The Way Out

by Armond Boudreaux

  THE WAY OUT

  Copyright © 2020 by Armond Boudreaux

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Uproar Books, LLC.

  Reproduction of this book in whole or in part, electronically or mechanically, is prohibited without written consent, except brief quotations as part of news articles or reviews. For information address: Uproar Books, 1419 Plymouth Drive, Nashville, TN 37027.

  All persons, places, and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

  Edited by Rick Lewis.

  Cover illustration by Edouard Noisette.

  ISBN: 978-1-949671-08-7 (print)

  ISBN: 978-1-949671-07-0 (ebook)

  For my wife, Leah, my best reader, critic,

  and editor. You make me better.

  And for Alan, Christian, and Stephen,

  my brothers in the trenches of higher ed.

  Author’s Note

  I wrote The Way Out mostly in the summer of 2017, its inspiration coming from many political, literary, scientific, and philosophical sources. I point this out because as I look back on the book in 2020 and work on the sequel, I see similarities between my story and world events. I would hate for anyone to think that I have been inspired by conspiracy theories surrounding the COVID-19 pandemic or want to capitalize on them.

  - Armond Boudreaux, June 1, 2020

  1

  Val and her son Braden were filling potato barrels with dirt when the cloned girl from the house down the road came running out of the woods. She was chasing a little dog. A dachshund. Right into their damn back yard. The furry thing scurried up to Braden, tail wagging, and Braden picked it up.

  “Thanks,” said the girl, panting. Bits of dead leaves and dirt peppered her rose-colored skin and clung to her blue hair. She must have run two miles through the woods. Not to mention crossing a damned barb wire fence. What the hell?

  Braden handed her the dog. “You’re welcome.”

  Val drove her shovel blade into the ground and let it stand on its own. No, no, no, fuck, she thought.

  The girl backed away. Stared at Braden. Fiery orange eyes scanned him from hair to feet. Then she looked around. Took in the potato barrels. The garden. The back of their house.

  Finally, she turned to Val and said, “My mom thinks it’s weird that you don’t work.”

  “I’m working right now,” said Val. She gestured at the dirt all over her hands and clothes to demonstrate.

  Stay calm. Don’t be rude. Don’t let the spoiled, nosy little shit know you’re in a panic.

  Val picked up her shovel again and scooped more dirt into a potato barrel. “We’ve been working all morning.”

  Now take the hint, you little shit.

  But the girl just stared at her. Her face held a mild expression.

  This was the first time Val had seen her up close. The perfect image of her mother. Except that her genetics had been altered to give her that exotic skin and hair color. Customized clones were a lot more expensive than children produced “naturally” in artificial uteri. Val had known Janna made decent money. She was Senior Vice President of Social Affairs and Student Diversity at the largest university in the state, after all. But a genetically modified clone meant that Janna made a lot more money than Val had guessed.

  “But you don’t go to work, right?” the girl said. “You don’t do real work. Mom thinks that’s weird.” The dog squirmed in her arms. It wanted to get back to Braden.

  “How’s this not ‘real work’?” said Braden. “We’re growing our own food. Can you or your mom grow your own food?”

  Braden, stop, Val thought. He looked over at her.

  “It’s just weird that you don’t work,” said the girl.

  “It was nice to meet you,” Val said, stifling her irritation. “But we need to get back to... well, work. I can drive you back to your house if you want.”

  “It’s alright,” the girl said, just a hint of a smile crossing her pink mouth. “I can cross a fence.”

  She turned then, the dog held tight in her arms. She glanced at Braden one more time before heading back into the woods.

  Val started shoveling.

  Let’s get back to it, she thought. She’s gone now.

  “You’re worried,” said Braden. No doubt he could see the images in her head of men from Homeland Security or the Department of Human Reproduction knocking on their door, asking about her illegal son.

  “It’s fine,” said Val. “Let’s just get this done so we can go inside and cool off.”

  Dr. Janna Kord, SVPSASD. And her stupid, nosy fucking daughter.

  2

  Jessica stared at the livepic of the pig in the hologram, a bite of yogurt halfway to her mouth. The intestines hanging from the ragged opening in the pig's abdominal cavity looked like a tangle of huge worms.

  clonedaddy157 (2 MIN): I see you in Atlanta @jessicabrantleyANS. I know where you like to go, you didunophobe. I'll kill you just like this pig. You have made people afraid of me and my SON.

  LINKED STORIES: “WE NEED TO TAKE CLONE PEDOPHILIA SERIOUSLY” BY JESSICA BRANTLEY (AMERICAN NEWS SITE)

  TAGS: CLONES; CLONERIGHTS; LOVEYOURCHILDREN; CLONESAREREALKIDS; FUCKDIDUNOPHOBES; SAFEREPRODUCTIVEPRACTICES, JESSICABRANTLEY, AMERICANNEWSSITE

  *AGORA: THE IDEAS MARKETPLACE. SHOUT TO THE WORLD*

  Jessica put down her spoon and yogurt cup and looked up from the Shout to the livepic of the pig. Tendrils of blood dripped from the torn edges of skin around the opening in its belly. She touched the EXPLORE button, and the view began to move slowly around the pig. It had been killed close to the time when the livepic was shot. The carcass swayed upside down on a chain hanging in...

  God, is that a bedroom? A child's bedroom?

  There was a small bed with a nightstand and a little lamp. But as the view shifted, she saw several places on the walls where sheetrock was missing. An abandoned house.

  A tall shadow, cast by a dim red light somewhere behind the camera, moved slightly on the wall behind the pig. At first, she thought it was the animal’s shadow. But as the pig swayed to the left on its chain, the shadow on the wall moved to the right. It was the shadow of the photographer. The point-of-view moved around the pig, and the shadow moved along the wall and then disappeared.

  Another holographic window opened to the left of the livepic. Merida's face appeared there, her big eyes wide. The projector gave a small ping.

  “Jeremy, answer,” Jessica told her smarthome assistant. The still image of Merida’s face was replaced with a live hologram.

  “Holy shit!” she said. “Have you seen it?” She was still at work. Jessica could see the restaurant kitchen behind her head. Sweat, heat, and stress had frazzled Merida’s electric blue hair.

  “I'm looking at it now,” Jessica said.

  “He called you a didunophobe!” Merida said. “That's got to hurt.”

  “I’ve been called worse than a clone-hater,” said Jessica. “And I’ve been too busy looking at the pig to worry about somebody calling me names.”

  She glanced at the bottom of the post. So far, eight people had given it a thumbs up, fifteen had given it a thumbs down, and four had given it a heart.

  Merida gave her best indignant frown. “I can't believe Agora hasn't deleted it!”

  “It just went up,” Jessica said. “They probably haven't gotten enough flags yet—”

  A new window appeared next to the pig livepic with another ping from the projector.

  “Hold on...” she said.

  Hi, Jessica. You were recently tagged in an Agora Shout that might contain offensive, hateful, or threatening language. Sixty-seven viewers have flagged it as inapprop
riate. The post is currently under review by our Safety Tolerance and Justice Team. Would you like to have your Agora identity removed from the post and the user clonedaddy157 blocked from sending you any further Shouts?

  “Jeremy, reply,” she said. “Yes.” Then she turned to Merida. “That’s taken care of.”

  “Are you okay?” Merida bit her lower lip and brushed a lock of her blue hair out of her face. “If you said you were upset, I could leave work early and come over.” She gave Jessica her sideways smile—the kind that she meant to be sexy, but only came off as goofy. “Megan wouldn’t mind closing up here. You know. If you needed some... attention.”

  “I’ve had death threats before,” Jessica said. She only realized after she said it that she had put on the dismissive tone she used for combative interviewees.

  “You’ve never had anybody kill a pig to demonstrate, though,” Merida said. She bit her lip.

  “I know.”

  Jessica stared at the pig. The point-of-view had returned to the underside of the animal with its gaping abdomen cavity and hanging entrails. “I can’t worry about this right now. I’ve got an interview with one of the doctors at Artemis in the morning. I need to get to sleep.”

  Comments started to appear under the Shout.

  heavenlyhoney88: poor pig

  bmx7990: damn dude

  justasweetvirgin: i’d be scared if i was jesica brantly

  progressalwayswins: Right on. She should be ashamed of herself. All she’s doing is feeding the bigotry in this country.

  hellodolly: lol he killd that pig just to call this chick out??????!!!!!!!!

  But then the whole window turned gray and disappeared, replaced with a message from Agora:

  THIS SHOUT HAS BEEN FLAGGED AS OFFENSIVE OR THREATENING BY OUR TEAM. VIEW POST ANYWAY?

  “I’m going to have a glass of wine and go to bed,” said Jessica. “If you come over, I won’t get any sleep.”

  “Have fun,” said Merida. She bit her lip again and glanced at the cooks and servers moving around behind her.

  “Maybe tomorrow night, though,” Jessica said, forcing a smile. “We can drink and dance and have drunk sex on my couch. I’ll probably need it. I’m interviewing a doctor at Artemis about that John Doe case.”

  “Hey,” she said. “My sister had her kid at Artemis. Who’s the doctor you’re seeing?”

  “Hayden.”

  Merida smiled again. “I remember him. I hope he takes off his lab coat. He’s got a great ass.” She looked away as if daydreaming about Dr. Hayden, but then she looked at Jessica again and put on a stern face. “But I don’t want any reason to be jealous, so never mind. Make sure you wear something ugly.”

  “Oh, please,” said Jessica, and she ended the call and shut down the projector. For several minutes she just stared at the empty space where the holograms had hovered in the air over her coffee table, the image of the dead pig burned into her mind like an afterglow.

  3

  Val was on top of Kim and close to an orgasm when it happened. Kim’s strong surgeon’s hands gripped her hips, helping her move against him. Both of their bodies shuddered. She craned her neck, catching her lower lip between her teeth. Her head feeling light, she put her hands on his chest, ready to let herself go.

  Then the bedroom door burst open behind her.

  Val screamed and threw herself off her husband. In one swift movement, she rolled off of the bed, wrenched open her nightstand drawer, yanked out her old Remington .45. Her body still trembling with the interrupted climax, she aimed the gun at the door. Her knees shook and her head swam. But her military training hadn’t left her even after all these years.

  A man stood at her door wearing black tactical gear.

  “What the…?” gasped Kim.

  The man stepped into the room, his face shrouded behind a black riot helmet. Behind him, two more men loomed in the darkness of the hallway. Each of them carried M4 carbines—except that the barrels were longer than any M4 she had seen.

  “Get the hell out of my house,” she said.

  “Val...” said Kim from beside her.

  She aimed her pistol at the small space between the first man’s chest armor and his face-shield. The man didn’t move.

  “Val, don’t,” said Kim. For a second Val was furious that he could be so calm. “It’s not... There’s no one there.”

  Val looked at her husband, who knelt on her side of the bed, his hand reaching out to her. Gently, he touched her forearm and pushed it down so the gun pointed at the floor.

  “But—”

  She looked back at the door. The men were gone.

  “It’s not real,” said Kim, pleading.

  She stole a glance at him, then back toward the door. Three new men stood side-by-side inside the room. They wore black suits with ties and audio earpieces on their left ears.

  “You’ll have to come with us,” one said.

  “You’re sick,” said another.

  “But we’ll fix you,” said the third, who drew a syringe filled with a bright red liquid from his breast pocket. It took everything in Val’s power not to raise her gun and put a shot into each of their foreheads.

  “Give me the gun,” said Kim, his voice almost a whisper. “It’s not real. It’s another dream.”

  A wave of terror that wasn’t her own swept through her, and she knew he was right. She handed Kim the .45 and pulled on her big sleeping T-shirt and underwear. Her groin still ached.

  He’s so afraid, she thought, passing through the three nightmare men and opening the bedroom door.

  When she reached Braden’s room, she nearly screamed again. More men than could possibly fit in the bedroom surrounded Braden’s bed. The crowd seemed to extend past the walls. Some carried automatic rifles and wore tactical gear. Others wore suits and ties and had unreadable ID badges hanging from their lapels. Several wore silvery hazmat suits or lab coats. Others were just dark shapes in the cool glow of Braden’s nightlight. Their heads nearly touched the ceiling.

  Val tried to force her way into the room, but her leg muscles wouldn’t respond. She slapped herself across the face and gripped the flesh of her bare thighs, digging into the skin with her fingernails. The pain both loosened her feet and drove away the crowd of giant men threatening her son. She crossed the room to his bed and turned on his lamp.

  “Braden?” she said, kneeling beside him.

  He lay on his side, facing her. His eyes twitched rapidly under the eyelids, but otherwise he didn’t move. Val grasped his shoulder and shook him slightly.

  “Wake up,” she said.

  A burst of blinding light lit up her head, and now she was standing under a gray sky on a dirt road that cut through a forest of impossibly tall trees. She watched a vehicle drive away from her. Kim’s car, leaving her behind. Her own face appeared in the back window, looking back at her.

  “Come back!” she screamed in Braden’s voice. She tried to run after the car, but again she found her feet unable to move. The road was so long and straight that she could see the car and her own face looking back at her for miles. It was as if it would never leave her sight, but she would never be able to reach it, either.

  “Mom?”

  And just like that, she was back in her son’s bedroom. The trees, the shadows of a forest, the crunch of dirt under her feet—all of it dissolved into the warm yellow light of a bedside lamp. Her hands and arms felt the soft warmth of Braden’s Star Wars comforter. His small brown eyes looked at her from his freckled face. Kim sat on the side of Braden’s bed, gripping the boy’s shoulder.

  “It was just a dream,” said Kim.

  Braden threw his arms around his father.

  “You were leaving me,” he said.

  Kneeling beside the bed and grateful for the cool of the wood floor against her legs, Val put her arms around the two of them.

  “We won’t ever leave you,” she said.

  “You said that
if you left me in the woods,” said Braden, “I wouldn’t be able to hurt anybody anymore.”

  “You don’t hurt people,” said Kim.

  Braden let go of his father and leaned back against the wooden headboard. He rubbed his eyes and looked down at his comforter.

  He was nearly twelve, but just now he looked as small to Val as he had as a toddler. And yet his face looked older than his age. It was his narrow eyes and the way his mouth was firmly set, like someone who knew he had to do something that was going to hurt and was just working up the will to do it.

  Val guarded her thoughts. She could never tell when he could hear her thinking. When she was emotional, she was likely to think something that would upset him.

  “I made you see my dream again,” he said.

  “I saw the men,” said Val. She gripped his calf through the comforter. “Nobody like that is coming here. I promise.”

  “You don’t know that,” he said.

  No, she didn’t. Just a week ago, the news couldn’t shut up about police and DRS agents smashing down the door of a Virginia home accusing a woman of raising an illegally conceived child. She did have a daughter, but the girl had been conceived and gestated legally at a reproduction facility in Langley.

  The boy stared at her. His eyes seemed to say, See?

  “Don’t do that,” she said. For a moment she felt angry, tired of having to guard her mind. All parents had to be careful with their words, but she and Kim had to be careful of their thoughts. In the middle of the night when you’ve just been threatened by a SWAT team from your son’s nightmare, it was almost maddening.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Sometimes I can’t help it.”