and asked loudly, “Is anyone inside this van?”

  After no response, he pulled the doors open. Empty. All that remained was the larger and taller cutaway van, the style often used for ambulances. It had carried most of their supplies and all of their weed. It featured no windows in back. The entire group approached. V had those jagged keys back between her fingers. Rob and Russo put their ears to the doors but couldn’t pick up a sound. Cash looked back at the convenience store, hoping for a glimpse of armed backup. She couldn’t see the inside of the shop with any clarity but reassured herself that Curly and Huballa were standing there, and that they would disregard rules and procedures should they have to save lives.

  “Is anyone in this van?” asked Russo with a tap on the door.

  “Yes,” came the reply.

  “Who is this?” responded Russo.

  “Quinn.”

  Rob and Russo pulled the doors open. The whole crew was shoehorned within, looking terrified. Quinn, Hoffman, Skunk, and Yurman were closest to the doors, all brandishing knives. Phaedra, and the rest, crouched behind that first line of defense.

  “Careful,” said Hoffman to Russo, “there’s one out there. It came running from that pickup; smashed our SUV window. We barely got out. Lucky us, its arm got caught in the glass. Gave us enough time to rush over here.”

  Russo panned the flashlight around, scanning the brush for any movement. Rob pulled Cash to his side.

  Dr. Papperello-Venito had a suggestion. “Let’s get everyone out of the truck and get them inside that store as quickly and quietly as we can.”

  It was then that a cold drop landed on Russo’s bare shoulder. He glanced over at it, before turning his eyes upward. A substance was passively trickling from the edge of the van’s roof.

  Russo, while pointing, whispered to the group within the truck. “Up there?”

  “We did hear something earlier,” answered Skunk, tightening the grip on his knife.

  Don Russo stepped up onto the rear bumper, depressing the van even closer to the ground, his dangling testicles now more prominent for all to see. He placed his hands on the edge of the roof, avoiding the dripping puddle. Going to his tiptoes, he lifted his eyes just above the rim of the roof.

  Cammo Dude was sprawled face-first and unconscious. Vomit oozed from his mouth, forming a gelatinizing river that flowed to the chunky puddle which then dribbled over the edge of the truck. A Common Nighthawk pecked at the more fibrous components. Russo stepped down.

  Glaring into the van, he had to laugh. “Look at you bitches, all huddled in there because one fucking canni came at y’all. Look here at Rob, Caroline, Paul, the other guy, and their doctor squad.”

  The group within the van studied the filthy, bloodied, and bandaged contingent; Phaedra gazing into Rob’s eyes.

  Russo placed his hand onto Winthrop Robert’s shoulder as he continued. “You folks have no idea what these badass muthas had to deal with in there. Perms, not just Cannis, and I couldn’t count how many I seen. Some knocked out, some stone-cold deceased. All thanks to this dirty half-dozen.”

  “There are seven of us,” said Cash.

  “Well, then . . . Magnificent,” replied Russo.

  “And my name is John.”

  “Right.”

  Hoffman and the others began to disembark in awe of the tale told by their leader. Russo used the event as a tool to toughen and tighten his crew of tunnel-dwellers.

  “These, er, seven are real life heroes, my peeps, and we, by extension, have played a role as well. Be proud of yourselves regardless of that chicken shit, hiding in the van sequence of events. Y’all did good. Any questions?”

  After a moment, Dr. Papperello-Venito, still feeling the effects of the marijuana, raised a hand. “Sir,” she asked of Don Russo, “why, in the name of Hippocrates, are you uncontestably naked?”

  In the distance appeared the lights: police vehicles, heavy trucks of some sort, and a large white bus.

  Kevin Edward wore a suit too pricey for the neighborhood. He still smelled of body wash and hair gel, and his eyes had that I was rushed out of bed this morning tightness all around them. But he shook everyone’s hands and had a knack for speaking through an expanded grin.

  They were all on the white bus.

  “We will get your motorcycles, phones, and supplies back to you by tomorrow,” he smiled. “We will turn a blind eye to the other vehicles and return them to their rightful owners. It is imperative that we get you all out of here together, on this bus. The doctors from our nation’s capital will be escorted to McCarran Airport, then the rest of you will be taken to the locations of your choice. We have some medical personnel and equipment in the bus
rear until we get your injured members to a hospital. No healthcare costs will be incurred by any of you. You will be contacted in the coming days with further instructions.”

  “You suits owe me hella weed,” yelled Russo from the third row of seats.

  “Understood,” replied Edward. “I thank you all for signing the nondisclosure agreements.”

  “I hand wrote about that chronic just above my signature,” answered Russo. “Only reason I Hancocked that shit.”

  Kevin Edward nodded to the bus operator and turned to walk down the vehicle steps.

  “Hey now,” yelled Russo. Edward stopped. “We still have some loose fatties and we ain’t stayin’ on this ride until that bus driver, and your medical whatevers sittin’ there in the back smoke ‘em up. Better to have cannabis than a Canni bus.”

  “Sir, I can’t have our personnel . . . ”

  “Mr. Edward,” interrupted Dr. Papperello-Venito, eyes closed in her seat, “they need to smoke ‘em up. Mr. Russo is extraordinarily persuasive.”

  The sunrise formed a glow around the mountains as the last of the marijuana was smoked on the bus. Rob’s hand was being treated in the rear by a freshly baked paramedic team.

  “Caroline, what made you realize that cannabis might inhibit the infected state?” asked V. Anderson.

  “These tunnel people, Don Russo’s people, they smoke a ton of weed. That was the only real variable that I could see from others in those tunnels; others who had flipped. I knew it wasn’t the physicality of the tunnels or the depth. Made no sense. Each day I watched the sunlight trickle down upon us. With the sun surely came the virus. Then there was Teresa . . . ”

  Her voice trailed off.

  “Who is Teresa?” asked Dr. Papperello-Venito.

  “My best friend. One night we all smoked; all but T. She then became one of those things and . . . well, there were other instances as well. I stopped smoking weed. Rob and the others kept on. Then I was the one who flipped. It seemed that there were lots of stories of cops flipping, train operators, pilots. Maybe people who were procedurally drug tested and couldn’t smoke if they wanted to. Just seemed like a thing to me.”

  “You’re a smart young lady,” smiled V.

  “But,” interrupted her boss, “there will need to be sufficient testing . . . ”

  “Oh, come on,” replied V. “You saw what happened in there, Dr. P.”

  “Dr. P?” replied the White House big shot.

  “I am not going to say that forty-syllable hyphenated name with every sentence. Sorry. Plus those perms went down in a heap when the pot flowed in.”

  “So did we all. That could have just been smoke inhalation.”

  “Then, why the fuck were your lips all over that fatty ten minutes ago?”

  “Better safe than canni.”

  “You know how cannabis can be effective against Epilepsy, Dravet Syndrome, muscle spasm . . . ”

  “Of course. If this is comparable, we will need to formulate an injection or an oral product . . . ”

  “Fuckin’ brownies. Already invented,” offered Russo, eyes closed.

  Dr. Papperello-Venito continued. “We can’t have four-year-olds going around smoking this shit.”

  John G laughed loudly, smiling at the attractive but older doctor. “You are so pretty,” he said.

  “Well, thank you, young man.”

  “For what it’s worth, this dude just got sight like a few days ago,” added Russo, eyes still closed. “He says that to every chick he sees. I once walked in on him petting a fucking sewer rat. He thought it was a cat.”

  VIRGINIA

  Endgame. That was the title of the book; a strategy guide for advanced chess players. It was dog-eared and yellow, adorned with the brown stain of some coffee mug from years past. It sat on a small table right beside the office chair upon which, minutes before, sat Joe Isley.

  Now though, he stood in an interrogation room. A single light hung from above, dangling in the thick heat. Eileen O’Dowd, the American traitor and brilliant scientist, was secured in a hard-backed chair. Her mouth was untethered and she was free to speak.

  “When you left our country on your journey into evil, you abandoned your three children, am I correct?”

  No reply.

  “Well, you left them with your sister. I’ll give you that. Wasn’t like they lived on the streets or nothin’. No fucked up homeless shelter for them shiny white kids of yours, Dr. O’Dowd. Fluffy blonde hair and all.”

  The doctor remained still save for her eyes, which followed Isley at all times.

  “So,” he continued, “I got no idea how you actually feel about those kids. I mean, you are a mom, and there is supposed to be that special bond. Yet, you and your monkey-ass friends went and poisoned our country, including your own fucking kids. Now, what the hell is that? More ironic shit includes the fact that I could flip to canni right now and tear your ass up. Now, that wouldn’t really help either of us, but hey, you infected me, and what will be, will be.”

  He walked over to a long window, clouded and dark, and gave it a firm knock. The lights behind the window came on. There stood, not bound in any way, three young adults: two male, one female. All blonde.

  Eileen O’Dowd stared, her eyes no longer following Isley.

  “Don’t worry,” said Isley. “They don’t even know you are here. Grown up all nice and pretty, haven’t they? Your sister did a wonderful job, Eileen O’Dowd. Oh, we gave them a huge, fancy breakfast. More styles of pancakes than motherfuckin’ IHOP, swear to Jesus. Syrup straight from Vermont. I might let you see them and even talk. They can’t hear you through that glass though, so don’t bother yourself just yet.”

  She continued to peer at her grown sons and daughter, all late teens through early twenties. They seemed to share jokes with each other yet stood where they’d been told. They appeared relaxed. Dr. O’Dowd showed no emotion.

  Isley went on. “Sometimes in games, like chess maybe, we are left with options, and at first they all seem shitty. We wonder how we painted ourselves into such a corner. Sometimes there is just no way out. Checkmate, and all that shit. But sometimes taking the least of the fucked up ways out is the way to go. Get out of that mess and take up the fight a little down the road. Give up that bishop, you still have the other one, and maybe a queen too. Know what I’m saying?”

  Nothing.

  “Dr. Eileen O’Dowd, you know that Boy George’s name is O’Dowd? Any relation? Never mind. So, you have three choices right now. Not tomorrow, not in ten minutes, only right now.”

  He walked to the far end of the long window. “Do you really want to hurt me?” he sang under his breath. O’Dowd’s eyes did not follow.

  “Choice number one,” he said loudly, “you answer each and every question I have for as long as it takes and until I say it’s over. I know that sounds just terrible to you, so don’t answer until you hear the other choices, okay?”

  A single bead of sweat appeared on her forehead.

  “Choice number two: under your chair, right now, is the biggest, sharpest, and ugliest knife I ever did see. It’s taped right under your ass, doctor, on the Jersey side of the seat. I will remove your restraints right now so you can get at it. You’ll probably try to kill me with it, but please don’t. You’ll fail, and you might get injured in the mayhem. The true purpose of that ugly knife is that you will use it to murder one of your children. You can choose which one, and I will bring them in here so as you can finish them off.”

  The sweat beads were multiplying.

  “Choice number three is my least favorite, if I may say so. It’s also the default choice, should you ignore me. That would be where I bring all three of your children in one by one and I kill them all, right on your lap. After that, I start removing body parts from you, and I am a terrible surgeon. I’ll give you a few seconds to make your decision. Not sure how many seconds, though.”

  Then he stood, arms to his side, looking through the glass at O’Dowd’s children. What
ever they’d been told, they remained standing, though not at attention. They still conversed with each other while trying to look straight ahead. The young girl tended to her golden locks in what was to her an expansive but smudged and sullied mirror.

  “The girl,” Isley said quietly. “Dana is her name, right? She had the chocolate chip pancakes.”

  O’Dowd’s eyes met Isley’s for just an instant when he uttered her daughter’s name.

  “Okay, time’s up,” he said. “What have you decided?”

  The doctor’s lips parted, opened a bit wider, before closing again. She said nothing.

  “You sure?”

  Silence.

  Isley marched over to O’Dowd, leaned over, reached down, and pulled. She heard the tape tearing away from the chair’s underside. He came up holding the longest, blackest, double-serrated blade that she had ever seen. It wasn’t new, either.

  “This here has been inside more people than Wilt Chamberlain,” he said. “I’m gonna bring Dana in first. Maybe you should talk to her about the pancakes or somethin’. It’ll make it just a little easier for the girl.”

  He pulled the last strap of tape from the knife and let it float to the floor. He strode toward the door and opened it. The outstretched arm of an underling greeted him, phone in hand.

  “I was on the way in, sir. POTUS on the line.”

  Isley let the door close behind him so that O’Dowd could not hear.

  “Hello, Mr. President.”

  Isley listened, his company man standing in shadow beside him.

  “As you wish, Mr. President. I will await further instructions, sir.”

  He disconnected the call and handed his knife, still sticky with tape residue, to his subordinate.

  “Put that in my bag. Have the three young guests returned to their hotel. Same blackout van they came in. Obviously, they can’t be permitted to know this location. Put someone at their hotel door.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Isley and his man walked in separate directions, with Joe returning to his chair. He sat down, lifted his ragged chess book from the table and opened it. His bookmark was an expired Arby’s coupon. As he turned the page, he half-sang to himself.