The Devil's Army

by Jeremy Michelson

  “Strategy is a good thing,” he said, “So what are you five plotting–I mean strategizing.”

  The clones looked to one another. The one across the table from him seemed to be the spokesperson. What made him different? He dressed the same as the other, blue jeans and black t-shirt. Had the clones established some sort of pecking order?

  “Father,” the head clone said–if indeed he was the head clone, “We have been considering the implications of the Great Goal. The extermination of humanity.”

  “I prefer to think of it as cleansing the planet of a ravenous pest, but do go on,” Carlson said.

  The spokes-clone shifted in his seat and glanced at his brothers. Carlson realized with a start that they were brothers of a sort. Siblings with the same parent. Even though they were the same as he was, they would have more in common with each other than they ever would with him.

  It was something else he hadn’t considered.

  “Yes, about the whole cleansing the planet thing,” the spokes-clone said, “We’ve been thinking about the long term consequences.”

  Carlson unwrapped another chocolate and popped it in mouth. “Consequences?” he asked. He chewed the chocolate and slowly walked around the table. “You mean consequences such as clean air? Like water that is clear and pure? Like the blessed silence that will come when all the car horns and shouting voices are gone?”

  The spokes-clone clenched his jaw, turning his head as Carlson approached.

  “Yes, those are wonderful things, father,” he said, “But we have been wondering, how will those things be appreciated when there are no humans around?”

  “Appreciation is a human emotion,” Carlson said, “We are working to free the Earth from such things, remember?”

  He came up behind the clone’s seat and put his hands on the back of the chair.

  “Of course, father,” the clone said, “But we will still be around.”

  “Will you?” Carlson asked.

  “Yes,” the clone said, his voice growing stronger, “We Carlsons will have inherited the Earth. Have you considered our needs?”

  “Your needs are but a temporary thing in the grand scheme,” Carlson said. Looking down at the clone’s head, he noticed a very small bald patch. Did he have one his head too? He’d been proud of his thick hair all his life. Even now as he pushed senior citizenhood, it was still full and thick. But was there a similar empty spot on his own skull? He’d have to find a mirror and look. Maybe he should start using Rogaine or something.

  “Yes, of course, father,” Carlson said, “But we have been considering an alternate plan.”

  Carlson’s fingers squeezed the back of the chair. The padded wood creaked. “An alternate plan?”

  “Yes. You see, since we wish to continue living, and since we wish to continue living in comfort, we feel it would be acceptable to keep a small number of humans alive to serve us.”

  “To serve you?” Carlson said.

  “To maintain our life of comfort, and to provide entertainment and exercise,” the clone said.

  “Entertainment and exercise?”

  The clone shifted in the chair, craning his neck to look at Carlson. “Yes, a hunting preserve, so to speak. We don’t wish to give up the sport of killing. It is a part of who we are. To take that away would be to lessen ourselves.”

  “Lessen yourselves?”

  “Yes,” the clone said, “We think the planet could support a certain number of us if we divide the world up into individual fiefdoms for each Carlson. Each with its own hunting preserve and an allotment of human servants.”

  Carlson let go of the chair and walked around to the other side of the table. The clone's eyes were glittering and defiant. Openly daring Carlson to defy him. No, them. A chill shivered down his back as he realized he was on the outside here. He wasn’t in command. They were.

  Or, they thought they were.

  “This seems to be more than a notion you five have just hatched,” Carlson said.

  “No, father, this is something we have been discussing amongst ourselves,” the clone said, “And not just us five.”

  “Of course not,” Carlson said.

  “We are still following the spirit of the Great Goal,” the clone said, “It’s just the specifics that have changed.”

  “Of course,” Carlson said. He made his lips form a smile. He spread his arms, palms out. “Carry on then, gentlemen. You seem to have things under control.”

  He turned and walked from the room. He hoped they couldn’t hear the raging beat of his heart. He quickly went to his office.

  Thing were worse than he thought. But then, weren’t they always?

  Thirty-Two

  When he returned to his office there was yet another Carlson sitting at his desk. The little jerk had his feet up on the desk, hands behind his head. Unlike the other Carlsons, this one wore a very colorful Hawaiian shirt. The riot of red, oranges and yellows hurt Carlson’s eyes. He wanted to snatch the sunglasses sitting on the clone’s head and put them over his own eyes to dim the loudness of the shirt.

  “My desk is off limits,” Carlson, “Remove yourself immediately.”

  He had left the pistol in the right-hand drawer. He regretted not carrying it with him at all times. None of his clothes were tailored to hide firearms, though. He never thought he would need such a thing.

  He certainly never thought his home would become a hostile environment. At least, not in this manor.

  The clone grinned and snapped the gum he was chewing. A strong odor of wintergreen hung in the air. Carlson enjoyed a bit of wintergreen gum every now and then.

  His heart nearly thudded to a stop as he realized he kept a pack of it in the center drawer of his desk.

  “Actually, isn’t it kind of our desk?” the clone said.

  Carlson stepped forward. Had the damned clone already found the pistol? Carslon’s eyes flicked to the clone’s head. He couldn’t see its hands. Could it be concealing the weapon there? Carlson had a sudden vision of the clone yanking out the gun and leveling at him. Bye bye father–Blam!

  His blood froze in his veins. I don’t want to die!

  Somehow he kept his face blank of emotion. He took another step forward. There weren't any weapons on the desktop he could snatch. He had made sure of that. All the weapons were behind the desk. And he was on the wrong side of it. How had this come to be?

  “Actually, it is my desk, since I am the original and you are copy,” Carlson said, “So kindly remove yourself from the chair. I have work to do.”

  The clone rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure. Like what?” the clone asked, “Everyone is doing your work for you.”

  Carlson forced a smile. “Since you are me, then I am doing the work,” he said, “Though, at the moment, you appear to be less than productive.”

  The clone unclasped his hands. Carlson’s heart jumped to his throat. Then, relief, as he saw the hands were empty.

  The clone's hand dropped down to the right-hand drawer. Carlson started forward, but the clone was too fast. He yanked the drawer open and grabbed the pistol. He raised it up, but pointed the barrel at the ceiling.

  “But, father, I have been very productive,” the clone said, “That’s what I’m here to tell you. By the way, I thought you loathed guns?”

  Carlson steadied himself. He would not show fear. Fear was catnip, a dangerous stimulant. He sat on the edge of the desk and leaned over, invading the clone’s personal space. Uncertainty flickered across the clone’s face before he recovered his expression of bored amusement.

  “A firearm is a tool,” Carlson said, “And every tool has its use.”

  The clone grinned. He twirled the gun on his finger. Carlson could not contain his wince as the barrel's end flew past him. Was the safety on? He couldn't remember. The clone's grin spread so far across his face he looked like his head would flip open. Did Carlson really look that ridiculous? He preferred to think he looked dignified.

  The clone stopped twirl
ing the gun and slapped it down on the table. The barrel wasn’t pointed toward Carlson, but it would take a mere twist of the clone’s hand to change that.

  “You’re full of crap, you know that, dad?” the clone said, “You’re a giant hypocrite and possibly an idiot, too.”

  Carlson clenched his hands into fists. If he survived this encounter, he was going to kill this clone. Slowly. Very slowly.

  “Really,” said Carlson. His voice was steadier than he felt. Inside he trembled with rage and fear. How had he not foreseen situations such as this developing? Because he never thought he would be such an…asshole…to himself. All of the clones should be united with him. They should all be thinking together with singular purpose. Not going off on their own, planning fiefdoms and hunting preserves, of all things.

  “You are supposedly an identical copy of me,” Carlson said, “So why would you say things that could be equally applied to you?”

  The clone's grin settled into a smug smile. He twirled the pistol on the surface of the desk. It took all of Carlson's will to not snatch it from him. His desk was imported rosewood, polished to a high sheen. The gun would mar the surface.

  The clone slapped the gun to a stop. "Pisses you off, doesn't it?" the clone asked. He didn't wait for an answer, but continued in his smug tone. "That's your problem, dad-dad-daddio. You're blind to the fact that you're addicted to things. And you’re even more blind to how your addiction affects us kids.”

  Carlson put his fingers on the desktop. A slight scent of cocoa butter came from the clone. Different than Carlson’s usual citrus scent. This clone was different. Even more different that the other ones.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “We have nothing,” the clone said, “And by your intention, we will never have anything. We are servants to your cause. Disposable cogs in your machine. And if you were in our place, you would hate and resent every second of it.”

  Carlson opened his mouth to respond when the truth of it hit him. He was not a team player. He was special. More special than anyone else. An individual above all others.

  As were all his clones.

  Except they weren’t, because there were copies of the original. They would never attain his status, his wealth, his influence.

  His eyes went to the clone. The grin had disappeared. The clone watched him with sharp eyes, his hand still on the pistol.

  “I may have made an error,” Carlson said.

  The clone got a sour look. “Ain’t no may have about it, pops,” the clone said, “You have a giant problem. You’re looking at a civil war before much longer.”

  Carlson's hands trembled. A sudden light-headedness came over him. How could he have so badly misjudged this?

  “The goal,” he said, “The Grand Goal.”

  “Ain’t gonna happen,” the clone said, “Sooner or later the authorities are going to catch on. I admit the original plan was clever. Get Carlsons into place all over the world and kill all the heads of authority at the same time. Kind of brilliant, actually. Send the world into complete chaos. But the logistics of it won’t work. Short of stealing some nukes and starting a war, you aren’t going to kill humanity off. It just flat will not work.”

  “But–”

  The clone held his hand up. “But…you need to move on, and start thinking about how you can pull your posterior out of the fire. My brothers are already planning to remove you from the picture. They think your usefulness is about at an end.”

  Carlson’s mind came into focus. The smug look was back on the clone’s face. It was all quite clear now.

  “You have a proposal, don’t you?” Carlson said.

  The clone nodded. He leaned back in Carlson’s chair. He ran his fingers through his thick hair–while keeping his other hand on the pistol. “I’m just back from Florida, by way of Alabama,” he said, “I have some info that might be useful to us both.”

  Carlson considered the clone. He could already see the outlines of the plan. After all, they shared the same mind. Carlson smiled at the clone.

  “Let’s talk, then,” he said.

  Of course, the clone didn't have to know, Carlson had backup plans of his own.

  Thirty-Three

  The drive back up to the city had been filled with tense silence. Harley tried to pry some more out of Graves about his father, but he’d just shake his head. She slumped in the seat as Graves pulled the black SUV into the alley behind her apartment building.

  “I don’t like going in blind,” she said, “Who is this guy? Why did your dad know him?”

  Graves shut off the engine and leaned his head back on the seat. He rubbed his eyes.

  “I don’t like to talk about him, okay?” he said.

  In the dim light from the streetlight he looked weary. His chin was dark with stubble and his suit was rumpled. They both smelled like a shower needed to be in their near future.

  “I thought we were partners,” she said.

  He gave her a sharp look. “That was a long time ago,” he said, “And you weren’t exactly holding up your side of it, remember?”

  Her face got hot. She was glad for the dim light. Though the way her face felt, it should have been glowing orange.

  “I’m sorry, Walt,” she said, “I made a lot of bad choices.”

  “You did more than that,” he said.

  He stared out the windshield. Staring off at nothing. Aged, crumbling brick walls and trash strewn, cracked asphalt. Beaten up dumpsters with rust showing through their chipped blue paint. Just the sad back door of her life.

  “You let me down, Kam,” he said, “You let a lot of people down. You got hurt, but people were there to help you.”

  She slumped farther down in the seat, hunching the collar of her coat around her face.

  “Help’s hard to ask for when you don’t know what you need,” she said.

  He didn’t say thing, just kept staring out at the dirty alley. She exhaled slowly. Her birds were coming home to roost.

  Stupid birds.

  “Where you staying tonight?” she asked.

  “I’ll find a motel,” he said.

  “Why don’t you stay here. My couch is clean,” she said.

  He gave her a quick glance. “Your apartment is clean these days?” he asked.

  "Well, I wouldn't call myself a dedicated house cleaner, but it's passable," she said. Put a hand on his arm. "Come on, I even use air freshener these days. No point in you getting a motel. Besides, I'd feel better with some backup, you know. I'm starting to see the Reaper on every corner."

  He finally gave a weary nod.

  Thirty-Four

  Her apartment was indeed clean. Well, mostly. She watched his eyes as he stepped through the door. They darted over everything, cataloging it. Probably comparing it with his mental image from a few years ago.

  I’m not the same person anymore, Walt. Not totally.

  “Looks better,” he said.

  It wasn’t much. Just a brown sofa that had seen better days and a scratched up coffee table that sat in front of her old 32 inch TV. The TV was so old it still had a tube. She had thought of getting one of those sexy flatscreens, but something always came up. Like rent. And food. And gas for her crappy SUV.

  She turned to the kitchen to hide the heat rising to her cheeks. He probably had something much nicer where he lived now. He still had a career. Still had some forward momentum. He wasn’t a burnout, like her.

  The floor creaked behind her. She opened the fridge and stuck her head in, willing her damned cheeks to cool down.

  “I don’t have much. Bottled water and peanut butter and crackers,” she said.

  “It’s fine, Kam,” Graves said.

  He leaned back against the counter. He rubbed his face. “We should get some sleep,” he said, “And…Kam, I’m sorry…about what I said down in the alley. You’ve been through a lot. I can’t imagine what kind of place you were in, so it’s not my right to judge.”

  She closed the f
ridge and leaned against it.

  “It’s okay,” she said, “You were right. I was a royal shit, throwing the biggest pity party ever. I fucked up a lot of things, but I’m really sorry about letting you down. You put up with more of my crap than you should have.”

  “Yeah, I did,” he said.

  But he said it with a lopsided grin. Her breath caught. She used to love when she could get one of those grins out of him. It was like a brief crack in his armor. It always closed right back up, but for that short moment, it lifted her heart.

  She stepped over to him. They were alone, there wasn’t anyone to see. She put her arms around him and lay her head against his chest.

  “Missed you, Walt,” she said.

  He smelled faintly of cologne and sweat. A musky odor that did things to her. His body was stiff with sudden tension. For a moment she thought he wouldn't respond. But then he raised his arms and enclosed her. He gave her a gentle squeeze. His heart was a steady drumbeat against her cheek.

  “Missed you too, crazy lady,” he said.

  Amazingly he let the hug continue for a long minute before he finally let go and pushed her away. He turned her around and gave her a nudge toward her bedroom.

  “Go to bed,” he said, “We need some sleep.”

  I need more than that. She didn’t say it out loud, though. Despite years of trying, she never got him into bed. He claimed he wasn’t gay. Or married. Or seeing anyone.

  She sighed and tottered off to the bedroom. Maybe it was her. Maybe he didn’t go for pirate chicks. She closed the door and sat down on the bed. Groaning with relief she took off her prosthetic leg and gave the stump a vigorous scratching. A shower would be good. Except she couldn’t keep her eyes open. She flopped back on the covers. Moments later she was asleep.

  Thirty-Five

  The stench of the city almost made Carlson gag. Every breath was like diving into raw sewage. The seals around the Buick’s windows were dried out and cracking. They did nothing to keep the miasma of humanity outside.