Page 70 of Killer Clone

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Fett bent over the top of the dumpster, kicking hard and pushing his palms flat against its slimy walls. His hips rose as he balanced on the edge with his feet off the ground, half in, half out.

This was always the most dangerous moment, the time when his breath quickened and his heart raced under all his layers of clothing. Anyone could come now. Grab him and tip him inside.

That had happened three times already.

Two of those times, Fett had climbed out to see a group of teenagers staggering off laughing, still holding their bottles of beer. The third time, though, he’d climbed to his feet, unsteady on the pile of garbage, only to receive a punch in the face that knocked him down.

The lid slammed closed after that, and something heavy landed on top, too heavy for him to move. Five hours he’d spent in that dumpster until someone dragged off the sacks of construction material and tossed in a bag of garbage, leaving him there, buried in the muck but at least able to escape.

Moments like that were the risks of his lifestyle. They built these dumpsters high to make it hard for folks like him to searchsafely. Folks didn’t like Fett sleeping on benches. They didn’t like him sleeping on the streets, and they didn’t even like him taking the garbage they no longer wanted.

But Fett had no choice. This was the life he lived. Scavenging for food, eating at the soup kitchen sometimes, and sleeping in the shelter when they had a spare bed.

He’d gotten lucky last night with a good meal and a slice of carrot cake. Almost missed the cake. First time he’d ever felt grateful to the law. And then he’d managed to snag a bed. Things were looking his way.

Now it was mid-morning, and he was thirsty. He’d eaten good at the kitchen. But he needed a drink. And for that, he needed some cash.

This dumpster was mostly empty—some stray boxes and cartons—but no more than three bags sat at the bottom, all of them squishy, which meant it was food waste or something. Nothing that he could pawn, at least.

A smell that reeked of vinegar and fecal matter rose from a puddle of brown water in the corner of the dumpster, but Fett didn’t care about that. He barely noticed stink anymore. All the world’s smells just merged into one, a cacophony of odors like all the different cars honking at the same time on I-24.

He’d almost forgotten what a good odor smelled like. Just as he’d almost forgotten his name.

When those federal agents had called him Delafayette, he’d wanted to reply with a “Yes, ma’am,” like he’d done when he was a kid. Only his mom had ever used his full name. To everyone else, he was Fett, as long as he could remember.

To the kids at school. To his stepdad every time he whooped his ass with that belt of his. To the warders at juvie, to his cellmates, and now to himself. Whoever Delafayette might’ve been, that kid was long gone. Fett was all he’d ever be now.

A flash of red between two of the garbage bags caught his eye. With one hand still flat on the side of the dumpster, he yanked one of the bags away. A pizza box, partially open. The box rattled when he picked it up.

Yes!

There were two slices of pizza. One was missing the tip, and the other was complete. That was almost two whole slices.

He gave one slice a sniff as he shuffled away. The pizza didn’t smell of much. He took a bite. Didn’t taste of much either. Cold cheese never did have much flavor, but the olives came through. The guy should’ve ordered pepperoni.

He stuck those in his pocket for later and washed the bite down with the final swig from the vodka bottle he kept in his coat pocket.

That was what he needed.

The burn of alcohol at the back of his throat soothed him. He missed that blaze when he didn’t have it. Only when his throat flamed, and the alcohol vapors tickled the back of his nose, was he sure he was alive.

And when the heat hit his belly, Fett could forget for a moment the feeling that someone was watching him.

He’d had that sense all morning. Ever since he left the shelter, taken his first swig of vodka, and shuffled down Third Street. A white Toyota truck. The one he’d seen before. The vehicle those Feds had asked him about. He was sure the truck was creeping along behind him down Third. He turned up Commerce Street and lost it. But then, when he reached Broadway, it came up behind him again.

It disappeared when he turned on First Street, and Fett had been able to amble along next to the river after that, heading to the dumpsters where the good stuff was often found. There were more dumpsters farther up. He’d once found half a bottleof bourbon on the bank up there. Days like that didn’t happen often enough.

He tipped the bottle back, savoring the last drops of vodka as they hit his tongue. Warmth spread through him, easing some of the tension in his shoulders.

Footsteps. Soft, deliberate.

Fett flinched at the sound. Turning wasn’t easy under five layers of clothing—the old coat resisted, stiff and unyielding. He twisted as far as he could, but the street behind him remained a blur of shadows. Sure he was imagining things, he kept walking.

The Cumberland River and its dark waters seemed to ice Fett’s bones. He shuffled faster.

The dumpsters were just ahead now. Three of them, right next to a steak house. He’d once pulled a whole T-bone out of one, still warm from the grill. Some dumbass diner probably thought it was overcooked or something. Tasted like heaven to Fett that night as he sat by the river, lost in the moonlight glistening across the water.

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