Canni

by Daniel O'Connor

  Russo glanced down at Yurman, then out past the fencing and beyond the tunnels, to the street.

  “We got these three boxes of Kush right here,” he said, the waste-covered canni writhing and biting on the ground beside him, “and suddenly, we got what just might be an entire truckload sitting right outside, waiting to be claimed. All for us. I don’t care if they’re for smokin’ or eating. They belong to me now. Let’s get to unloading, boys.”

  Rob knew better than to intervene. He’d set his mind to calling an ambulance for the delivery man, once he could distance himself from the others. He knew he was stoned, but his sense of purpose remained. He looked over at the wall, searching for his unshakable lizard friend.

  It was gone.

  Yurman’s last word was cunt.

  VIRGINIA

  The three terrorists, less some toes and a bit of bravado, were still housed in the North Wing deep below Dr. Robert’s barn. Some of their children and other loved ones remained safely at their hotels, guarded and supervised. They had varying levels of suspicion as to why they were taken to the outskirts of Washington D.C., but they were never told the truth. The hotels were upscale, the food exceptional, and the Exodus was primo.

  Joe Isley, in his janitorial attire, was having lunch alone in his makeshift office when the president walked in.

  “Mr. President?” was all he could muster as he scrambled to his feet, dropping his hefty sandwich.

  “Hello, Joe. Sorry to interrupt lunch. I didn’t know.”

  “Please, sir, never a problem, of course. I wish I knew you’d be here, but . . . ”

  “Last minute decision. I have to keep these visits on the down low, you know. Avoid the press and what have you. We didn’t even drive over in “The Beast”. Came in a van that is made to look like a plumber’s. My guys are outside the door. They don’t even know why I’m here or anything about you, of course. It helps that they’re high.”

  “I know that van, sir. It’s really time for something new. I wouldn’t trust it as cover anymore.”

  “You know of it? Really?”

  “Yes, sir. Just my opinion.”

  “But it’s fitted with all the trappings; bulletproof, all the tech stuff . . . ”

  “You can use the same van. Just repaint it. Maybe change a thing or two about the exterior. Ding it up a bit. Give it a new identity. No more plumber.”

  “I will pass that along to the Secret Service, Joe.”

  “Tell them you thought of it. I’m just a janitor.”

  “Done. Sit down, Joe, I’d like to talk with you.”

  “Of course. I haven’t touched that half of sandwich if you would like it. I ate two others already. The munchies, I guess. Boar’s Head bologna, fresh American cheese.”

  President Collins sat directly across from Isley.

  “Thank you, but the team has to be aware of anything that I might choose to eat.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Mayo?”

  “Miracle Whip.”

  “Give it here.”

  As President Collins took his first bite, he continued. “You’re right about the munchies. I downed a bag of Cheetos in the van. Look here, evidence.”

  He held his fingers out, complete with orange coating.

  “Would you like a napkin, sir?”

  “Nah. Fuck it. Anyway, Joe, here’s the deal: straight up, I’ve been a little bitch.”

  “Sir? You mean with your non-violent positions prior to this attack?”

  “No, not that, per se. What brand of cheese is this?”

  “Kraft singles.”

  “Delicious. What I mean is that I sat in the White House, letting you do what needed to be done: the ugliness of interrogation, and I turned a blind eye. I wanted results, but I sheltered myself from the storm. It was like that Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell bullshit, in a way. I’m supposed to be commander-in-chief, but I task you with the horrific duties.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “I have to face my responsibilities, Joe. It isn’t fair to you.”

  “I like doing it.”

  “I want you to tell me what we’ve done and where we stand. I know you’ve made a bit of progress with the North Korean. Though we may have a treatment for the initial stage of canni, we are faced with other problems. These scientists have tested this process all the way through, deep underground in their home countries, and sadly, using their own people as guinea pigs. We only know that because of you, my friend.”

  “YoMomma’sFatTitties!” screamed Joe Isley. Collins jumped.

  The door opened. The helmeted head of an agent peered in. The president waved him off, and he closed the door. Outside the room, a second agent asked of the first, “What’s going on in there?”

  “He appears to be eating sandwiches with a janitor.”

  Inside the room, Isley spoke. “I am so sorry, sir. I had been doing much better with my affliction.”

  “I’ve noticed that. Don’t you worry. So, I’d like for you to tell me what methods you have used thus far on our prisoners.”

  “I took all ten toes and nine fingers from the Iranian but he told me nothing. Not so far, anyway. The American traitor—the woman—I threatened to execute her children in front of her.”

  “And?”

  “Your phone call halted the interrogation.”

  “These are some tough bastards. You made a bit more progress with the Korean; I’m afraid to ask how.”

  “He watched his dog starve.”

  “His dog?”

  “Correct. I had it leashed in his room where he could see it. I gave it water, but no food.”

  “The poor animal.”

  “It’s alive, sir. It has been fed. A reward for what he has told us thus far, but the Korean knows the starving can resume at any time, based only upon your orders, of course.”

  President Collins stared at the final bite of his sandwich, as it sat on the table before him.

  “A North Korean who loves his pet dog?” he asked, rhetorically.

  “He only got the animal when he was in Iran.”

  “I thought they frowned upon dogs there too.”

  “Not if you’re creating a virus to kill Americans.”

  Collins dropped the remaining morsel into his mouth.

  “Joe,” he asked, “why did you only take nine fingers from the Iranian?”

  “I’m not an evil man, Mr. President. People get itchy.”

  “Joe, my friend,” responded Collins as he stood, “I would shake your hand, but the Cheetos dust, ya know? I thank you for telling me everything, and I want to know each detail from now on—before you do it.”

  “Absolutely, sir. Would you like to visit with any of the prisoners?”

  POTUS stood there, rubbing his orange fingertips together and considering his options.

  “Can I go see the dog?”

  Ten minutes later, the president and his three helmeted agents emerged from the secure North Wing doorway into the research area of the facility. They headed not for the exit elevators but proceeded further into the testing area, unannounced. Some employees responded with audible gasps. Almost none of them had ever seen their big boss in person.

  The White House contingent opened the door to one of the labs. The few employees within were studying—through a large, thick window—four perms who were strapped to tables. Music was playing in the room on the safe side of the glass.

  It was Radiohead.

  “Good afternoon, doctors,” said the president.

  They all turned: Doctors V. Anderson and Martinez along with the visiting Papperello-Venito. Surprise was the prevailing reaction.

  “So, what are we working on today?” he asked with a smile.

  Dr. Papperello-Venito responded as the ranking official. “Mr. President, the doctors were showing me how they are trying to find some dosage of Exodus, or some mixture that might restore the resistant subjects to normalcy. We don’t want to leave anyone behind.”


  He approached the window. Dr. Anderson walked toward the single speaker that provided the music. “Jessica, mute,” she commanded, and the device went silent.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” said Collins.

  “Oh, I just like commanding Jessica,” smiled V. “Honestly, it’s so convenient, but I like two speakers, better sound, and I can do without the wireless craze.”

  “Still on that trip?” asked Dr. Papperello-Venito.

  President George Collins ignored the exchange as he stepped up to observe the perms. He observed two young women, he guessed mid-twenties, an older man, and a boy no more than nine years of age. They were all growling and snapping like monsters. He suddenly felt less guilty about Joe Isley’s methods. The commander-in-chief said nothing for several minutes. He just watched. Mostly, the boy. He was African-American. Collins recalled that he, at that age, was primarily concerned about hitting the newsstand with his allowance and grabbing the latest issues of his favorite comic books. Fantastic Four was his first choice, but he enjoyed most any superhero series; Daredevil and The Flash were cool, and he loved seeing the occasional black hero, like Luke Cage, Falcon, and Black Panther. He’d often fantasized about growing up to be such a warrior, but despite all of his accomplishments he could never see himself that way.

  That was Joe Isley.

  But as a nine-year-old, comics were little George Collins’ life.

  He stared at the boy on the table, squirming and drooling, eyes wide, redder than the ink that flushed The Flash’s crime-fighting costume.

  This was the life of the boy on the table.

  “I am confident that you exceptional doctors will be able to help these folks,” said the president.

  “We won’t stop trying,” answered V.

  “What is that little boy’s name?” he asked.

  “Umm . . . that’s number P21—let me see . . . ” stammered V, as Dr. Martinez took to a laptop.

  “Jamal Davidson,” said Dr. Martinez.

  “Can one of you take a photo of him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Dr. Martinez headed for the room on the other side of the glass, President Collins turned to the others. He put his hand on V’s shoulder, the one that had been bitten by a prior canni encounter.

  “We will have the official photographs and plaque shortly,” he said softly.

  “Sir?”

  “I thought Dr. Papperello-Venito had told you. This research facility will be officially named.”

  He looked over at Papperello-Venito, and she revealed the name to V.

  “The Anderson-Daniele Research Center,” she said.

  “For your brother and that professor from Nevada. True American heroes,” added Collins.

  V was stunned. Fighting to keep her composure, she glanced over at the can of Diet Mountain Dew on her desk. A drop of condensation slid down to join the small circle of water at its base.

  “Of course,” sighed Collins, “this is a top-secret location, so the dedication will be private, and few will ever know, but I hope you understand that it is no less important because of that. There are no greater heroes than those represented only by stars carved on the CIA Memorial Wall, most of their names unknown to the world. The confidentiality bears no relation to the momentousness.”

  V. Anderson, never at a loss for words, now found herself struggling to reply.

  “It’s okay,” offered the president as he gave her a warm hug. He may not have thought of himself as a superhero, but he felt like one from the inside of his embrace.

  Dr. Martinez returned and handed her phone to the president. On the screen was an image of young Jamal Davidson. He was scowling at the camera, drooling. His singular thought centered on his desire to kill the photographer.

  As Collins studied the picture, he spoke. “I first thought that our enemies just wanted us to all kill each other. Then, when diseases began to vanish, I wondered if their true goal was simply overpopulation. Maybe we’d all live too long. Then I considered the fact that maybe that aspect was just a surprise to them as well as us. Now, it looks like we may face other problems. Where will this lead us? What is in store for Jamal Davidson?”

  “Sir, it’s not my place,” said V, “but if our military can just somehow capture one of the architects of this disease . . . ”

  Her statement reminded him that this side of the facility had no clue what was going on in the North Wing.

  “You’re right, doctor,” was his reply.

  “Hey, we only need one,” she smiled.

  He stood silently, then turned to Dr. Martinez. “Do you mind if I forward this photograph to someone?”

  “Of course not, sir.”

  Collins tapped some numbers into the phone, waited, press more buttons, and handed it back to the doctor.

  “Dr. P-V,” he said, addressing Papperello-Venito, “do you need a lift back to the White House?”

  “Okey-dokey, sir. I have never been in the presidential limousine!”

  “You still won’t be, doc.”

  With a puzzled look she gathered her belongings.

  “Dr. P-V?” said V. “That’s neat. Can I call you that?”

  “No.”

  Collins shook hands with Drs. Anderson and Martinez, and then he led the way out alongside Dr. P-V with the security team behind. The doctor was struggling to hold all of her work accessories, so V. Anderson took some of them from her and, with her Diet Dew in one hand, walked out the first door with them.

  “I know that you big, strong gentlemen are prohibited from carrying unnecessary items,” she whispered to the agents.

  They strolled through the corridor toward the elevators that would take them up to the barn, Collins smiling and waving at a handful of star-struck employees. As they neared the secure entrance to the North Wing, its heavy door opened. Out came Joe Isley, still in maintenance garb and actually wheeling a trash can. He made no eye contact with the President of the United States, and that fact was not lost on V. Anderson. Who wouldn’t be impressed by this giant among men being mere feet from them?

  Isley did, however, lock eyes with Dr. Anderson. They gave each other a slight but cordial nod.

  She took a final sip of her Mountain Dew and dropped the empty can into Joe Isley’s wheeled receptacle.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The following morning, President Collins needed a few moments for himself. He sat alone in the Oval Office, eating his Exodus cookie. His eyes studied the bust of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Whenever he took the time to enjoy that work of art, his body would initially weaken as he would recall that the man himself had been within this very office on more than one occasion. But then he would become robust with strength because he hoped that Dr. King would have been proud of his accomplishments. Weakness followed by power. It happened every time.

  With his next bite, he looked over at the bust of Sir Winston Churchill. He thought about how America’s friends in the four countries of the United Kingdom, and a host of others, had lists of volunteers willing and able to cross the shores and provide any help requested, despite the looming probability of infection, and no guarantee that they could ever return to their homeland.

  We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.

  President Collins knew that portion of Churchill’s speech quite well. It was a favorite of his late friend, Vice President Montgomery.

  He turned back to the cast of Dr. King’s face.

  VIRGINIA

  The face filled Joe Isley’s phone screen. He studied it as he ate his cannabis cookie.

  Jamal Davidson.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The speech was originally going to come from the state floor of the White House residence, but George Edward Bernard Collins had a late change of heart; it was going take place in the chamber of Martin and Winston, the Oval Office.

  He sat at the Resolute D
esk, flanked by the Stars and Stripes and the Flag of the President of the United States. This desk, a gift in 1880 from Victoria, Queen of the United Kingdom, was brought into this office by President John F. Kennedy in 1961. Though used by many distinguished presidents since, it is the image of an almost three-year-old JFK Jr. playing under and within the desk that most often flashed through Collins’ brain. Though there were indeed Secret Service agents and two dogs in the room in addition to the production crew, all that the viewers saw was their president at that desk. Mid-speech, he took his first sip of water.

  “So yes, my fellow Americans, I am under the influence of cannabis, as are all of us in government. We continue to work toward a strain that will minimize any undue effects on our thought processes while being most effective against this disease that has afflicted the great majority of us.”

  VIRGINIA

  A small television was on within the Virginia interrogation room that held the toeless Iranian scientist. His feet were bandaged, as were his hands, save for his one remaining finger. The bound terrorist, with Joe Isley sitting across from him, watched President Collins’ address.

  “I ask you all to trust me,” continued Collins. “We need to take our Exodus; all of us who can physically deal with it. If you cannot, you are obligated to contact your local police so that we can make arrangements for you. It is for the greater good.”

  This brought forth a laugh from the terrorist. Isley stood and left the room. In a minute, he returned with an icy can of Coke in hand. He popped it, inserted a straw, and presented it to his captive. The scientist wrapped his parched lips around the straw and sucked deeply.

  “This will pass,” said Collins. “We are too great of a nation to allow this to defeat us. We will not. Think of all the great American men and women who have lived; we will each have our own list of favorites. Would they shrink from this challenge? Not a chance.”

  The Iranian drank half of the can in one continuous act of suction. He then lifted his head and belched while still listening to the speech. Joe Isley placed the can down and took out his phone. One touch produced the image of the constrained and agonized Jamal Davison. As President Collins went on, Isley held the phone screen in front of the Iranian and whispered in his ear. His manner was non-threatening, even humble.