The Eighth Day

by Joseph John

  Harrington smiled. “I don’t know if I’d go that far.”

  The rhythm of the ocean and sounds of the city surrounded them, a symphony of man and nature. Shawn said, “It’ll work out. You’ll see.”

  Harrington nodded. “I think you’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right. Remember?” He tapped his brow. “Genetic augmentation.”

  Harrington laughed.

  When the former detective got out of the hospital, he’d found Shawn sitting on the steps outside of his apartment, and he took the younger man in. Shawn stayed on the futon, and Harrington moved into the bedroom. They cleaned the place and made it hospitable.

  They bought food and other necessities online and had everything delivered. Otherwise, they kept themselves barricaded in and checked the neighborhood through the window for signs someone was watching them. Footsteps in the hall or the slam of a door, and they scrambled for their guns. Harrington slept with his under his pillow, and Shawn didn’t sleep much at all.

  But time passed with no sign of black SUVs or sedans that carried men in black suits. They slipped into the familiar rhythms of life. Harrington got a part-time job at an impound lot and a membership at the local gym. He went cold turkey and quit drinking.

  The news networks tore into the story about the events at the Café del Mar like jackals. Cameras panned over the charred shell of the restaurant at various angles while a husky male voice gave a dramatic narration of events. Interviews of the few patrons who’d remained inside and took cover behind chairs and beneath tables ran ad nauseam. Their stories about what had happened were as varied as the weather.

  Yet not a single video of it existed. Sure, several witnesses recorded it. In a world where people had developed a reflex to record everything from once-in-a-lifetime events to kittens chasing laser pointers, it was inevitable. But the smartphones of everyone who’d been within a one-block radius of the Café del Mar had been wiped clean and bricked. Even the livestreams vanished without a trace.

  Victoria had pulled it off.

  Shawn still stayed in the apartment. He needed time for the story to fade and the networks to move on to the next great disaster or celebrity scandal. When it came to headlines, the public had a severe case of anterograde amnesia. He read books and watched shows and grew a beard. His disguise.

  The visions of Vietnam didn’t go away, but they stopped being blackouts and became something manageable, like memories. He remembered more, too. More memories from—what had Dodd called him? The original specimen.

  His father had died in the Korean War, and it nearly broke his mother in two. That’s why he went off to Vietnam. He’d volunteered to honor his father, and also to protect his daughter. But the whole thing had turned out to be pointless, and in the end, all he’d wanted was to see her again. But he never made it home.

  Shawn wondered what happened to them, his wife and his daughter. He hoped they’d been proud of his sacrifice, mourned him, and moved on. He hoped they’d lived good lives.

  But Shawn had to remind himself these weren’t his memories. His began and ended in New York, where’d he been manipulated and used by Roman Biogenics, and picked up again three years later in Amarillo. That was his life—only this, and nothing more.

  He was okay with it.

  Shawn left the apartment for the first time after about a month went by, a simple foray to the grocery store with Harrington. On the way, they passed a newsstand, and that familiar urgency greeted him like an old friend. He stopped and stared. Harrington put a hand on his shoulder, and Shawn clenched the newspaper he’d carried from the apartment.

  Harrington had bought it when Shawn moved in, and they’d checked its classifieds and found no hidden triggers. The theory was that if Shawn brought it with him, he could resist reaching for a new one. Because maybe they still left messages, like a voice on an open party line, just in case someone was listening. Shawn reread his newspaper’s headlines. Harrington was right. It didn’t make the urge go away, but it kept him moving.

  In time, he could pass the newsstand without a second thought, and he quit worrying someone would give him a sideways glance and a double take and recognize him. He was just another asshole on his way to buy groceries, which suited him fine.

  His newspaper became faded and stained, the ink smudged. It started to yellow. But that was okay, too. Before long, he’d toss it. He could do this—not just survive, but build a life.

  Now, as the last of the day drowned in the black waves of the Atlantic, he mulled over his decision. It had been difficult, but he knew he’d made the right choice.

  “Sam,” he said, “I’m leaving,”

  Harrington nodded and stared at the ocean. “I figured,” he said. “Any idea where you’ll go?”

  Roman Biogenics had kept its name out of the news. The world didn’t know what they’d done, what they were still doing: building clones. Creating designer killers, super humans without pasts. The perfect assassins. President Hoyt knew, though. Shawn had no doubt he’d been complicit in all of it.

  Dodd said they’d use the other clones for research, like they were nothing more than rats in cages. Could Shawn really just walk away and let that happen, let it keep happening? He didn’t think so.

  Besides, people deserved to know the truth.

  But that wasn’t on Harrington. After everything he’d sacrificed for Shawn, the man deserved peace and a chance to rebuild his life.

  So Shawn told him none of this. He only shrugged and said, “Wherever the dreams take me. I’ll start with North Carolina.”

  “You’re not leaving until you meet Jenny, though,” Harrington said. “You’ll like her. Not to mention she’ll think I lost my mind if she doesn’t see for herself that you’re real. Coincidentally, you are real, right?”

  Shawn smiled. “What are you going to tell her?”

  “The truth.”

  Shawn nodded. He paused and said, “Thank you for…” He swept his arm across the horizon.

  Harrington smiled, and they stood in silence, enjoying the smell of the ocean and the sand beneath their feet and each other’s company. Two men on a path to rediscover what’s left of their lives and to set things right. Behind them stretched the city, waiting to wrap them in her embrace. But she offered only a false sense of security. Beneath the veneer of glamour and sophistication, there lurked something dark and sinister. When all was said and done, she wasn’t an apple but a leviathan. Within her streets, mankind waged a war of all against all that echoed in cities and between nations across the world. Life was solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short. And it would get worse.

  But that came later. For now, the two men stood together on the beach, thankful to be alive and, finally, at peace. The last sliver of the sun sank into the ocean, marking the death of another day. Don’t mourn its loss, though. In the morning, it shall be reborn.

  Author’s Note

  Thanks for reading The Eighth Day. If you enjoyed it, please do me a solid by posting an honest review. Word of mouth is crucial, so even if it’s just a line or two, it would make all the difference in the world. If you’re active on other websites like Shelfari or Goodreads—or even Facebook or Twitter—I hope you’ll be extra generous with your time and give my novel a mention there, too.

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  I’d also love to hear what you thought of The Eighth Day. Or how your day went. Or what you ate for lunch. In other words, don’t be afraid to get in touch! You can shoot me an email or, if you’d rather, you can also contact me through my website or one of my social media profiles.

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  Thanks again for reading, and I hope you enjoyed The Eighth Day.
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  Acknowledgments

  Dan Alexandar at NY Book Editors handpicked two top-notch editors to work on my book. He hooked me up with the best in the business, and I can’t say enough good things about his promptness and professionalism.

  Peter Senftleben was my editor. He provided invaluable input about backstory and story structure, and his keen eye and ability to turn a phrase were a shot in the arm for my prose.

  David Coen was my copyeditor. His attention to detail ensured my writing was free of typos, stylistic inconsistencies, and other grammatical faux pas. If any errors remain, they’re my fault, not his.

  The author photograph is courtesy of the talented Silvia Sharpe.

  My wife, Stephanie, designed and drew the book cover. I gave her a concept, she ran with it, and the result blew my mind. She’s also the only person other than me who’s read every single revision of The Eighth Day, and trust me, there’s been many of them. Even I was ready to either start self-medicating or cutting myself there at the end, so how she managed is beyond me. She must be a saint. Or a sadist. Either way, I would never have made it to the finish line without her encouragement and support.

  I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention my beta readers and street team. I love you guys. Your feedback and enthusiasm were fuel to the fire. Thanks for your support over the years.

  Last but not least, thank you, for without you, I’d be just another asshole shouting into the wind. I hope I’ve given you something you’ll remember, something that moved you. Barring that, I hope I at least entertained you and offered an escape from the doldrums of the day to day, if only for a little while.

  I look forward to doing it again someday soon.

  About the Author

  I took on this mortal coil in 1976 in Omaha, NE. As an only child, my parents were able to devote their existences to catering to my every whim. My Mom started by reading the newspaper to me, ensuring I was up to speed on current events. Once I outgrew the newspaper, she moved on to Golden Books. I read my first novel, Cujo, in the third grade. It hooked me, and I took to mainlining novels and working the libraries like an eight-year-old junky looking to score his next fix. I’ve been an avid reader ever since, throwing my lot in with Frank and Joe Hardy, the three investigators, and much later, Roland Deschain and his ka-tet.

  I somehow fooled Uncle Sam into believing I’d one day make a great leader of men, and he promptly shipped me off to the United States Military Academy at West Point, NY, where I languished in a turmoil of emotions that ranged from apathy to not giving a damn. This lent me to writing angst-filled poetry and short stories when I should have been paying attention in class or studying in the barracks, thereby resulting in the refinement of my craft and lending credence to that familiar idiom—you know, silver linings and all that.

  In 1998, I graduated from West Point and was commissioned as a second lieutenant in Army Aviation. I attended flight school in Alabama, where I learned to wear cool shades and a leather jacket, and some-thing about helicopters. Forgive me. It was some years ago, and my memory is fading faster than a cheap tattoo.

  In 2013, I decided to hang up my cool shades and leather jacket and don a pocket protector and masking-tape-repaired glasses, transitioning from Army Aviation to Operations Research and Systems Analysis. I’d spent the last fifteen years refining my skills and building a solid foundation of knowledge, so I figured what better time than the twilight of my career to throw all that out the window and start from scratch in an entirely new field.

  Now I’m serving a hardship tour of duty in Italy, where I spend my evenings sipping wine and riding in gondolas.

  So how does the rest of my story go? I’ll tell you when I get there; it’s still a work in progress.