Canni Page 5

  Fountain pipes began to ascend, jutting ever so slightly out of the Bellagio lake. Most didn’t notice.

  “Did our new friend Paul call you yet, T?” asked Rob.

  “Don’t think so. Have to check my voicemail just in case,” she answered.

  “He’s cool, but I really want you to meet John G . . . ”

  “I know. I know.”

  Spongebob almost crashed into the religious zealot just as he was howling anti-gambling rants at passersby. Teresa was digging out her phone to check for messages when the brisk sound of a string section filled the air.

  “Luck Be a Lady”, the Frank Sinatra version.

  She put the phone away as the fountains exploded, in time with the recording.

  Howls and applause came from the crowd that encircled the huge display.

  “So beautiful,” sighed Cash.

  Rob was thinking the same thing, but he was canvassing Cash, as she enjoyed the water dance. The gigantic bursts of spray were timed perfectly with the music. A gentle mist teased most of the onlookers. Rob hoped that the romance of the fountains might turn Cash’s thoughts to marriage. He gently caressed her neck as the spray tickled her smiling face. Unbeknownst to the others, his surreptitiously slung cent was coming to rest at the bottom of the lake.

  There came heavy-footed running behind them.

  Those freaking costumed con men, thought Rob, ruining the moment for everyone.

  He ignored it all until he heard the screams. Louder than the excited shrieks that came with the start of the fountain show.

  The fast-paced steps belonged to a trio of helmeted Las Vegas Metro police officers. The screams belonged to most everyone else who was closer to the commotion. Something halfway up the street to the north, maybe a fight. Many were scampering from the activity.

  Sinatra still sang about luck.

  Cash, meanwhile, tried to ignore the incident. She didn’t feel particularly threatened. Whatever the problem was, it was pretty far up the street, and there seemed to be plenty of cops. She wanted to be lost in the song and the moment.

  Unlike his girlfriend, Rob tried to get a peek at the scuffle by craning his neck. He was still gently stroking Cash’s. All he could see was the movement of the crowd, police uniforms mixed within. His study quickly focused not on the disturbance in the distance, but on the fountain spray droplets resting on Cash’s soft, caramel-tinged cheek. He hungered to remain in that world.

  Though she tried to ignore it, it was Cash who first saw the result. She took in the dancing waters while smiling at Frank Sinatra’s use of the word “dame” in the classic song. That first millisecond, from the far corner of her eye, she thought it was the duck family returning to her view, atop the lake.

  She turned just a bit toward it.

  A man. Face down. Dead, or dying. Camera still strapped around his crimson neck. A circle of his own blood traced him like a marine spotlight. He’d float there until either his lungs filled, or someone came and got him. Cash squeezed Rob’s hand. Then he saw it. Teresa too. The fountains continued to blow, as did the music. One cop landed in the water, followed by another, and a couple of civilians. They trudged through the knee-deep section, trampling the lucky coins, toward the man in the bloody circle.

  Looking into Rob’s eyes, Cash said nothing. If her gaze conveyed anything, it might be described as helplessness.

  Or hopelessness.

  The fountains, and the accompanying music, were abruptly halted.

  They wanted a quiet place to just sit and chill. It was now too much, this trip that began with such promise for the three of them. Quiet was not going to be possible on the strip. To be more specific, quiet and affordable were a match that wouldn’t be found in the immediate area. They had headed back to the parking garage and took a fifteen-minute drive looking for a place to make sense of things. No music was played during the ride. Occasionally, they would hear the sound of Cash locking and unlocking the car door.

  They found a place on Spring Mountain Road, Pat & Alice’s.

  It had the feel of a diner but was a small storefront in a strip mall. The three of them sat in a faded booth in the barren eatery. A television hung from a corner, right near a photo of, apparently, Pat and Alice, with some well-dressed Vegas celebrity who looked vaguely familiar to Rob. As some talking head rambled on the TV, Rob couldn’t help but ponder how he was surprised that Pat and Alice were actually two older women. He thought they’d be a couple.

  Oh, wait. They probably are a couple.

  He shook his head, realizing that even a man as young as he still had some old-fashioned preconceptions set as defaults in his mind.

  “I’m not hungry at all,” said Cash, as Teresa agreed.

  “We can split an appetizer or something,” said Rob, as his brain abandoned his odd crusade into the sexuality of the restaurant owners.

  “How can you eat anything?” asked Cash.

  “Well, we can’t sit here without buying something. I’ll down it all if nobody wants any. I haven’t eaten anything all day.”

  Cash gave him a light kick to the shin. Teresa had her phone out, checking for messages from Paul.

  “Anything?” smiled Cash.

  “Um . . . no . . . but a bunch of missed calls from my mom. Let me go call her. Be right back.”

  As Teresa left for some privacy, her friends’ attention turned to the television as the counterman aimed a remote to raise the volume.

  “We’re expecting the president at any moment,” stated the announcer. A camera was fixed on an empty podium with the presidential seal on it.

  “Maybe some answers,” mumbled the workers to each other.

  Sounded like some dishware fell and crashed back in the kitchen.

  Cash flinched, then thought back to a time, maybe two weeks earlier, when the sound of breaking plates usually meant no more than broken plates. The counterman rushed through the swinging doors into the back kitchen along with a waiter. Rob and Cash kept their eyes on those doors, not noticing that the President of the United States had reached the podium. He began to address the American people, but despite the anticipation of this moment, and the possibility of some intensely important—and quite dire—information being disseminated, Rob and Cash were fixed on those swinging doors.

  “You, the American people, have heard very little from me, or my administration, over the past couple of weeks,” said the president. “I sincerely apologize for that. But frankly, we didn’t have much that we could share with you. Nothing of substance. The last thing we want to do is spread fear and hysteria without any concrete information. We do now have somewhat more that we can pass along. I ask that you might consider asking younger children to leave the room so that you might explain this to them later in a manner more fitting.”

  Rob and Cash stayed fixed on the swinging doors. They said nothing.

  There was a sound like running water. A sink. Surely no one would be using the sink if there was a life-and-death struggle occurring in Pat and Alice’s kitchen . . .

  “Our enemies continue to believe that they can intimidate and deter the American spirit through terror,” said the commander-in-chief. “On March fifteenth there was a coordinated attack on our homeland. You know by now that there was a well-planned and well-funded air assault on our country. After exhaustive and incessant research by several government agencies, along with the help of many private institutions who have responded to our call for assistance, it has been determined that we have been subjected to what appears to be a biochemical super-agent of sorts. We are still at work trying to pinpoint the complete effects of this chemical, along with its origin and any possible antidotes. At this time, it is not clear exactly how many of us have been affected by this, and what, if any, symptoms might occur, other than one significant behavioral change, that appears to be temporary, yet may reoccur.”

  A muffled commotion drew the attention of the president. He glanced to his right, toward the back of the room. A dog barked. T
he camera began a 180-degree turn, to record whatever was transpiring. A meaty grasp blocked the lens, forcing the hand-held to return to the president. In the movement, several blurry figures in black-visored helmets were glimpsed running toward the disruption. More barks. As the camera was returned by force to the president at the podium, he was flanked by two of those battle-dressed guards, who looked more like Navy SEALs about to raid a compound than the nattily dressed, well-manicured agents who normally flanked POTUS.

  At Pat and Alice’s, the swinging kitchen doors were pushed open. The counterman came through. Rob thought he saw blood all over the man’s apron, but quickly chalked that up to paranoia.

  Ketchup. Maybe tomato sauce.

  All seemed fine as the waiter trailed behind, laughing.

  False alarm.

  Cash exhaled. Rob gave her a smile.

  She shouldn’t have to live in a world like this. She deserves better.

  The president was relatively young when he won the election. Though still in his first term, his dark hair had grayed considerably, and lines had formed around his eyes and forehead.

  And that was before all of this happened.

  “The major effect of this chemical agent seems to be that it causes something of a convulsive state that may cause the victim to become extremely aggressive toward anyone they may come incontact with. I need to emphasize that I mean literally anyone. There have been instances of parents murdering their own children, and vice-versa. A person in this altered state will have their strength drastically increased, and they cannot be reasoned with.”

  Teresa returned to the table. A basket of chicken tenders sat in the middle of it. Three different sauces. Rob had two pieces on his plate already. Cash stared at the television. She was aware that her best friend had sat down across from her, but she was still getting her head around the words she was hearing. Her thoughts turned to Teresa, and she half-expected to hear that she had spoken to Paul.

  “So,” began Cash.

  “Carrie,” interrupted Teresa, her eyes welling, “my cousin Joy-Joy is dead.”

  “What?”

  Rob laid his chicken down as Teresa continued, “My mom just told me. She was killed. Murdered by one of those things.”

  “People suffering from one of these episodes can be dispatched by traditional methods, if self-defense becomes a primary factor,” declared the president. “This is not some cheap horror film about the undead. We’re not talking ghosts or zombies here. However, it is imperative that we all understand that if we kill one of these infected people, there is no bringing them back. These incidents are generally lasting from ten to fifteen minutes, after which the afflicted return to relative normalcy, with little or no memory of what occurred. We must do all that we can to avoid these situations and shield ourselves from them as best as we can. We don’t want to kill family and friends because they’re in the midst of a ten-minute episode. Remember, your convulsive state might be next. We can’t go around eradicating each other. That’s what our enemies want.”

  Teresa’s head was in her hands. Cash slipped over to her side of the booth.

  “Mom was going to buy a plane ticket for me to go home,” cried T. “She was trying to get enough money to pay for all of us—not that you would fly, Carrie—but she thought it over and wants me to stay with you out here. She said Rob will keep us safe. She’s convinced things are worse back east. Said a second-grade teacher grabbed a little girl and . . . ”

  “Safe Zones,” said the president. “We are working with local agencies to create safe zones to accommodate as many folks as possible. Mainly for getting some restful sleep. Perhaps on some type of rotating basis. We’re still not sure exactly how these would operate, as those who would protect us are not immune to violent episodes themselves, but our goal is to protect children first, and to help stabilize our infrastructure. This is obviously something no nation has ever had to deal with before, but together, we will all get through it.”

  Teresa’s phone rang. She hesitated, fearing more tragic news, but then saw who was calling. She wiped her eyes.

  “It’s Paul,” she said.

  Cash caressed her best friend’s shoulder and looked over at Rob.

  This will cheer her up some, thought Cash.

  Cash and I, thought Rob, Why do we even have phones? No one ever calls us.

  On TV, the president went on trying to reassure the American people. Rob began to think about how he might be able to protect the most important person in his life, and her dearest friend. He felt a chill crawl up his legs as he realized that he probably couldn’t.

  “We’ll take turns sleeping,” offered Cash, almost reading his mind. “One of us will always be awake . . . ”

  “Won’t work, baby,” he answered, as Teresa managed to smile at whatever Paul said on the phone. “What if the person watching the sleepers is the one who turns?”

  Cash just stared at him as Teresa left the booth to continue her chat in private. Cash looked up at the television, down at the plate of chicken tenders, and then out the window into the sunny Nevada afternoon. An armored truck was double-parked, its guards picking up some cash from a neighboring business. Life appeared to be going on, but what kind of life would this be?

  Rob saw the vacant look in his girlfriend’s eyes.

  “Hey,” he said, “give me another kick, baby. I don’t feel right when my leg isn’t hurting.”

  LOUDOUN COUNTY, VIRGINIA

  The good people of Loudoun County are usually listed as having the highest median household income of any county in the United States. Often, when one of these well-to-do families had a dog or cat in need of medical care, they’d head out past the historic grist mills and battlefields and through the renowned horse country, to the charming old office and home of Dr. Robert. Most didn’t know if that was the actual name of the area’s favorite veterinarian, or if he’d been tagged with that moniker from the old Beatles’ song. Most also didn’t care. Some said his real name was Roman or Romeo. Those who bothered to read his dusty framed degrees, or glanced at his prescription pad could’ve found the answer, but legend had it that the name, over the decades, had changed. Regardless, he did great work, and had for over forty years, right from that same old house with the big ol’ barn in the back. ‘Twas a bit out-of-the-way, but his homey approach and astonishing success rate at healing animals made it worth the trip.

  But there was that big ol’ barn in the back.

  What none of the visitors had ever seen during all those years, was the inside of that old barn. There was a well-worn dirt road that led ‘round the back of it, but Dr. Robert always had that towering, heavy-duty, chain link fence around it.

  Never seemed to rust.

  If one were to slink into that barn, they’d be greeted by a couple of big, smiling rancher types, straight out of Dorothy’s Kansas bedroom, who’d ask if the visitor was, perhaps, lost.

  If one happened to pay particular attention to the number of cars parked in the barn, asked a question too many, or somehow noticed the heavy-duty vehicle elevators that disappeared below the strewn hay to somewhere deep below the ol’ doc’s property, the following would likely occur:

  1) You’d think, Holy shit. Places like this do exist.

  2) The big smiling “ranchers” would immediately neutralize you and your body would never be found.

  Rooted far down below the barn rested the end of this particular rainbow: a large, climate- controlled, U.S. government research facility. Dr. Robert had known about it of course, since his days of caring for President Gerald Ford’s golden retriever, Liberty. He agreed to have his practice front the research station, because he liked and admired Ford, and he loved his country. However, Dr. Robert—nor President Ford or any subsequent POTUS—had ever actually been inside the facility.

  Naturally, there was a direct video monitoring connection to the White House and the Pentagon.

  The “volunteers” spent most of their time strapped to their beds, wi
red to various devices, awaiting any possible behavioral change.

  They were technically volunteers, as nobody had been forced to participate. Some were non-violent prisoners looking to have their sentences commuted. Others were caught up in the recent financial recession, looking to save their underwater homes from foreclosure. Some just wanted a cash payment or other government favor, all in exchange for monitoring, and perhaps some mild tests.

  The scientists in charge were brother and sister geniuses, both in their mid-forties. Though not ideal in the eyes of the Big Brother powers that be, the government decided to not deprive themselves of the brilliance of this gene pool despite the familial ties, and any possible complications that might arise from it.

  V. Anderson was the woman, R. Anderson, her brother.

  There had never been any sibling squabbles at the center, never a hint of anything less than professional. They referred to each other as “Doctor”.

  Outside of the office, the fair-skinned duo enjoyed their own lifestyles. V was usually transported to work by a military driver, with, only recently, a second man in the front passenger seat, as she intently devoured medical journals in the back of a town car. R always blasted in on his Harley. For relaxation, V would grab a water bottle and run forever through the back roads of Virginia. R would eat those roads on his denim black, Screamin’ Eagle Fat Boy.

  This day, they sat together and studied the monitors. Two black-helmeted men, dark visors down, stood several feet behind the doctors, and a greater distance apart from each other.

  “Anything new this morning?” asked R of his sister, tapping his Diet Mountain Dew can—his version of coffee.

  “So the tardy scientist has questions for the punctual one?” smiled V.

  “C’mon. I wasn’t that late. My garage door opener shit the bed.”

  “You used that one ‘bout two months ago.”