He reached down and turned off the spotlight. Then he turned on the overhead lights. The fluorescents flickered to life, filling the room with their harsh light. DeVol gasped. Beneath his black mask, Carlson smiled. He could only imagine what went through the scientist’s mind as he saw the gleaming stainless steel lab tables, the high power microscopes, centrifuges…everything. A fully equipped, state of the art lab. It had cost Carlton a fortune, but he had many fortunes. If the doctor was able to produce what he said he could, then it was worth every penny.
He watched DeVol’s eyes as they darted about the room. The scientist’s mouth hung open.
“So, doctor, would you like to turn your work into reality, or should I kill you now?” Carlson asked.
The doctor’s lips quivered. His eyes were so wide, it was a wonder his eyeballs didn’t fall from his head and roll around on the floor. Finally the doctor closed his mouth and swallowed. He looked to Carlson.
Carlson still wore his death work uniform. The loose black pants and long-sleeved black shirt. He had purchased a hundred of them from a hundred different stores all over the country. All exactly alike. The same for his black gloves, his black shoes and the black nylon mask that covered his head and face. Underneath his clothes, he wore a black nylon bodystocking. It was a point of pride that forensic examination of his working areas had ever found a trace of him. He was smarter and better prepared than the stupid police.
He knew at some point Dr. Devol would see his face, touch his skin. It was inevitable if there was to be an army of Carlsons roaming the world, carrying out the important work of cleansing the planet of humanity.
But until then, he waited for DeVol’s answer.
The doctor swallowed and blinked. He licked his lips and looked to Carlson’s face.
“I choose to live,” he said.
Seven
The clones were so cute. Each one floated in clear, syrupy goo. Wires and tubes sprouted from every orifice and lead up to the top of the tanks. Carlson strolled down the line of glass cylinders. Dr. DeVol followed close behind. There was a sharp, almost vinegary scent in the air. The doctor had told him it was normal. Carlson was a little amused at his own reactions. He felt a warmth and protectiveness toward the baby clones. It was a fresh experience. And somewhat disturbing. Was this how parents felt for their little brats?
“What’s their relative age now?” Carlson asked. He still dressed in his death work uniform around DeVol. Eventually the doctor would see his face in the clones. But Carlson felt more comfortable dealing with him in uniform. It made things feel more official.
“Their physical ages are approximately five years,” DeVol said, “Actual age is three weeks.”
“Remarkable,” Carlson said, “How long until they reach adulthood.”
“Six more weeks,” DeVol said.
“And when will they have my memories?”
The doctor checked a readout on one of the tanks. “When they are decanted, they will need a certain amount of physical education to set their motor controls, a week or two. Then I will give them the RNA injection and use electrical stimulation to activate the memories. If it takes, then a few days to allow the memories to integrate and they will be ready for final instructions.”
“Excellent,” Carlson said, “What about the aging problem?”
DeVol rubbed his face. He looked tired. The good doctor had been spending long nights working. Carlson had fast forwarded through the monitoring videos to check the doctor’s honesty. DeVol seemed to have thrown himself into his work with a fevered intensity that made Carlson worry for the man’s health. The irony of it amused it. He wanted to kill the human race, but he wanted to save this one. For now, anyway.
“I have made progress on it,” DeVol said, “Though the clones will still age more rapidly than normal. I estimate their physical age will proceed at a five to one ratio once they are decanted. Which is better than the ten to one ratio I started with.”
“Five years for every one?” Carlson said.
DeVol nodded. “I think I am track to normalize it to a near one to one ratio, but it will take more time. If I had some assistance…”
“You know that isn’t possible doctor,” Carlson said, “But I am pleased with your work so far. Your genius will find the solution soon, I think.”
DeVol went to another tube and fiddled with the readouts. “This is not what I envisioned my work to be,” he said, “My vision was to help humanity, not become the end of it.”
“You will help rid the planet of a pestilence that is destroying it,” Carlson said, “You should be glad for the opportunity to make a difference.”
DeVol barked out a short, harsh laugh. “If I truly believed your plan would work, I would not help you,” he said, “I cannot possibly produce enough clones to do what you wish. It will not take long for them to start being caught. Eventually they will be traced back to…wherever this place is.”
Carlson took the scientist’s arm and pulled him close. “Doctor, I have been doing the work of death for many years. My harvest numbers in the thousands and the authorities have never come close to catching me.”
There was one exception to that, but he didn’t feel now was the time to speak of such things.
“If the clones you create have my knowledge and memories. If they are me, then they will not be caught.”
DeVol trembled under his grip, but his eyes were defiant.
“There are billions of people upon this world,” he said, “Surely you cannot expect to create so many clones. They would fill the world. How would you expect your clones to survive in countries that are foreign to you? Do you not think local authorities would be suspicious went a stranger shows up and people start disappearing? When they start turning up graves on every corner? Your wish is impossible. The governments of the world will wake up and track you down.”
Carlson let him go and patted the doctor’s shoulder. “You put too much faith in government,” he said, “They are willfully clueless. They would rather look for logical explanations that admit an army of death stalks them.”
“You are insane,” DeVol said.
Carlson shrugged. “By their definition,” he said, “But I am a savior. I am cleansing the world of its affliction, and you are the instrument of my great work. You should be honored.”
DeVol hung his head. “I should let you kill me. I should kill myself.”
“But you can’t,” Carlson said, “And I know why.”
DeVol wouldn’t look at him. Wouldn’t speak.
“Because the work is more important to you than your life,” Carlson said, “Your ego will not let you end your life. Perhaps you consider the result is evil, but you cannot turn away from the beauty that is the act of creating this army. Which some people might find insane also, doctor. Embrace your insanity. I cannot be stopped. I am death and soon, I shall be legion.”
Eight
The jumper in the back of her SUV smelled like dog shit. Which mean Harley’s SUV was going to smell like dog shit even after she dropped the jerk off at the station. Just her luck the guy landed in a pile of it when she took him down with her taser.
God, had it already been two years of this crap?
“Hey, I fucking got money,” the perp said, “I got so much fucking money I can set you up for life. I can tell you where it is.”
Harley rolled her eye. “You got so much money, why did I find you in the shittiest trailer court in town?”
“It’s my cover. You see, I’m actually a Saudi prince,” the guy said.
Harley checked the rearview. The guy was sitting up, pasty face and scraggly beard pressed up against the metal grate between her and the back seat.
“Dude, you’re so white, snow would look dirty beside you,” she said.
“I’m adopted. Come on, I can’t go back to jail.”
“Should have thought about that before you robbed those convenience stores,” Harley said.
“That wasn’t me. It was some
dude looked like me.”
Harley let out a long sigh. One of these days she was going to have enough money to have some thick plexiglass put in, so she didn’t have to hear these assholes whining all the way to the cop shop. The guy didn’t shut up the whole time. By the time she pulled into the station parking lot she was ready to shoot the guy. Too bad she’d lost her concealed weapons permit. The captain had taken pity on her and gotten the charges dropped for that one perp she’d shot in the leg. But he’d taken her gun license away.
“Come on, man, seriously, I can’t go back there,” the perp said. The guy was crying now, thick crocodile tears rolling down his cheeks.
“Suck it up, buttercup,” she said. She turned and gave him a glare. The guy shrank back from the metal screen. “Now, we’re going to walk like nice people, right? Otherwise my Taser is going up your ass. You comprehend?”
He gave a curt nod. Yeah, fat chance.
She got out and got in position to open the door. Her hand went around the Taser she kept in her coat pocket. She reached out and pulled the door open.
The perp exploded out of it, kicking the door and landing in a heap on the oil stained concrete. Harley stepped back. The door had just missed her. The Taser was already out of her pocket.
The perp rolled to his feet. His hands were cuffed behind him. Harley had spent the money to get the good ones. Not those toy pieces of crap most of the wannabes got.
The perp took two steps toward the street before the spikes from the Taser caught him. 50,000 volts shot down the wires and the guy went stiff, toppling like a dog shit stinking tree.
Harley gave him another jolt and he twitched and spasmed like a fish out of water. It was the best part of her day.
A couple uniforms came out of a squad car, hands on their guns. One of them was tall and beefy, familiar looking. Harley watched them from the corner of her eye. She gave the perp another jolt. A damp stain spread out on his crotch.
“Shit, Harley, what are you doing?” tall and beefy cop said. Hannigan. She thought he looked familiar.
“Subduing the perp,” she said.
The other cop, skinny and not tall, moved forward, hand still on his gun. “Lady, put the Taser down,” he said.
She turned her face to him. The young cop’s eyes widened as he got a full look at her eyepatch and the thick scar going down her cheek. She gave the kid a sweet smile, then gave the perp one more jolt. The guy moaned and sobbed. Drool ran out of his open mouth. A strong odor of urine and human excrement rose from him.
“Ma’am stop!” the kid said. He yanked his gun out of his holster.
The big cop put his hand on the other cop’s arm. “It’s okay, Smitty,” he said, “Harley, you know I oughta make you clean this guy up before we put him in the cooler.”
She popped the cartridges out of the Taser. They clattered to the concrete. “I got too much paperwork to do, you know that,” she said.
“Brutality,” the perp croaked.
“You better shut up before she gets mad,” Hannigan said.
The perp whimpered.
“Some things never change, do they?”
Harley stiffened, then turned around. Slow. She blinked. Walt Graves leaned back against a black SUV, arms folded in front of him. He had on a dark gray suit. Except it wasn’t Tuesday or Thursday. Wednesday should have been the dark blue. Some things did change.
He pulled off his black aviator sunglasses and gave her a grin. She restrained herself from running up and hugging him. Not in front of the uniforms. She put on a sour look and jammed her Taser back in her coat.
“You slumming or something, big shot FBI guy?” she asked.
“Yeah, something like that,” Graves said. The grin didn’t fade. He tucked the glasses inside his coat. “I need to talk to you.”
Harley nodded toward the perp. “Got paperwork to do,” she said, “Don’t get paid otherwise. Not on salary anymore, remember?”
Graves gave the two uniforms a look. “These officers will take care of it, won’t you?”
Hannigan pushed his cap up with his middle finger. “Fuck you, fibbie,” he said, “I’m not your errand boy.”
Graves eyes narrowed. “Seems like I did you a few favors, Hanngian,” he said, “About time you returned one.”
Hannigan’s face went red, but he gestured to his partner. “Come on, let’s get this piece of crap processed.”
The perp moaned and rolled over. “I got rights man,” he said.
“You got a right to have my boot up your ass if you don’t shut up,” Hannigan said.
“Why you people always talking ‘bout my ass?” the perp said.
Hanngian and the other cop yanked him to his feet and dragged him off. Hannigan gave Harley a hot look and she shrugged. What was she supposed to do? Graves opened the rear door of the black SUV and motioned to her. She shook her head.
"No thanks, I don't get into cars with strange men. Especially the back seat," she said. She could see two more stone-faced agents sitting in the front seats. They both wore matching wraparound sunglasses.
Graves rolled his eyes. “This isn’t a bust, Harley,” he said, “The government of the United States needs your help. I need your help.”
She fished a fresh Taser cartridge from her coat and pulled her Taser back out. She clicked it into place.
“What’s in it for me?” she asked.
Graves bared his teeth in a cold smile. “The Reaper,” he said.
Nine
Harley wouldn’t get into the SUV with Graves, but agreed to follow him in her own ratty SUV to the local FBI office. He took her to what he called a secure situation room–which looked a lot like an ordinary conference room without windows. There was a long, fake wood table surrounded by fake leather office chairs. At one end of the beige colored room was a big flatscreen TV. The room smelled, of course, like coffee. Her stomach twisted, from more than just the smell. She wiped sweaty palms on her jeans. The stump of her leg ached and she got phantom tingles from her long lost toes.
The Reaper.
Her mouth was dry, her heart beat fast. She pretended to be bored, pulling out one of the fake leather chairs and dropping her butt on it. She raised her fake leg and let it thump on the table. Graves’ eyes passed over it, moving away fast. Did he still feel guilty?
He moved to the chair opposite and sat. He had a computer tablet in his hand and put it on the table. Gently.
“Paper too good for you boys?” she asked.
He shrugged, face blank. Wasn’t going to get a rise out of him that way.
“It is what it is,” he said.
He fiddled with the screen. Suddenly the flat screen on the wall flared to life, a big, blue FBI logo on it. Harley didn’t try to hide her annoyance.
“You’re not going to give me a slide show are you?” she said, “I hate those things. Just tell me what the hell you want so I can go home.”
“Home? You’re not going to stop by the bar first?” Graves asked. He had a sly grin.
Did he know? Had the little jerk been keeping tabs on her?
“I’m on hiatus from booze,” she said, “Just taking a little break.”
“How’s that working for you?”
“Go fuck yourself,” she said, “Now get to the point, or I’m leaving.”
The asshole laughed. Actually laughed. Heat rose in Harley’s cheeks. She would have yanked the Taser out of her coat and let him have it, except he made her leave it in her SUV.
“You and I both know you’re not going anywhere as long as I have something on the Reaper,” he said.
“Fuck you,” she said.
But she didn't stand up. She didn't limp out of the room, out the building and back to her dog shit stinking SUV. Back to the shitty life of skip tracing and watching TV in her cluttered one-bedroom apartment that she never found the time or energy to clean.
“So what the hell you got? And why do I have to be here?” she asked.
Graves fiddled with the t
ablet. On the big screen TV, some old fart who looked like Einstein with a goatee appeared.
“Do you know who this man is?” Graves asked.
Harley rolled her eyes. “I don’t know, Walt,” she said, “Einstein’s evil twin from an alternate universe?”
Graves gave her a smirk. Back in the old days, they'd occasionally binge on old Star Trek episodes, beer, and pizza after a long shift. Graves had every episode on DVD. Of course, he always had root beer. Always had to be in control. It would have been nice if he loosened up a little.
“Not quite Einstein’s evil twin, though a lot of people think so,” he said, “I thought you might have recognized him from the news last year.”
“News isn’t really my thing,” she said, “It always seems to be bad.”
“Good news doesn’t get market share,” Graves said, “But this guy was juicy news for a while.”
“So how about you tell me why I should care who this guy is?” she asked. Her phantom limb was tingling up a storm. She resisted the urge to reach down and scratch her fiberglass and metal fake leg.
“His name is Dr. Erskine DeVol, Ph.D.,” Graves said, “He made a presentation last year that pissed most of the planet off. Yet somehow you missed it.”
“I had things going on,” she said. Like emptying bottles of Jack Daniels and a scary trip to the hospital and a couple months of detox. Which the son of a bitch probably already knew.
Graves gave her a long look, then tapped on his tablet. The photo changed to a shot of a newspaper with a bold headline over a picture of DeVol that had been altered to look like he had devil horns and a spiked tail. Dr. Devil Proposes A Nation of Cloned Slaves.
“Clones?” Harley said, “You mean like that god awful Star Wars movie?”
“Not exactly,” Graves said, “The press deliberately distorted his work to make it sound like he wanted to clone a bunch of slaves. I read his paper and what he was proposing was more like a form of immortality, but not too many people saw that.”
The Devil's Army Page 3