Their heavy rubber soled boots tracked over the blood pooling on the stark white floor tiles. Guards in tactical armour lay motionless on the floor or slumped against the wall, surrounded by bullet holes and spent casings. Furniture had been shredded by bullets or flipped over to form hasty cover. The two Connors followed the trail of destruction through the facility, their breath hot and heavy within their masks, their blood roaring in their ears. The guns had gone silent a minute ago. Had the clone cut a path to freedom or had he died in a hail of bullets? They walked through an open meeting area, stepping over the spilled pot plants and research papers strewn everywhere. Wide stairs wound up to another level, bloody footprints showed where the other clone had used them.

“How much further?” asked the clone as they ascended the stairs.

“I never got the tour,” replied Connor.

“Huh.”

The clones walked slowly, scared that they were about to walk into a trap, the suit’s plastic lining rustling with every step. Connor prepared himself to run at the first sign of trouble, his eyes locked forward, searching for a gun barrel pointing his way.

The clone reached out a hand and grabbed his arm. “I hear something.”

Connor turned his head to hear better, as the suit’s helmet blocked a lot of sound. He couldn’t hear anything but his own breathing. He shook his head at the clone who shrugged and pressed on. The stairs ended, revealing an open plan office made of glass, wood and concrete cubicles. Halfway down the main corridor that split the office in half, stood half a dozen guards in a circle, looking at something on the ground.

“Shit,” swore Connor. “Keep your head down and your hands up. Maybe we can bluff our way out.”

The other clone let out a panicked cry as Connor broke into a run with his arms above his head. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” he shouted, adding a tremor to his voice. “There’s more of them down there!”

The guards spun around; weapons ready. They seemed surprised to see anyone.

“Get over here,” beckoned a guard, as he and the others got behind cover. Connor and the clone ran to the armed men, their heads down to obscure their faces. He saw the shredded body on the ground. The clone had suffered from an onslaught of firepower. One arm was hanging by a thread while the other still clutched a pistol. His chest was pitted with bullet holes and stained with blood, obscuring his light coffee coloured skin. The top half of his head had been blown off, perhaps by mini-ex or some other high damage round, spilling white and pink brain matter over the carpet. Connor gagged slightly and pointed back toward the stairs. “There are more of them. They’re crazy!” he shouted between giant sobs.

“How many?” asked a guard, his hands twisting at the body of his gun nervously.

“Two,” replied Connor. “And they have guns.”

“Shit. You two get out of the building to safety. A recon team is en route. They’ll have medics if you need attention. Did you see anybody else down there?”

Connor gestured wildly about him. “I don’t know…”

The guard pushed him toward the exit. “Go. Get out of here.”

Connor stumbled into a run before anyone changed their minds. The other clone followed; his head ducked down to avoid detection. The guards fanned out and advanced to the staircase.

“Did you see what they did to him?” asked the clone after some distance.

“Did you see what he did to them?” retorted Connor.

“His actions may have saved us,” said the clone. “We owe him some respect.”

Connor shook his head, sending the bulking helmet swaying. “He slaughtered those people. I don’t care what these assholes have done to us. We need to be better than that.”

The clone gave him a sarcastic laugh. “Says the guy who went postal and shot up a laboratory with a machine gun. You are so fucked in the head you can’t see it.”

Connor bit his tongue. It was useless arguing with himself at a time like this. A security door barred the way ahead. On the wall nearby sat an emergency exit button. Connor reached for it first. The button chimed and the security door cracked open. He and the clone pushed on the door together, the intoxicating taste of freedom overwhelming them. They stumbled against each other into an empty foyer. Daylight shone through the glass doors ahead of them, their first glimpse of it in years. They both ran, eager to be out of the facility. Connor shielded his eyes against the harsh sunlight as he emerged from the building. He stopped in his tracks as he made out the blurry outline of a crowd of people and vehicles. The sound of hovering gyros and the murmur of massed workers filled his ears. People were approaching him, his eyes still too bleary to make out detail, such as if they were armed or not.

“Are you okay?” asked a woman as she gripped his shoulder and looked him over. “Are you hurt at all?”

“I’m fine. Just glad to make it out in one piece, you know?” sighed Connor convincingly.

“What’s going on in there? We heard gunshots.”

“There’s a madman with a gun killing everyone in sight. We hid for as long as we could.”

The woman patted him on the shoulder tenderly. “Oh! You poor thing. You must be jumping out of your skin.” She guided him through the crowd of people, one hand on his elbow. He made out parked cars and trucks with his limited visibility and assumed he must be in the parking lot for the facility. Connor didn’t dare turn around to see how the clone was faring. “We’ll get you some medical attention. The recovery team has just arrived.”

Connor heard the roar of turbines and felt the plastic lining of his suit press against his body. “I’m fine. I didn’t get hurt.”

“Are you sure? They can give you a quick check over.”

Connor tried to pry himself away from the woman gently. “There are men dying inside. They should focus on those who need help the most. I’m not hurt, I promise you. I’d like a little air is all.”

“Ok,” replied the woman, patting his arm one last time.

Connor heard a commotion behind him. He pivoted slightly to get a look. Lab technicians and office workers were piling into a bunch. An arm clad in the bright blue of a bio-suit emerged from the centre and started clubbing about in a futile effort.

“He’s a clone!” screamed a panicked middle-aged man from the fringes. “A clone got out!”

“A clone…” whispered the woman beside him.

Connor kept walking, angling away from the landing gyros to what looked like the parking lot exit. Beyond a chain link fence was a road lined with shops and small offices.

“Hey! Take off your helmet!” cried the woman.

Connor broke into a clumsy sprint, as the bio-suit was not built for speedy retreats. The voices behind him were drowned out by the cycling fans of multiple landing gyros. He didn’t dare turn around. This was his only chance of escape. He slipped under a bulky transport ship before it could touch down, the wind from its turbines boosting him forward. The helmet bobbed around erratically, and the stiff rubber boots clomped against the solid tarmac. Connor poured in as much power as he could muster to his legs, driving them to the limits of what they were capable of handling. He recalled his last desperate escape from the police, back home in Boise. Where had that hulking frame of muscle gone? If he found enough spare material, could he build a body like that again? He blinked. That wasn’t him. It was the original. Were any of his memories his own?

He made it to the security gate. The gatehouse had been abandoned, likely when he and the other clones had woken up. Connor ducked under the car barrier and skidded to a stop as he got his bearings. The road ran to his left and right. He did a mental coin toss and chose left, hoping that direction would take him out of town faster. Connor turned and jogged down the sidewalk, casting a quick glance over his shoulder toward the crowd. The landing gyros blocked his view of the gathering people. His eyes slid over to the sign which sat upon the squat building.

Harristown Supply and Logistic Ltd. OH

“Horseshit.”

Connor ran, his thoughts turning back to his escape. He fled down the street, dodging past the few townsfolk out shopping from the antiquated stores and ignoring their strange looks. A high-sided truck slowed down to get a better look at him, the driver leaning out of the window to stare before shifting gears and heading off. He felt weird being in such a small town. Without the towering skyscrapers of Boise leaning over him he felt exposed. The sparse, narrow street with cosy looking buildings was something of an anomaly to him. Where were all the people? Where were the piles of piss-soaked rubbish or neon graffiti? Was everything in the country so clean? The shops gave way to houses of timber weatherboards and brick, their tidy gardens on display to all that passed by like a challenge. He didn’t know anyone who owned a garden. It was a flex of wealth to own land in the city. The concept of gardening was alien to him. Taking valuable time that you could be working to care and maintain plants that withered and died every year was anathema to his understanding and work ethic.

“Rich people and their throphy flowers…”

Just as he finished his commentary, he spotted some washing hanging out to dry in the wane sun behind one of the houses. It was time to ditch the bright blue hazmat suit. He hopped the fence, checking that there was no car in the driveway first. Connor ran to the back of the house, ducking his head below the windows. A higher fence surrounded the back of the property, giving it more privacy. By the back door he found a pair of sneakers a size too big. They were better than the giant moonboots he was currently wearing. At the washing line he took some large sweatpants, a plain t-shirt, a black hoodie and some polyester socks, all slightly wet. Connor got changed behind the woodpile, stuffing the discarded suit under a tarpaulin. He heard voices nearby. Connor decided to leg it before anyone got closer. He jumped and grabbed hold of the fence and hauled himself over the top. He landed on the other side amidst some dying weeds. He waited; breath held as he listened for pursuit.

Ahead of him lay sparse woodlands. He inhaled the fresh air, relishing its clean smell and the slightest hint of wildflowers. He closed his eyes and savoured the feeling of the sun on his skin and the faint breeze in his hair. The imposed darkness soon brought flashes of terror. Of scalpels, saws, blood and pain. He jumped backwards in a panic, slamming into the wooden fence. The rough grains of the wood reminding him that this wasn’t a dream, something his own mind had created to hide from the horrors of live vivisection. Connor searched for the position of the sun to get his bearings then set off west in what he prayed was the direction of home.