The Eighth Day

by Joseph John

  Shawn lowered his shoulder and caught the Alpha in the midsection as they collided. The Alpha staggered back several steps, planted his feet, and hammered his fists into Shawn’s back. Shawn grunted and dropped to a knee. The Alpha’s next blow hit him on the side of the head, and Shawn sprawled sideways and tumbled across the floor.

  He scrambled to his feet and launched himself at the Alpha, who dropped into a crouch, and Shawn groped at empty air as he flew over him. The Alpha slammed into his legs and sent him ass over heels. He flipped through the air like a coin. The ceiling and the floor alternated like red and black pockets on a roulette wheel, and he bowled into a cluster of chairs and set them asunder. The pain was monstrous but faded to a blunt itch as flesh and bone mended with unnatural speed.

  During their melee, Victoria must have made her way to Harrington’s gun. Now, she rose on her knees and took awkward aim with her left hand, her other a broken shatter of bone. The Alpha caught sight of her at the last second. He lurched out of the way as the gun boomed. Victoria steadied the weapon on her forearm and squeezed off a rapid succession of shots, but it was useless. The Alpha wove through the gunfire and stalked toward her with murder in his eyes. He grabbed a chair by its back and swung it sideways. It crashed into her, and she sprawled onto her back.

  Shawn sprang to his feet and charged.

  The Alpha ripped the gun out of her hand and tossed it aside. His lip curled into a sneer, and he lifted a foot to stomp her face. She lay helpless and unmoving—unconscious or something worse.

  Shawn slammed into the Alpha. They tumbled across the ground, bounced to their feet, and faced each other like coiled springs.

  The Alpha leered through his tangled mop of hair and attacked.

  His fists and feet blurred with each swing and kick. Shawn staggered back under the ferocious assault. He blocked a hook with his forearm, slipped past a jab, and parried a kick. He countered with a sidekick. The Alpha skipped out of range and leapt forward again. They glided across the room and swayed back and forth as if they were the last pair of a savage species on the foredeck of that storm-swept ark caught in a biblical flood.

  Shawn’s fist slipped past the Alpha’s defenses and slammed into his mouth. The Alpha staggered back and curled his lips to reveal bleeding gums and rows of bloody teeth. He spat a wad of crimson and charged.

  A blow clipped Shawn’s shoulder, and he winced and stumbled. A roundhouse kick hammered into his ribs. He folded in on himself like origami and dropped a hand to his side. The Alpha pounced. His fist drove into Shawn’s jaw like a wrecking ball, and Shawn staggered and slumped to the ground.

  The Alpha twined a fist into his hair and slammed Shawn’s face into the floor once, twice, three times. Shawn moaned. Blood and spit dripped from his mouth and hung, swinging like a pendulum.

  “Tell you what,” the Alpha said. “After I kill you, I’m gonna kill your precious make-believe wife, those two detectives, and anyone else you cared about.”

  The muscles in his neck strained as Shawn fought the hand on the back of his head.

  “Come on. If you win, they’re still gonna kill you. There ain’t no fairy tale ending for you no matter how you spin it. I mean, talk about a buzzkill, right?”

  Shawn struggled to his hands and knees. The Alpha clung to his back like a misshapen carapace and wrapped an arm around his neck in a chokehold. Shawn gagged and peeled at the arm as he stumbled to his feet. The Alpha wrenched harder. Tiny pinpoints of light wove a blanket of darkness through the air. He staggered.

  “Say good night,” the Alpha whispered in his ear.

  No.

  Shawn took a step forward, tucked a shoulder, and threw himself into a forward flip. He landed on his back and on the Alpha, who wheezed a burst of exhalation, and the arm around Shawn’s neck slipped free. He gasped for breath as he rolled over and struggled to his feet. His shattered jaw knit itself together like a worn quilt, and he flexed it from side to side. Sweat rolled down his face, and he wiped at it with a shaky hand. It was up to him now. He was all that stood between this thing and the waiting world.

  He envisioned the Alpha snapping Victoria’s neck. Rifling through Sam Harrington’s smartphone. Finding evidence of his wife and son, paying them a visit. And after he finished them off, he’d go after the two detectives, Mooney and Francis. But it wouldn’t end there, and as the bodies continued to pile up, even more good men and women would give their lives trying to bring him down.

  Only Shawn could stop him.

  The Alpha clambered to his feet and brushed his hair back. He tossed his head with an arrogant insolence.

  Shawn rushed him. He threw everything he had into it, rapid jabs and crosses mixed with wild haymakers and punctuated by a series of devastating kicks. The blows rained like a relentless monsoon, and the Alpha stumbled back under the onslaught. Shawn wore away at his defenses like a Renaissance sculptor chiseling at marble.

  He clipped the Alpha’s cheek with a hook and landed a glancing blow to his brow. Slipped a jab between the Alpha’s forearms. The cartilage in his doppelgänger’s nose gave with a crunch. Shawn followed it with a front kick to the stomach, and when the Alpha dropped his guard, Shawn bounced back and exploded forward with an uppercut. It caught the man on the chin and lifted him off his feet. He crashed into a table. It crumbled into kindling.

  Shawn strode at the Alpha, fists clenched, ready to finish the job. The Alpha rolled across the floor, scuttled into a four-point stance, and threw himself forward.

  The flash of metal came too late. The Alpha slammed into him. A monstrous pain tore into his chest. Shawn staggered backward, eyes wide with disbelief. The handle of a steak knife slanted into his ribs to the right of his sternum. It pulsed in time with his telltale heart. Red bloomed like a field of poppies across his shirt.

  The Alpha’s eyes blazed with triumph. “I win,” he said.

  Shawn grabbed the handle and wrenched the blade free. Agony washed over him like a cruel baptism. He fought it off with a primal roar, reversed his grip on the knife, and plunged it into the Alpha’s chest. The Alpha’s expression shifted from victory to astonishment, and he lurched and tried to pull away. But Shawn shoved into him, and they fell. The Alpha landed on his back, and Shawn straddled him. His heart struggled in his chest and limped along. The knife rose and fell, rose and fell, growing heavier with each ascent.

  Blood gushed from the Alpha’s chest. He broke into wild gales of laughter that became a choked coughing fit and sprayed blood into the air. It leaked from his lips and flowed down his chin. “I still win!” he cried, laughing and choking and coughing. “I am. You. And you are. Me. I still win!”

  Shawn swung the knife a final time. It slid into the soft tissue of the Alpha’s ear and embedded itself in his brain. The Alpha’s heels drummed a staccato on the floor, until he finally lay still, his eyes empty and staring.

  Shawn rolled off the Alpha. He lay on his back and closed his eyes. His heart beat, beat, beat. Beat. Beat.

  Beat.

  Beat.

  Stopped.

  Chapter Eight

  Beat.

  His heart beat, stuttered, and beat again. Shawn Jaffe opened his eyes.

  Beneath the sodden mess of his torn shirt, his probing fingers found no evidence of the mortal wound that had pierced his flesh. The skin was unbroken. Not even a scar remained as testament.

  The music from the nightclub above had fallen mute, and silence descended like the red velvet of a theater curtain. Either they’d heard the gunshots and fled, or one of the restaurant’s patrons had run upstairs for cover and warned them bedlam was breaking out below.

  Shawn struggled to his feet and staggered toward where Victoria lay on her back, limp and unmoving. He dropped to a knee and pressed two fingers to the side of her neck below the jaw. Her pulse beat strong and regular.

  “Vic—” He stopped and frowned. That wasn’t her name. “Hey,” he said instead, and gave her shoulder a gentle shake.

  S
he groaned, cracked her eyes open. They flew wide, and she tensed and sat up, flinching away from him.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he said. “Are you okay?”

  She studied his face for a moment before glancing down at her broken hand. “Hurts like hell, but I’m okay.” Her gaze flickered to his bloody shirt. “My God, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  She frowned and studied his shirt. “That’s a lot of blood.”

  “It’s not all mine.”

  Her eyes widened. “The Alpha.”

  “He’s dead.”

  She nodded and looked away. “We were gonna kill you.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “You could’ve walked away and let me die.”

  “No. I couldn’t.”

  She said nothing.

  The front doors of the restaurant flew open, and Detectives Nat Francis and Ethan Mooney burst into the room. Their drawn guns swept over the wreckage, and they fanned out through the remains of the restaurant’s dining area.

  “Over here.” Shawn waved a hand and helped Victoria to her feet as Francis approached.

  Francis lowered his gun. “We got the call over the radio. What the hell happened?” he asked. “Where’s Harrington?”

  “Found him,” Mooney called out. “He’s hit. Looks like it grazed his skull. He’s unconscious but alive.”

  Shawn reeled. “What? He’s alive?” He started toward them, but Victoria put a hand on his arm.

  “We have to go,” she said.

  Shawn stared at her.

  She turned to Francis. “Harrington was never here. He got shot trying to stop a mugging in Chelsea. Get him out of here, but don’t let anyone see him. Take him to the emergency room.”

  Francis started to protest, but she cut him off.

  “My authority and executive privilege still stands,” she said. “Take Harrington and leave. Trust me. I’m doing him a favor.”

  Francis chewed on his lip. “All right,” he said.

  “You also need to evacuate the restaurant. Tell them there’s a gas leak in the kitchen.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s about to be a gas leak in the kitchen,” she said.

  Francis nodded his chin at Shawn. “What happens to him?”

  “The less you know, the better.”

  Francis turned from Shawn to Harrington.

  “He needs a doctor bad,” Mooney said, kneeling over the former detective.

  Francis shrugged at Shawn. “Sorry, kid,” he said.

  “It’s okay. Tell him I said thanks. For everything.”

  Victoria strode over to Dodd’s corpse and plucked a digital tablet from inside his jacket with her unbroken hand.

  “Come on,” she said. “We’ll go out the back.”

  Shawn followed her through the swinging doors into the kitchen of the Café del Mar. A familiar scene of silver-gray counters and cabinets greeted him. Meats and vegetables sizzled in stainless steel pans, the grease leaping and dancing in a splatter of tiny pirouettes, and stockpots filled with soups and sauces exuded a savory aroma that was as thick as the smoke and the steam drifting through the air. But this time, the chefs had fled the room, leaving their stations unattended, and no body lay on the floor. He and Victoria were alone.

  “Why not let him kill me?” she asked. She peered at him and tilted her head. Her hair hung like a silk shadow, and she brushed it back and tucked it behind one ear.

  He studied her face before answering. “I have these memories of us. I know they’re not real, but they’re all I have.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  He tucked her hair behind her other ear. “I couldn’t let him hurt you.”

  A single tear slid down her cheek, and she wiped it away.

  “I’m done running,” he said. “I’ll do whatever you want, go wherever you ask. Just promise to leave Sam and the two detectives out of it.”

  She strained a smile. “I’m not taking you in. I’m letting you go.”

  He stared at her.

  She said, “I’ll disable your tracking device. Tell Roman Biogenics you died with the others in the restaurant. You can stop running.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “Because I was wrong, and I’m sorry.” She fumbled a black palm-size device out of her jacket. “This is a stun gun. I’ll be honest. It’s gonna hurt like a mother, but we need to disable your tracker. I’ll try to make it quick. Lie on your stomach.”

  Shawn did. The tile was cool against his skin. She pressed the stun gun against the back of his neck. The electrodes made him shiver.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  “Ready,” he said.

  He wasn’t ready.

  She pressed the trigger. Shawn’s muscles spasmed and locked. He tried to tell her to stop, enough. But his jaw clamped shut like a steel trap, and he twitched and shuddered on the ground as the electric current ripped through him. He moaned through clenched teeth.

  She switched the stun gun off, and he gasped for breath. A fan kicked on, and air rattled through the overhead vents.

  She cradled her broken hand against her body while she swiped at Dodd’s tablet. “Signal lost,” she said. “It worked. Are you all right?”

  Shawn sat up. “Give me a second.”

  While he collected himself, she eyed his bloodstained T-shirt. “You won’t make it ten feet looking like that,” she said. “Let’s find you a change of clothes.”

  She searched a row of steel lockers and came out with a lightweight navy windbreaker. He shrugged it on and zipped it closed.

  “Fits,” he said.

  “Not bad,” she said. “At least you don’t look like Jack the Ripper anymore.”

  He shrugged. “What now?”

  “Now you go. Live a good life. I’ll take care of things here.”

  Shawn hesitated and brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  She gave him a sad smile and pressed his hand to her cheek before lowering it, but she still held it in her own. “Keep your head down. You’re gonna be fine.”

  “Will I ever see you again?” he asked.

  She squeezed his hand. “No.”

  He studied her face and tried to memorize her features. He turned, and their fingers untwined and slipped apart as he strode toward the door in the rear of the kitchen. The words FIRE EXIT stenciled in red had faded over the years, but they were still readable.

  “Shawn?”

  He turned toward her.

  “Dodd was wrong. You’re not just a clone. You’re a person. You have a soul. A good soul. Don’t ever forget that.”

  He pushed the crash bar and stepped outside. The door swung shut behind him. Two brick walls pockmarked by windows stood sentinel on either side of the alley where, a lifetime ago, an investment broker had chased a killer. A rusted fire escape wound its way across one wall like a scar.

  He walked away.

  She was right. He never saw her again.

  He stood on a beach bathed in darkening shades of red and orange as the horizon swallowed the sun. A salty breeze tousled his hair. He ran a hand through his beard, its coarse hair still unfamiliar to him.

  The waves reached for him like vassals paying homage. They broke on the beach and glided over his feet before receding into the darkening ocean. He curled his toes in the sand and filled his lungs with the balm of the ocean and the city.

  In one hand, he held a worn and stained newspaper.

  He was an illusion—the rabbit in the hat, the quarter behind the ear, the severed rope made whole. His life was fiction, memories that never happened and love of a woman he never knew. But he was alive and whole. He hadn’t suffered a mother’s womb, the joys of childhood, the angst of his teenage years. But a part of him was real. He had a soul. He clung to the truth of this as a man lost at sea clings to driftwood.

  In the grand scheme of things, he wasn’t so different. Regular people with a past
still remembered very little of it. They processed and stored their long-term memories in the left inferior prefrontal lobe, which didn’t begin developing until the age of three. And after this age, only fragmented memories remained as a testament to those early years, a collage of remembrance and broken shards of the five senses stored in the brain as engrams. Even as adults, interests and needs filtered perception, and some memories were lost forever. The currents of time washed away these long-ago sights, smells, and sounds, leaving few experiences behind as proof of a past existence. What remained were snippets of a life that might’ve belonged to someone else.

  Amnesia was the standard condition of the human species.

  Even now, the memory of her face faded and would continue to fade until only a vague impression remained, like the carved rock of Rushmore’s Roosevelt a thousand years from now, but he remembered her voice as if it were yesterday.

  You have a soul. A good soul. Don’t ever forget that.

  And it was his soul, not something created and grown in a lab. It defined him because it was real. His memories, however, were lies. Thus, he must unlearn his past, like a chalkboard wiped clean, because hidden behind the veil of consciousness, the face of another life waited, a life that belonged to someone long ago. He couldn’t pick up where he left off like he was returning to an unfinished book. The pages were frail and crumbled beneath his touch. He had to write a new ending himself.

  The wind changed direction. A man approached, shuffling through the sand, and stopped beside him. They faced the horizon together, comfortable in the silence. In spite of their differences, in many ways they were the same. Two broken men with pasts they must escape and futures they must rebuild.

  “How’re you feeling?” Harrington asked.

  “Good,” Shawn said. “How’d it go?”

  “We’re meeting for dinner tomorrow.”

  “A date?”