They took turns using the bathroom and showering, and then it was lights out.

  Fabler, reclining on a couch so lumpy he questioned if it had intentionally been designed that way, almost fell asleep waiting for them to fall sleep. But their breathing patterns eventually slowed down, and he grabbed his Jeep key and EDC flashlight and crept outside in his boxer-briefs. The parking lot asphalt was uncomfortably hot and speckled with sharp pebbles, making Fabler wish he’d put on shoes. His greased vehicle door opened with a whisper, and he began his search for dropped pills.

  Found one.

  He pinched the prize between his fingers and lifted it to his lips.

 

  Fabler froze.

  I’m awake. Aren’t I?

  He put his hand over his mouth and nose and tried to inhale. Couldn’t.

  Squeezed his eyelids shut and tried to see. Couldn’t.

  Both are things that can be done while dreaming.

  I’m not dreaming.

  So who just said something in diples? Is it a voice in my head?

  He waited for a reply—

  “Fabler?”

  —and spun around, pointing his flashlight like a gun and realizing it wasn’t a gun at the same time he realized Grim stood behind him.

  “Jesus! Eyes!”

  Fabler lowered the beam, pointing it at the ground between them.

  “Why are you out here in your underwear?”

  “You’re also in your underwear.”

  “Following you. Wondering why you’re creeping around out here.”

  “I needed to get something from the back seat.”

  “Those pills you dropped earlier?”

  Fabler didn’t bother denying it. They’d been best friends since they were kids, and in some ways Grim knew him better than Lori did.

  “Nightmares. Or maybe they’re night terrors.”

  “Plus your reaction time is shit. Reflexes and coordination are compromised. Is that all? Or is there more?”

  Time to come clean. “Some audio hallucinations.”

  “And you decided to take this job? Without letting me know you’re impaired?”

  “Presley knows. I was planning on telling you before the op started. The hope was that I’d get better.”

  “Are you? Getting better?”

  “No. Worse.”

  “What’s the pill?”

  Fabler didn’t answer.

  “It’s N-Som, isn’t it?”

  Fabler nodded.

  “Let’s get in the Jeep. My feet are starting to cook.”

  Fabler got in the driver’s side, and Grim climbed in next to him.

  They sat for a moment in silence, the night sky clear enough to see Venus.

  It made Fabler feel small.

  “How long have you been taking it?” Grim eventually asked.

  “Two weeks.”

  “Not every night?”

  “Every night.”

  “Jesus, Fabler! You’ve been taking N-Som for fourteen days straight? No wonder you’re losing your goddamn mind. That’s a bad drug. Haven’t you Googled the side-effects?”

  “I quit the Internet. Nothing but bad news all the time.”

  “Well then go to the damn library. There have been books written about how bad N-Som is. The drug prevents you from sleeping, and your brain eventually freaks out. There’s a reason it’s illegal. Some people have full psychotic breaks and completely detach from reality.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Could I be that stupid?

  Is N-Som, the drug I’m using to stop my symptoms, actually causing my symptoms?

  “What do I do?”

  “You need to get it out of your system. There are two ways. You can take a week and just chill and ride out the withdrawal symptoms, get your regular sleep pattern back.”

  “What’s the other way?”

  “Psytox. It’s a pill that gets N-Som out of your system. But I heard the comedown is brutal. And it’s impossible to get. Maybe Jake McKendrick can get his hands on some. Or make some in his lab. But I haven’t talked to him in a while. You been in touch with Jake? Or the other Jake?”

  Fabler frowned. “Neither of them.”

  “We need to keep in touch with those guys, brother. They’re doing some really sketchy science stuff. And I want to pick their brains about that novel virus in Wuhan.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That’s why you shouldn’t quit the Internet. It’s called Coronavirus Disease 2019. COVID-19. I got a bad feeling about it. But right now we need to find you some Psytox. You need to quit the N-Som cold turkey, and it’ll make it faster. Not easier. Just quicker. Do we know any other scientists? Drug dealers? Black market retailers who can find anything?”

  “I know just the guy. And by happy coincidence, he’s coming here later.”

  Grim patted his friend on the shoulder. “It won’t be easy, Fabler. Whether you get any Psytox or not, you’re in for a rough ride.”

  ZIGGY

  Area 57 – New Mexico

  The problem with being the greatest psychoanalyst in history is you have no peers.

  Which means the only person capable of psychoanalyzing me, is me.

  Ziggy reclined on his leather chaise lounge and stared up at the ceiling mirror he’d installed to have sessions with himself.

  “It’s a bit schizophrenic, perhaps.” His reflection spoke in unison with him. “But it takes a brilliant mind to comprehend a brilliant mind.”

  Also, I could use a shave.

  “Let us begin.”

  Why am I the way I am?

  “It might have stemmed from being adopted and raised by a heartless bitch of a mother who didn’t love me as I should have been loved.”

  An obvious possibility.

  “Maybe it was childhood bullying.”

  I was bullied quite brutally.

  “Maybe too many violent videogames when I was younger.”

  Ziggy smiled at that nonsense.

  Media could never turn a brain aberrant. Aberrant brains simply seek out provocative media. Using left-handed scissors doesn’t make a person left-handed. Left-handedness leads to left-handed scissors.

  “Maybe it came down to genetics. My donor, Sigmund Freud, was considered brilliant. I am also brilliant. I earned my PhD in psychiatry before I even knew I was a clone of the most famous psychiatrist in history. I was born to do this. And because I know so much about the human mind, I know I could be the poster boy for the Dark Tetrad of malevolent personality traits.”

  Ziggy ticked off fingers as he counted.

  “First, I am a narcissist, and believe I am better than everyone.

  “Second, I am Machiavellian, lacking empathy and eager to manipulate.

  “Third, I am sadistic, gaining pleasure from the pain of others.

  “Fourth, I’m a psychopath.”

  As a teenager, Ziggy set fires. He wet the bed. And—as unpleasant as it was to share a trait with an oafish buffoon like Tork—Ziggy enjoyed killing animals.

  “Why should I feel guilt? Morality isn’t a strength. It’s a handicap. The real tragedy would be denying who I am. I am the Greatest of the Great White Hunters. My prey? Flagship species. The cute animals that everybody knows. I have bagged a lion. A tiger. A grizzly bear. A bald eagle. A horse—not much challenge there. An elephant. A gorilla. A manatee—like the horse, too simple; it swam right up to me. A rhino. A giraffe. A hippo.”

  But there were also gaps in Ziggy’s kill bucket list.

  “I haven’t shot a panda. Too rare. No polar bears or penguins, because they are inconveniently located in cold, faraway places. I haven’t been to Australia, so no koalas or kangaroos. No whales, but I don’t own a harpoon.

  “And my homo sapiens bingo card is also missing some race squares. I’ve killed several Caucasians; a Fin, two Americans, and a Russian. Asians, I’ve killed a Japanese and a Chinese, though he might have been half Korean. On a trip to Hawaii I got lucky and bagged a Pacific Islander, the rarest of the rare. Latinos—or Latinx since I don’t want to appear politically incorrect—two Mexicans, a Cuban American, and someone who spoke Portuguese, though they may not count as Hispanic.”

  Coincidentally, there were two races Ziggy hadn’t killed.

  “A Black and an American Indian.” He smiled.

  His reflection smiled back.

  “But SoJo and Weejy aren’t my enemies. They are potential allies. My clone sisters, born of the same science experiment as I was. I must use all of my skills, all of my charm, to recruit them. To woo them over to Team Freud. While the talents of these ladies may be sub-par, they can help me secure Albert Einstein.”

  Of course, if they don’t comply, that would also be okay.

  “So the plan, Ziggy,” Ziggy said to Ziggy, “is threefold. Step one, bring in Weejy and SoJo, and coerce them to cooperate so I can secure the assistance of Einstein. Step two, build the teleforce and destroy Shackleton, Iowa. Step three, deal with the clones and their colleagues coming to visit. Step four, world domination.”

  The last step seemed a bit dramatic and egomaniacal, but the biggest minds required the biggest goals to reach their biggest potential.

  “Good session. I am an excellent doctor, and an excellent patient. I’ll see you again soon, me.”

  Ziggy scissored his legs off the couch, stood up, and headed for the control room to see if he could help motivate Nicky to work faster.

  My threat against his daughter isn’t empty.

  Teamwork makes the dream work. But my favorite beverage is leverage.

  “You’re so clever,” Ziggy cooed to himself, even though he no longer stared into the mirror. “You’re going to go down in history as the world’s smartest genocidal megalomaniac.”

  But first things first.

  Ziggy pressed the intercom button next to his chaise lounge. “Tork, have you picked up our guest?”

  It took Tork more than ten seconds to answer, which was irritating. “Yeah. Got him a little while ago.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me when you arrived?”

  “You told me to never disturb you when you’re in your office.”

  Ziggy chose not to have an argument with Tork over the speaker system, so he ended the conversation with, “Bring him here.”

  It took Tork more than three minutes to knock on his office door, which was even more irritating.

  Ziggy let him in, along with the man he’d picked up in Bakersbad.

  He was older than Ziggy imagined. Gaunt. With wild, grey hair, a patch of it missing and scarred over with gnarly, pink tissue. He wore a loose fitting, dirty suit that looked like he’d crawled out of the grave.

  And in a way, he has.

  “I’m Ziggy.”

  He offered a hand, and the old man had a shockingly strong grip. “Call me Gus.”

  “You’re not an easy man to track down, Gus.”

  “That’s intentional. I move around a lot.”

  “I saw. Over twenty different zip codes since you changed your name.”

  “Prison isn’t a pleasant place, and they’d very much like me back if they knew I was still alive.”

  Ziggy stroked his goatee. “So I can assume.”

  “How’d you manage to find me?”

  “You’re familiar with how certain recreational killers have signatures?”

  “Very familiar.”

  “When I was doing research on our mutual friend, I came across your current alias, and your old name. The FBI had all of the data, but they couldn’t put it together. I have a unique mind, and I discovered what they could not. You seem to have a predilection for killing sex workers by pouring hot oil down their throats.”

  Gus smiled a smile that made Charles Manson look positively sane. “Vegetable fats work best, if you’re curious.”

  “Duly noted.” Ziggy tapped his head, in the same spot Gus had a scar. “Is our friend the one who gave you that?”

  “That, and two more in the chest.”

  He seems pissed off. Good.

  “I brought you here because he’s a wild card, Gus. My security is the best. But I prefer to leave as little to chance as possible. I believe your presence will help me stack the deck in my favor. It will certainly put him off his game. Plus, truthfully, I’m a fan of your work. I’d like to see you in action.”

  “It’s messy.” He licked his liver-colored lips. “And noisy.”

  “We have a room that will be perfect. Soundproof, and easy to hose down. This should go without saying, but given your history I have to consider that your motive for coming here was to find out everything I know, then do away with me.”

  “The thought had crossed my mind.”

  “I’d like us to be friends, Gus. Friends shouldn’t try to murder each other. It goes against the whole root concept of friendship. Inviting you here, with a first class plane ticket, giving you the opportunity to tie up loose ends, these are friendly gestures on my part. But I have more to offer. The loose end, you’ve ignored him for years. If I were to make an assumption, it is that you haven’t taken your revenge because you’ve been hiding. Your current alias doesn’t have a real social security number, and hasn’t filed taxes.” Ziggy winked. “Don’t worry. I’m not with the IRS. But I have been able to piece together some of your work history. Lots of manual labor. Lots of odd jobs. I don’t judge. A man has to earn a living. Washing dishes is honest work.”

  “I’m pleased you approve.”

  “You’ve been travelling the country, satisfying your urges by picking low-hanging fruit, taking low paying, menial employment to make some quick cash, off the books. Once upon a time, in your previous life, you were rich. Would you like an opportunity to make some decent money?”

  “What do you consider decent?”

  “Fifty grand. Cash, if you prefer. Or I could have it deposited into an account of your choice.”

  “Who would I have to kill?”

  Ziggy smiled. “Actually, it’s who you wouldn’t be killing. Namely me, and any of my associates.”

  “You’ll pay me fifty thousand dollars to not kill you.”

  “Or any of my associates. That’s the deal.”

  “What about that loose end?”

  “You can tie that loose end up however you see fit. Once I say it’s okay.”

  Gus nodded. “Deal. I’ll need a gun.”

  Ziggy considered it.

  Tork, he understands violence. Nick, he’s a science guy. Me? I know people. How they think. How they feel. How they’re motivated.

  This man is certainly dangerous. But so is fire, if improperly applied.

  Trusting himself implicitly, Ziggy opened up his desk and took out a 9mm. He released the magazine, making sure it was full of the correct ammo, and handed it to Gus.

  Gus weighed the piece in his palm, and then tucked it into the back of his belt.

  “Until your friend arrives, feel free to make yourself at home. Tork can show you around. If you need anything, anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Just one thing.” Gus grinned big. “Got a deep fat fryer?”

  WEEJY

  Fourteen Kilometers from Area 57 – New Mexico

  Weejy checked the side mirror.

  Four vehicles still tailing us.

  She checked the gas gauge.

  Running on fumes.

  She checked Charles in the back seat.

  Still an asshole.

  “Look in the glove compartment for a weapon,” Weejy told SoJo.

  Her friend popped the door open and the map light came on. She fished around for a few seconds.

  “Aw, hell no. Charles, have you told the GD truth about anything?” SoJo flashed a piece of paper at Weejy. “The Civic’s registration. In the name of Charles Biverton. This ain’t even a rental. You bought this shitty car. You had every car to choose from on the planet, and this is the one you bought.”

  “You keep hating on the car. It’s a popular car. Over sixteen million people have bought this car.”

  “Over a billion people bought a Big Mac. Don’t mean it’s a good burger.”

  “Then why did they sell a billion?”

  “If the average person has low standards, be above average. You’re a clone of Charles effing Darwin. Aim higher.”

  “What do you drive?”

  “I’ve got a black 1984 Porsche 911 G-Series. Goes zero to sixty faster than you can whip your D out.”

  “What does that get? Two miles to the gallon?”

  “It gets you laid. Unlike this car, which has my coochie waving a sign that says Closed For Business.”

  “You shouldn’t be judging me on my car.”

  “I’m judging you on your car, and you lying to us, and you pretending to be hurt, and you trying to con info out of us, and mostly your POS car.”

  Charles’s face went dark. “You don’t know me. Who I am. What I do. What I’ve learned. The incredible things I’ve accomplished. All the layers. I’ve got Darwin’s brain. I’ve got four advanced degrees. I’ve got things locked away that would blow your mind. But you’ve formed a firm opinion of me based on the limited amount I’ve chosen to reveal. And a car.”

  “Your car sucks.”

  Weejy chewed her lower lip as a very bad thought consumed her.

  “We were supposed to escape.” Weejy pieced it together. “Ziggy wired the car with a microphone, and was hoping we’d trust Charles enough to tell him why we came here. But he made sure we didn’t have enough gas to get too far.”

  “It was my idea,” Charles raised his hand. Apparently that dark moment had passed. “Better than the pain wand, right? You tell us what you know, you don’t get hurt, and now we can all be friends. The three of us, we’re part of something bigger than ourselves. We’re a select group of twenty, clones of the most famous people in history. We were created to work together.”

  “Work together to do what, Charles?” SoJo’s mood flipped from brassy to irritated. “What is it you and your asshole friends are doing out here in the desert?”

  “Inexhaustible, clean, free energy. Nikola Tesla invented a device to get electricity through the air, from the ionosphere. No plugs. No wires. No fossil fuels, or dams, or wind turbines, or generators of any kind.”