Billy and the Cloneasaurus

Copyright © 2014, 2018 Stephen Kozeniewski.

Copyright © 2018 French Press

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IS ANYBODY ACTUALLY going to read this?  Does it really matter what I say here?  Cover my ass?  Well, all right, then.  I guess I’ll do it to cover my ass.  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher and author, except where permitted by law. 

This novel is a work of fiction.  Names, places, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.  If you actually read this, you’ve earned yourself a joke:  What do you call a dinosaur impound lot?  Tyrannosaurus Wrecks.

ISBN:  978-1718738102

All rights reserved.

1.

The Whirling Fan of Death abruptly stopped spinning the instant it struck William 789-6’s abdomen.  The chalky-white, pain-wracked face of 789 stared at them accusingly for about fifteen seconds before he finally succumbed to blood loss.  (Intestinal loss was also, no doubt, a contributing factor to the poor clone’s death.)

William 64-6, the slurry machine operator, clad in a white plastic apron and all-encompassing goggles whistled archly and said, Well, that’s never happened before.

William 790-6 reached up and tugged on his shirt collar.  He cleared his throat, not really knowing what else to do.  64 didn’t make a move and seemed to be waiting for 790 to prompt him.  It was typical clone behavior, but, of course, that meant that 790’s own inclination was also to not move, but to wait for someone else to prompt him.  With an exhausted sigh, 790 gestured at the remaining half of 789 still stuck in the slurry machine.

Why don’t you, uh, reach in and see if you can clear the, uh, obstruction?

64, the operator, scratched his chin lightly with the back of his fingernails.  It was a mannerism that 790 cultivated, too, of course.  All the clones could read one another like books.  It was just like looking in the mirror.  This particular maneuver appeared to indicate a gentle disinterest, but in fact, would be expressed in words as, Heck no, not in a million billion frickin’ years.

Finally, 64 spoke.

Well, I ain’t sticking my hand in there.

Then he stared at 790 expectantly.  Briefly, 64 glanced down at his watch.

Almost quittin’ time, he commented, as Williams the world over did at around this time every day.

790 sighed, defeated.  There was nothing for it.  He was the next in line for the sluicer, after all.  If he lost his hand removing the jam, it just meant one hand less that the machine would have to process in a moment.  Heck, 64 probably wouldn’t have minded if he just jumped in and processed himself along with the top half of 789.  Somehow, though, that would have lacked dignity, and William clones were nothing if not concerned about their dignities.

All right, let’s have a look, 790 said, moving towards the clear plastic tube in the center of the room.

He rolled up his sleeves and prepared to plunge his arm down into the grimacing cloaca of the machine.  He stopped midway through, interrupted by 64 clicking his tongue and waving his index finger.

Ah ah, said 64, tapping his own wrist.

790 glanced down and removed his watch.  It was a metal watch, nothing fancy like gold.  Stainless steel, maybe?  Titanium?  Anyway, it was digital.  The Williams had never much cared to read analog time.  As a matter of fact, analog time telling had been all but phased out.  In fact, the only places where you could find second hands and hour hands and all those silly hoo-has anymore was in some of the old clock towers in some of the older Williamsports and Williamsburgs.  Big Bill sprang to mind.

Actually, 790 said, "I think I can see the blockage from here.

Oh? 64 said, finally stepping out from behind his control console.

64 glanced down into the fan where 789’s torso was caught.

Yeah, said 790, pointing at it, You just made me think of it.  There it is.  He had his right hand down in there on his hip.  See?

Oh, 64 said, Lookit.  He forgot to take his watch off.

How do you fix that? 790 asked.

I dunno.  Never happened before.

Why don’t you, uh, dislodge it?

Look, 64 said as matter-of-factly as the Williams ever got, Thing is, today’s not my day.  January 6.  Next year.  That’s me.  And you know, you lose a hand, they move up your date.  You’re no good to them handless.

But it’s all right if I lose a hand, eh?

Today’s your day, Will, 64 said, I’m sorry it had to be that way, but it is.  March 20.  781 through 790.  That’s the way it is.

So nobody’s date’s been moved up this year?

Not so far.  And I don’t intend to be the first.

Typical.  Avoiding danger.  Fearful of change.  Not many Williams lost their hands, or any other body part for that matter.  They were diligent.  Dependable. 

You’re a jerk, Will, 790 muttered under his breath.

What’s that? 64 said, probably catching the gist, but as was expected from his genetic code, not wanting to admit it to himself.

Here, hand me that, 790 said, much louder this time.

64 emerged from his concerned crouch and plucked a mop handle out of a bucket in the corner of the room.  He handed it to his still-crouching clone.

Here you go, Will, 64 said, in as conciliatory a voice as he could muster considering that he might darn well be going home late tonight.

Without even looking down, 790 jammed the mop handle down into the fan mechanism.  He kept his eyes locked on 64, who slowly slunk away under his clone’s withering gaze.  It didn’t take more than thirty seconds before 790 caught the watch, pushed it away from the wrist which it enveloped with a sickening crunch, and waited for the fan to begin spinning again.

Nothing happened.

Well, it’s dislodged, 790 said.

It is?

He nodded.

Why isn’t it moving? 64 asked, nervously tapping his fingertips together.

You’re asking me?  This is your job, Will.

64 ran his hand around his collar in a near duplication of the move 790 had executed earlier while waiting to be slurried.

I know it is, Will, but this has never happened before, 64 said, No one’s ever failed to strip...completely...before.

You mean not in the...three months you’ve been doing this?

Right.  That’s what I mean.

Well, Will, here we are.  What do you think we should do about it?

790 planted his hands on his hips, a typical gesture of defiance amongst the Williams.  He was naked as the day was long, which 64 clearly found discomfiting.  He could stare at little Willy dongs all day as long as they were just lining up to be slurried, but when something went off plan, he was suddenly very aware of the nakedness of his victims, er, customers.

A bead of sweat rolled down 64’s face.  If 790 knew anything about his exact physical double, he knew that soon 64’s armpits would be illuminated with brilliant yellow stains and then he would be sweating through his clothes.  790 decided then and there that, he personally, would remain cool as a cucumber.  Let this kid, not even through his first quarter, panic.  It was no skin off 790’s nose.  He was dead either way.

All right, listen, Will, 64 said, clutching at his esophagus, which seemed to be collapsing in on itself, So, here’s what we’ll do.  It’s, ah, 4:40 now.  So, your replacement should be decanted, but ah, wouldn’t have left yet.

On a Friday? 790 said, checking his watch, I’ll be lucky if he hasn’t left yet.  I know you would’ve left 20 minutes ago if it wasn’t for this whole slobbery screwup.

All right, now, there’s no need to get vulgar, is there, now, Will? 64 was really hedging now. So, look, just grab your clothes, go down, hitch a ride with your replacement, spend the night with him, and, ah, report here first thing in the morning and we’ll let the weekend crew take care of you.

790 had never felt so distant from another William.  He had to laugh.  He had always heard the old-timers, fellows in their fourth quarter or late third, talking about how everything changed as you reached your birthday and the slurry machine loomed for you.  He had never really believed it, but here it was.  He felt different from 64, and feeling different from another William had to be a first.

First thing? 790 asked, nudging 789’s better half, You’re going to have poor Will cleared out by then?  And have the slurry machine fixed?  Do you even know how?

64 blanched white. 

Well, no, he admitted, but I’ll put in a note to maintenance and they’ll take care of it.  Ricky tick.

Not on a Friday night they won’t, 790 said, I’ll try to be here by noon.  Hopefully, it’ll be sorted by then.  And hopefully we won’t make your poor replacements stay too late tomorrow.

It’s just eleven, 64 said. We can normally take care of ten, with wiggle room.

790 gathered up his clothes.  He didn’t bother putting any of them on as he strode towards the door out of the slush chamber.  Before he got all the way out, 64 cleared his throat calling for attention.  790 almost didn’t turn back, but he was still enough of a William to follow protocol.

Yes? 790 asked.

I don’t suppose you could just take care of yourself...manually?  With a knife or something?

790 shook his head, partially in answer to the question and partially in disgust at the weak stomach of the Whirling Fan of Death operator.  He left.  Just as 64 breathed a sigh of relief and glanced at the bloody, broken mess he had been left with, 790 popped his head back in.

I just realized something.

What? 64 asked.

I forgot to take my watch off, too.

790 tossed it through the air.  64 caught it and stared at it.  He couldn’t have looked more embarrassed if he had tried.

THE NEW 790 WAS WHISTLING and tossing his keys in the air, as all the Williams sneaking into the parking lot were doing.  It was likely that 64 was the only poor so-and-so stuck staying late on this crisp, early spring evening.  Every William knew that every other William was delighted to get off five, ten, even just two minutes early.  It never seemed to stop the traffic jams, because they all somehow always seemed to leave at the same time, regardless of their actual individual circumstances. Still, it always felt like sneaking a cookie from the cookie jar.

The new 790 stopped and stared closely at his keys as soon as he saw the old 790 leaning naked against his navy blue sedan.

What, uh...sorry, Will, I think you’ve got the wrong car, the newbie said.

No, I haven’t, the veteran of his own life replied, You’re driving me home today, Will.

Without waiting for a response, the old one stepped into the passenger’s side and sat down, khakis and polo shirt folded neatly in his lap.  The new one was flustered, obviously.  No one normally had to deal with this level of wackiness, and certainly not on one’s decanting day.  Maybe after a quarter or two a William could learn to deal with an unexpected development or two, but right out of the axlotl tank, there wasn’t much hope.

Still, the newbie was game.  He had a little bit of natural gumption, which being a preferred trait in Williams, had never been altered or bred out (bred of course being a bit of an antiquated word.)  The new one actually walked around to the passenger’s door of his own car and knocked on the window.

Without looking at his replacement, the veteran, who naturally still thought of himself as the real 790, rolled down the window.

Say, um, look, Will, I just got through orientation and they told me this was my spot and this was my car, and it would look like all the other cars in the lot, but I would know it by the number and that everybody has his own.

The old 790 was just staring through the windshield, off into space, as though there were something out there to see that wasn’t 3,650 identical blue sedans all hitting the road at the same time in the city of Williamsport-6. 

The newbie’s voice went down an octave and a half.

Say, Will, what’s your number anyway?

The veteran’s hand instinctively went to his chest where his number plate normally was, but, of course, he wasn’t wearing a shirt and it would’ve been a bit painful to pin it directly to his chest.  Who cared, anyway?  After tomorrow, he’d just be a pulverized mash to feed all the young pukes like this one about to be decanted from their axlotl tanks.

He plucked the number off the shirt in his lap and tossed it out the open window.  The new 790, still clearly flustered, stumbled after it, nearly avoiding being sideswiped by a blue sedan.

Better watch yourself, Will, the driver called out the window, before waving, honking, and pressing the gas.

The newbie returned, his face whiter than 64’s had been when he realized he would have to stay late on a Friday night.

You’re 790, too? the new one asked.

No, the veteran said, snatching his nameplate out of his successor’s hand, I’m 790-6.

Well, I know, Will, the newbie said, This is Williamsport-6, but...

The grin on the veteran’s face said it all.

You’re messing with me, aren’t you, Will?

That I am, Will.  Why don’t you hop in and I’ll explain it to you as you drive us home.

TRAFFIC HAD BEEN THE same beast it always was.  Traffic patterns were identical all over Williamsburg.  Every William got it in his head to go to work at the same time, pop off to lunch at the same time, run off to the cleaners at the same time, and end the night with a nightcap at the same time.  It was the way it had always been, and the way it always would be.  3,650 identical thought patterns all leading to the inevitable identical traffic patterns.

The new 790 kept glancing at his unexpected and unwelcome passenger.  Frankly, all the Williams in the traffic jam were glancing over at their naked twin, too.  It wasn’t time for passengers.  Now and then two or three Williams might double up, on a night when it was raining and going round the pub seemed dangerous and a DD was called for.  But right now was going home time.  Right now was alone and stuck in traffic time.

So, you want me to drop you off somewhere, or, uh...

Where, Will? the veteran 790 asked, The home for lost clones?  Where else should I go except my own home?

The new 790 muttered something under his breath.  The veteran was about to ask what he had said, but he instantly