“Cheesy Enchilada with sour cream.”

  “Goddammit, Mother. You know I don’t like the sour cream.”

  “You like sour cream in the Beef Stroganoff Hamburger Helper.”

  “Whatever.” It’s no use trying to get her to understand anything.

  “So a small bowl?”

  “Give me the big bowl,” Van pouted. “But knock first.”

  If you don’t knock, Mother, I swear to god I’m going to ram that bowl so far down your throat that you shit out the bloody shards. Then I’m going to use my dissection kit to flay open every muscle in your face until you can’t open your mouth to scream anymore.

  She left, closing the door behind her, and Van finished his ReadHard post for the fleeting enjoyment of all the diehards and tryhards and cryhards, and then waited for the positive comments to start rolling in.

  Because what is the point of the Internet other than the temporary approval of complete strangers?

  While he waited, Van surfed some clothing websites. His preferred outfit, a man’s romper with the shorts and short-sleeve shirt sewn together, was tough to find in his size because of his short stature. He liked onesies because they removed the complexity of having to match a top with a bottom. The grey one he wanted was still on backorder, so he signed onto one of his anonymous accounts and gave the company another hate-strewn 1 star review.

  Mother came by later—the bitch was damn lucky she knocked this time—and Van picked around the clumps of sour cream until he couldn’t avoid them anymore. So he ate everything out of spite.

  The first comment dropped on RH, and he felt a dopamine spike as he clicked on it.

  Lame. Music is atonal and the images are ripped from Darknet. The only original images you post are dead animals. You’re not an edgelord. Create your own content, n00b, and stop mashing.

  Van felt the Hamburger Helper climb back up his throat.

  I’m okay with the atonal comment. My music is intentionally disharmonic to grate the nerves.

  But I’m for sure an edgelord, not a n00b.

  My posts are wicked.

  They’re way wicked.

  Aren’t they?

  For the fifteenth time that week, Van considered killing his mother and filming her rotting corpse.

  But that’s stupid. Killing a family member is just begging to be the prime suspect in the inevitable police investigation.

  So who else can I kill?

  What’s a content creator edgelord supposed to do to get the sweet sweet raw footage?

  Mother, annoying as she was, had a point. Van hardly ever went out. He didn’t know anyone in the real world.

  Killing a random stranger was a possibility, but there were too many variables.

  Dear lord, what if I tried to kill somebody and they actually fought back?

  He shuddered at the thought.

  I need to get someone to trust me, but who can’t be connected to me.

  Someone whose throat I can slit while they sleep, but whose corpse won’t lead the cops to my door.

  Someone like…

  Those cloner morons who came over here, wanting me to join their stupid little club.

  Van searched the mess on his desk, seeking the phone number that Einstein-looking nerd had given him.

  No one will miss that guy. Or that chick he was with.

  It’s time for me to put on my Big Boy pants and graduate from killing rodents to killing humans.

  Da da da dummmm.

  JOAN

  Somewhere Over Nevada

  Awkward.

  Catherine’s private jet had a white interior, eight first-class leather seats, a wet bar, a sofa facing a giant screen TV, and a bathroom with a shower.

  It’s gorgeous. Everything I thought I wanted when I first came to Hollywood.

  But Joan’s priorities had recently changed. All because of a two red lines on a stick.

  She sat next to Roy, pretending to watch a basketball game, while keeping one ear on Tom and Catherine, who were seated across the aisle from each other.

  The moment we got onboard, she latched onto my husband like he was the last parachute on a plane in a death spiral.

  That’s probably an inappropriate analogy.

  “I read you had a lot trouble with some of the other clones, but you saved the day. Of course, the news didn’t mention they were clones. You protected Joan, Lincoln, and Einstein. And now we’re actually going to meet Lincoln. It’s so terribly exciting.”

  “Temper your expectations. Abe is… an acquired taste.”

  “Two presidents. Is he a hero, like you?” Catherine leaned forward and touched Tom’s forearm.

  She does that all the time. She’s one of those annoying social touchers.

  “It was a team effort.” Tom pulled away.

  Good for you, Tom.

  “But you learned about it at your job, right? On a case.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So surely your training as a law enforcement officer was essential to saving lives.”

  She’s trying to trap you, Tom. She’s looking to land a compliment and stroke your ego.

  “I did the job I was trained for.”

  Nice dodge.

  “Are all police officers that brave?”

  Jesus, Catherine. Why don’t you try climbing into his lap and tousling his hair?

  “We never know what we’re capable of until we’re put into a situation.”

  “Do you ever think about our time together in Chicago, Tom?”

  That bitch.

  “Actually, I thought about it earlier today. Right before I had sex with my wife.”

  Pow! Nice one, babe!

  Earlier, discovering they were pregnant led to some quick, but very much needed, spontaneous couch sex. The afterglow had been perfect, and they held each other and mused about how life would change once they began to raise a child.

  Joan had already prepared for cutting down on her work hours, but Tom had brought up things she hadn’t really considered.

  Do we need to take Lamaze classes?

  Should I try natural childbirth?

  Do I want to breastfeed?

  Do we need to start looking for preschools? Tutors? Nannies? Pediatricians?

  What if the child has special needs?

  What are all of the things we have to buy before the baby arrives?

  What if the fetus isn’t healthy?

  What if I lose the baby?

  Joan discussed that last one with Tom, and they decided to wait until at least the second trimester before announcing the pregnancy to friends.

  “So you thought of me when doing Joan?” Catherine winked. “Kinky.”

  I hate her so much.

  To his credit, Tom said, “I’m going to check out the game,” and stood up.

  Joan quickly pretended she hadn’t been listening, and grabbed a magazine, opening a random page as Tom sat down between her and Roy.

  “How’s the game?” he asked.

  “I was reading.”

  Tom peered at the page. “Skin care secrets for Asian women?”

  Joan shifted. “I was reading the ad.”

  “The ad for removing carpet stains? We don’t have carpets. You went all hardwood and tile when we got Stallone.”

  “Fine. I was listening to Catherine try to flirt with you.”

  A small grin curled up on one side of Tom’s mouth. “And were you proud of my efforts to resist?”

  “It required an effort on your part?”

  Tom’s smile vanished. “You take all the fun out of jealousy.”

  “Jealousy is no fun. How would you like it if I started flirting with Roy?”

  “And once again you guys are chasing me away.” Roy stood up. “Game is tied.”

  “Who’s winning?” Tom asked.

  They did that joke all the time, amusing no one but themselves.

  “Where’s the shitter? I’m going to ruin this lady’s two million dollar toilet.”

  “In back, past the bedroom,” Tom told him.

  The bedroom? “There’s a bedroom? I didn’t see a bedroom when we boarded.”

  Tom didn’t answer her.

  “Tom? Have you been on this plane before?”

  Tom tilted down toward Joan, lowering his voice. “I thought we ended this line of inquiry after the couch sex.”

  “This line of inquiry has reopened.”

  “She had a private plane, Joan, and she asked me if I wanted to grab lunch in St. Louis, near the arch. I never saw the arch before. I was supposed to say no?”

  “So how was the arch?”

  Tom looked away. “I… uh… never saw it.”

  “Why not? Did the city of St. Louis put a big cover over the arch because it was being repaired?”

  Roy walked past Tom and snickered. “Cover over the arch. Classic.”

  “It’s a long story.” Tom gave Roy the stink eye.

  “I’d like to hear the long story, about why you flew to St. Louis to see the arch and never saw the arch. Wait… did you even get out of the plane?”

  “I’m not going to feel bad about things I did before I met you, Joan. Besides, she’s completely different than how I remembered her.”

  “How so?”

  Before Tom answered, the cockpit door opened and Leo came out.

  Wow. He looks even more imposing standing in the small plane.

  “Did either of you care for refreshments? Champagne? Beer?”

  “I’ll take a beer. Thanks, buddy.”

  Leo stared hard at Joan, making her self-conscious. “Can I get you anything?”

  I really want a beer. And it’s really rude for Tom to drink without me. It didn’t even occur to him that I can’t drink.

  “I’m fine. Uh… who’s flying the plane right now, Leo?”

  “Autopilot.”

  Tom had turned his attention to the TV, and didn’t seem to care that she was talking to a man who could make millions of dollars a year modeling underwear.

  Leo continued to stare at her like she was a morsel he wanted to devour.

  Joan cleared her throat. “So… how long have you been with Catherine, Leo?”

  “Eight years.”

  “Eight years? But you look like you’re barely in your twenties.”

  “Good genes. But I’ll share with you that sometimes it feels as if I’ve been with Catherine my whole life.”

  Catherine, who must have been listening, chuckled.

  How rude, eavesdropping.

  “Were you in the military? Is that where you learned to fly?”

  “I was never in the military. But I studied combat extensively. I learned to fly for Catherine. I do everything for her.”

  “And he means everything,” Catherine said, coming over to join the conversation. “He can practically do push-ups with his tongue. You can try him out, Joan, if you like. Do you and Tom have an open relationship?”

  “She’s fine,” Tom slapped Joan’s knee without turning away from the television. “I just hit that before we took off.”

  “What a lucky lady.” Leo’s eyes drilled into Joan so hard she felt herself blush.

  “You can lay off the charm, Leo. They aren’t into expanding their horizons. Be a dear and get me a split of Laurent-Perrier.”

  He nodded and went to the rear of the cabin, to the refrigerator. When he bent down, Joan could see the striations in his obliques press against his tight shirt.

  Catherine caught Joan staring.

  “He’s big everywhere, in case you were wondering.”

  “Tom and I are having a baby,” Joan blurted out.

  That got Tom’s attention. He stared at Joan and raised an eyebrow.

  “That’s splendid.” Catherine’s smile reminded Joan of a pit viper. “It calls for a toast. You can’t drink, of course. But maybe I have something. Leo? Do we still have those juiceboxes for when children come on board?”

  “We do.”

  “Be a dear and bring one for Joan. Amor fati, right?”

  Leo returned with a split of champagne, stemmed crystal wine glasses for Catherine and Tom, and a box of apple drink for Joan.

  “Would you like me to put in your bendy straw?” Leo asked her.

  “I can manage,” Joan managed.

  Leo popped the cork and poured, and Joan broke the bendy straw while trying to punch it into the box.

  She hoped no one noticed.

  Catherine raised her glass. “To Tom, and his little wife, Joan. May the new addition to their family be as happy as they hope to be together.”

  Most passive-aggressive toast ever? Possibly.

  They clinked glasses and box, and when Joan took a sip some apple juice dribbled out of the crack in the straw and down her chin.

  She hoped no one noticed.

  “We’ll be landing in Vegas in twenty-three minutes,” Leo announced in a soothing baritone. “Does anyone need anything before I return to the cockpit?”

  Catherine nudged Joan. “Isn’t it sexy how he says cockpit?”

  It actually is sexy how he says cockpit. But I’m not going to admit it.

  When no requests were made, Leo headed back to fly the plane, his broad shoulders threatening to burst right out of that pilot shirt.

  “Formidable guy,” Tom said.

  Catherine winked. “You have no idea. I’m going to freshen up before we land. Joan, would you like to borrow some of my makeup?”

  “Joan doesn’t wear makeup when she’s not at work.”

  Thanks, hubby.

  “A brave choice. And it limits the chances you’ll be recognized when you pop into a Starbucks for a pumpkin spice latte.”

  “Or a scone. Joan loves the scones. And you’re eating for two now, which I can say out loud even though I thought we were going to wait.”

  “Too excited to hold it in.” Joan kept her voice even.

  And, goddammit, I am craving a scone. Or six.

  And what right does Mr. Pot Edibles have to judge me on my eating habits? He’s been consuming enough THC lately to shame Cheech & Chong.

  And what right do I have to judge him? He just survived yet another serial killer encounter.

  But I’ve survived a few myself. And I didn’t drown my emotions in marijuana.

  Maybe we need to talk about some of this stuff.

  Tom went back to watching large men throw a ball to one another.

  Joan pulled out her cell and Googled the thing Catherine said.

  Amor fati. Love your fate.

  She scanned the Wikipedia entry. Apparently, according to this dumb saying, you should love everything. Even suffering.

  That sounds passive. And stupid.

  Joan put away her phone and went back to her dribbly juice box, not loving it at all.

  WEEJY

  Area 57 – New Mexico

  The clone of Charles Darwin asked a lot of questions.

  Weejy supposed it made sense. His donor asked so many questions he proved evolution was a thing. But after a while it became like dealing with a curious two year old; a veritable inquiry tsunami.

  SoJo seemed to eat up the attention, though Weejy had to keep reminding her that they weren’t answering any personal questions.

  This place is hidden underground in the desert, and is equipped with its own jail. Whoever is running it probably has enough sense to put a listening device, or camera, or both, in the cell.

  Depending on how classified this all is—and according to Bert it’s all super top secret—the knowledge we have could save our lives.

  Or it could kill us.

  Until we have more information, we need to STFU.

  “So, do you like tattoos?” SoJo asked.

  “SoJo!” Weejy reigned in her emotions. “How about we talk about something else?”

  SoJo rolled her eyes. “Dude is our people, Weejy.”

  “Others may be watching.”

  “You mean someone just watched me piss? What kind of pervert would watch a woman piss?”

  Charles shrugged. “Men watch each other piss all the time.”

  “Ain’t I a woman?” SoJo put her hands on her hips and posed.

  Since I’ve known her, SoJo had managed to fit ‘Ain’t I a woman’ into conversation a dozen different times. It was practically a universal truth.

  “Charles, can you excuse us for a second?” Weejy smiled weakly. “Girl talk.”

  Charles looked around. “Uh, where do you want me to—”

  “Go stand there and face the toilet,” SoJo told him.

  Charles, drooping full-body like a scolded puppy, dutifully obeyed. Weejy cupped her hands around SoJo’s ear. “We need to stay quiet and not let them know who we are.”

  SoJo did the same cupped-ear whisper thing. “They gonna torture it out of us anyway.”

  Weejy again. “This isn’t just us. They can go after Bert.”

  SoJo: “Bert is on his own. I’m fond of the guy, but they show me the wand o’ pain and ask me his name, I’ll tell them every damn thing I remember about your boyfriend, and when I run out of true things to say I’ll start making shit up.”

  Weejy: “Isn’t your donor supposed to be one of the bravest women who ever lived?”

  SoJo: “Sister was enslaved, had thirteen kids—most were taken away—and she could endure getting whipped better than any man. I’ve never been bought or sold, have never had kids, and have never been hit by anyone outside of consensual spanking. Maybe I am brave as hell, but I’m not eager to test my limits. There’s a difference between bold and brave. I can get up in your face, long as there are no chances of violence.”

  Weejy: “We need to stay quiet.”

  SoJo: “Why? Maybe we’ll be treated better if we volunteer the information. Maybe they’ll let us go.”

  Weejy: “If we volunteer the information, they have no reason to keep us alive. Bert is our only chance of getting out of here. So we need to stay quiet for as long as we can.”

  SoJo: “Okay, that makes sense. Do you think Charles is cute?”

  Weejy: “Seriously?”

  SoJo: “If we’re gonna die, I wanna catch D one more time before I meet my maker.”

  Weejy wondered if stubborn and strong were two sides of the same coin.

  Weejy: “I can’t believe you’re thinking about that right now.”

  “You guys done?” Charles asked.

  They answered, “No!” at the same time.