Killer Clones

WLVE

Description

Why did I decide to finally write? Spoiler, it's not a midlife crisis.
Like most people, mass shootings have always left me speechless. Of course, I don't need to have lived in other countries to know that the approach the USA takes regarding gun-related violence is perplexingly unique. I consider myself a keen observer, so I noticed that during the lockdown of the pandemic in 2020-2021, mass shooting news reports drastically went down (even as violence overall seemed to reach new records). So, I found myself wondering whether the lockdown would help with the gun violence crisis, and save lives from the lethal virus. It was a little bit naive, wasn't it?
When the country started reopening to normal activities, between March and April 2021, punctual like a clock, mass shootings were also back to being part of life! That struck me to my core, and I decided to act on the idea of a book I had been keeping in my mind for some time.
Even though I was trained as a scientist and engineer, I always felt drawn to literary endeavors but never had the time and the dedication to get the training I knew I would need to come up with a book worth anyone's time. But on this occasion, I was gonna do something about this book idea. Even the ugly divorce I was going through was not going to stop me. That's how I started working on this book, and I think you'll find it worth your time. I hope you enjoy the story.
The book is simply a warning against complacency toward mass shootings. Accepting them as a normal part of our life may numb us from the fact that advanced AI technology can potentially be weaponized for seemingly random shootings, that perhaps cover up a crazy agenda, like world domination. Of course, it would take a resourceful evil genius to do that, but how many tech billionaires would or wouldn't fit that profile?

Sujets

• Clean
• Killer
• Clones
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Xlibris US
• Date de parution: 12 octobre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781669845546
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

KILLER CLONES
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
WLVE (welove)
 
Copyright © 2022 by WLVE (welove).
 
Library of Congress Control Number:
2022916228
ISBN:
Hardcover
978-1-6698-4553-9

Softcover
978-1-6698-4552-2

eBook
978-1-6698-4554-6
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
 
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
 
 
 
 
Rev. date: 08/31/2022
 
 
 
 
Xlibris
844-714-8691
www.Xlibris.com
843759
CONTENTS
Act One The ordeal
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Act Two Escalation and Pandemonium
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Act Three The Resistance
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
 
Epilogue
ACT ONE
THE ORDEAL
CHAPTER 1
G etty didn’t want the day to end. The pandemic had impacted the entire planet, but it was finally safe to lift the restrictions and the world was coming back to life. The cherry blossoms were in bloom, and it was a gorgeous spring day in DC. He had taken the day off to bring his three daughters to the mall. And Getty wasn’t ready for their adventure to end when he returned them to his ex-wife.
Birds chirped as they walked along the reflecting pool between the Lincoln Memorial and the Capitol. He held hands with two of his girls, Irene and Christine. His eldest daughter, eight-year-old Fatima, gallivanted around them, laughing and pestering.
Getty Pokem was a mid-level technology manager for the CIA. His job was nothing like the movies portrayed by James Bond or Jack Ryan. He mostly managed an archive of deactivated CIA projects that gathered mothballs in surplus warehouses. He spent too many hours at work and wished he had more time for his family or at least to spend with his kids.
Growing up in Boston had taught Getty to enjoy the beautiful early days of spring that blossomed after harsh, cold winters. As they walked by the Vietnam Memorial, in the direction of the Capitol, he could hear and see the excitement of yet another protest or rally taking place to their left. To their right was the Tidal Basin and other great memorials, strewn along the picturesque walk. The rally had gathered a crowd of what looked like several thousand people.
He stopped at an ice cream vendor, and all the children got their favorite scoops on a sugar cone. Getty took in the soft, cool breeze and the fresh smell of the blooming foliage. He listened, for a minute, to the birds chirping. It was a wonderful feeling, being outside and walking with his children without the horrid masks suffocating their conversations and senses. He hoped the pandemic and all the problems of this invisible killer, which had literally closed the world down, had finally ended.
Soon enough, the chanting of “Hell no, you can’t have our guns” drowned out the peaceful sounds of nature. His oldest daughter, Fatima, ran over to the outer edge of the crowd to get a look at all the commotion.
Getty groaned in frustration as he guided the other two children toward their sister to draw her back into the group. The last thing he needed was to be caught on film near these fanatics. Getty could see the portable stage in the background and a huge banner that read, “Concerned Citizens Support the National Weapons Association.” The NWA was one of the most powerful and vocal lobbying groups in DC. They advocated for the protection of the Second Amendment, with no exceptions. The word compromise was not something normally associated with their members.
“Fatima, come over here and get away from that crowd!” Getty shouted sternly.
The eight-year-old ignored him. Getty kept scanning the crowd for any obvious threats as he moved closer to his eight-year-old.
A polished man in a crisp, blue suit with a bright red tie stood at the podium and introduced himself as NWA president and CEO, Wade LaFarce. The restless crowd broke into thunderous applause. LaFarce explained that the man beside him, an equally put-together gentleman in a gray suit, was the president and CEO of a voting machine company. Working together, he continued, there would be no more stolen elections. The crowd exploded in cheers and new chants.
That was when all hell broke loose on the mall. Getty heard the retort of gunfire a moment before the crowd broke into panic. Several more shots echoed. LaFarce’s head exploded in a spray of cherry-red carnage. The voting machine executive stumbled as bullets riddled his chest. The closest protesters were spattered with blood and the screaming started.
Then, he felt Irene’s hand go limp in his. Fatima turned and screamed.
“Daddy, Irene is bleeding!” Her shrill scream seemed to drown out the rest of the chaos.
Getty dropped to his knees. He grasped helplessly at Irene’s frail and boneless body slumped over his lap. A huge, red bloodstain spread over the middle of her dress. It was her favorite dress, the purple one with little flowers. Distantly, he heard yelling, then he felt pulling on his shoulders and back. How could this happen to little Irene? She was only four. Everything past her closed eyelids seemed like it was moving in fast-forward.
Then paternal instinct finally kicked in, and he gathered Irene up and ushered the other girls to a makeshift hiding spot behind the ice cream cart. The vendor was crouched there and gathered Fatima and Christine, as Getty looked behind them to make sure they were safely away.
As the crowd parted, he saw a man standing with an assault rifle pointed toward the podium. “Stay here,” Getty ordered his daughters before locking eyes with the ice cream vendor. “Please watch my kids.”
He laid Irene down and, in a fit of rage, ran toward the man holding the assault rifle. He could see, from the corner of his eyes, the Capitol police also converging on the location with their guns drawn. Getty was no athlete; the only sport he played was ping-pong, and at thirty-eight, his knees weren’t what they used to be. At that moment, nothing mattered but taking out the assailant. He raced to the man and dove into him like a linebacker. The man crumbled to the ground under the force of Getty’s tackle. Getty grappled with him and turned the man around, so he was directly on top of him, looking him right in the face.
“What the—”
Getty recognized the man instantly; he had seen him in nineteen feet of marble earlier that day. He was staring down at Abraham Lincoln in flesh and blood. Getty grasped him by the shoulders, but the man didn’t struggle.
He simply looked Getty in the eyes and said, “We will strike again on Friday, and there is nothing any of you can do to stop us. Death to the warmongers! Death to all those that promote violence!”
As Getty tried to make sense of the words, he suddenly felt the man disintegrate right from under his grasp. All that was left was the assault rifle lying to his left and the man’s clothes and shoes. Getty frantically searched the pile of clothes, now on his knees. Then a hand grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him to his feet. Four Capitol police officers were standing there with their pistols drawn.
“What the hell … Where’d the other guy go?” one of the cops shouted.
Getty saw his own confusion mirrored on the officers’ faces. He couldn’t imagine how things looked from their perspective: one minute, there’s an active shooter; the next, a pile of clothes and the man who tackled him.
Then Getty heard one of the nearby cops speaking into his radio microphone.
“Nine-one-one, medical emergency. We have multiple people shot at the Vietnam Memorial. Send ambulances and more police backup immediately!”
Getty ran back to the ice cream cart, where medics had already started CPR on Irene. They dressed the wound quickly before loading her onto a gurney. Christine and Fatima were still tearfully holding hands with the ice cream vendor. He loaded them into the back of the ambulance with Irene and all four of them sped to George Washington University Hospital.
They were sitting in the waiting room in silence when his ex-wife Amanda arrived, frantic. She had been out shopping for sneakers with Eldon, their eldest son.
“How could you allow this to happen, Getty? How could you hurt my baby? This is your fault!” she shouted.
Just then, the emergency room doctor entered the waiting room and pulled his operating mask down. His blue medical scrubs were covered in blood.
“I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Pokem. Irene did not survive.”

Three months later
Getty sat on the edge of his bed in his messy, one