“Ooooohhhhh,” he sighed. “Big D is g-gonna be so mad that I found a d-deer before him.”
A low whistle caught his attention and he looked to his left. A ways down the shoreline, Dallas’s crouched silhouette was just visible through the brush. Stanley sagged. Of course Dallas had found the deer first. He gave a half-hearted wave and instantly realized his mistake when the young buck hopped nervously to the side and raised its head.
Oh crappers, Stanley thought.
He waited without breathing until the deer lost interest and resumed its slow, careful journey across the ice. Crisis averted, Stanley started to think furiously about what to do next. He wasn’t too keen on just staying put. It was only around twenty or twenty-five degrees. Bearable if you were dressed appropriately or on the move, but at the moment, Stanley was neither.
C’mon, Dallas, he thought impatiently. You just get out there and get that deer. Go go go. Aaaand… go! Right now. Go get it, Dallas.
Whatever else Dallas was, he wasn’t psychic. Stanley’s friend remained still as stone, waiting for the exact right moment.
Maybe I can help, Stanley decided.
He squinted at the deer and looked sideways at Dallas’s hiding spot. He licked a finger and tested the direction of the wind. He quietly scuffed one foot in the snow and tested its traction. With a self-assuring nod, he crouched down like a sprinter and readied himself. On the count of three, he’d take off toward the buck in a wide arc and herd it right to Dallas.
Looks like we got two hunters in the group, and that’s a fact, Stanley thought with a grin, and then launched himself forward.
He moved exactly like he thought he wouldn’t, with awkward hops and flapping arms, feet slipping on the ice beneath the snow and sending him into a side-to-side lurch. The deer startled and bolted, not toward Dallas at all but toward the far side of the lake. Mortified, Stanley tried to increase his pace while Dallas’s surprised and angry yells drove him onward. The buck dwindled in the distance, but still Stanley drove himself onward, desperate to redeem himself.
“Stanley!” Dallas’s voice cried. “Stanley, stop!”
“D-don’t worry, Big-D!” he panted back, still pumping his legs and lurching in a zigzag after their fleeing dinner. “I’m g-gonna, I’m g-gonna get it,” he wheezed.
When the ice cracked, he had just enough time to cry out before plunging into the icy water. His boots turned to cement blocks, his parka became a heavy net dragging him down. As his lungs bucked and kicked and struggled not to gulp in the surrounding water, he reached and kicked valiantly for the jagged ring of light impossibly far above. Finally, his need to breathe overcame the frayed remnants of his common sense, and ice-cold, silty water flooded his lungs.
Gonna die again, he realized.
We forgot to grab the alarm clock, he realized a half-moment later.
The last of the air in his lungs bubbled out as he tried to say, “Crappers,” and everything went dark.
Chapter 20
Stanley’s alarm clock was a thing of beauty. A reliable wonder of plastic and circuitry with a blue liquid crystal display.
“It’s time,” it buzzed. “It’s that time that you indicated was important. I’m so glad I was able to help wake you at this very important time.”
And then it screamed. Or to be more specific, a small accordion near the alarm clock screamed. Or maybe two small accordions. Stanley couldn’t quite tell, but to be fair, he had just woken up.
“Oh, bother,” a familiar voice said. “I was certain I’d turned that off. Did one of you turn it back on?”
Another blurt from an accordion sounded from somewhere to Stanley’s right.
“No, it’s not funny. I swear, you Gerploonkians have the oddest sense of humor.”
Stanley finally concentrated on what his just-opened eyes were seeing. It was certainly not his bedroom ceiling. Above him was a slightly curved expanse of smooth yellow lit from beneath with an undulating light. He was stretched out on a low table made of the same material and lit the same way. When he sat up and looked around, he took in a long, narrow room. Tables and counters made of the same strange yellow stuff as the ceiling filled much of the space, each cluttered with strange apparatuses. One wall held a myriad of display screens that shamed Stanley’s three-T.V. entertainment center and made him fiercely jealous. The other was lined with cages. Most were occupied by a wide range of Wisconsin rodents. Mice and marmots, pikas and squirrels, voles and prairie dogs all peered at the newcomer with beady little eyes. Many peppered him with chittering that could’ve been questions, commentary, commands, or some combination of all three. Since Stanley couldn’t be sure, he pretended that he couldn’t hear them.
When he finished his awed inspection of the room, Stanley settled his attention on an incongruous wooden desk and antique rolling office chair occupied by none other than Stanley Prime. The antique chair seemed to be the only place in the long, narrow room to sit, with the exception of two strangely shaped ottomans directly across the desk’s top from the human. Each was round and deep red in color, with three orange, jointed legs and multiple vine-like ropes hanging off its side.
“Wonderful. You’re awake,” Stanley Prime said, his tone making Stanley question just how wonderful his doppelganger thought that particular detail was. “You really should be more careful and stop dying so much.”
Stanley gaped. “Where the h-heck am I?” he asked, eyes wide with wonder. “Is this it, then? Is this the alien spaceship?”
Prime nodded, made a few notes in a notebook, and rested his pen on the desk’s smooth surface.
“Such powers of observation. We’re clearly related.”
Stanley grinned at the compliment and hurriedly got to his feet. “So where are they, then? Th-the aliens? When d-do I get to meet ‘em? Oh g-gosh, this is exciting. We g-gotta bring ‘em into town. Everyone’s g-gotta meet ‘em. Then they’ll know. They’ll know the truth.”
Prime shook his head. “Expose the Gerploonkians? No. Absolutely not.”
“B-but why the heck not? F-first contact, alien relations, intergalactic trade. Maybe they like b-bowling. Maybe they gots the space-aged bowling balls. We g-gotta let people know.”
“Hmmm,” Prime responded noncommittally. “Well, let’s ask them, shall we?”
He turned back to his desk, stood, and leaned forward. “What say you? Would you like to introduce yourselves to humanity again?”
The two ottomans started to shudder and twitch, and the room filled with a cacophony of almost-musical sound.
“Well there you have it,” Prime said with a shrug. “When they first arrived here, the Gerploonkians asked to be taken to humanity’s leader. The dolt they approached thought it would be funny to take them to a furniture store instead. The poor Gerploonkians were convinced humans had been trophy hunting their kind and were understandably traumatized. Poor Ploonkooha is still convinced its uncle twice-removed is on display next to a matched loveseat.”
Stanley took slow, cautious steps toward the two strange footstools, hands clutched close to his chest.
“You’re it, then?” he asked softly. “You’re them? The ones that t-took me back in school?”
One of the ottomans folded a leg and tipped forward in a motion that looked suspiciously like a bow. The other whapped its compatriot with one of its many vine-like appendages and pointed three others at Stanley Prime. There was a brief burst of dueling accordions. When Stanley turned a confused look to his original self, the other Stanley translated.
“Ploonkooey says yes, it was them, but Ploonkooha says it was, in point of fact, me that was abducted, not you. And they both say it’s agreeable to make your acquaintance.”
Stanley’s mouth stretched in an “O,” and he made an awkward bow in return.
“Hi. Um,” he started. He was about to say, “I’m Stanley,” but he wasn’t sure that was right, so instead he hurried to stave off an intergalactic incident. “That furniture store thing was a rotten prank,
and. Um. On b-behalf of humanity, or at least, Wisconsin. Well, okay. Maybe just Trappersville. Or I g-guess just me. On b-behalf of me, I’m real sorry about that.”
The little aliens honked what Stanley decided was an acceptance of his apology. Relieved that he’d set things right, he turned back to Prime. “Even so, I mean. Everyone back home p-pretty much thinks I made the whole thing up. Or you. Us. D-don’t you want to, I dunno, set ‘em all straight?”
“Even if I did,” Prime answered in a bored tone, “it is rapidly becoming a moot point. At the current rate, the world’s human population will be dead, reanimated or otherwise, in ninety-seven days.”
Stanley blinked, then stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it a bit.
“I d-don’t think I heard that last bit right,” he apologized. “You said what now?”
In response, Prime pointed at one of the wall’s larger displays. One of the Ottomans tapped delicately over to the wall and waved its tentacles in a complicated pattern. In response, the display resolved into a representation of North America. A red blob pulsed near the Wisconsin-Canadian border. The blob stretched and expanded. At the same time, blobs started to appear and expand in other parts of the map. The alien did something to adjust the zoom, and Stanley saw red blobs form all over the globe.
“Air travel,” Prime explained. “The most likely scenarios all concur that infected people will end up on planes and hasten the spread. The zombie outbreak won’t be constrained by continental boundaries.”
Stanley’s eyes teared up as he watched the entire globe disappear under a nightmarish blanket of red. Ninety-seven days. A countdown to the end of the human race.
“We g-gotta do something. You’re super smart. You and the, um. The Gerploo… The aliens. You c-can help stop this.”
The little aliens proceeded to dance in a strange, chaotic pattern around the room, tentacles waving in obvious distress, while Stanley Prime waved a hand dismissively.
“Too late. The Gerploonkian intelligence reports indicate that this particular viral strain originated in Colorado. The D.O.D. and D.A.R.P.A had a secret lab in a stuffed animal factory. They were attempting to develop a virus that could prevent a seriously injured soldier from dying and keep the soldier combat-eligible.” Prime’s sigh was echoed by soft honks from the aliens. “Humans. Such a waste of intellect. Anyway,” he continued, “the outbreak was contained when the building was incinerated. Well, mostly contained. We still aren’t certain how the virus was transported to Trappersville, but what’s done is done.”
Stanley crossed his arms across his bony chest and glared at his clone.
“What’s d-done is not d-done,” he declared. “It j-just don’t seem right to let everyone turn into zombies. Those folks in t-town are your neighbors. Your friends. And if there’s one thing I know, it’s that friends d-don’t let friends turn into zombies.” Another thought occurred to Stanley. “And you! You’re a zombie too, ya know. I mean, one of you is. One of our c-clones. Hey, how’d that happen, d-do you think?”
Prime frowned. “I noticed that, and have been wondering the same thing. It would appear that the infection kills the host before reanimating them. When my clone was infected, he died, thus triggering the cloning device. However, before the original body could be reclaimed the infection reanimated it. Most unexpected.”
“Reclaimed?” Stanley asked.
“Of course. It certainly wouldn’t do to have a dead Stanley lying around while a live Stanley was going about his business,” Prime sniffed. “Honestly, you’re a clone of me. You should be smart enough to put that together on your own.”
Stanley ignored the dig and asked how the cloning device worked. Soon, the two twins were elbow deep in charts and schematics and formulas. Stanley Prime even popped the cover off of the alarm clock and showed his clone the various circuits and wires and how they functioned. During the entire hands-on lecture, Stanley was in awe of his progenitor. He’d never imaged someone could be so smart, and often said as much. More surprising, though, was the fact that Stanley was keeping up. Hours slipped by as the two men delved into the secrets of energy-matter conversion and recombinant DNA and the dimension-bending principles of teleportation. With each new chart, graph, and formula, Stanley felt long-dormant parts of his brain open up like desert flowers finally tasting rain.
“The scanning function is activated here,” Prime explained, pointing at a button on the side of the clock labeled ‘Set.’ “Once the DNA template has been loaded, the device harvests micro-matter from the surrounding cubic kilometer, folds space-time to a designated point, deposits the micro-matter to serve as a catalyst, compensates for the transfer of energy, generates additional energy which subsequently is converted to matter, and applies the stored architecture of the desired product, in other words, DNA, to complete the reconstruction of the clone. Quite simple, really.”
Stanley’s eyes nearly popped out of his head, partly due to the staggering amount of smarts he’d just been exposed to, and partly due to an idea that had just taken root deep in his brain. As it grew, it pushed everything else from his mind and started to take shape on his tongue. He readied himself to share his idea, an amazing and wonderful idea, an idea that could save everyone in Trappersville and even the whole world. He took a breath and was promptly interrupted by Stanley Prime.
“Well, this certainly has been enjoyable,” the original Stanley said. “Your company has been a most unexpected pleasure. Thank you for that. Now, just give me a moment and we’ll make sure you’re properly reclaimed.”
Reclaimed? Stanley thought with disbelief.
“Re… reclaimed?” he asked, throat gone suddenly dry.
“Of course. It’s been on my to-do list, but you know how it is. Busy busy.”
The reality of Stanley’s situation crashed down around him. He was a clone. An extra just occupying a space until the original wanted to return. With the rest of humanity a mere ninety-seven days away from being nothing more than billions of wandering corpses, there wasn’t much use in keeping a place-holder around, so Stanley Prime was going to reclaim the place-holder.
Stanley Prime was going to kill him.
“Oh,” Stanley said. “Huh. Th-that’s, um. Huh.”
Prime patted him amicably on the shoulder. “Don’t fret. You’ve died plenty of times, and let’s be honest. Those were in much worse circumstances. This will be quite gentle. Quite painless.”
Stanley’s mind worked furiously. What would Dallas do? What would Lois do? Or Herb? Columbo? Jessica Fletcher? Veronica Mars? Then he realized something. Something important. Something that changed the very core of who he was. What they would do didn’t matter in the slightest. The only thing that mattered is what he, Stanley, would do.
“Sounds g-good, sounds g-good,” he managed. “And I sure do appreciate that, yes sir. B-but do I get, you know. Maybe a last request?”
Prime smiled with forced patience. “Of course. I’d be happy to oblige. What would you like? One last order of cheese curds? Perhaps a Milwaukee’s Best? Or both? That could certainly be arranged.”
Those all did sound good, real good. Stanley said as much, and Stanley Prime moved to one of the odd tables on the far side of the small room. A small box, open on one side, hummed, and a series of lasers started to crisscross the space inside. With each pass, something appeared to grow up from the table. Stanley recognized a little white and red paper tray and the bottom of an aluminum can. As the little lasers continued to build a tray of curds and can of beer, the smell of deep fried dairy product reached his nose.
Wow, he thought. I gotta get me one of those. It’s even better than Lois’s coffee spell.
For a short moment, he wondered if he could carry the magic food-making box and the alarm clock, but decided against. Instead, he forced himself to whistle nonchalantly and sidled his way toward the plastic clock that had graced his bedside table for years and years. He was sure Stanley Prime wasn’t looking. The aliens were tougher to figure, but w
hen he slowly reached a shaking hand toward the clock they didn’t appear to react. Emboldened, he picked it up and gripped it tight.
The animal cages were next. Stanley continued his off-tune whistle and took leisurely steps toward the wall. The closer he got, the more the various rodents chattered in curiosity and distress. After one last subtle glance over his shoulder, he reached out and flipped the latch on the first cage.
The effect was immediate. The squirrel exploded from the cage like a jack in the box. Stanley flipped latch after latch, and the two aliens started to howl in their accordion voices and scamper wildly in every direction. One knocked into Stanley Prime and sent him and the tray of curds he’d just picked up tumbling to the glowing, yellow floor. Stanley flipped open a few more cages for good measure and ran for the end of the room.
“Let m-me out, let m-me out,” he cried as he slapped and pulled and pushed and waved.
The entire wall was one smooth expanse of softly glowing yellow. He’d assumed it was the door since there weren’t any tables up against it or displays marking its surface. After frantic attempts to make it open, he started to question his assumption. Faced with defeat and impending death,
And I’ll bet there’s no way he’ll let me have them cheese curds now,
Stanley dropped to his knees. “I d-don’t want to d-die without c-curds,” he sobbed.
Defiant to the end, Stanley punched the wall with his free hand. He felt something depress, something that would’ve been about knee-height had he been standing, but was about tentacle height for the little ottoman-shaped aliens. A click and whoosh answered. The wall split cleanly down the middle, and the wall swung open just like the doors of a semi-trailer might. Stanley decided the semi-trailer analogy was a good one, since the steel grate of a semi-trailer bumper was directly below the threshold, and he was looking at a bunch of other semi-truck trailers lined up in neat rows in a perfectly normal parking lot.
Undead Cheesehead (Monsters in the Midwest Book 3) Page 15