Canni Page 6

  “That was a different garage door, Dr. Anderson. Different garage.”

  “Right. Nothing happened this morning, but Dr. Martinez told me that number nine flipped during the night. Lasted eleven minutes.”

  “How did she smell?”

  “Well, you know the stench can be especially strong if they exhibit the mouth foam . . . ”

  “I was talking about Dr. Martinez.”

  “Focus, my brother.”

  “But that bouquet she has. Is it her shampoo?”

  “You can go over number nine’s vitals from before, during, and after the episode, once we watch the video. This is the first of our subjects to turn during apparent sleep. You do know that, right?”

  As the recording began, number nine—an unremarkable-looking Caucasian woman of thirty-eight years; interchangeable with anyone who might be seen pushing a cart in Target—slept peacefully. A monitor showed her heart rate at sixty-eight. Her arms and legs were strapped to the bed and she was wired like a 1960s switchboard. Her mouth was slightly ajar, head turned to the side on her pillow. The room was dim, but a light shone through a small square window on the door to the corridor.

  R. Anderson sipped his Dew as he studied the recording beside his sister. Several feet behind them, one of the guards titled his head, presumably to glimpse the activity on the monitor. The other remained motionless.

  On the video, monitors beeped and whirred, but number nine had sent herself off to sleep imagining them as crickets and breeze.

  She sighed.

  The tail-end of her hushed breath featured a drop of white foam.

  Number nine tensed up. Her head turned from its resting position and faced straight up at the ceiling. The beeping monitor sounds came more quickly.

  Her eyes opened hot and red just as a volcano of foam blasted from her mouth.

  Gurgle turned to growl.

  The bed shook and rattled as she pulled against the restraints. Dripping teeth clacked as her neck craned to reach the straps with her mouth.

  Her room lit up as a pair of attendants burst through the door and hit the lights. When she saw them, she went berserk. The growl intensified, as did the heart rate. It was nearing two hundred already. The heavy bed bounced as she tried to get at the aides. She spat at them, eyes devil red, teeth clattering.

  R took another sip of his diet soda, as V typed into a laptop. Behind them, the one guard still had his head tilted, his face not visible behind his darkened shield. The other guard—the motionless one—had an issue behind his black visor.

  From the bottom of it, by his chin, fell a single drop of foam.

  On the screen, number nine railed so violently to escape her restraints that, in quick succession, both of her shoulders dislocated. She didn’t notice.

  Her one and only goal, her sole reason for existence, was to sink her dripping teeth into the warm flesh of another human being.

  Behind the Andersons, before a second drop of foam had hit the floor, the helmeted guard’s right hand appeared to make a cursory wave at a small controller on his left wrist, but he never touched it, as his knees buckled for just an instant.

  The cold Diet Mountain Dew refreshingly gushed down R’s throat. The replay of number nine’s episode had dried his mouth. It was during his cold, caffeine-laced swallow that it crashed into the back of his skull. R lurched forward. The soda can flew from his grip. It landed on his sister’s laptop, spilling onto the keyboard. The twitching guard’s dark facemask had slammed into R. Anderson’s head. Warm white froth poured onto his neck and back. He could hear the convulsing protector’s teeth clattering behind the mask.

  The second helmeted man already had a long prod in his hands, rushing to neutralize his afflicted partner. V grabbed the right arm of her brother’s attacker. It felt like a steel beam. She couldn’t pry it away from R’s neck.

  “Move away, Doctor!” yelled the agent with the prod.

  V released her grip and stepped away. R thrust his feet up against the edge of the desk and pushed back against the man who was choking him and trying to bite through his own visor.

  The helpful guard thrusted the prod into the attacker’s back and hit the switch. A loud zap was heard as the foaming man jerked. R went limp from a brief transference of electricity. The violent guard froze for an instant, then released R and turned toward his partner. The afflicted one’s visor had cracked a bit against R’s skull, and a thin view of his chomping teeth could be seen. The rescuer sent a second wave through the prod, but it was ripped from his grip and tossed aside. The helmets smashed into each other, damaging both visors.

  More teeth were seen.

  V wanted to attend to her brother, but she knew she first had to retrieve that prod. The infected guard slammed his helmet against his victim’s. Over and over he smashed, trying to get at some face and neck. He took him to the floor and straddled from atop. Frustrated, the violent attacker had the presence of mind, or instinctive ability, to wrap his hands around his prey’s neck and begin choking.

  If he couldn’t bite, he would still kill.

  The guard on the bottom tried desperately to press the button on his raging partner’s left wrist, but soon stopped struggling, and went limp.

  V had the long prod in her hands. She fumbled briefly for the trigger mechanism, as she had never touched it before. She glanced at the recently installed panic button on the far side of the room. If she could push it, more help would come through the doors. But maybe the fallen guard didn’t have that much time, with super-human strength crushing his esophagus.

  She charged him from behind and got the electrodes on the shock end right up below the assailant’s helmet, close to his spinal cord.

  Zap.

  He stopped for a second, then quickly resumed choking his victim.

  Fuck this, thought V. She squeezed the trigger again and held it long and hard.

  She hoped it wouldn’t kill him. He was, after all, just infected, as she surely was, and would soon return to normal.

  It didn’t kill him.

  It just pissed him off.

  She could smell the burn on the back of his neck as he turned his cracked visor toward her. The split in his face shield allowed the stench of vomit to overpower the scent of burnt flesh.

  He was on her.

  His teeth clenched and clacked as his drippings fell onto V’s face below him. He felt like a horse on top of her. She managed to get a finger on his wrist button. Just as she pressed it, there came a click, but then, nothing. She was defenseless against him.

  I should’ve pressed that fucking panic button instead.

  His hands went to her throat. She was sure his thumbs would tunnel through her in some brutal tracheotomy.

  She couldn’t suck a wisp of air. Through his visor, she saw a shaded glimpse of his distended sockets. The blackness of the mask dulled it, but she knew just how glaringly red they were. V was about to close her eyes and imagine something pastoral as she died.

  Then her brother leaped onto the back of her attacker.

  The grip loosened just enough to let a rush of air into her lungs. R pulled back on the attacker’s neck, just under the helmet. He was no match for the powerful adversary, but was just enough of a thorn-in-the-side to take his attention away from V. She called out to her brother, as he pulled the man back with all of his might:

  “Just don’t let that . . . helmet . . . come . . . off!”

  Too late.

  The entire headgear came off in R’s hands as he tumbled backward.

  Now, the complete head was exposed. Inflamed, watery eyes, redder than the fire extinguisher on the far wall. Mouth wide like a croc’s. Stinking and dripping.

  He came at V again, this time with a teeth-rattling growl. Tearing her lab coat aside, he went for her neck, but got too much shoulder. He bit through anyway. He was in deep, and it burned like hell.

  He chawed out a chunk and swallowed it down.

  V grew dizzy, yet briefly flashed back to the T
. Rex swallowing the goat in Jurassic Park. She knew to try and tuck her head down to keep him from her jugular. She feared he might tear out part of her face as he came in for more.

  It sounded like the slamming of a car trunk. Like when, as a child, she’d finished helping Mom unload the last of the groceries.

  The twenty-pound Badger fire extinguisher.

  R had slammed it into the maniac’s head, with everything he could muster. The assailant went down in a heap, blood pouring from his fresh wound. V scrambled out from beneath him, her own bloody issues dripping from her shoulder to the floor. R dropped his new weapon and grabbed some towels for his sister’s bite.

  “No”, grumbled the other guard, as he removed his own helmet. “You might’ve killed him.”

  He grabbed the remaining towels for his unconscious partner’s skull.

  “I had no choice,” said R, gasping for air as he knelt beside his sister.

  Foam overflowed from the fallen attacker’s mouth, as he lay motionless. He was turning blue.

  “Fuck,” blared his partner. “He’s drowning in that shit. We’ve got to clear his airway.”

  He put one hand on the man’s forehead and another under his chin, tilting his head back.

  Gurgling. Now a darker blue.

  R got to his feet in order to dash over and help.

  “Got to clear the airway,” said the guard again. He extended two fingers and plunged them into his partner’s volcanic mouth.

  “No!” yelled R.

  Not a second passed before the afflicted officer slammed his teeth closed, tearing off both of his partner’s submerged digits.

  “Aaarrrgh” screamed the victim.

  The attacker, still blue, with eyes closed, shut his lips over the ingested fingers. R ran for the panic button and slammed it down.

  He heard running. They were heading toward the room.

  R staggered over to the door and opened it. Here came five or six attendants in lab coats.

  The cavalry, he thought, with the slightest sigh of relief.

  Then he looked beyond the stampeding herd.

  Another attendant, lab coat covered in blood, eyes wide and red, pupils white, teeth hammering, charged after them. Behind him, on the floor, was another of the helmeted guards in a thick pool of blood.

  They all blasted into the room, one of them tripping over V.

  Their attacker came, growling and hungry, through the doorway.

  Thud.

  Down he went, to the sound of the slamming trunk.

  Dr. R had swung the extinguisher again.

  He looked down at his second manic conquest.

  “Insert catch phrase here, motherfucker.”

  LAS VEGAS

  The Love Chapel. The Forever Chapel. Chapel in the Clouds. The TCB Chapel.

  The brochures were scattered across the dashboard. Rob had another in his hands as he sat behind the wheel of his car. Cash was beside him, as the sun set behind the motel. While Rob studied the pamphlet, his girlfriend gazed out the window at Teresa, who stood with Paul, beside his bike, in the motel parking lot.

  Cash was sure she was about to witness their first kiss. She had also already become accustomed to the sound of passenger jets floating down over the motel on their way to McCarran Airport. A majestic Southwest Boeing 737 appeared, landing gear down. Despite her fear of airplanes, it felt comforting. She had heard about how, before the flyover, there’d be an almost non-stop lineup of planes in that flight path. At night, one could see their lights, one behind the other, all perfectly spaced, as far as vision would permit, ready to land in Las Vegas. Now, it was just the occasional descent, carrying those brave enough to fly. Some passengers were returning to their families—yes, people do live in and around Vegas. Others were coming for what they believed to be a final fling, tossing their fears and money to the wind before—as they saw it—the end of the world.

  “These are cheesy,” grumbled Rob, tossing the brochure aside. “Not good enough.”

  The Southwest jet was directly overhead, engines roaring, when Cash watched her best friend receive her first kiss from Paul.

  “Aww,” she sighed, not realizing that she’d verbalized her thought.

  Rob peered through the window to witness the end of the kiss.

  “Well, John G is still the best man,” he said. “Even if T is now with this guy.”

  At the far side of the parking lot, behind Teresa and Paul, Rob spotted the hooded teens. There were only two of them this time. They were staring, either at the kissing couple or at Paul’s red Harley. Rob knew a lot about cars but was no expert on motorcycles. He did know, however, that the CVO Road Glide Ultra that Paul Bhong rode was not cheap. The guy had a bohemian attitude but owned a pricey ride. It was one of the reasons why Rob wasn’t ready to trust him.

  The kissing couple began to walk toward the old Malibu sedan. Cash gave her lifelong friend a smile through the open car window. Teresa knew what that meant.

  “Room service is on me,” said Paul, as his fingers intertwined with T’s. “I’ve been invited to dinner in your room . . . if that’s okay.”

  “Of course,” grinned Cash. “But not sure if room service . . . ”

  “Busting chops,” replied Paul. “There’s a bad ass chicken joint nearby, and they deliver!”

  Cash turned to Rob, “Dipping sauces!” she yelled with a smile, as she tapped a hand on the dashboard. Some of the brochures slid off and fell to the floor of the Chevy. Rob began to retrieve them, more quickly than what might be expected.

  “Hey, Paul,” he said loudly, without looking up from his retrieval mission, “not sure I’d leave that nice bike of yours unattended here.”

  “Oh, it’ll be fine. You’ve parked that classic car here without incident, right?”

  “I guess, but those kids over there have been eyeballin’ your Harley.”

  “Hmmm,” said Paul, as he let go of Teresa’s hand and headed slowly toward the hoodies.

  “Crap,” sighed Teresa. “I am so tired of drama. Why did you have to say that, Rob?”

  “I just didn’t want the guy’s bike stolen or vandalized.”

  “Those kids are just chillin’,” said Cash. “They haven’t done anything.”

  “They’re always watching,” replied Rob. “Why the hell are they always in this parking lot?”

  Paul reached the kids. They stood defiantly; arms folded. Rob half-expected a fight, so he opened his car door out of a sense of obligation. Paul’s back was to the Chevy, his arms to his side. He raised one arm and pointed, half-heartedly, toward his motorcycle. When he lowered his arm, both kids bolted from the parking lot, full speed. They never looked back.

  Paul took a moment before he turned around. Cash grabbed onto Rob’s forearm, as the worst of thoughts overtook her.

  Was Paul changing into . . . ?

  “T,” she whispered to her friend, who remained outside, “get in the car.”

  As Teresa took a step toward the Chevy, Paul turned to face them.

  He smiled.

  “South Korea up in this bitch.”

  Three collective exhales.

  Bird shit covered the railing, so Rob kept his hand off of it as the group headed toward their second-floor room. He still couldn’t figure what Paul may have said to send those kids running, and the biker had brushed off each question with a one liner. Still, it was comforting to gaze down at the lot and feel a little better about the safety of his vintage Malibu. Further comfort was provided by the stolen police gun stuffed down the back of his pants.

  “Does that place have any grilled chicken, or is it just fried?” asked Cash.

  “Hmmm,” answered Paul, “I’d consume Rob’s ball sack if it came from a deep fryer, so you’re asking the wrong dude. I’ll ask when we call.”

  “Wait. Shhhh,” whispered Teresa. “We’re coming up to room 29. This is the one we told you about, Paul.”

  “Ah, where Rob almost had a cage match with Flagpole Dick.”
>
  “Shhhh, let’s listen,” hushed T.

  Rob wanted no part of the fun. Plus, the room was dead quiet.

  “They’re probably out. We’re the only losers in Vegas who’ll be in our rooms this early,” he said. He checked the railing behind him for droppings, and seeing almost none, leaned back against it while the others listened for raucous sex.

  There they were, the four of them. Rob against the metal rail, Teresa and Paul just to the right of the door to room 29, and Cash over to the left, beside the long horizontal window—all three of them desperately hoping to hear a grunt, moan, or salacious exclamation.

  Let them have a laugh, thought Rob. They’ve seen enough hell already.

  He allowed his attention to take him to the sky. He’d heard that engine sound again and assumed a big passenger jet would be coming into view any second, from over the roof of the motel. He thought of the people on the plane, as he watched his girlfriend smiling from beside the long window.

  Keep on living.

  The engine sound was especially loud now, more thunderous than any he’d heard before. It was enough to draw the attention of his friends away from room 29.

  This jet came in from a slightly different angle, at a much higher altitude, and there was another beside it. F-35 military fighters. Rob knew Nellis Air Force Base was nearby, but rather than the comfort brought by the passenger planes, this sight alarmed him.

  He wondered what use they might be against an enemy that we are not intent on killing. That’s when the first piece of glass hit him.

  It all came at once. The glass, the noise, and the horror.

  A naked body had flown through the window of room 29. The large, chiseled, black man landed at Rob’s feet. His eyes were wide, mouth agape. His neck had been torn apart. The legendary penis—the topic of many a recent tale—was gone. Looked like some novice attempt at sausage-making: blood, skin, and bits of dangling meat.

  Rob’s first thought was to check for signs of life, but he quickly abandoned that and went straight for Cash. She was frozen, as were Teresa and Paul.

  He had his arms around his girl when he saw the leg step through the shattered window. It was sliced open by a shard of glass that remained in the frame. The limb was slight and tanned.