Clone One Read online

  Clone One

  Book Three of The Clone Chronicles

  Patti Larsen

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright 2012 by Patti Larsen

  Purely Paranormal Press

  www.purelyparanormalpress.com

  Find out more about Patti Larsen at

  http://www.pattilarsen.com/

  and her newsletter

  http://smarturl.it/PattiLarsenEmail

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  Kindle Edition, License Notes

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  Cover art (copyright) by Valerie Bellamy. All rights reserved.

  http://www.dog-earbookdesign.com/

  Edited by Annetta Ribken, freelance Goddess. You can find her at http://www.wordwebbing.com/

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  Chapter One

  The leather seat beneath me smells faintly of mildew, but I can't seem to bring myself to get up to escape it. A heavy, cloying lethargy has settled around me, from the moment I walked away from the train, from my friends.

  From Beckett.

  My clone sister, Duet, hums softly to herself, almost bouncing she's so happy as she toys with the engine of the SUV in which I now sit. My head will barely lift from the padded rest, eyes heavy, heartbeat slowed so much I can barely feel it.

  Is this real grief? Depression? It feels that way, as though a black cloak of apathy wraps itself around me, squeezing and squeezing until it's an effort to draw breath. But I am unable to cry. How odd that feels. Perhaps if I could, if the tears would flow, I'd break free of what holds me.

  But the tears won't come, refuse to rise, to well, to spill. I feel like my heart has abandoned me.

  Or, more aptly, I've abandoned it.

  It's still so hard to believe. We've left the others, abruptly, in a fit of passion-fed anger. Duet and I walked for only a mile or so further down the track, myself stomping with each step to hide the terrible grief rising inside me, she whistling and humming as though this was exactly the way things should be.

  I walked away from the train and the only people in this horrible, broken world I care about, besides my equally broken sister. And I'm wondering if I'll ever be able to forgive myself.

  The town appeared quickly, a squat and empty place barely registering on the horizon. Duet seemed immediately delighted by the gas station on the edge of civilization, jerking open the hood of the large black former luxury car where I now hide, the sound of rusted metal grinding as she hoisted the heavy panel carrying it for what seemed like miles.

  It's been over an hour but I can't bring myself to explore, though I know I'll need to eventually. I managed to scavenge some food before we left, just shortly after I discovered my friends in secret talks with the crew of the train. Chime hates me and has wanted me out of her life since we met. Shown their duplicity by Brick, the one person I've been unable to bring myself to trust, considering his connection with the insane Cade and the Crawlers who pursue me. He guided me to the place where my friends pondered my fate without me. And looked guilty when I confronted them.

  How could it be the person I thought the enemy could have been the only truthful one on the entire train? My mind still refuses to believe and I have no doubt, even now, there was some kind of agenda behind Brick's actions.

  I can't deal with the thought of him now. Not now. Not while the tightness in my chest makes it hard to breathe and the dusty, musty smell of old leather chokes me as surely as though I had my own hands around my throat.

  What have I done?

  Focus. I need to focus. We have to have supplies if Duet and I are going to make it across the rest of the continent. But I know what I've taken will not be enough, and I need to find more if we are to survive the last leg of our journey to New York City and our task.

  At least I'm not the only one of my sisters chasing that task now, not alone in my quest now that Duet is with me. My task, the one I woke with, the only part of my memory remaining when I found myself in this desolate and dying world, still drives me, as it drives my sister. It's a small comfort having her with me, considering how far I've already come with my new friends.

  Friends no longer. Should I have been so quick to judge? I'd been looking for a reason to leave them behind, to put them out of harm's way. Perhaps this was simply the excuse I needed. But my regret is real and I ask myself, as I sit there in the heat of the car's interior, what would have happened if I'd just listened, just asked my friends why they were with Chime? If they really believe I'm dangerous. That my sister is dangerous.

  Then again, remembering the guilt on their faces, I wouldn't have been able to accept the answers, knowing how damaged Duet is.

  An image invades my melancholy. The statue, the guide who leads me on, looms in my mind, her cold green face expressionless, and I imagine she's as harsh as the spikes on her crown, as terrible as the false fire burning in her torch, as logical as the book she holds in her open hand. Surely she would never fall so far down into the darkness, would stand tall no matter her circumstances and is judging me even now for failing her.

  If only I knew more of what I had to do. Maybe then I could make sense of this, even of Beckett's imagined betrayal. The feelings I have for him are more familiar than ever, as much as my recognition of Poppy. I'm sure I've known both of them before, somewhere, somehow.

  But I can't remember, have struggled with this for days now, since I woke in that dank and decaying school bathroom, lost and alone. Pursued, hunted. Until I met Poppy.

  And everything changed.

  My throat tightens at last. Are they rising then, my tears? Will I finally be able to shed this loss, to shake free of it? Of my grief for Socrates, my brilliant young friend. Of Vander and his kind heart. The dear puppies I rescued who thrive and live because of the golden lab and his faith in me after I saved him.

  The last time I sank into despair, I wasn't alone, not like this. I was on the train, with access to them, to their kindness and their smiles if I needed them. To the press of a heavy fur body against my leg, deep, dark eyes watching me, wet nose and tongue eager to show me how much I am loved.

  Most of all, even more than Beckett, I grieve for the loss of the dog's faithful presence.

  My vision wavers, tears flowing at last at the thought of my dear companion with his back turned, face pressed into Beckett's legs so he didn't have to watch me leave. My amazing, intelligent friend finally grants the release I need, even in his absence taking care of me. The pressure rises, choking, closing my throat so I have to lean forward, forehead pressed to the round of the wheel as I sob silently into the warm cab of the SUV. I clutch the leather-bound steering wheel as though it can save me, keep me safe, but nothing helps, nothing.

  But the sobbing. When I'm done at last, as my body heaves out the final bitterness of my longing, I look up, wiping my face on my sleeve to see Duet staring through the windshield.

  She's smiling like she has no idea what I'm going through. I know she doesn't. My half-cyborg sister, saved by the Teks in body but not in mind, can't comprehend at the best of times. She seems to be lacking anything resembling empathy, and it’s not her fault, but I still feel a surge of anger at her for being so damned cheerful.

  “Trio.” I manage to wave a little as she says my name. “Perfect car.” She hops up and down on the balls of her feet before performing a spin. “Perfect.”

  “That's great,
Duet,” I say, leaning back. At least the weight holding me down is gone and I no longer feel the need to stay here, to hide. The crying has tired me out, eyes burning from the tears, throat aching, but I feel oddly refreshed and ready to do something. Anything but sit here any longer.

  Perhaps my need to act is simply another form of hiding from the truth, but I'll take it over what I've just lived.

  As I slide free of the driver's seat, Duet comes to me and hugs me, the warmth of her metal parts as real as the smooth, softness of her human skin. I close my eyes and imagine we're both whole again.

  It's harder than I thought.

  “So much better now,” she whispers in my ear. “Me and you, Trio.”

  I can't contain my sigh, eyes opening, no longer adrift in what my lost memories assure me once was. And yet, something, someone, remains missing, adrift from us. Clone One.

  Duet pulls away, frown gradually translating from her human side to the metal half of her face, like slow, cold molasses spreading across a piece of toast.

  “Poppy.” She sighs too, her mind not on our lost clone sister, but the girl I’ve loved from the moment she saved me. “The puppies.”

  I nod, more tears threatening. How can I not be out of tears by now? “I miss them,” I say. “But they are with Beckett. On the train.” I stay rooted on the spot physically, but my heart is suddenly racing back the way we came, trying to return to the others. It hurts I have to rein it in so sharply.

  I've made my choice. Time to live with it.

  Duet makes a face, full of anger, her glowing green eye flashing as her Tek blood surges in answer. “Keep you safe,” Duet says. “Go see Mother.” She hesitates. “Clone One.”

  I squeeze her human hand, wondering why Duet scowls so when she speaks of our lost sister. I have no memory, not even a vague feeling of her. Does Duet know something I don’t? But no, she’s simply broken.

  “That's right,” I say. “The task. Clone One. This will all be over soon.” I hope. I'm guessing. With no clear idea as to what I'm supposed to do when I reach New York, I can only imagine something will happen to show me the way. But at least then, with my task complete, I can put part of the ache inside me to rest.

  Duet's smile returns, radiant despite her deformed features half-cast in steel. “I'm almost done.” It's one of the few full sentences I've heard her pull together. “Then we go.”

  Which means I have work of my own to do. “I'll be back,” I say, turning from her toward town. “With supplies.” I manage a smile. “Then, yes. We go.”

  I leave her happily singing over the mess under the SUV's hood, trusting she knows what she's doing, and head into town.

  ***

  Chapter Two

  The town stretches out before me as I cross the road from the gas station and enter the edge of habitation. I'm careful, eyes and ears alert, but it's clear to me as I make my way from street to debris littered street this place is abandoned. No Howls, stricken by the Sick and turned into half animals who consume the flesh of others shuffle in a pack from around a corner to attack me. No Shambles, the half-dead, zombie-like creatures who stink of decay, peer from behind dusty, dark windows. And no Brights either, though it's daylight and the vampirish incarnation of the illness destroying the world's population makes them photosensitive and less likely to appear when the sun is up.

  Which means I'm truly alone in this place once filled with life. Peeling siding from large two-stories hangs like chunks of skin under windows still framed inside with quiet drapes. Cars are parked in placid death, neat and tidy in heaving driveways lined with weed-choked plots that must once have been flowerbeds. It's horrifying, actually. I'm so accustomed to the surrounds filled with others, the sense I'm being watched, followed even. But here there is nothing, no one, and the stark emptiness makes me shudder.

  I need to get off the street before this quiet drives me mad, aiming for a house with the front door hanging from one hinge. It used to be red, chips of the once cheery color scattered over the concrete step, iron railing rusting heavily, orange blobs darkening the cracked cement. I hesitate at the threshold, listening, waiting for something, anything to stir inside. But the house is completely silent.

  The cool interior offers a shelter of sorts as I stand in the short hallway and stare at the silent world I've found myself in, all warped wallpaper and wooden flooring long twisted by the elements. But I can see beyond what is to what had been, the image of a bright and cheery entry with a polished wooden side board and a deep-seated chair just waiting for someone to sit and remove their shoes.

  This is as good a place to search as any, though I know I'm only here because I can no longer take the solitude. I follow the hall, boots making dull sounds on the damaged hardwood, my fingers trailing over the bubbled remains of drywall. It opens on the left, to a large living room. I'm slightly shocked to see this room has been preserved, untouched by the elements. Still intact, though covered in dust, as though the family who lived here left everything behind.

  How strange to see such ordinariness covered in a layer of pale gray, but undamaged, pristine. The front door must have given way on its own, not a sign of violence but a natural collapse with time. Could it be no one in this town survived at all or, if they did, they moved on before their new natures could destroy what the old world erected? It would seem this family, at least, had no warning, nor did they have time to destroy in their illness what was built when they were healthy. I have no answers, though I'm used to being in the dark about such things.

  I'm not sure what attracts me so much about this room. The large television's face curves under my hand as I sweep away the layer of grime. Cushions feel stiff under my touch, the large couch still springy as I sit and gently bounce on it. Coughing from the dust I've raised, I rise and head for a book shelf, eyes drawn to the same red as the door, as though the crimson shade can offer answers somehow.

  My hands pull free the large book, breath blowing the sediment of years from the cover. Curious, I ease it open, the thick fabric of the surface grainy in my hands. My heart falters a moment as I peer inside at the frozen images it contains. Mom. Dad. Baby in pink blanket. Baby aging as I turn the pages, growing up, a freckle-faced girl with lovely red hair on a swing, gap-toothed smile in front of a Christmas tree, joined by a boy half her age. Time passes with the flipping of pages, the progression of photos.

  Until they just stop. Over. Done. A blank white sheet, the thin film of plastic holding the pictures down crisp and untouched, waiting for their lives to continue.

  I carefully put the photo album back and leave the room before I start crying again.

  Their kitchen is well-stocked at least, cupboards full of cans of food. I even find a working can opener, grateful I won't have to rely on Beckett's pocketknife to open the cans any longer. I jerk free of thoughts of him, of his blue eyes and the way his skin feels, in favor of jamming as much food as I can into a cloth shopping bag I find hidden under the sink. The fabric is aged, but still durable.

  Why do I feel like I'm stealing? An intruder taking the things this family needs? But that's not the case, it's just my unsettled memories tied to a conscience I barely understand. They are gone, lost, dead long ago to an illness I don't remember in the life I used to know.

  While my memories aren't intact, I'm certain I'm right. The world isn't supposed to be like this, falling apart while the remains of humanity struggle to either survive or kill each other. Something is horribly wrong and, not for the first time, I wonder if the people who sent me here, wherever this here might be, are responsible.

  That I'm responsible.

  Three plastic bottles, the caps still uncracked, sit in the refrigerator, stench of decaying food long gone. They slide into the bag with the cans and the opener. I sling the straps over my shoulder, spot another door and continue my examination of this house.

  If others are as well equipped, we won't be short of supplies at least.

  A car sits on the concrete pad inside
, sunlight making it through the dusty window on the far side of the garage. I walk down the two steps, pause, look around. This vehicle seems well preserved and I wonder if I should go for Duet. I decide to lead her here if the one she's working on fails us.

  Nothing else catches my attention and I'm about to leave when I spot a large wooden case under an old plastic sheet. Curiosity draws me to it. The lock gives way under a sharp blow from the crowbar I find standing against it, the crusted metal crashing to the floor to bounce under the front of the car. I heave the length of steel aside and pull the two wooden doors open.

  Whoever lived here was a hunter, but not with rifles. A crossbow hangs inside, a large quiver full of bolts next to it.

  For a moment I consider. I could use it to hunt game, for food. But I shudder from that, remembering Beckett and the buck he took down, how I was so sure and still am animals caught the Sick too, and it made them smarter, aware even.

  I can't hunt for food when I'm sure the creatures I'm killing are as intelligent as I am.

  When I emerge from the house, going back the way I came, refusing to look into the abandoned living room again, at the red book full of old life, I'm weighted down with food, but my heart is lighter.

  Until I hear it. The far off sound I know intimately, the chug-chug-chug of the train.

  They've cleared the trees away, at last, the barrier holding them back. Are on the move again. Will be looking for a switchback so they can turn the train around. But in the meantime, I'm forced to stand there in the shadow of the house and watch as the locomotive steams its way toward town, a black line in the distance, rattling its way past, carrying my friends with it.

  It's done, then. They have gone without me. Any last hope this might end differently has moved on with the train.

  I tear my eyes from the red caboose as it rolls into the distance, carrying my findings to my sister.

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