by Raylan Kane
CLONE KILLERS
Raylan Kane
Copyright 2017 by Raylan Kane
All rights reserved.
For Melissa
Ever brightening our post-collapse bunker
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE 7
CHAPTER TWO 9
CHAPTER THREE 11
CHAPTER FOUR 12
CHAPTER FIVE 13
CHAPTER SIX 14
CHAPTER SEVEN 15
CHAPTER EIGHT 17
CHAPTER NINE 18
CHAPTER TEN 20
CHAPTER ELEVEN 22
CHAPTER TWELVE 24
CHAPTER THIRTEEN 26
CHAPTER FOURTEEN 27
CHAPTER FIFTEEN 28
CHAPTER SIXTEEN 29
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 32
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 33
CHAPTER NINETEEN 35
CHAPTER TWENTY 37
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 39
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 41
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 43
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 45
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 47
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 49
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 50
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 51
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE 54
CHAPTER THIRTY 56
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE 57
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO 60
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE 62
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR 64
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE 66
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX 67
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN 69
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT 70
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE 72
CHAPTER FORTY 73
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE 75
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO 78
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE 79
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR 80
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE 81
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX 83
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN 84
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT 88
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE 90
CHAPTER FIFTY 92
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE 94
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO 96
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE 99
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR 102
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE 104
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX 106
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN 107
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT 109
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE 110
CHAPTER SIXTY 113
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE 115
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO 117
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE 119
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR 120
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE 121
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX 124
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN 125
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT 127
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE 129
CHAPTER SEVENTY 132
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE 134
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO 137
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE 139
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR 140
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE 143
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX 146
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN 149
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT 152
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE 154
CHAPTER EIGHTY 155
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE 157
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO 159
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE 160
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR 162
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE 164
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX 165
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN 166
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT 168
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE 170
CHAPTER NINETY 172
CHAPTER NINETY-ONE 173
CHAPTER NINETY-TWO 176
CHAPTER NINETY-THREE 178
CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR 180
CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE 181
CHAPTER NINETY-SIX 183
CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN 185
CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT 187
CHAPTER ONE
In mid-summer the days are 20 hours long. I feel like I've been in the fields forever. Me and the farm hand, Sterne, have bundled an entire parcelage of hay. The best we’ve ever done. We're both soaked through with sweat.
“That was a day wasn’t it, Bram?” Sterne said.
“It surely was,” I said.
Sterne gathers his tools in a dirty rag and we walk together to the edge of the fields.
“See you in two morns?” Sterne said.
“Assured you will,” I said as I wipe sweat from my brow. “I’ve no say in the matter.”
Tomorrow I am to drive the bale truck to Hyll where the hay will be boiled and turned into resin. From there the resins are made solid and bottled for clone farms. The cloned humans are raised for their meat. I don’t enjoy the taste of cloned people as much as I did when I was young, but I always remember to keep that to myself.
“Be cautious in Hyll, will you?” Sterne said.
“Always,” I said. “Good eve, Sterne.”
“Good eve, young Bramen.” Sterne walks the east path to the small home he shares with his sister and her husband.
I'm walking the southern path home, the best part of my wakeful hours. I walk slow to savor this time. I love the sound of the night creatures as they spill out from all their mossy corners. It’s a wonder I ever make it home. The faintest lights twinkle above. I always stare at them. Worlds unto themselves, of a kind I cannot conceive. No one in the whole world can imagine what might exist beyond our mortal plane. Not even the High Council could know such things. Father Brigg calls me foolish for thinking about those other worlds up there.
“Bramen, there you are,” Mother said.
“Hello Mother Dyer.”
“Your father has a broil on for you,” she said.
“Thank you.”
I've sat at the table in our regent room. Father Brigg stands at the counter where he plates broiled clone.
“Bramen,” he said. “There you are.”
“Here I am.”
“We thought to wait and eat with you,” Father said, “our hunger for the meat thought otherwise.”
Father makes all our meals. He must be the only man in five regions who insists on preparing human flesh a dozen different ways. After a long day, the broil is welcome news. It is one of the more palatable ways to enjoy the human meat. Strangely enough, a bowl of Yellowfruit sits in the middle of the table. I'm pointing right at it.
“A strange sight forms before my eyes,” I said.
“Momma Dyer thinks they’re pleasing to see,” Father said. He's grinning.
“I do,” Momma said, she smiles back.
I have hold of the fleshy fruit. It has some heft. I'm taking a big bite out of it, just to get a reaction. My mother gasps. The fruit is sweet. The juice runs through the whiskers on my chin.
“Bramen Hold, you devilish creature,” Mother said.
“The boy wants to die young. I’ve often said it, Momma,” Father chuckles.
My father believes I am of the reckless sort. A trait he says I inherited from my uncle, Soren, Father’s brother – a military hero, and our region’s most famous son. He died in battle 600 years ago, I met him only once when I was three.
Father Brigg places the platter down on the table and has sat by my mother on the bench.
“Whenever you’re through with that yellow junk food,” Father said, “try this bit of mastery.”
“You’re both going to sit there and watch me eat?” I said.
“Of course.”
My father takes great pride in his culinary skill. The bit of flesh looks wet and gray on the fork. I bite into the morsel and swallow. The taste of Father Brigg’s broil is less satisfying than normal, but I know better than to say as much, for fear my father will find co
urage and insist on traveling with me tomorrow to Hyll.
“Mmm...excellent,” I lie.
“Isn’t it?” Father smiles proudly. “You see Mother? I still have my ways.”
“Indeed,” Mother winks at me.
Still, regardless of my misgivings, the hard day of work has brought a hunger out in me I haven’t experienced in some time. I'm hoping for a second helping. I've handed my plate to Father.
“Ain't we humans delicious?” I laugh. It's a twisted thing to say. Mother grimaces at the awful truth of it.
“Best bed down now,” Father changes the subject. “You’ll want to leave for the city by sun up.”
CHAPTER TWO
“68 bales by my last count,” Father said.
“Mine too,” I said. “Sounds about right.”
“Don’t come back without at least 500 Fold.”
“500?”
“You heard me,” Father said.
He always places a higher value on our stock than I believe we are due. 500 Fold is a lot of money for 68 bales of dead grass, mind you we are one of the last families in the region to hand-bale our product and the only farm around that cultures our grass chemical-free.
“Secure load?” Father asks me, as I check around the exterior of the truck.
“Secure load, Father.”
“Be cautious, Bram.”
“Be cautious, Father Brigg.” I live to tease this man, it's true.
I'm firing up the truck and rolling out. It'll be nice to get away for a little while. Hyll is the largest city in Region Jye, the closest region to our west. It is known for its mountainous land and large forests. Hyll is just across the border from Region Gust, my region, the plains region, the grasslands of Sydin, our planet. Hyll, like all cities is a dangerous place, I know this.
Most of the world’s people live in cities, they have become over-populated, and violent crime has risen in kind. I take this trip into the city to sell our hay twice a year. My father used to come with me, but he has decided against it in the three years since he was attacked by thieves and injured badly. It happened early on our second morn in town, I had yet to rise, but I awoke to his screams. I killed the men with my bare hands. The local constabulary offered me full pardon for “Cautious Defense of Product”, and we were offered the meat off the thieves’ bones. We were thankful for the show of compensation, but we declined, who knows what awful genetic traits lurked within those scabbards.
The morning sun has moved high, I am thankful not to be toiling in today’s heat. Poor Sterne. I can hear my father now, barking orders from the porch at all the hired hands. I am thankful not to be there. In addition to the fun of spending two days away from the farm, the drive to Hyll is a pleasure. Hours of pastureland swirling by, making faces at the harvesting machines spread across Gust’s plainscape.
I am four hours into my eight hour journey. An old lady stands in the road. Were my father here, he would convince me to plow her over citing “Cautious Defense of Product”, I am not my father.
“State your trouble, miss?”
“Such a young man. So helpful to stop,” she says.
“Happy to, miss.” I'm startled by her wrinkled skin. Eating nothing but human flesh guarantees you a life of tissue regeneration. We don't age. “Pardon, miss,” I say, “but you’re the oldest person I’ve seen in some time. Are you missing proper meals perhaps? Eating too many greens?”
“Cheeky one you are,” she says.
“I mean no offense. Your advanced appearance. It’s a rarity to behold.”
“I suppose it is.”
“Why are you in the road?” I said.
“You see that swath of trees o’er yonder?” She says.
“I do.”
“My Liebling is there,” she said. “He’s in pain.”
“He’s hurt?”
“He is.”
“Is he your son?”
“He is.”
“Stay here,” I said, “I will fetch medical transport.”
“No. That won’t do,” the lady said. “You must come and attend to him. There is no time.”
“I have no medical knowledge,” I said. “I have other matters.”
“No, please.”
The lady is pulling at my sleeve with desperation. She is tiny. She doesn’t have the look of a thief or a liar, but I have been fooled before. I have potentially 500 Fold worth of product on my truck, it might not be worth the risk to delay any further, though I also do not want to leave an injured man alone in the middle of nowhere.
Still, if thievery is this one’s game, she poses no physical threat, and whoever this Liebling may be, as always I am up to the challenge.
“Let’s make this quick,” I said.
“Oh thank you, dear boy.”
CHAPTER THREE
The frail lady walks ahead of me, away from the road to the patch of trees. The truck is still running – this shouldn’t take too long.
“He’s just over here,” she said, “you are ever most gracious.”
The only sound besides our steps is the westerly breeze. The land in all directions is flat save for this small forested plot, I see no dust being kicked up by ambushing vehicles. There is nothing but golden fields along the road, there are neither buildings nor other living souls within sight.
The evergreen trees are close and now reach above me. The old miss walks down a small slope to a boulder parked at the base of a tree.
“Come, come,” she said.
I look back at the truck, I can hear the engine gently idle, something feels off.
“He’s right here.”
Why do I place myself in such scenarios? I’m walking down the slope, I look behind and see the truck disappear from view.
“Oh, you’re a golden soul,” she beckons me along.
I am behind the boulder with the miss, and there’s nothing.
“Well?” I said.
A crackle of pine cones sounds off to my left and a young fat man steps into view.
“Liebling, I presume?” I say.
He’s stepped toward me and extended his hand.
“Of course,” he said. “Kind of you to stop. Might I ask your name?”
“Might I ask your injury?” I said.
“This one suspects antics,” Liebling said to the old miss.
“Name’s Bramen,” I said. “Apologies, it's not my nature to-”
“Bramen, you needn’t be so cautious,” Liebling says with a grin.
I’m looking at the miss, she’s shrugging.
“No?” I say, “and why is that?”
The man places his hand on my shoulder. “Because assuredly, sir,” he said, “your truck along with your product is already gone.”
Curses! I knew it!
My attempt to run back to the truck is for naught, the man grabs me, knees me in the gut, slugs me good across the forehead, and runs for the road, the frail lady sprints ahead of him, antics indeed. Thundering over the bluff behind me is a horde of screaming men, wild eyed, running with full abandon. In my pain I can barely stand. The men have rushed past me as though I am scenery and carried on to the road. I’m able to make it to the top of the small slope ahead to see the whole lot speed away with my truck. 500 Fold, Father? How do you fancy zero?
CHAPTER FOUR
Mine is a special kind of stupidity. Mother Dyer has often spoken of it, albeit in more indirect terms. “Your heart is often bigger than your head,” was a common utterance in my formative years. My mother’s brother, Uncle Thereen, was a champion prizefighter in his younger days – taught me everything he knows – perhaps so much that I believe myself to be invincible in all circumstances. Clearly this delusion is what’s led me here. Where am I going to find 500 Fold in the next two days? Worse – where am I going to find 500 Fold and a new heavy product truck for Father Brigg in two days? I may only be 611 years old, but I’ve always prided myself on being wise beyond my
years, I cannot go home with nothing and prove the opposite is true. It’d be decades before Father would think to give me this kind of responsibility again.
CHAPTER FIVE
The sun is still high. My backside is numb from sitting on gravel. Chewing a dead stalk of redweed often soothes the mind, but I am out of ideas. Prudence would dictate that I carry on to Hyll on foot, logic says the sun will be gone long before I reach the city. The night is no place for a living soul who wishes to remain such. The High Council enforces the “Rule of the Hunt” which states anyone out as the skies reach Full Dark is therefore presenting themselves as dietary fodder for everyone else. Of course, in this scenario the hunters also can be hunted, but that is the way of things. Father Brigg has, on many occasions, brought home the cleaned body of a lonely night traveler. The meat off his bones has a tendency toward a gamier taste than that of a mass produced clone, but we ate our fill, as anyone else would.
I take no pleasure in the hunting of another man, woman, or child, I refuse the practice, and the last strange meal Father brought home I opted for clone instead. My family said nothing of it, but I’ve seen sons and daughters disowned for less. I have read about city folk ostracized, even imprisoned for daring to raise an opposing view, or for the refusal to consume human flesh in the first place. Much of the time these deviating few are laughed off as their lives are cut short by choosing to consume something as hazardous as plant life. It’s hard to be an activist and change the world when you’re dead. I sympathize with their views, but I also enjoy living.
A vehicle approaches from the east. I’m standing in the middle of the road waving my arms. They’ve stopped.
“Please avoid my means of transport,” said a bespectacled man standing behind his driver’s side door. There’s a woman in the passenger seat, eyes as wide as chestnuts.
“I mean you no harm,” I say.
“Says one who means antics,” the man's voice quivers with fear.
I’m running a gentle finger across the tender lump above my brow.
“Forgive my appearance,” I said. “I know, I look disheveled. I was ambushed. My name is Bram-”
“We cannot help you,” the man says, “we have no medical training.”
