“I’m not saying you’re not good at what you do,” JJ added in a much softer tone.
“Then what are you saying?” Christopher asked, his blood throbbing in his temples.
She hung her head. “We may need to nurture them a bit more.”
Christopher walked toward her.
“Nurture them? Like how you fucking overbearingly fostered Robertson? Look at where it’s gotten us. He might have blown our cover. That wanker was at a police station for almost forty-eight fucking hours! Did he say anything? Is our cover blown? Our Appalachian Retreat Rehab Center may no longer be enough of a front to protect our operation. What if he remembered stuff he wasn’t supposed to recall? What if you’ve mothered him too much?”
He pushed her and pinned her against the wall when he finished shouting at her. His large palms were on her shoulders, his fingers digging into her skin and his face inches from hers. He could see her breasts moving up and down with her accelerated breathing. She was scared. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to fuck her or kill her right there and then. But Stéphane stepped in before he made up his mind.
“JJ, get back to the floor; Christopher, take a breather. We’ll get the senator. Stop thinking about Robertson.”
Christopher dropped his hands but kept his eyes locked on JJ’s until she glanced away. A second later, she left the room and returned to the Incubator.
“Stop being an ass. She’s my wife, and we need her,” Stéphane said. “Go relieve some pressure.”
“Fuck! Sometimes I just…” Christopher shook his head but kept the rest of his trailing thoughts for himself. As he grabbed the doorknob to exit the Brain, he turned to Stéphane and added, “Finalize the detailed mission and send it off. I’ll be in my room for the rest of the evening. Don’t bother me.”
Christopher exited the room and took the elevator back to the main house. He needed to relieve some pressure indeed, or he’d blow up and kill JJ.
Once he got upstairs to his room, he found No. 4 asleep on his bed, with her long strawberry-blonde hair spread on the pillows. Her cherry-red lips matched the lacy lingerie she wore. She was lying on her side with red high heels on, black stockings attached to a fancy red suspender belt, and the tiniest pair of panties. Other than a puny triangle of fabric, it was really just a bunch of strings.
He undid his belt buckle and pulled it out of its loops, creating a swooshing sound that woke her up.
“Hi, Christopher,” she said before sitting up in bed.
From No. 1 to No. 4, they’d all had JJ’s velvety voice, and her exact look: her pointy nose, luscious lips, fleshy breasts. They were the only clones he’d treated like real people... kind of. He thought of No. 4 as JJ and fucked her like she was JJ in the good old days, but it stopped there. He probably had another two months to go with this one, but it was all right. No. 5 was growing fast. With each iteration, Stéphane would tweak something here and there, and they lasted a little longer.
A decade or so ago, they’d tried to clone all three of themselves, but only JJ had taken. Once they’d realized how fast the clones were aging, they’d repeated the experiment with JJ’s DNA, testing and tweaking to improve the lifespan and slow the aging process. However, the body itself hadn’t required any tweaking at all. He was hard just looking at No. 4. He didn’t care that she didn’t have JJ’s knowledge or conversational prowess. She appeared just the same, and he didn’t keep her locked up in here for dumb banter and chitchat anyway.
Christopher was furious at JJ at this very moment, but No. 4 was so darn sexy in front of him that he almost forgot about it. No. 4 brought her ass closer to the edge of the bed and spread her legs open, letting her calves dangle against the mattress. Her knockers held up high as she leaned back on her arms, her back straight.
Just like JJ in her prime, around twenty years old. Great tits. Firm arse. Tight as hell.
She licked one of her fingers and then brought it down to the tiny triangular piece of fabric. She pushed it aside to expose her shaved pussy as she played with her clit. Her other hand pulled down one of the straps from her nightgown, and she revealed one of her giant tits, grabbing it firmly, teasing him with her erect nipple.
“Come here, big boy,” she said.
The porn movies he’d made her watch were paying off. The words that came out of her mouth next were filthy, just as he liked them. Oh, how she’d learned how to touch herself to excite him!
He pushed her back on the bed, dropped his pants to his ankles, and took out the small blade he kept in his right combat boot. With the tip of his knife, he traced a line. He started at her chin and went down along the delicate skin of her neck, taking a detour to her exposed breast, outlining the contour of her nipple, and then ended in the middle of her chest. He twisted the tip of the blade and pulled, ripping the underwire support. He drew a diagonal line from there to the side of her waist, applying just enough pressure to pierce the fabric, but not enough to cut through to her skin. He snipped the strings on both the left and right sides of her tiny panties and tossed the knife on the carpet, far away from the bed.
Dick in hand, Christopher stood up again, already priming himself for what was to come. “Rip it off, now!” he ordered.
She obeyed, exposing every inch of skin he was interested in. She was a good bitch.
He yanked the back of her head and pushed her down toward him.
She knew what to do next. No. 4 was there to relieve his pressure, and relieve his pressure she did, again and again.
Christopher’s alarm went off at five o’clock. He slapped No. 4’s arse and got out of bed. No time for fucking her—or fucking around—this morning. Another long training day lay ahead of him: things to do, arses to kick, and possibly some human or animal necks to slit. He put on his old army-issued cargo pants and a T-shirt, and then picked three blades from his assortment of knives.
Once dressed and shaved, he walked down to the kitchen, poured himself a cup of coffee to-go in a travel mug, laced the spare set of muddy boots he’d left by the patio door a couple of days prior, and then picked up a heavy set of keys.
Heading across the cornfield, he walked past the seed silo before stopping by the small red shed. After unlocking the padlock, he swung the wooden door open and walked in. He climbed onto the tractor and started the engine. The roaring sound didn’t last long, though. A few seconds were enough for him to drive it a far enough down the path to uncover the trapdoor leading to the clones’ housing. While he could have accessed it by going through the Incubator, he needed to let some of them out today, and they never let clones in the house. That was an unbreakable rule—except for his sex clones.
He unlocked another padlock and swung open the metal trapdoor to land flat on the ground where the tractor had been a minute earlier.
After descending the thirty-eight rungs on the metal ladder, he turned around to unlock yet another deadbolt before opening the door leading to the clones’ supervisors’ headquarters. He was greeted by C34, his current senior supervisor. After creating the first three generations, Christopher, Stéphane, and JJ had realized that three people training and managing an army of clones wasn’t sufficient. But they hadn’t wanted to risk hiring real people to do their work, so they’d started using the best clones to supervise training instead. All in all, it had been a great call. It’d finally given them a chance to relax a little and take care of other tasks.
“Nothing to report. All is well, Mr. C,” C34 said.
“Good.”
A dozen screens covered the wall in front of them. Clone quarters were monitored 24/7: dorms, communal showers, cafeteria, kitchen, hallways, training rooms, etc. Even the fields and gardens above were surveilled by cameras mounted on telephone poles, but these only worked in the daytime since most of their land wasn’t lit at night.
Christopher spent a few minutes watching one of the junior supervisors walk a group of recruits from the dorm hallway to the cafeteria. The clones were orderly. The team assigned to the kitch
en was busy cooking for their peers. A group of sixth-year recruits had just entered the shower, but now was not the time or place to zoom in on the fully-grown cloned women like he had done a few times before.
On another screen, a troop of about sixty first-year recruits arrived in the playroom; this was one of the newest groups. An outsider would have labeled the assortment of colorful pipes, slides, and boards as a playground, but this one was underground and only awkward clones learning how to move their bodies used that room. Accidents were common there, and the most junior groups had required six supervisors to ensure they didn’t inadvertently lose clones due to unfortunate mishaps.
Just as the thought crossed his mind, Christopher saw a small clone fall off the top structure, landing on his arm. A supervisor rushed over and reached for the walkie-talkie he carried on his belt.
“Control Room, this is A23,” his voice echoed in the room.
“Go ahead A23,” C34 said.
“We have an injury in the play area. Looks like a broken arm. We need Mr. S for medical care.”
“Stand by.”
C34 reached for the phone and dialed extension 1.
“Mr. S, sorry to wake you, but we have a broken arm in the play area... Yes, sir… Thank you.” He hung up the phone and reached for the radio again. “A23, this is Control Room.”
“Go ahead, Control Room.”
“Mr. S is on his way. Expect arrival in five minutes.”
“Thank you.”
Christopher returned his attention to the other screens so he could ensure the final exam area was ready to go. He waited the full three minutes to let the cameras rotate through the sixteen angles that covered important sections of the fenced-off area: the entrance, the spots where the stream came into and exited the fenced-in zone, the tall tree that could topple over if it got really windy, etc. Everything seemed fine. No obvious tear in the fence.
He turned his attention to the next screen: the “jail” for lack of a better term. Those who’d failed to master knife or gun skills and those who didn’t obey orders due to a brainwashing resistance or other irreparable weaknesses were sent there until they were needed for a final exam. He could only see a few from the camera’s current angle.
“How many prey?” he asked C34.
“Thirteen.”
“How many left in this month’s graduating class?”
“Twenty.”
“Does it look like we may be able to get seven more prey in the coming weeks?”
“Possibly. A14 noticed two possible flaws in his group and A19 reported one possible flaw last night,” the supervisor said before reaching for one of the note pads hanging on the wall. “Here’s last night’s report,” he said, handing it over to Christopher.
Christopher copied down the IDs of the possible flaws and returned the pad to C34 before directing his attention to the daily schedule posted on the wall. There were twelve groups in each training year. Every group appeared on the large schedule in front of him, with slight variations on the otherwise standard training plan, which allowed Christopher to train each of the twelve groups, one after the other.
First year: play area, school, cleaning, sleep
Second year: kitchen, cleaning, school, knife, survival, play area, sleep
Third year: cleaning, school, knife, survival, garden, gun, sleep
Fourth year: school, knife, survival, garden, gun, cleaning, sleep
Fifth year: knife, survival, slaughter, cleaning, school, hunting, sleep
Sixth year: martial arts, school, cleaning, hunting, driving, sleep
Their clones didn’t sleep much, about four hours per night. It wasn’t something they had planned, but the clones’ accelerated circadian rhythm worked in their favor, giving them more time for training. Most mundane activities were overseen by junior supervisors: cleaning, playing, and training sessions. After all, it was easy enough for anyone to strap a person onto a chair and press a button to select a program.
At some point during the previous year, Christopher had passed on the knife, gun, and animal slaughtering sessions to their best Training Supervisors. He knew they’d soon get sick, die off, and would need replacing, but that was the beauty of their system. There would always be new clones ready to take over, as needed.
Christopher took their daily reports from the wall and flipped through all three sheets.
Everything was going well.
“Radio the sixth-year supervisor,” Christopher ordered. “Tell him I’m on my way to martial arts.”
“Yes, Mr. C.”
Christopher left the room and headed down the hall, passing several brainwashing rooms. He could see lights flickering through the small openings in the doors. Clones were learning languages, math, geography... pretty much anything they needed so they wouldn’t stick out like sore thumbs in society’s arse. It had taken them a long time to create this curriculum. They had combined various existing footage from real educational tapes and had added subliminal messages and mental triggers to speed up their knowledge acquisition. Of course, they’d incorporated an ethics course that covered their values and explained why some people deserved to die for their sins.
After about twenty doors, he arrived at an intersection, and turned right, heading toward the communal room where the Martial Arts session was to be held. The group supervisor halted his platoon just as they reached the door.
Perfect timing.
Christopher loved the punctuality of clones. They’d never been exposed to lateness. Plus, good ole Mr. C here would have made an example of whatever wanker wanted to start that trend.
The group came into the room, laid down the blue mats to cover the concrete floor, and formed a large circle around Christopher.
He went right to work. “This morning, we’ll learn defensive moves. By the end of this session, you’ll be able to free yourself from an attacker. This is a pass or fail lesson. I need a volunteer.”
All twenty students raised their hand. Christopher picked the first to his right. A fairly tall, medium-built young man with thick brown hair.
He instructed him, “For your own sake, pay attention. You’re just a few days from graduating. Don’t mess up now.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
August 1, 2015
Kate Murphy
Kate’s Apartment, Boston
Kate parked her Subaru in the underground lot and turned off the ignition.
“Do you want me to keep you company?” Luke asked.
“I don’t think I’d be any fun to hang around with tonight.”
“That’s fine. We all have bad days,” Luke said, “but they’re much easier to handle with friends around.”
She hung her head. “I don’t know.”
“Are you hungry?”
“I don’t know,” she repeated.
“Let’s just go upstairs with the bag. You can grab your clothes and shoes. One thing at a time, okay?”
“Sure.” She just wanted to sit in silence, alone.
After getting off the elevator with Luke, Kate unlocked the door.
“Why don’t you go and take a shower? Unwind. I’ll unpack this and leave your stuff on the coffee table,” he offered.
Kate couldn’t think, but a shower sounded nice. Water always soothed her. “Yeah, I’ll do that.”
She cranked the knob to the hottest setting and stripped, letting her clothes rest on the floor in a jumbled mess. The steam was already fogging up the mirror when she hopped in the shower. The water droplets began massaging the back of her neck as she breathed in the thick vapor, feeling exhaustion overtaking her. Suddenly too tired to keep standing, she sat in the tub, brought her knees to her chest, and then let the water hit her on the head and back. She pressed the drain shut, pulled the shower curtain out and let the water level rise.
Once it reached two inches from the top, she shut it off and sat there in silence, still holding her knees, and now rocking back and forth, creating waves around her. Without realizing
it, she’d started to push water out of the tub, splashing mini-tsunamis onto the tiled floor. The sloshing sound took her out of her trance, and she stopped rocking. She let go of her legs. She couldn’t lean the way she faced without the faucet stabbing her in the back, so she turned around—splattering the floor once again—then leaned back and closed her eyes.
After a while, her arms floated up next to her. She opened her eyes to notice that her right wrist had taken on more colors, but it only hurt when she touched it. The swelling had gone down. She closed her eyes again, took a deep breath, and imagined being at her secret spot, hearing the ocean, breathing in the salty air. She wondered when she’d have a chance to go there again.
A knock interrupted her thoughts.
“Katie?”
She’d forgotten about Luko.
“Katie?”
“Yeah,” she said.
“Dinner’s ready.”
“I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Take your time. Can I come in?”
“Sure. It’s unlocked.”
Luke opened the door and stepped in. “Whoa!” He lifted his foot, his sock dripping wet.
“Sorry,” Kate said.
“It’s not toilet water, right?” He took off his socks, rolled up the bottom few inches of his jeans, and walked toward the corner rack.
“Can I use a couple of these?” he asked, pointing at her bath towels.
“Be my guest.”
Luke threw them flat on the floor, then swooped them over the sink to squeeze all of the water out of them, and repeated for a second, then third time. He left them in the sink, along with the wet bath mat and her wet clothes. After folding another guest towel in half, Luke set it on the floor in lieu of a mat then put down the toilet seat cover and sat on it.
“How are you feeling?”
The Last Hope Page 26