“The whiskey.” Roy drew his gun, and Grim raised his rifle. Both were pointed at Van.

  “What was in it?” Grim demanded.

  Van raised his hands, trying to appear innocent. “I got it from… I got it at—”

  Then he fluttered his eyelids and pretended to collapse.

  Eyes closed, Van listened for any sneak attacks.

  “Well, shit. Did he do this?” Grim talking.

  “Stick him with your knife, see if he’s faking.” Roy talking.

  “You you you… need to vomit.” Frank the stammerer talking, obviously.

  Van risked peeking one eye open to barely a slit, and saw Frank thrusting his finger into Sara’s mouth.

  This is bad. This is very bad.

  If they all throw up, they might not pass out.

  And if they stick me with a knife, I’ll flinch and scream, and they’ll know I’m not asleep.

  They’ll know I drugged them.

  I can’t run. They have guns.

  I can’t fight. The cop and the soldier are bigger, stronger, have experience.

  Maybe this was a bad idea.

  Maybe this was—

  As Grim approached Van, he fell facedown, twitched once, then stayed still.

  Roy also slumped over, sprawling out on the sand.

  Frank began snoring.

  —brilliant! I’m a genius! A criminal mastermind!

  Van sat up, grinning for the first time in—how long? Years? Ever?

  Then his smile faded when he heard the sounds of retching.

  Sara. On her knees. Her own finger down her throat.

  And all of my lovely sleep-whiskey sluicing down her chin!

  Van cast a frantic glance around him, seeking a weapon.

  A rock? A cactus?

  He reached for the cactus, wincing when it jabbed him in the palm, crying out at the unfairness of stupid evolution that created plants with spikes, and then he picked up a rock and hurried at Sara.

  The gunshot split the air next to his head, and Van immediately dropped the rock and dove behind some bushes.

  She’s armed! Who could have known?!

  More shots, kicking up dirt next to him.

  It’s not safe behind this bush! Who could have known?!

  Van scrambled to his feet and ran, changing direction several times because he had no idea which way to go. Everywhere he turned, the desert looked the same.

  It’s stupid! This desert is stupid!

  As he flailed without direction, Very Bad Thoughts bounced around in his head.

  I don’t want to get shot in the head!

  I don’t want to get shot in the pee-pee!

  I don’t want to get shot in the finger!

  I don’t want to get shot in the rectum!

  I don’t want to get shot in the ear!

  I don’t want to get shot in the pancreas!

  I don’t want to get shot in the calf!

  I don’t want to get shot in the rectum!

  Basically, Van didn’t want to get shot anywhere. Especially in the rectum.

  But no more shots came. Van eventually found a decent-sized stone to hide behind, and he took a quick peek around the side to see if Sara was coming to get him.

  She had slumped onto the ground, face-first.

  Is she faking it?

  Van decided to find out.

  “Sara! Are you faking it?”

  Sara didn’t reply.

  So she’s maybe really knocked out. Or maybe she’s too clever for my question.

  Van watched her until he ran out of patience, which took about eighteen seconds, and then he devised a brilliant strategy; he stood up really fast and immediately ducked again to see if Sara tried to shoot him.

  She did not.

  Summoning up the courage of ten thousand men, Van courageously ran straight at her, screaming gibberish and flailing his arms, and courageously kicked away the gun. Then he courageously ran after the gun, and picked it up, and courageously aimed at the ground near her head and fired.

  Sara didn’t flinch. But Van did. He flinched and screamed and dropped the gun and took five staggering steps away from it. Shooting a stupid gun was fifty times louder than he expected, and it kicked back so hard he hurt his stupid hand, which was already bleeding from the stupid cactus.

  Everything is stupid! This isn’t fair!

  But the realization came a moment later, after the shock wore off.

  He’d done it! His plan worked!

  I did it! My plan worked!

  “I did it! My plan worked!”

  Van let out an awkward WHOOP!, did an awkward fist-thrust into the sky, and with his ears still ringing he went to get his camera and his dissecting kit.

  It is finally time to see which scalpel blade—the round one or the square one—works better for slitting throats.

  WEEJY

  Area 57 – New Mexico

  That lunch with Ziggy and Tork had been as pleasant and reassuring as a death row final meal before being executed. Afterward, Weejy and SoJo wandered around the gigantic, underground bunker.

  “At least we don’t have guards following us around.”

  Weejy covered her mouth and whispered. “That’s because we’re being watched.”

  SoJo crouched, pretending to tie her shoe, keeping her face down. “How?”

  “These light bulbs. Too many are burned out. I think all the dark ones are cameras.”

  “There’s one in every hall.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why they need all these cameras if this place was made to store nuclear waste?”

  Why indeed?

  They continued to explore, but didn’t find much in the way of variation.

  “Every damn hallway looks the same. I think we’re going in circles.”

  But we aren’t going in circles.

  With every new turn, Weejy slowly pieced together a mental map of the entire compound.

  Every doorway. Every direction change. Every corridor. Every room.

  And every locked door.

  They only discovered seven locked doors, out of seventy-eight.

  One of them led to the interrogation room, with that horrible metal table.

  Two of them were at the center of the rectangular complex, sealing off a hallway that had a really bad stench to it.

  One was to the elevator.

  One was to someone’s quarters.

  And the last two were on opposite sides of Area 57.

  Weejy guessed one led to the submarine hatch. She assumed the other also led to an exit of some sort.

  As for rooms…

  There was the circular lab, where Nick worked. A control room, with a huge bank of monitors showing all of the security cameras, proving Weejy right about the video surveillance. The mess hall. Three cells, including the one they’d been held in. A small office, with bookshelves full of psychology texts and a password-protected desktop computer. A kitchen, with a walk-in freezer and a larder. Some rooms that held supplies. One that looked like a doctor’s office.

  Some rooms were completely empty, not a stick of furniture, no decorations at all.

  Most of Esbat was composed of living quarters for the guards, who treated Weejy and SoJo with silent distain. The majority slept or watched TV or ate. A patrol of at least six walked the halls.

  They weren’t there when we escaped. More proof that our escape had been allowed so Charles could pump us for info.

  While they explored, both women tried, at regular intervals, to use their phones. Neither could get any sort of signal, and the Wi-Fi available was encrypted.

  That’s why Ziggy allowed us to keep our cells. They were useless without a password. He must have punched it in to let me leave a message for Bert, then changed it on his computer.

  When they’d explored every available inch of Area 57, which took hours, SoJo and Weejy wandered back to the dining hall to search for pizza leftovers. As they bit into their slices, Ziggy addressed them over the intercom.

  “I’ve sent Tork to escort you ladies to the control room. Albert is on his way.”

  Bert!

  Weejy didn’t let her excitement show.

  The less Ziggy knows how much I care about Bert, the better. But if he truly is on his way…

  Weejy put both hands over her mouth to hide her enormous grin.

  Tork appeared in the mess a moment later and led them through halls and doors until they arrived back at the control room. A seated Ziggy stared at the wall of monitors, two guards standing behind him.

  There were too many video screens, and Weejy searched for Bert, her eyes flitting from one TV to the next so quickly it almost made her dizzy. Besides covering rooms and corridors, the cameras also oversaw several outdoor locations, and she noticed a group of people in the distance, too far away to tell if any of them was Bert. They appeared to be camped out.

  She saw the group from another angle, and realized it was a different band of people, with a different vehicle, also parked.

  They’ve come to save us.

  Weejy felt a spike of gratitude, trumped by a much larger spike of worry.

  These ten people won’t be enough.

  A hundred people might not be enough.

  “What in the hell is that?” SoJo pointed to something, and when Weejy checked it out her mind couldn’t make any sense out of the image.

  Something large and dark and furry, crouching on a floor, surrounded by hay and…

  Sheep parts. Back legs, covered in bloody wool, bisected from the body. Organs. Intestines. A severed head.

  It must be some trick of the low light, because the head appears to be opening and closing its mouth. Like it’s still alive and trying to scream.

  “He was here before I came.” Ziggy stood directly behind Weejy, starling her. “He’s the reason this facility doesn’t store nuclear waste. Instead, it stores him. His name is Bub. He likes sheep. I can introduce you later, if you want to meet him.”

  “Is Bub… human?” SoJo asked.

  “Oh, heavens no. He’s a demon. He’s the reason we thought you visited us. The Internet has whole forums dedicated to Bub, and Samhain, and Monstrum, and Esbat. They’re mostly just conspiracy nonsense. Fake news. Misinformation. Trolls making stuff up for the lulz, as they call it. But every so often we get curious pilgrims who somehow manage to find this place, looking for Bub. Maybe they followed some sort of trail. Maybe he calls to them. I haven’t a clue. I’m not an expert on Bub. He isn’t my project.”

  “Who’s project is he?”

  “He’s the main part of… ah, here’s your friend Albert now. He appears to have some company.”

  Weejy found the correct monitor to stare at, and saw Bert exit a vehicle.

  Bert! Oh sweet, dear, sexy Bert!

  Weejy’s knees got knocky.

  It seems like we’ve been apart for weeks.

  With Bert, a man who was obviously a clone of Thomas Jefferson, a woman—maybe Joan of Arc but she seems too young—and Stosh, which overjoyed Weejy, knowing the bird was okay. The group gathered around the submarine hatch, and Ziggy held out his hand.

  “Your cell phone, Sacagawea.”

  Weejy gave it to him, and Ziggy pressed a few buttons and then dialed and introduced himself to Bert and his friends. After some back and forth, Ziggy said, “I do. Just a moment.”

  He muted the phone and told Weejy, “Tell them you’re here.” Then he put it on speaker.

  “We’re here, Bert. It’s so great to see you.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “We’re fine. You got my message?”

  “I did.”

  “I dislike formalities,” Ziggy took the cell off speaker, “but would the three of you mind showing your tattoos to the yucca plant? You’ll understand why we have to maintain this level of security when you come down.”

  As Bert and the others followed instructions, Ziggy muted the phone again and ordered Tork. “Bring the ladies to where they can await their friends.”

  “I’d like to wait here for them,” Weejy told him.

  “Me, too.” SoJo stood beside Weejy. Solidarity.

  Ziggy peered at them like he might be studying a slime mold through a microscope.

  “I know neither of you bought my we’re all brothers and sisters speech. I may have been a bit heavy-handed with the whole issue of trusting each other as some sort of birthright. We’re not some kind of big happy family. In fact, the opposite is true. The greatest threat to clones… is other clones. That man,” Ziggy pointed to a monitor, “Tom, is responsible for the deaths of several of our brethren. Clones with donors who were among the best in their respective fields. Such a tremendous waste, such a loss to science… the damage is incalculable. Tom, and his companions, will be dealt with. You both are still of some use. Don’t make it harder than it has to be.”

  Tork grabbed Weejy’s upper arm, hard, and yanked her out of the room. Weejy tried to squirm away, and he shoved the barrel of a gun into her neck. A guard did the same with SoJo.

  “This is how you want to play this.” SoJo’s eyes went mean.

  Ziggy focused back on the monitor, watching Bert, Tom, and the woman remove their shoes. “Au contraire, Sojourner. Playtime has just begun.”

  They were marched out of the control room and into the maze of hallways, four more guards joining the procession, and after three doorways Weejy knew where they were being taken.

  The interrogation room.

  I’m not going back there.

  Fear of being strapped to that metal table overriding her fear of getting shot, Weejy twisted her arm and pulled away from Tork, getting free, only to be punched full in the face by the guard standing behind her. Weejy fell to her knees, her vision spinning and the pain coming fast. Tork wrapped his meaty fist around her ponytails and dragged her down the hall.

  Clutching his wrists, feeling like her scalp was being torn off, Weejy caught a glimpse of SoJo, two guards knocking her to the floor and kicking her as she flailed her limbs, swearing at them.

  Tork yanked Weejy onto the table, slamming her against it, knocking the wind from her, but Weejy continued to fight and claw and lash out even though she couldn’t suck in a breath.

  It took three men to shackle her to the autopsy table. By the time her diaphragm could draw air into her lungs, she could see SoJo being cuffed, hands behind her back, to one of the table legs. Blood dripped off her friend’s face, soaking her shirt. Weejy could smell it, under the sickly-sweet stench of disinfectant and Tork’s pungent body odor.

  As she strained against her bonds, panicked grunts escaping her throat like a cornered animal, Tork picked up something that looked like a cattle prod, dangling it in front of Weejy’s eyes.

  “This is what you can look forward to later. This is the pain wand. Here’s a quick taste.”

  He touched the end to Weejy’s chin, and her whole body seized up.

  Agony set her nerves ablaze, raw and paralyzing, like she’d broken five teeth and then bit into a live electric wire.

  Sparks of searing white light filled her vision, ears buzzing to jet engine decibels, her whole body seizing as her back arched to nearly the breaking point. After five seconds of red-hot agony, Weejy blessedly passed out.

  When she opened her eyes, gasping as if drowning, Tork and the others had left, and SoJo was calling to her.

  “Weejy! Weejy, tell me you’re okay!”

  Weejy tried to answer. But all that came out were uncontrollable sobs.

  JOAN

  Twenty-Three Hundred Meters Northwest of Area 57 – New Mexico

  Joan felt confusion when Catherine and Leo drew their guns on her, Abe, and Fabler.

  Joan felt scared when Catherine and Leo used plastic zip ties to bind her, Abe, and Fabler, hands behind their backs, ankles crossed.

  Joan felt sheer terror when Leo went to their rented SUV and put away all the guns, then pulled out eight suitcases, opening them to reveal four plastic gasoline cans, fifty quarters of firewood, and ten pieces of pipe that, when screwed together, created a pole that he drove into the ground with a sledgehammer.

  “Impressed?” Catherine smiled like she did when cameras were on her. “We schlepped this gear all the way from LA. The stake is a tetherball pole. Tough to find one at the last minute. Apparently it’s making a comeback.”

  As the light faded with the sun, Leo turned on the vehicle’s headlights, then made a twenty foot wide circle of torches around the pole, sticking them in the ground and lighting them.

  “Are you curious why I’m going to burn you alive, Joan? Or have you figured it out from all the hints I’ve dropped?”

  “Catherine…”

  “You don’t need to call me Catherine anymore. The Catherine you used to know led a privileged life, and died a messy death. Ten years ago, I was her housekeeper. Fresh from an Oscar win, she’d taken two weeks off, intending to spend it in Venice. She never made it. The night before her flight, someone shoved an icepick into her brain while she slept.”

  “It was you!” Abe accused.

  Fake Catherine laughed. “Of course it was me, you moron. But who am I?”

  “You’re the housekeeper!”

  “It’s a shame you didn’t get your donor’s brilliant mind.”

  “Maybe I did,” Abe said. “But since I turned sixteen, I’ve taken a lot of narcotics. Literally pounds of them. It’s a miracle I can still form sentences.”

  “How mundane. Now shush while the adults talk.”

  “Do you have any idea what it was like growing up, looking like Lincoln? My only escape was drugs. And gambling. And videogames. And movies. And sex. I’m a sex addict. Do you want to have sex?”

  “Do I have to ask Leo to hit you, Abe?”

  “I’ll shut up. But think over the sex thing. I can be quiet during sex. Mostly. Okay, I can’t. I’m a loud lover. Loud and selfish.”

  “Leo, hit him.”

  Leo strolled up to Abe, who smiled at him. “You wouldn’t hit your favorite president, would you?”

  Leo gave Abe a vicious right hook to the face, so hard that Joan could feel it.

  “My nostril! You tore my nostril!” Leo raised his fist again and Abe bellowed, “I’m shutting up!”

  “Where was I?” Fake Catherine tapped her lips with a manicured finger. “Right. The monologue where the mastermind explains everything. I killed the clone of Catherine the Great. Then I took her place. Having been her housekeeper, I knew all the intimate details of her life. I knew all the bank accounts and investments. I could forge her signature. I knew all her business contacts. Her friends. Her rivals. I met you at a party once, Joan. I doubt you remember me. Who remembers the hired help? Plus, I looked so different then. I wasn’t born into a life of wealth and beauty, like Catherine. My mother was divorced and poor. I was homely.”