His memories were a fragmented mess of sensations and feelings shared between himself and other clones. Memories of the flesh. The code and craft of sinew, muscle and bone. The stacking of proteins and the transmission of raw genetic data. He fished through the swampy, half remembered details, searching for a weapon and the means of growing it. He found it in a memory shrouded in misery and terror. The code for defeating the virus was written into his white blood cells. All he had to do was reverse engineer it and let it breed.

This was no common cold. His body revolted at the presence of this virus - it was that dangerous. Even his accelerated healing and control mechanisms could barely keep it at bay. The virus attacked the mucus membranes and soft tissue inside the lungs, drowning the host in a river of disgusting fluids. And it was deadly efficient too. It was grown in a sack, developed inside his lungs for optimal airborne application.

Connor meditated on the slaughterhouse floor, his focus separated into layering up a thicker frame of muscle and fostering the virus factory. A slurry of blood trickled into his veins via his twin tendrils, fuel for his modifications.

A door creaked open from somewhere behind him and furtive footsteps echoed through the high-ceilinged room. Connor opened his eyes. They were upon him. It was time to fight. He sighed and retracted the lengths of crimson flesh back into his wrists, leaving a slick trail of chicken blood pooling at their jagged exits. He stretched his newly adapted muscles, working the tension from their stretched and torn fibres before picking up his stolen gun from the floor.

His knees began to shake. Connor wasn’t a trained soldier. He had a sinking feeling that whoever was after him was. All it would take was one bullet to the head and this was all over. The real Connor and all the other clones were relying on him to make it through. He shifted his weight and peered through a gap between the trolley of discarded blood and the metal housing of an assembly line machine. Two enormous men dressed in dark tactical armour searched the room for him, machine guns trained forward. They moved as a unit, each covering the other’s blind spot.

Connor’s hands started to shake. They weren’t just soldiers. They were Programmed. He wrapped both hands around the gun to stop it from rattling and uttered a silent prayer. The virus-sac in his lungs throbbed painfully. He tore the soft lining open with a mental command. The viral spores filled his lungs, forcing him to cough.

The Programmed mercenaries opened fire immediately, spraying twin arcs of lethal steel at Connor’s hiding space. He rolled as the cough escaped his lips. The plastic bin was torn to shreds in seconds, sending bloody and burnt shards high into the air. The floor, walls and machinery exploded and buckled around him. Connor transitioned from a roll to his hands and knees and scuttled away from the destruction behind him.

The Pro’s followed, relentless and implacable in their execution. One reloaded as the other kept Connor pinned down low with bursts of automatic fire. Connor didn’t dare lift his head for a look or risk exposing any part of his body long enough to take a shot. Instead he crawled from space to space, waiting for any kind of opportunity to present itself. In his mad dash along the floor he noticed an exit nearby and angled himself toward it.

“He’s going to escape.”

“I’m out.”

“Taking him.”

Connor dove to the floor and spun about, gun pointing back at the pursuing soldiers. A Pro leapt over an assembly conveyor belt, throwing his machinegun aside as he flew in a majestic arc toward Connor, fist cocking back to strike him. The knuckles connected with his jaw before he had time to think, let alone fight back. Connor saw stars and behind them, the midnight of oblivion. More punches landed while his mind rebooted from its temporary slumber.

“Get up!” he screamed to himself. “Wake up or I die!”

He slipped back into consciousness, hands flailing and tendrils squirming as he choked on blood and fragments of teeth. He battered with impotent rage at the trained killer’s arms and face for several tense moments as his sloppy brain got back into gear. The Pro smiled down at him, fist ready to smash Connor’s brainpan inside out.

“Pathetic…”

“It’s trying to fight back. Funny… Almost sad,” said the other Pro-human. “It thinks it stands a chance.”

The Pro straddling Connor turned to his friend. “Should we let it?”

“It’s not some fucking puppy. Put it out of its misery. We’ve got to get out of here before there’s too much collateral damage.”

Connor coughed. The spreading virus was sapping his strength. His lungs burnt with internal fire. He thought he’d give them one final chance. “Please let me go. My dad was a Pro. I’m kind of like you in a way.”

“You are nothing like us,” spat the Pro, gripping his face with fingers that could tear steel apart. “You’re a freak. A genetic throwback. I’m engineered to perfection. Without flaw. I’m not just better than you, I’m several tiers removed… a whole new fucking pyramid.”

“His name is Russel Hill. He served in the Fifth Rangers Battalion. He’s a war hero…” said Connor through the hand clenching his jaw tightly.

The pro leaned close enough, Connor could feel the heat of his breath. “I don’t give a fuck who…”

Connor interrupted him by coughing up part of his lung and spitting it into the open mouth of the mercenary.

The Pro hawked and spluttered the disgusting globule out, revolted that something vile had been forced into his mouth. Connor laughed, dribbling blood down his chin. Still retching, the Pro-Human backhanded Connor across the jaw, snapping the boys head to the side.

“I’m going to take my time with you, boy.” He removed a knife from the webbing on his back and held it above Connor’s eyes. “Those geeks are going to be sifting through a bucket of chum…” he said, his voice tightening.

“Hurry up already. This kid is no fun. He’s little more than vanilla,” yawned the offsider.

“Feel that?” asked Connor. “The virus is taking hold of you. If I were you, I’d spend the next few minutes calling my loved ones. Because soon, you won’t have a tongue to talk with and your bowels will start digesting themselves.”

The Pro shook his head and coughed. “You’re full of shit.”

“That tickle in your throat is more than just a Cold. You’re a dying man. I couldn’t defeat a team of Programmed vets… And with what? A single pea-shooter? Come on! I dug out the hard core shit for you.”

He coughed again, splattering blood across Connor’s face.

“See? You have minutes. Go spend them wisely.”

The Pro raised a shaking hand to his face, wiping the cold sweat from his cheeks and brow.

“What the fuck is going on? What’s wrong with you?” asked the other Pro-human as he went to his friend’s side.

Connor licked his wrists, rubbing virus laced saliva over the bone tips of his tendrils.

“What’s happening, brother?” asked the standing Pro.

His comrade looked up at him through filmy eyes, liquid leaking from his slack mouth. “Help.”

“Yo, what?”

Connor aimed at his exposed neck, driving the two tendrils into the skin and burrowing deep into the vital arteries, tearing them apart.

The Pro clutched at the fatal wound and fell forward, knocking the one on top of Connor over.

Connor disentangled himself from the sprawled legs and stood, retracting the tendrils back into his wrists.

“I’m sorry, if it’s any consolation. But I need to survive. I need to free myself. I can’t be tortured any longer.”

He bent over and rifled through the dying men’s pockets, looking for anything of value to steal before he ran, removing a knife, a 50. Cal handgun, several loaded magazines and a phone in a faux-leather holder. He stood back, arms loaded with the stolen gear. “Call your squad off. If they leave now, they may survive. I don’t know how fast this thing spreads.”

Blood leaked from the man’s mouth and eyes while the other gasped like a fish. He started to convulse, his lips peeling back into a snarling rictus. Connor could stomach no more. He fled from the room, away from the dead and dying. A scream followed him, piercing his conscience, accusing him of murder.