Page 4 of Killer Clone

No. It’s all a lie.

“Monty…why?” The words barely escaped his mouth.

Monty’s grin stretched wider. “Because I can.”

Crouching, he gripped Patrick’s head between his hands—not roughly, but almost fondly, like an older brother about to wrestle a kid into a headlock.

But this wasn’t a game.

It had never been a game.

A second pair of hands yanked Patrick’s arms backward, tying his wrists together. He barely resisted.

He was too weak.

Too stupid.

Too wrong about everything.

“Come on, man.” Monty booped Patrick’s nose, still smiling, still thrilled before stepping several feet away. “Make the cut. I want to watch.”

Before Patrick could even process the order, a sharp, cold kiss of metal pressed against Patrick’s neck.

“Do it now!”

Pain.

Not sharp, not like he expected. A rush. A flood.

Scalding heat gushed over his face, his hair, his chest.

The scent of copper exploded in his nose as thick, pulsing streams poured from his neck, gravity dragging it down in sheets, in torrents.

He jerked, and the movement sent fresh waves of blood cascading over his face, filling his ear, drenching his shirt.

His vision swam, bursting with red and gold spots, and his heartbeat thundered in his ears.

It was almost louder than Monty’s laughs.

2

FBI Special Agent Stella Knox, acting as Claymore Township’s co-sheriff, stood outside the small Pennsylvania town’s general store. She stared down at her quarry.

David Broad was Claymore’s sole journalist. He was also the town’s biggest drunk. And this morning, its loudest citizen.

Broad had been bellowing about the apocalypse and the importance of repenting for the last half hour, forcing cars to drive around him. Stella wasn’t surprised so many people had called for help. Broad’s size made him intimidating enough when he was sober.

His massive frame seemed to take up twice the space of an average man, with shoulders so wide, they strained the seams of his winter coat. When he lurched forward, even the most confident locals gave him a wide berth for fear he’d trip and smash them under his solid frame.

She’d been on the scene less than five minutes, and already, she’d had enough. A few minutes more, and she’d be set to explode.

The man tottering in the middle of the road in front of her struggled to maintain his balance between the hills of slushpiled against the curb. His thick, black-and-white beard was wet, and Stella could smell the tequila on his breath from ten feet away.

“Repent, repent!” His shouts came from the top of his lungs. “The end of the world is coming.” He threw his long arms wide, raised his face to the heavens, and laughed.

Stella took a deep breath. She really didn’t have time for this.

Drunk and boisterous at half past ten in the morning, he looked positively dangerous.