Clone three the clone ch.., p.1
Clone Three (The Clone Chronicles Book 1), page 1
Clone Three
Book One: 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
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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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
I open my eyes. It’s the first thing I think to do. The world is tilted sideways, the angles all wrong. I turn my head, feel hard, thin metal behind me, hear it bend and warble as I move. My whole body is limp, useless for the time being. Where am I? What is this place? The walls used to be blue, now coated in crusts of mold and running rust like an old disease left to fester.
On my left, what remains of a toilet bowl, the top smashed, jutting jaws of jagged porcelain teeth aimed at the ceiling. One single, flickering fluorescent bulb dangles overhead, swinging softly back and forth from the wires holding it suspended just past the dented frame.
A bathroom stall? The floor is icy cold under me, my fingers registering the stickiness of old traffic and a film of moisture left behind.
There, opposite where I half-lie, half-sit, my back propped against the wall of the stall, I see something waver at eye level, a hologram of some kind, projected onto the pitted and angry metal.
A man’s face. Do I know it? I feel I should know him, from somewhere. I’m just not sure where.
“Clone Three.” His voice is a softly echoing sound, volume and pitch altering as he speaks, as if over a great distance. “Pay attention, dear. Final instructions.”
Is he talking to me? He must be. His eyes seem to be meeting mine, he looks at me with great expectation. And yet as I lie here and begin to regain sensation and control, I realize I not only have no idea where I am, I haven't a clue what I’m doing here.
Who am I? Clone Three. Is that me?
“Not again.” His face isn’t angry. Why did I fear he would be angry? Instead, even through the unclear and twitching image, I see his desperate concern.
“What’s happening?” The view seems to widen as a woman’s face joins him. I’m smiling suddenly. I know her, and very well. She’s tied to my heart, isn’t she?
Isn’t she?
My smile fades as her own worry reaches me. “Clone Three,” she says, her voice calling to me as much as her words. “Please, you must listen.”
“It’s useless.” The man sags. “She was our final hope. There is no more.”
She ignores him, focused on me. I’m happy she’s still there. I’m worried myself. What if she leaves me? And why does the idea of that make me feel so afraid?
“It’s going to be all right,” she says, smiling. I smile back. Yes, this is better. This is right. “You just need to listen carefully to what I say.”
I listen with every cell in my body, every single thread of my being, because she's asked it of me.
“This is so hard.” She looks at the man. “We have no idea how much she remembers.”
“We are lost. We’ve failed.” He turns away from her, leaves the image. She sighs and meets my eyes again.
Distress makes my body shake. I want to reach for her, feel my fingers twitch in response. My body is coming (back?) to life.
“Don’t listen to him,” she says. “Just to me. You must find the others. Do you hear me? Clone Two and Clone One. It’s imperative you find them. Do you understand?”
I nod. My head and neck seem to work just fine.
“You’ll know them,” she says. “Just trust me.”
I do. With everything.
Her image begins to crackle, waver, breaking up. A soft grunting whine escapes me as my fingertips scrabble on the dirty floor, my mind reaching for her as my body tries to obey.
She is speaking, but her words are garbled, cut into bits and bites, and I cannot understand her. A film covers my vision, the blur disappearing as something wet runs down my cheek.
I’m crying.
She looks afraid, so afraid, and she is reaching for me too. She finally points at me, then at herself and her image fades. In her place is the vision of a statue, a tall woman, mottled green, holding a book and a torch, crowned in thorns.
It too fades, softly, shrinking until it flickers once like the flame of a candle and goes out.
***
Chapter Two
The tears continue to flow as I lie there, struggling to understand. I’m alone again. The woman is gone. My heart has left me and I am lonely.
One of my knees jerks in protest to that understanding. My body is wakening faster now. I am able to lift my hands and look at them, if only for a moment. The muscles feel atrophied, as if I’d been lying here an eternity, like I've never known movement.
My fingers are long and thin, my skin pale. Veins run across the backs, bones and tendons as I flex them to watch them move. I’m fascinated by myself, though I know it’s foolish. I’ve seen this before.
Why does it feel like the first time?
The stall wall makes a loud metallic protest as I lean forward. My fingers press against it as I use it to rise, wobbling and weak, to my feet. The boots I wear feel heavy, the soles an inch thick with sturdy treads. My jeans are also rugged, camo green jacket as well. Someone has dressed me carefully.
I’m sure I had nothing to do with it.
By the time I’m able to exit the stall, my body is much more stable. A few steps take me to the dilapidated counter. One end has detached from the wall, the sinks hanging from their pipes. A quarter of a mirror remains in the frame, if not completely intact, and I pause, drawn in by the reflection. The edges of the glass are spider-webbed with cracks, throwing back odd images of my hands and the shoulders of my jacket. I tilt my head to the side, enough to fit my face into the one small square of unbroken mirror.
I have dark brown eyes. And dark brown hair. It’s long, in a ponytail. Everything else about me is unremarkable. Who am I? I know my face. But I don’t know who I am.
It isn’t until I drop my eyes, head tilting back that I feel a thrill of recognition. I look back again, eyes searching for the flicker of memory as my face, now cut apart in the broken glass, stares back at me.
I understand in a moment. My face. I know it. But it’s not just my face.
It’s her face. The woman from the image, my heart. I have her face, if a much younger version of it.
Is she my mother?
I shudder all over, muscles protesting, aching for a moment before full control returns. I’m suddenly strong, feeling recovered. A deep breath expands my lungs, exits in a rush.
Now what? She told me to find them. Clone Two. Clone One. And I am Clone Three. What does that mean, clone? Are they my friends? My sisters? She said I would know them.
But how to find them? Indecision holds me tight. I stand in place, surrounded by old destruction, trying to decide what to do. My eyes fix on the door. It’s mostly off its hinges, hanging to one side. A dark space beyond. I feel safe here, uncertain but unwilling to move.
Except she expects it of me. And I can’t let her down.
Stumbling at first, from nervousness this time, I make my way to the door and peer out into what seems to be a hallway. Left, more black. Right, what looks like a glimmer of light. My hand rests on the door jam, fingers locking on the rusting metal. I brush it away, watching the flakes fall to the floor, feeling the sting as one scratches me. A tiny pink line on my palm. No blood.
I think that’s probably a good thing.
It’s easy to step over the corner of the door, at least physically. I clasp my shaking hands together as I pause in the darkness on the other side. The light from the bathroom calls me back, but I resist. I have a job to do. Maybe the two I seek are only down this hallway. The idea of seeing the woman again is enough to drive me forward.
I choose the direction offering some light. It’s faint, a gray, cold tinted brightness, but grows stronger the further I progress. A patch of it shines across the hallway and, as I draw closer, I realize it’s coming through a small, square window.
A heavy door, much like the one to the bathroom, guards the way. Only this time it’s intact. Something catches my eye. I turn and look across the hallway, to the opposite wall. There hangs a sheet of paper. It used to be red, I think, but now is faded pink in spots. Someone drew on it with a marker. I come closer to it, fingers brushing over the turned up edges.
Stick figures. A girl maybe, what looks like a dog. Two taller people, one with long hair. Mom and Dad? And a box with a triangle on top. Swirling lines out of what has to be a chimney.
The words, so faint, but
Home Sweet Home.
I back away, feeling my throat tighten. Why? I don’t know. Only that this makes me horribly sad and want to collapse to the floor, hug my knees and sob. Confusion wars with frustration. I tear my gaze from the image and go back to the door with the window. It’s crusted with dust, I can’t see through it, but the light is enough of a temptation. My fingers find the flat handle and I push down.
The door swings inward. I follow it, letting go as I drift into the room. It’s so quiet. At least the bulb in the bathroom buzzed softly. Here there is nothing, just dead air stinking of mold and age and the absolute silence of being alone.
The room is full of debris, but I ignore it for now. Three large plate windows look outside. I rush toward them, craving the view, to see the outdoors. Other people. Other places. To know I’m not alone.
The glass is cold when I press against it and I have to use the cuff of my jacket to clear away some of the dust. I’m expecting a certain view, though I have no idea why or from where my expectation feeds. But what I see sends a shock through me so powerful I almost crumple again.
This can’t be right. The emptiness. The burned out and rusted cars in the cracked and buckling parking lot. Grass and weeds grow through, a huge patch in the center tipped over where a tree has grown. The sky is heavy, gray, darkening by the moment, the glow of it fading. Night time? Perhaps.
The street beyond is just as horrible. It seems packed with debris in places, the surrounding buildings crumbling. I’m amazed as I look out how these three windows I peer from remain intact. Others I observe across the street and, as I lean closer, glancing right and left, in this very building are mostly broken, glass gone completely.
For a moment my mind leaves me, wandering elsewhere. To a sunny street, a green park, laughing people, the chime of an ice cream truck—what is ice cream?—and the warmth of the sun. The gray wins, the falling night crushing my memory and leaving me shaking, breath fogging the dirty glass, looking out over a world I know nothing about.
I back away from the window, heart speeding up, hands clenching into fists as I struggle to control my breathing. I stumble over a desk. Yes, it’s a desk. With a heart carved in the top of it, old and fragile, bits of wood and Formica splintering away. A + M. How sweet. How charming.
It makes me want to throw up.
My gaze lifts, settles on the far wall. A sheet of black covers it, a silver shelf beneath now tarnished, though untouched by whatever disaster has fallen here. A blackboard. So this is a school.
A school has kids in it. Children come to school to learn, don’t they? I shake my head, clutching it in my hands. I know so many things, much here is familiar. And yet the most important details are gone, lost to me.
The frustration is incredible. Anger rises behind it. I lash out with one boot, kicking the dying heart from the crumbling table and watch in horror as it spins off to crash into a pile of others.
I sob once, but still it quickly. There is no time to feel sorry for myself. She has pinned her hopes on me. Her needs. And if the rest of the world looks like this now, so very wrong, I must be here to make it right.
The hall is darker than before. The sun is almost down behind the bank of gray. My sight is failing in the dark. I must get outside before I’m trapped in here. That thought makes me twitch.
Someone screams. It’s a distant sound, echoing and impossibly far away. But it’s a sound. Was it a scream for help or merely a shout of some kind? Irrelevant. This is the first offer of contact I’ve had. I’m not alone. And that makes me feel immensely better.
Perhaps whoever it is will know what she wants me to do. And I won’t be alone anymore.
I turn and follow the sound, deeper into the darkness.
***
Chapter Three
I find stairs and descend one floor. It’s a slow descent. They are slippery with fungus and covered in debris, but I manage at last, reaching the bottom and the faint light of a far-off bulb. It beckons me onward and I oblige.
More voices, talking, laughing. My heart lifts. Who could it be? I don’t care, nor do I feel a need for caution. I am so grateful there are others here. Maybe they can tell me what is going on.
I enter another classroom, the door gaping wide already, my mind observing even as I stride forward to greet the others. Four of them, three taller and stronger, all above the smallest, crouched in a corner while they shout and laugh at him.
A boot draws back. My footfalls stutter. The boot surges forward into the small boy’s thigh. My forward motion halts. He cries out in pain. I stare, overwhelmed with anger and fear.
His eyes meet mine. I want to help him, to protect him, but he has no desire for either. He points at me, lip curling in a snarl.
“A girl!”
The boys turn. All boys, these lumbering bullies. Dirty, disheveled, but achingly young. Like I know I am young. Teenagers, no more. Each of them looks at me like I’m a prize, some present they’d forgotten to open. The youngest, smallest joins them as they start to move toward me. The door is behind me, I can walk away easily, but can’t bring myself to leave.
They must have answers.
“Can you tell me what happened?” I try to watch them all as they grin at me, one circling slowly behind, now between myself and the door. “Can you tell me where everyone is?”
One of them sucks back, nose vibrating from the pressure before spitting a large, shining wad on the filthy tile. “Ain’t no one here but us, sweets.”
I’m surrounded now. What are they doing? My first real fear for my own safety surfaces. The moment I realize I am at risk, I become suddenly aware of their breathing, the feel of the floor under my boots, time softly slowing as I observe them. I draw a breath and hold it for a long moment as my body relaxes.
“You’re going to be so fun,” another says, voice high for his size. One of his eyes squints almost shut, the pupil looking off in its own direction.
“Shut up,” the first says. “I saw her first. She’s mine.”
The little one sneaks forward, dodging a fist thrown his way as he does. “I saw her first,” he says. “So she’s mine.”
“Cade will be really mad.” The third seems nervous even through his eagerness. As they talk, my mind turns over and over images of what they intend to do to me. I remember enough, it seems.
And I’m unwilling to allow them to harm me.
I feel the lurker behind me move, in the way his breathing changes, in how his body stills just before he pounces. High Voice lunges forward, far too slow for his own good.
Far too slow to catch me.
I slide sideways, catch one of his grasping hands and pull with all my strength. He is off balance already from his aggressive lunge, the added momentum of my full body weight propelling him forward. He cries out as he crashes into the others, taking out the small one and the nervous one on his way by, tumbling painfully into a pile of ruined desks and chairs.
I see the fury in the first one’s eyes and know I could stay, fight, win. But the others are already rising and the doorway behind me is empty.
Running feels foreign at first, all feet and knees and tangling legs, until I catch my stride and I’m flying. I leap and bound over obstacles, the rush of air passing my face, the pounding of my feet solid and powerful. I hear them chasing me, falling behind, yelling and panting and desperate. Pathetic. They are lucky I chose to run.
The stairs force me to slow until I find the handrail and use it to slide, my hip just fitting on the edge. I land hard on the bottom of the first flight, twisting my ankle. The sudden surge of pain is unexpected and makes me pause, but only a moment. They are not going to let me escape so easily.
Another flight of stairs, this one with a window. I’m still up one flight, so its gaping emptiness offers nothing in the way of escape. But my way is blocked now, the hallways on the lower floors stocked with junk, torn out banks of lockers and piled up furniture. I stop at the bottom of the stairs, looking left and right, knowing I’m running out of time. They know this place, they must, and they’ve stopped yelling. I know they’re coming behind me with their own brand of stealth.
They think they’ve cornered me. Perhaps they are right. I must make my own exit.
