libraryonothing

[libraryonothing]

Abacus Jones

         The hills was actually a bit further than they looked from the town.  Took me near on two hours til I started feelin their slow incline in my ankles.  I had kept my eyes on the town, wonderin when truth would show itself and they’d come runnin up to try and hack at my limbs and such, but it didn’t never come.  In fact they kept a happy watch off ta me for the first fifteen minutes or so of my walk, still waving like the crazies they must be to be so kind to a soulless type like myself.  Soon enough though they broke up their group and just seemed to go back to their normal dailying.

           After the long walk, I finally stopped at the base of the hills, sun shining without a cloud to muck it up, and the air without a wind to blow away my own stink.  I quickly came to noticing that there weren’t a sound around, save for my own breathin, and that slow ring in my ears that I only heard when everything was all quiet like right now.  Nothin, not a wild dog, lizard, snake, or even the flies that seemed so smitten with my soulless husk.  There weren’t a bit of life out here, and I didn’a like that much.

           The second bit of strange hit me the moment I was fully in the hills, the tops rolling over above me, and bits of loose rock tumblin down as if something was knockin em loose.  Somethin that was stalkin me, eyein’ me with it’s dark eyes.  Cept when I’d look, that same nothing greeted me again and again.

           I kept at eyein’ the ground for prints or some such sign, but none was ever there.  And I still weren’t feelin any spooks.  I had a sort-of sense for such things, and I’m fair for certain there weren’t none around.  But the pebbles above kept fallin, following me through the hills just as they continued to grow above me further, and I sunk down into the deeper valleys as the sun finally became hidden from me.

           It got moist around me, quick, and in a place that didn’a rightly seem it should be.  Black grass, devil weed, was growing at my feet, and reaching out far ahead of me.  Oft times, this stuff grew up on blood, you’d find it in or around secluded areas in the world, which weren’t many, mind you, as most a the killin I seen’s done out in the streets, or in some structure or nother.  Scribbits is a dark feeder.  Rip their prey to bit pieces, but as I ain’t seen any thing livin round here, don’t figure I’d get off so easy with just a few Scribbits to deal with.  No, I reckon this is them missin youngsters, or at least the emptied fillins of em.

           I kept on, the soft ground dippin further inward, and the devil grass getting thicker.  The hills above rose high now, and when the still-falling pebbles came tumbling down they made a racket, and gave me a sec or two to get out of their way.  But the little ones would shake loose some of the larger ones, and I found I couldn’t avoid em all, and I got one that knocked my hat off and everything.

           It had kicked me down, the devil grass rising above my head now.  Then I heard it, faint, little whispers really, echoing in my head, out there around me, but close enough to be inside.  It was wicked speak, not alive, but not dead yet either.  And them little bits, they knew my name.

           “Abacus…Jones…”

           “He has come!”

           “Rejoice!  In his name we should sing.”

           They was beginning to come in waves now.  Each of em layered all on top or under the other.  They was getting louder, like they was gatherin around me.

           “He’s the one, the dark-eyed stranger.”

           “The one who was summoned.”

           “Ill speaking worm!”

           “What condition affects you summit-seeker?”

           “The demon is among us, we should send it home.”

           “The dark eyes, they will free us.”

           “No, they will suffer us deeper.”

           I was startin to get dizzy, I felt my mind floatin around with the voices in my own head, like I was just another of em swimmin around up there.  I knew better an to listen to the devil weed, never bow your head to it, but the rock brought me down, down to the enchanted specklin of the living grass and their trance talkin.

           “Don’t listen, speak not to the way warder.”

           “some more, give it  more…”

           “help, please help us dark rider.”

           “he does not help.  The dark rider, the Abacus, he is the reason for our deaths.”

           “Yes, the reader, the sight of the soulless.”    

           “So you all’s the missin youngsters right?”  I called out in the pool of em.

           “See, he sees, already he has begun.”

           “Okay, enough already.  I’ll need my head to get the one that done poured your excesses out here.”

           “It tells us, it commands.”

           “No, not his purpose.”

           “But he speaks truth?  We are dead?”

           “Yes, dead.  Souls lost to the separated Earth.  Just vile weeds.  Now let me go!”

           “He preaches, the soulless preaching’s.”

           “Enough damned trance talk.  I need outta here, or…no, you need out.  Get outta my skull!”

           “And you will avenge this?”

           “The death of us all?”

           “Yes, he will.  That is why he was summoned.”

           “Summoned?  No one summoned me.  I found a flyer.  Reward poster.”

           “We will free him then, but must do so as a whole.”

           “Wait a sec, answer me.  What do you mean summoned?”

           “Yes, free him.  His soul hole stinks.”

           “Then go Dark rider.  We release you.”

           “Wait!”

           The voices shot out, and I felt my body again.  But I had a question burning in my skull now, a leftover from the weed.  The sun was nearly gone from the sky now, I would be in the pitch dark soon.  My path would take me further down, deeper still into the valleys, until all light had gone from the place.  All light save for a single glimmer coming from an opening just ahead.

           I gripped the splintering wood handle of my gun, it was cold, but I reckoned it’d be getting warm real soon.  I took one last look toward the empty sky, and two glowing red eyes stared back.  But one blink later and they was vanished, like they was never really there at all.  Probably just some tracer from the weed I figured.  I shook it off, and put my focus back on the entrance in front of me.  I figgered that my little job was about to be over, and that bag of gold sittin in my satchel was itchin to get to bein spent.

           Yeah, I know, this was all workin out a bit too well so far, and of course it wasn’t going to stay that way.

[libraryonothing]

Abacus Jones

            Something wasn’t sittin’ right with me after I left the town.  The folk there were a happy bunch, which ain’t such a bad thing, ‘cept when they’re gracious and welcoming of sorts towards one such as me then I start gettin that itch I usually get when I’ve been doing something I shouldn’a.

            S’far’s I was told, weren’t nothing much going on besides a few simple kidnappings.  Not my usual job mind you, but the take was a right bit more handsome than the usual unpaid fares I’d been awarded of late.  And this one was all up front.

In full.

In gold.

Yeah, these townspeople were mighty nice and generous, but they was startin’ta make me wonder if the gold was going to be worth whatever was actually going on round here, or if I’d ever get a chance to partake of it’s worth.

I’d ridden outta the town of Tucka some forty miles East with them folk ungraciously sending me on mah way with their oaken collections of garden tools and such.  It was all due to some unfortunate misunderstanding between their mayor, my pistol, and the Slooth demon I was supposed to peg for em.  Sufficin to say, the town’s in order for a new mayor, and another Slooth demon killer. 

So I was ridin out on the first mule I’d seen, depressin thing that looked to be two sheets to the wind already, and I come across a poster in a nearby town that caught my attentions.

Kiddnappins!!!  It were titled.

$3,500!!!  Big ones sittin mighty big and bulky not far below. 

Figured I’d caught the gist of what was necessary, so I high-tailed it down through the sandy dunes and dusty mires that fell in between me and my newest possible job.  Weren’t the most thrillin ride, so I’ll spare you my tale of saddle sores and chap chaffing and just get back to it.  Oh, one thing did occur just before I arrived, my mule finally gave up, fell in the sands and old dirt and breathed it’s last wretched breath.  Damnedest thing really.

I strode in to the town, Mirrok, accordin to the dandy welcoming sign with pretty flowers painted on it, and just as soon as I passed a foot inward, the people came a flockin.  Now this put my hair on end, I’d been surrounded before by crowds and such, but usually I still had a number of bullets to waste.  It’d been a while since I’d restocked, so I was wondering how I was gonna be gettin myself outta this one when some kid approached me from the crowd, and sullenly asked if I was there to save em, to which I couldn’t help but sputter a simple but sturdy, “Yep.” 

Them folks went nutty, started cheerin and such, going on about how happy they was I had come, and what a heroic man I must be to have braved the traveling without a horse or at least a mule.  Even the contents of the bar poured out ta greet me.  Bar man came out whiskey in hand, said it were his best and shoved a hefty shot in my hand just as some of the town’s more lucrative ladies came and looped my arms on either side and escorted me all the way up to the town hall, the rest of the townspeople trailing just behind.

The mayor was already a waitin, holding his neat vest, but lookin more as if the thing itself were holdin up a set of twins in his gut.  He smiled broad, and offered me a neat handshake, welcoming me to the town, and then askin my name. 

“Abacus,” I started, still a little weirded out by the goings-on around, “Abacus Jones.”

“Abacus Jones everyone!” he said puttin his fist in the air sort of triumphantly.

They all went nutty again, but this time all in unison.  I couldn’t help but smile at such an event, this weren’t exactly something that happened all too often.

The fat mayor signaled em all off, to scoot fer now, and then he invited me in, and sat me down across from his big ole wood desk and started chatterin bout the whole thing, but honestly I didn’t hear a’thing til that bag’a gold clumped on the table in front of me.

“Mista Jones, ah reckoned you’d come soon enough.  Reputation such as yours does get to the ends now and again, and I must say you’re every spec we thought a ya.  Seems you’ll be a might betta’ dodga than the last chap tried to solve all a this mess.”

“You heard of me then?”  I ask seriously amazed.

            “Of course, Mista Jones, of course now.  Like I said, one such as yourself puts reputations wherever they get to.”

            “Can’t say I disregard that, but ah can’t see as to that being so good for me most times.”

            “No bother, Mista Jones, all past.  Believe me, it’s you that we needed.  Only you can help us in our dire moment of need.”

            “Well, how many?” I ask to which he had a curious look on his mustachioed face.  “Before me…how many bountiers come a’fore ah arrived?”

            “Oh, oh it’s not important Mista Jones.  I dare say they was all just rascals, amateurs, ragged upstarts.  No caliber, I say, none indeed.  But you, Mista Jones, you’ll do just fine, I dare say you’ll be perfect.  Jes perfect!”

            Now I ain’t never liked bein referred to as some idological symbol or nothin, but it didn’t necessarily hurt mah pride or nothin neither.  What can I say, I’ve a sweet tooth for such comings.

            “Now don’tchu worry ya self none, Mista Jones.  This town is mighty pleased with your comin now, and you’ll want for nothing.  Why I hear that as far as Hilder we’s the best saloon around.  Mind you, of course we’re a might bit biased.”  He chuckled from that thick tummy of his, the twins threatening to kick emselves out.  “But no sir, you will not want for nothing.  We’ll attend to your every need, so long as you resolve our problem we got here.  But it’s simple ah say, for one such as you that is.”

            “Well, ah’m here, so why don’t cha get to explainin this problem you got.  You got some Werewolves raiden the town like a fox would a chicken coop?  Or maybe you got one of those Slooth demons?  Must say I’m hopin for the latter, I got a score with one a’those still.”

            “No, no, nothing of the sort.  Much more simple than that I dare say, just people have gone missing’s all.  Not a one returned to us yet, and this has been happening for near on a month now.”

            “Well, guessin it’s about time ah started ta listen now.  So git along with it ah guess.” 

            He gets to the details finally; thirty-five people, strike that, thrity-five virginal youngsters had gone missin from the town proper.  No blood.  No sign of struggle.  Only the young’ns folks noticing them bein gone the next mornin.  Parents were frettin on who’s kid would be gone next, and it seemed the town’s teenage young’ns had been having a sudden increase in maritals and pregnancies trying to avoid this here problem altogether.  But it was seeming that the worst had ended.  Last one that gone missin was nearly a week ago now, and it may already be over.  But they all wanted an explanation now, over or not, and the sack in front of me made me feel all the more able at bein the one ta figger it out for em.

            But it seemed they did have one bit of possible evidence.  Seemed one feller was about to get into his maritals, but just before gettin it done proper, his lady was up and taken from him.  Seemed he’d run out after her in nothing but boots and his father’s rifle streakin through the town’s street and out through the welcome sign towards the hills just over yonder.  Now these folks had a name for them hills, seemed they called em the Spook Spires or some-odd bull.  My innards chuckled some bout it, haunted hills and such. 

            Now this boy never returns, and just at the foot of them Spook Spires, his rifle sat, but again, no sign of struggle, not even his footprints.  Just the rifle. 

            Mayor tells me he’d had a number of fellers come in response to the posters, paid em just the same as he did to me, and sent them off to figure it all out and ain’t a one of em ever returned neither.

            I question the man givin out a sack full’a gold to each of em, thinking that they just done run off afterward, but he assures me that ain’t one’a them fellers done so.  I jes chop it upta simple naivety on his part, but then he tells me the sack in front of me’s the same exact one he done given to each of them.  Seems it ended up about where that rifle ended up at the steps of the hills, and found it’s way back to the Mayor’s fat digits.

            Now, ah weren’t into buyin spook myths and such, but I’d seen some odd things along ma travels.  Problem wasn’t so much in the spooks ‘emselves, but the idea that them hills were haunted.  I understood ghosts to a point, dyin in a house without wantin to go yet, and stickin around that spot to taunt others for still bein alive; but a whole lot of hills, not so much.  Hell, I’ve even heard of a ghost or two hauntin an individual once or twice on accounta that feller bein their sole reason for stickin around.  I’d seen things, but never haunted lands.

            He finished up, gestured the gold to my hands, and told me to go have a night on the town, and that I wouldn’t have to use any of my new profit for none of it.  I shook his fat hand, and said good day to the man’s tightly grinning face.

            I stop off at the town inn and drop my belongings off first.  Next I know I was snatched up as soon as I’d exited the inn and taken to the saloon.  The place sat crowded from the moment I got in ta the moment I sacked out upstairs with a number of the finest whores I'd seen since, well, in some time I reckon.  I had drunk myself up right for a change, and not a penny of my new earnins were needed.  The locals bought for me all night, listened to my stories, and didn'a even question the more ridiculous of em.  Course I left out one or two of em, some things weren't meant for such social gatherins.  All in all, it was better a night than I'd had in much of the time I could justly remember.  I assume that's why it felt so gosh darn unsettling.

            Next mornin came, and a great parade of sorts was awaitin my exit from the inn.  Them two whores was there, the bar man, everyone from the bar the night before, and leadin em all was the fat mayor, twins bobbing up and down in his gut as he marched us all to the town entrance sign.  The people clapped me upside the back, praised my name aloud, smiling each and every one of them, and for once not because I was leavin for good.  Yeah, real unsettlin. 

            I made my way to the front of the crowd, the whores gave me a slobbering kiss each full on the mouth all to the excited cheer of the town as a whole.  This got me to wondering when a town celebrated whoring so much, but then I was face to face with that grinning fat mayor once again, his hand outstretched lookin more like a shady salesman passing off a worthless piece of land than a thankful mayor type.  But I jes chopped that feelin up from something out of my own pre-soulless days. 

            “Good luck Mista Jones.  Let’s all cheer for our champion now.  Here, Here!”

            My eyes was stuck on them all for their chorus of my praisings.  Three times in all, and I gave em a fairly confident tip of my worn old hat, much to the hootin and hollerin of my two hooker friends as well as another couple of the town’s  females, and then set off towards them Spook Spires.  Rucksack over my shoulder, canteen on one hip and my most trusted six-iron on the other.  A belt full of extra bullets, the still-tinglin lips from the whore’s rabid kisses, and a hangover that probably could’ve killed the lot of em if’n such a thing could ever be made to do so.  Yep, this was startin out jes like everything else I ever started: wrong.

[libraryonothing]

All Clones Are NOT Created Equal: The Somewhat Nihilistic Tale of Bill-123

Bill-123 woke up in his seat to the sight of his Sergeant screaming in his face. It shocked him out of a pleasant dream he was having about being dead. Since they had the same face, with the exception of the sergeant having a scar on his cheek, a moment of confusion passed over 123 as he wondered what he did to his mirror to piss it off so much.

He hated his Sergeant. The way he puffed up and yelled at everyone because he could. He yelled at every little thing they did. Just screamed his head off. All their actions were under his microscope from their battle tactics to their bunk cleanliness to who should be the pitcher on the platoon's baseball team. He hated the way he walked; strutting around like he was better than everyone else because of the stripes on his shoulders. Bill-123 wondered how that happened to him. What if things had been different. What if 123 had gotten promoted instead of 122? Would he act like the Sergeant?

He liked to think he wouldn't. Something about him was different from the rest. He knew it.

Bill-123 was a private in the fourth squadron of Bill Platoon. Everyone was a clone of a famous soldier from before the last great war. A literal army of one. One time 123 found an ad for an old conventional military organization which used that slogan while digging through the historical archives. None of his fellow soldiers found it as funny as he did.

That was why he hated his Sergeant so much. They were all the same. His Sergeant only outranked him by virtue of being cloned earlier...and that Bill-121, their first sergeant got his head blown off during one of their earlier missions. If 122 had died shortly after that then 123 would be in charge. By now it was too late. Many missions later other clones proved their valor better than he did. If time came for a promotion it wasn't going to be 123's for the taking.

123 leaned his head against his harness and sighed. He didn't even want to be in charge. He couldn't think of anything worse than being the person screaming himself hoarse at others all day long. He thought it would be nice to enjoy some of the perks of rank, like a slightly bigger room at the barracks. And you got a name out of it. Nobody called 122 by his number anymore, he was Sarge or The Sergeant. All 123 wanted was something different. There weren't a lot of options in his life; not much he could do to change it.

The landing craft thudded hard on the ground. Simultaneously the harnesses opened up and all the other Bill's sprung to their feet. 123 slowly stood up. His lower back was stiff so he stretched. He wondered if anyone else had that problem or if it was just him.

The Sergeant barked orders and they scrambled out the door of the landing craft. 123 was at the door and about to run out when the Sergeant stopped him.

"Put your face on, soldier!" he yelled.

123 forgot that his visor was up. With a snap of his head it came down over his vision. The exterior was designed to look like a fearsome metal skull. Now he looked like the other soldiers again.

Except for the Sergeant and his fucking stripes.

The chosen battlefield was snowy terrain. 123 felt a singular blast of cold as he stepped out of the craft before his armor heated up. At the same time the color of his armor changed from an olive green to a grayish-white to match his surroundings. The idea was that their armor would render them invisible to the naked eye. Which would be good if they ever fought battles against opponents less technologically advanced as they were.

Through the blinding snow his heads-up display outlined his fellow Bills in green. When an enemy soldier appeared they would be outlined in red. There was no point to the camouflage. Their enemies, New Liberty, would be able to see 123 and his comrades outlined in red as well.

He trudged through the snow to where his unit took position. Behind him he heard cam-bots buzzing through the air. Images from them along with footage from each soldiers' helmet-cam would be edited together into a comprehensive newsreel for viewers at home if the Bills won. If they lost then their commanders used the recordings as a training video.

The odds were on their side for this battle. New Liberty lost their last three battles, once through utter devastation. Western America's record contained more wins than losses.

A bullet snapped past his head. As he raised his weapon to return fire extraneous thoughts slipped from his head.

Most of them.

New Liberty's armor resembled Western America's just enough that 123 could fantasize he was killing Bills, not Daves. Every bullet through the chest of a Dave made him happy.

When news came over the radio of New Liberty's surrender his squad headed back to their landing craft. As they strapped in for the return flight most everyone else stowed their helmets. Not 123. He kept his helmet on so that no one else could see him smiling. No one else smiled.

He still felt good after their debriefing. So good he decided to visit Erin-377. She was part of the clone set which made up the other half of Western America's army by providing maintenance and piloting.

As he walked down the hallway towards her bunk he heard moans all around him. Not uncommon in the barracks after a successful mission. It only became a concern when he neared 377's room. Her door practically shook with her screams.

His good mood quickly faded, replaced by a cold anger that flowed over him and cramped his stomach. It wasn't as though they were exclusive. It didn't work like that. The Erins were there for the Bills and the Bills were there for the Erins. No one was supposed to get attached to anyone since they were all replaceable.

Everyone was expendable.

Still, he couldn't help but feel jealous. For whatever reason he thought he and 377 would buck the system. Personally he hadn't gone to any of the other Erins for over a year. 377 had said he was the only Bill for her.

He stood outside her door, shaking with anger, waiting for a laughing group of Erins to pass before he punched in the key code. The door slid open silently. By contrast the already loud screaming got louder. The happy couple didn't notice him until after they both came in a glass-shattering finale.

123 looked at his double's arm and saw the number 178. Stats rattled through his head letting him know how he compared to his dopple-ganger. 178 was near the top of the leader board. The recent battle boosted him up from his previous position. He had every right to celebrate. 123 only wished he had chosen anyone other than Erin-377 to do it with.

He stood there dumbly, not knowing what to say, as they both got dressed. All his emotions conflicted in his head. He tried to think of what to say, but knew that any argument he put forth would be immediately countered with logic. It didn't matter how he felt about 377 since they weren't supposed to get attached. He was surprised he could get attached to anyone because of the way they were designed.

"Oh, fuck," he moaned as he backed out of the room. He continued down the hall. He heard naked feet slapping on the concrete behind him. He didn't stop walking. He knew who was behind him and resisted turning around. It was only when he felt a hand on his shoulder that he stopped.

"123, stop, don't act like this," 377 said.

"Like how? I care about you."

"Yes."

"I don't know how to. I thought we had something."

"Well...you shouldn't have." 377 turned and headed back to her bunk.

178 came out of her room and with a slight nod bid her goodnight. Being from 100 series both Bills headed to the same place. 123 had to walk in almost lockstep right next to 178 until he reached his door. He was unnerved when 178 stopped with him. 123 stared at his door, refusing to acknowledge his comrade, wishing he would fade away.

178 coughed to make his presence known. As if 123 didn't know he was there. He spun around on his heels to face his cuckold. He grit his teeth and tried not to show any emotion.

"She's right, you know," 178 said.

"Duly noted."

"We're not supposed to get attached." Having the same voice meant that 178 sounded like all the thoughts in 123's brain being vocalized like an annoying conscience.

"Understood."

"It's not good for the unit if jealousy crops up."

"Roger." 123's teeth nearly cracked under the pressure he put on them. All he heard was the same useless, stupid rhetoric he heard his entire life. This was all in the manual they all learned hundreds of times over. None of what 178 said made 123 feel better. Not that it was supposed to. It was supposed to put him in his place.

It was having the opposite effect.

Telling him to not get attached, to know his place, to follow the rules made him want to rebel against it. Why shouldn't they get attached? Maybe it would give them a reason to fight, a reason to win beyond being programmed to.

123 stood there and listened to 178 list off the numerous reasons why it was wrong for 123 to be upset. 123 couldn't figure out why 178 thought he was so dense he couldn't understand. This was longer than the usual litany. 123 clenched his fists so tight that it felt like his knuckles would pop out of his skin. He focused on 178's mouth, the words coming out, he started fantasizing what it would look like if he punched him. Would 178 continue reprimanding him through a mouth full of broken teeth?

"...understood?"

123 shook off his fantasy. He was so engrossed in thoughts of violence he failed to notice 178 was done. For a moment he worried this would spur 178 to start a lecture on why he needed to stay focused at all times. Instead he walked away when 123 nodded his head in agreement. The moment his back was turned 123 flipped him off. That's when he noticed that his palm was bleeding. He looked at his left hand and found it was also bloody. In his anger he failed to notice his fingernails cutting into his skin.

He walked into his bunk and was met with his reflection on the mirror. He balled up his fist again and punched the reflection in the face. The glass cracked, distorting the image. It wasn't enough so he punched it again and again until it was nothing but shards on the ground. His fists were completely bloody with bits of mirror protruding from them. He spent the rest of the night pulling them out and bandaging his hands.

Despite the dull ache in his hands he felt better.

The next day was parade day. 123 was in his dress armor, all polished and shiny in the sunlight. Large groups of civilians stood on the sidewalks, cheering. He had his sound dampeners on in his helmet which cut the noise down to a slight buzz so he could hear himself think. Giant screens on each side of the screen showed edited, bloodless highlights from their last few battles. 123 kept his head forward, a screen in his helmet showed him what the crowd was seeing. A series of clips showed them dominating the Army of Centralia. It whipped the crowd into an even louder frenzy.

123 chuckled about that. That was one Western America almost lost. Centralian leaders ceded defeat to avoid a Pyrrhic victory. He remembered cowering under a tank from artillery fire and robbing corpses for their ammo. What he saw on the screen made it look like Western America simply showed up and kicked ass. The screens switched to a replay of his own actions. Not from his cowering, but from a little bit earlier. He recognized it immediately. The sense of déjà vu caused him to stumble in formation before catching himself and marching back into place. It showed him effortlessly gunning down enemy troops. He noticed that someone edited out the bodies of his comrades littering the ground.

He minimized the screen as much as he could. Like the cheers of the crowd he couldn't completely be rid of it. He stole glances of the people on the side of the road. While he hated the noise they inflicted on him he found it refreshing to see different faces.

The parade finally ended and he changed out of his dress armor and into his off-duty clothes of light green pants and t-shirt and black boots. Nearly everyone else opted to board the buses back to the barracks and spend their night there. A group of Bills and Erins decided to stay in town and hit an army-friendly bar. 123 made it look like he was joining them until the buses left; then he walked off in the opposite direction.

After a few blocks he found a clothing store and ducked inside. He bought a long coat and a flat cap. He buttoned the jacket all the way up and kept his head down. Outside of the shop he started sweating. The night was too warm for what he was wearing. He preferred being uncomfortable to being recognized.

He found a bar that was low-key and didn't have a bouncer. He ordered a beer and tucked into a seat in the back. None of the televisions showed anything about the army. No news, no highlights, nothing. On most were sports except one of them was a trivia game where an old man intently stared and would occasionally push a button on a device in front of him. The place was mostly empty and the patrons minded their business. Even the bartender didn't seem to really care if he had customers in his bar or not.

He sat for two hours soaking up the normality, enjoying his small buzz and the slight numbness which dulled the pain in his knuckles. He was infatuated with the old man and his trivia game. He found himself staring at the same screen and quietly cursing as the old man selected the wrong answer on his device.  Then a group of assholes stormed into the bar. When they first walked in he thought they were regular patrons. Same sort he'd seen coming and going the entire night. Except they were loud. Already drunk, hooting and hollering. The same type of cheering he'd heard all morning at the parade . Now he couldn't concentrate on the questions and the old man's wrong answers.

One of the newcomers went to the jukebox and started playing loud music that sounded like inhuman screeching. After all the noise from the day he didn't want this. He checked his watch and saw how late it was. While there was nothing official scheduled for the next day he did have to be up for the "unofficial" exercises and religious observance. He had a few nice hours to himself in a normal environment. He counted himself lucky for that. Next parade day he figured he would come back to this bar...only he would leave earlier.

123 went to pay his tab. Being in the army he had no cash, but he did have his identity card he could swipe. All the troops had one. Most of them went unused. If he wanted to he could pay for everyone in the bar's drinks for a week from what was on his card. He, like every Bill and Erin, felt no need for it. The army paid for everything that they needed. If 123 were to quit the military, which was an option granted to all of them that none of them accepted, he would actually be a fairly wealthy man. He could retire in luxury and never have to do anything for money ever again.

If he could stop the need for combat.

As much as he did like this furlough of peace and trivia he knew deep down he wouldn't be able to do it every day. His kind, the clones, didn't retire. They died. Ingrained in his memory was the memorial wall. All the soldiers who died before him. It wasn't that impressive. Just a wall, a picture and one single name followed by almost every number you could think of. 123 knew some of them, but when he saw their designation on the wall he didn't feel anything for them. They were just soldiers for the battles. Whether they died gloriously or ignobly they ended up on the wall, no details. Just a number.

He didn't like the lack of control in his life. He didn't like what the pre-set programs of his behavior. It was like the thing with Erin-377. Despite her "betrayal" of him he was starting to feel ambivalent towards her. The intense emotion of devotion he had felt towards her was already diminished. All he really wanted to do was kill something.

That was bad for the patron who decided to mess with him.

He handed his card to the bartender. If he was surprised at the military markings on it he didn't show it, merely turned around and processed it through the machine. While 123 waited for the bartender to return his card one of the newcomers to the bar sidled up to the bar next to him, closer than 123 felt comfortable with. He tried his best to ignore him, even when the man started poking him.

"Hey, hey, man. What's up? Hey! You having fun tonight?"

"Yeah."

"You wanna' beer, man?"

"No, I've had enough. I have to get back to...home. I'm going home."

"It's just one drink, come on, man, don't be a jerk."

The bartender pushed a machine in front of 123 with his card next to it. Drunk as he was, the man recognized what the card signified. He spat on it without hesitation.

"Fucking army! Fucking clone! Not even a real man. Can't believe I wanted to buy you a drink."

123 didn't rise to the taunts. After he entered his code into the machine he picked up his card, wiped it off with a napkin and slipped it in his pants. He gave a slight nod to the bartender then turned towards the door.

The drunk's friends were all sitting next to it, having moved there while he was swearing at 123 in case things elevated. The way the drunk was talking made it pretty clear that 123 wasn't going to get out of the bar safely.

That was a problem. While he was allowed to mingle with civilians it was strictly forbidden to violently engage them. 123 turned around and walked towards the back. There was an exit between the toilets. An alarm would sound, the police would be called, but it was the safest way for him to resolve the conflict. As he walked towards the door he felt sad. He really liked this place. Even though he didn't talk to anyone he felt like one of the guys there. No one demanded anything of him; he could sit there and watch trivia.

The bar didn't belong to him. It belonged to people like the drunk and his friends. No matter how often 123 came there he wouldn't be accepted. He realized that now. He didn't like the feeling of being an outsider. He got enough of that from being the weird one in the unit. He thought, perhaps, his uniqueness would make him fit in the real world. That didn't seem to be the case.

He was almost made it out of the bar when the inevitable happened: the drunk came up and put his hand on his shoulder. 123 would have been lying if he said he hadn't expected, or wanted, that to happen. These men ruined his good evening. For the first time in a long time he felt  good, now this last five minutes poisoned that. He wanted revenge. He didn't want them telling their other friends how they scared off the big, tough army guy. As much trouble as it would get him into with his superiors 123 was actually surprised by how little he cared.

The one concession he granted the drunk as he turned around was the first punch. It was sloppy and week and didn't do anything but sting a little. 123 had been shot a number of times, a fist in his eye from a drunk that couldn't even compare. It served its purpose, though. 123 could officially claim he was under attack and could respond.

A quick chop to the drunk's throat with the edge of his hand dropped him to the floor. The friends, so threatening a moment ago, looked smaller. 123 was afraid that he overstepped, misjudged their courage. He was going to be disappointed if they decided to cower in fear. He didn't want them to stop, he wanted them to press their attack. He got his wish. One of the friends pulled a knife out and rushed him. He made the mistake of going for a stab instead of slashing. 123 grabbed his wrist and twisted hard. 123's cut up hands screamed at him, but he could ignore it. The man with the knife couldn't. The pain was enough for him to drop the knife. 123 didn't relent and kept twisting until he felt something break in the man's arm.

The last three friends decided to attack him in a group. That would be a good strategy if they knew how to work together, but they got in each other’s way. One would try to grab him, but 123 twisted around so that another who was trying to punch him ended up punching his friend instead. In less than a minute everyone except 123, the old man, and the bartender were writhing on the floor in different levels of pain. Except for one, the drunk who instigated it, he wasn't moving. 123 leaned down and felt for a pulse and couldn't find it. His back was to the bartender so he was sure he couldn't see it, but 123 smiled, just a little.

His first real kill. The first person he put to death who wasn't a clone like him. It was refreshing.

123 picked up one of the injured men's beer and took it to a table and sat down to wait for the police. No sense in running. No point either. Even if the bartender wasn't calling the police there was still a camera running somewhere in the bar. He knew that. There was still a dead man on the floor. It wouldn't be hard to figure out who did what.

The police came in short order with an ambulance. One of the group who hadn't been so damaged made a run for it, abandoning his friends. No matter. He would be picked up shortly. When 123 handed his identification over to the officers they were confused as to what to do. A normal person they could haul off to jail for proper processing. The clones were held to a different standard. They weren't above the law, but the military had their own way of dealing with them on the rare occasions they got in trouble in the outside world. The two officers stood around debating what to do until 123 stepped up, handcuffed, and explained to them what needed to be done and who needed to be called. All of it word-for-word out of the handbook he spent his life memorizing.

The military police arrived rapidly and escorted him out to a car waiting at the curb. Both the officers looked just like him, except extremely pissed off. They didn't seem to like the smirk on his face.

The next morning he sat outside the General's office, still handcuffed, waiting. His commanding officer was inside talking with him about disciplinary measures. It wasn't the sergeant. 123 could deal with anything as long as it wasn't that prick doling out his punishment. No, this was the commander of the unit. A man 123 never met personally until today.

He didn't really care. Whatever they came up with wouldn't be that harsh. Incarceration? What did he care? His life was incarceration. No, he'd end up with a list of chores like cleaning the bathrooms or something. Make him do the grunt work instead of the robots. Something designed to humiliate him,  to put him in his place.

123 couldn't concentrate on his future. Well, his immediate future. The problem was that the bench they sat him on was directly across from the memorial wall he remembered from his childhood. He'd visited it once during class and never again.

Nobody was in the hallway with him. Everyone figured that he wasn't a risk. He was on base. And chained. He was no threat to anyone on base and there was no way he would get off it. 123 stood up and went to the wall and looked at it. It was exactly as he remembered it from that day. A very plain wall with all the pictures of the different clones that Western America used during its existence. Under each name was a list of numbers denoting the individuals who died in battle. Reading it was like counting up. The lists were all in total. Every Justin, Jill, Matt, Angela, Thomas, Sally, Jordan and Jennifer were now dead. Near the end of the wall he started hitting the list of names who hadn't completely died out. None of it was etched anywhere, the entire thing was digital. 123 wondered how that worked. Was there actually a human being who went into the records and updated it or was it a program which logged it once a soldier's bio-notice went off-line?

123 tapped at the screen trying to activate something, anything. He jabbed at the numbers hoping it would open some dossier of any kind. Nothing appeared. Other than their number there was nothing differentiating one from another. There wasn't even the basic stats of how many missions they ran or how many kills they'd racked up.

His handcuffs had just enough chain in them that he could punch the screen. The bandages on his knuckles tore off and his cuts ripped open. He didn't do any damage to the screen beyond smearing it with his blood.

He was so intent on his action that he failed to notice when a teacher rounded a corner with two trails of children behind him: the boys in one line, the girls in another, all identical faces. They were fairly young. They still had the bracelets denoting their number, too young for the tattoos that would permanently mark them later in life. 123 didn't stop smashing the screen until someone coughed behind him. Not the teacher, but his commanding officer. 123 smiled, then sheepishly tried to wipe some of the blood off the monitor. He succeeded only in smearing it around further.

He followed his C.O. into the general's office. As the door shut behind him he heard the teacher, unfazed by 123's actions, start to give the same speech about honor in death that he had heard when he was a child.

It was like he expected. Grunt work. His first chore was to clean up the memorial hall. After that he settled into a month of doing the chores normally the cleaning robots did. At first his fellow soldiers made fun of him. This ranged from snickering at him while he washed windows in the cafeteria to "pranks" where they would piss on the floor of the bathroom he just finished mopping. After a while they grew bored and stopped pestering him. He faded into the background, like the cleaning robots before him.

He grew to like it, the peace, the Zen-like trance he entered as he swabbed the mop head over the tiles. He zoned out while he did it. No troubling thoughts went through his head. He was so into his peaceful little world that he failed to notice his compatriots' disinterest turn into hatred. Near the end of his month of duty he was so used to his invisibility that he stopped really seeing his fellow soldiers. He didn't pay attention to their angry glares as he wiped smudges off mirrors.

It was his last day of cleaning when it happened. He was done with the first squad's bathroom when a number soldiers came in. The first one through the door went to the corner and threw a towel over the camera. After that the six of them proceeded to punch and kick 123 until he fell into unconsciousness. While it went on they shouted words at him about "respect" and "honor" and "dignity." As far as he could tell they were angry he had found happiness in something other than soldiering.

He came to in a stairwell. All of his cleaning gear was scattered around him to make it look like he fell down the stairs with it. Security had to be going along with the cover-story since right above him was a gleaming camera lens. If he had really fallen security would've sent for the medics and he would've woken up in the med-bay.

He stood up carefully. Every joint hurt when he moved. His left eye was swollen almost shut and he could barely see out of it. Nothing hurt too bad. His fellow soldiers did a good job on him. Enough that he would be in pain, but nothing broken so he couldn't go back to active duty. It was a message. He was to fall back in line. He knew if he acted out again it would be worse. Next time it would be broken bones or a stray round through the head from a "training accident."

Psychology was not one of the Bills' strong points. The beating his fellow soldiers meted out to him was supposed to encourage him to get back on the right track. He didn't follow their line of thinking. Now he felt an even bigger divide between himself and the others. After the incident he had a few tense days. The others weren't completely sure whether or not he learned his lesson. 123 didn't say anything, made no complaint and limped around the training area doing his best to hide the injuries. Eventually everything seemed to go back to normal.

The others stopped eyeing him suspiciously as he moved around. In their minds the matter was settled and peace was restored to the unit.

123 didn't see it that way. He played his part and acted like nothing was wrong, like the people who were supposed to watch his back instead felt like kicking it. He'd been weirdly happy doing the chores. Like at the bar he'd found some semblance of peace and some assholes ruined it. To all outward appearances he was fine. He felt particularly proud of his acting skills. Even in the presence of those who actually perpetuated the attack he acted like it didn't bother him. He resisted every urge to grab one of them by the head and twist until he heard their neck snap.

As a result of him pretending everything was fine he found his kill percentages going way up. The battlefield was the one place where he could actively vent his anger. He was reprimanded a few times for reckless behavior, disobeying orders and charging into the middle of his enemies, but no one could fault his performance.  Rather than relieving him of his anger he found it increased it. More and more during the firefights he wondered why he didn't just do it. Why didn't he turn his gun on the people he really hated? The ones that actually despised him instead of fighting him.

In short notice he found himself trapped in a terrible loop. The brass called in psychiatrists. To keep it under wraps every Bill and Erin was scrutinized, but 123 knew it was him they were after. They were about as subtle as a mortar round in an ashram. Because of that he found he had to pretend to be even more normal than usual. He did his best to act like he was just like everyone else. Instead of spending time in his bunk reading like he used to he went out and played poker or worked out in the gym, telling jokes and stories with the others. He even went so far as to fuck every Erin who showed interest in him.

During the rare times he found he could get away he carefully poked around the data net looking for files relating to previous soldiers who went crazy. He wanted details and found none. His immediate thought was that, obviously, the brass would restrict those files, hide them away. It had taken a long time for people to even accept the idea of clones, let alone ones specifically bred for war. Nobody wanted to think that, at any time, one of them could crack and do something terrible.

Like 123 wanted to.

Another battle. Desert setting this time. Sarge had him taking up the rear in an effort to stop him from recklessly charging ahead. He was supposed to watch their backs. He watched them through the scope of his rifle. Every time he thought he would pull the trigger he chickened out, swung his rifle, and scanned the horizon looking for enemy troops. Though he could hear rifle fire chattering in the distance nothing happened for a long time and slowly his sights would center on the back of another Bill's head.

He wondered what control thought about that? His video feeds were monitored somewhere by some technician. Pretty soon 123 would either have to act or stop doing it. He watched his Sergeant in the middle of the formation. He watched to see if the Sergeant got any sort of secret radio transmission from Control about him.

Slowly his sights settled onto the back of the Sergeant's head.

His ear-piece clicked on. The short burst of static startled him, almost causing him to pull the trigger. He thought he was too late, he feared that right now Control was radioing him and shutting him down. Instead he heard whistling. It was his gear picking up ambient noise from their surroundings. The whistling was the sound of a mortar round somewhere.

The squad had nowhere to run for cover so they all squatted at the same time.

Luck was not on their side.

123 saw the shell hit right in the center of the squad. He was protected slightly from the blast by the body of 127. His comrade's body smashed into his chest, completely knocking his breath away. The corpse bounced over his head, catching 123's helmet and ripping it off his head.  123 fell to the ground and struggled to breathe. His vision swirled in and out. When he tried to move all he could feel was pain. He tried to stand up and was in complete agony. Nothing seemed to work right and he feared he broke his legs. When his vision cleared he looked down to see that his legs weren't broken, they were gone. Sheared off at the knee-caps.

The uniform did its job. It sensed the wound and clamped up around the wound, providing a tourniquet. If he wanted something for the pain he had to pull out a needle from his survival kit. What he really wanted was his legs. He shuffled around looking to see if they were nearby him. He had no illusions of having the doctors re-attach them. He had no real illusions of survival. Though his hearing was damaged from the mortar he could still hear the sounds of battle around him.

The rest of the squad was gone. He took a grim satisfaction in that. He felt sorry that he didn't at least get the chance to kill one of them. Bits of them lay scattered around him. He did find a leg, but it wasn't his. It would've fit him, since it was obviously the same size, but it still had the thigh attached to it. He tossed it away. He wanted his legs. If he was going to die then he at least wanted to die whole.

A bit of movement in a pile of corpses startled him. He couldn't find his rifle so he drew his side-arm. From under a pile of bodies he saw one stand up.

Insanity. That was it. 123 finally snapped. That was the only answer for one of his dead comrades rising up and shambling towards him. 123 fired two shots off at the ghoul. They both went wide, he couldn't get a clear sight on it. That's when an odd thing happened. The resurrected body stopped coming towards him and raised his hands up.

"Cease fire, 123! It's me! 135! Same side!"

123 lowered his pistol and 135 continued walking towards him. He had a limp, probably from a broken ankle. Lucky bastard, thought 123. 135 knelt down beside him.

"You're pretty messed up. I'll take care of you until a med-evac can come retrieve us."

"What about the rest of the squad?"

"I don't know. Looks like they're all dead. My HUD got fucked up in the blast. It's not working right. I can't see anyone clearly for life signs. You're the only one I saw moving."

"Take it off. Let me see if I can get anything from it."

135 removed his helmet and handed it to 123. He wasn't expecting it so he put up no resistance when 123 lifted his pistol and shot 135 through the eye. Somewhat cruel, 123 knew that. 135 had done nothing to him. He wasn't one of his attackers. No one in the squad was. They didn't deserve 123's hate. But they looked just like the people who did attack him and that was good enough for 123.

He couldn't count on bleeding out before the medics found him. He picked up 135's helmet and put it on his corpse. Not out of respect, but he wanted Control to see this. He hoped the helmet camera was still functioning. Once he was content that he was centered he put the gun to his temple. No one had ever heard of any of the clones killing themselves. He felt happy in that respect, at least, he would be unique. He knew the odds were good that Control would cover it up. It would be bad for morale. Still, the person watching the tape would get a shock. At least someone would see 123's pathetic little rebellion.

He made sure he smiled when he pulled the trigger.

Years later a little boy clone, from the Ryan series, walked up and down the Memorial Hall. His instructor was very explicit in his instruction that they should take in as much history as they could. To him the wall looked massive. All the different faces and numbers intimidated him. From the corner of his eye something flashed. He didn't catch it when he turned his head so he went back to scanning the wall when it happened again.

He looked around, but everyone else was down at the other end of the hall, where the first soldiers were. Ryan-101 wanted to see the newer soldiers, the ones who were still sometimes around. He walked over to where he saw it. Under the picture of the Bill series is where he saw the flash. He looked at the wall, the red numbers burning into his eyes, but he didn't blink. He was sure he saw it. His patience was rewarded when one of the numbers started flashing like it was going out. None of the other numbers flickered around it. It shouldn't be doing that. Those types of lights were supposed to last forever.

Ryan-101 tapped on the glass and the number burned a solid red just like its brothers around it. Ryan-101 smiled. He turned to join the group at the other end of the hall. With his back turned he didn't see the number 123 start to blink out again.

The End

It's been a while since I wrote this and I was hoping it would hold up and it seemed to. But you know who the worst judge of their work is? Me. In any case, I hope you enjoyed this. If you did go ahead and tell your friends, share a link on social media. If you didn't care for it, please spare my feelings and don't mention it. If you want to see pictures of my kitties I am on Instagram and less frequently on Twitter. Until next week when I plan on sharing the first few chapters of a novel I liked!