Page 2 of Killer Clone

And Patrick would have a life.

Finally, Monty31’s building appeared in front of him. Two floors of bare concrete and broken windows. Torn plastic sheets flapped in some of the gaps. Grass grew in the cracks in the ramp that led down to the underground parking garage.

Patrick took a sip from a jumbo cup in the holder of his truck and slurped down the last of the ice-diluted coke. The parking space lines were long-faded. He drove into the darkness under the building. Water dripped from a rusty pipe that ran crookedly across the ceiling. The air smelled of mold. Only one other vehicle stood in the garage, a white Toyota Tacoma, and Patrick wondered whether anyone else lived here.

The location didn’t strike him as strange on the surface. Monty31 had been in the city for less than two weeks. He was probably still setting himself up, still finding his feet. Tech workers liked living in converted warehouses, according to science fiction books, so this made sense to Patrick, as Monty31 was into computers.

His new friend had probably bought the entire building and was turning it into a giant studio. Maybe, if he was lucky, Monty31 would invite Patrick to move in, too, and give him the entire second floor rent-free.

He parked beside the Tacoma and climbed the short flight of stairs to the first level, imagining what he’d do with an entire floor of a warehouse to himself.

One corner would be all bookcases. There’d be leather armchairs with brass studs and one of those globes that opened into a sophisticated bar cart. He and Monty31 would smoke cigars and drink bourbon with all their friends, chatting about why the government didn’t know what the heck it was doing and describe how they’d manage the world better.

Another corner would become a gym. A pile of weights and a heavy punching bag. Maybe one of those fancy cyclingmachines. Wouldn’t take him too long to build a bit of muscle, and his spindly arms wouldn’t stay spindly for long.

And he’d turn an entire wall into an entertainment center, with a seventy-two-inch screen and a PlayStation, and a proper gaming chair, and…and anything else he wanted. A pool table would be good.

Of course, there’d be the bedroom.

Once he had everything else, that bedroom would see plenty of activity.

But, most importantly, there’d be friends coming and going in droves.

The thought warmed Patrick despite the dampness of the staircase’s rusty handrail and the stiff wind that blew through the broken panes.

He made his way down the hall, stepping over pieces of broken tile and old timber scattered across the concrete. At regular intervals, doorways led into what might’ve once been workshops. But like the workshops themselves, the doors had long gone, leaving nothing but rusty hinges and cold drafts.

The only door still in place was at the far end of the passageway. Made of metal, an unlocked padlock hung from a bracket by the doorknob.

Patrick hesitated. His heart thumped in his chest, and he cursed himself. He had no reason to be nervous. Monty31 was a friend. His first friend.

He knocked. The echo from the steel boomed down the empty corridor. From the other side of the wall came footsteps, followed by a loud creak as the door opened.

And there he was. Patrick wanted to punch the air in excitement.

Monty31 seemed exceptional. He was tall, fairly handsome, and muscular. Definitely more athletic than Patrick. His track pants and t-shirt were casual and inexpensive.

But besides that, Monty31 was entirely normal. Even the glance at the scar on Patrick’s cheek and neck came and went before Monty31 pulled the door all the way open and smiled.

Relief rushed through Patrick, though something in the back of his mind whispered a warning. Why did Monty31 choose to live here?

“You’re Patrick, right? HistoryBoi1789?”

He beamed. “I am indeed. And you’re Monty31, right? What’s your actual name?”

“Call me Monty. Come on in.”

Patrick wanted to hug him, but that was too much. He stepped into the warehouse.

And it was all wrong.

The walls were bare. Dust, wood chips, and what looked like chunks of asbestos coated the concrete floor. A long length of rope dangled from a high beam beneath the cracked paint ceiling, which struck Patrick as odd. The only furniture was a mattress in one corner next to a gas cooker and a massive backpack for hiking. A laptop computer lay on the mattress.

Patrick’s heart sank.

Monty31 wasn’t living in a giant studio warehouse he’d bought and converted for millions. He was squatting in an empty building in the worst part of town.

Patrick wondered whether he should invite his new friend to stay with him. Even the patch of floor between his and Jake’s bed would be better than this place.

---