Killer Clones

By WLVE

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?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669845546

Book preview

KILLER

CLONES

WLVE

(welove)

Copyright © 2022 by WLVE (welove).

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.

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Three months later

Getty sat on the edge of his bed in his messy, one-room apartment. Between child support and a government salary, it was all he could afford. Amanda kept the house and the kids, and she made more as a pharmacist anyway. Getty didn’t even have a car anymore. And he didn’t want to ask his parents for help even though he knew they would gladly do so upon his request.

There were clothes everywhere and no real food in the refrigerator. He subsisted on Chinese and fast food. The windows had blackout shades to allow him to sit in his solace in utter darkness. The world continued to spin, but Getty was checked out.

He dropped his head and ran his hands through his hair, considering the event that shattered his life. The coroner said Irene was struck by a ricocheting bullet. She was a casualty of sheer coincidence, but that was cold comfort. Nothing was bringing his daughter back.

He was barely functioning at work, and his outside life had become nonexistent. His ex-wife Amanda had revoked his visitation, citing her concern for their remaining children’s health and safety and Getty’s inability to even provide a suitable home for them to visit.

A dark grief had Getty in its grasp.

His gloomy moment was interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. Getty answered, knowing that his childhood best friend was calling for his daily check-in.

Come on, brother. Let’s get out and have some lunch and a coffee. You need some fresh air and some sunshine. I am worried about you … Everyone is worried about you! Greg Ant, whom Getty had always called Grant, pleaded with him.

Thanks, Grant, maybe tomorrow. I don’t feel up to it today, Getty replied.

Grant began protesting, but he was suddenly interrupted by another incoming call to Getty.

The caller ID merely said, Washington DC Metro Police.

Grant, I appreciate your offer. I gotta go, and I need to take this call! Getty said hastily. Hello, this is Getty.

Mr. Pokem, this is Detective Carter Nash. I have some information on your daughter’s accidental death that might be of interest to you. Let’s just say a mutual contact feels you deserve to know about it. She feels you might find it useful in dealing with your grief and mourning your daughter’s death or should I say murder. I owe her a favor, and she chose you to even our arrangement.

Getty felt his brain clear and purge the fog of depression immediately. It was as if a vacuum opened, and his brain was instantly focused with these words.

I am, of course, interested.

Good, meet me at the coffee shop at the corner of Fifth and E Street in, let’s say, one hour. I’ll be in a dark-blue suit wearing a white shirt and red-and-black-checkered tie. Try not to be late!

Getty got up and quickly took a shower and dressed in clean clothes. He combed his hair and grabbed his metro card, wallet, government CAT card on the necklace and threw his cell phone in his front pocket. He locked his apartment and headed to the elevator. This was the first news he had received from anyone regarding his daughter’s death other than the news media. The media was torn between the Pentagon’s own conspiracy theory that either China or Russia were trying to incite violence through some form of new genetic super warrior weapons or the other crazies convinced this was alien technology trying to create fear and divisive political-based society warfare to destabilize humanity. Nothing he had read in the news made any real sense to him, so he believed there was something else possibly much more sinister afoot.

As Getty approached the coffee shop on the corner of E Street and Fifth, he saw a man seated outside at a table that met his previously disclosed attire. The man locked eyes with Getty and waved. Getty was about to wave back when the man flew backward in his chair and was sprawled on the ground. Blood gushed everywhere. His white shirt now was blood soaked.

Getty froze in his tracks and watched as the coffee shop crowd screamed and ran amok, trying to flee any additional shots from the still-unseen shooter. Getty looked around quickly and then ran to the nearest subway entrance.

He called Grant.

Can I come to your house? Something horrible just happened. No, let’s meet at the Smithsonian. It will be safer and public! Getty said with confusion in his tone.

What happened?

I received a call to meet with a detective about Irene’s death, and just as I arrived, someone shot him right before I could sit down, Getty said.

Why did you leave the scene? The cameras might think you had some involvement if they caught this on the city street cams! I assume they did, and now you will be a suspect, Grant chided him.

I’m a black man at the scene of a crime where a white cop just got shot. I figured fleeing was my best option to survive for the time being!

CHAPTER 2

G etty was panic-stricken as he talked to Grant on the phone.

I just saw this cop get blown away in broad daylight! Now the authorities will probably think I did the shooting and blame it on me! This makes no sense to me. Who would want to frame me or keep such information from me that badly?

Pepper, you are panicking. Brother, calm down, Grant said.

Pepper had been his nickname since the two of them had been teenagers. Greg’s nickname was, of course, Salt. Everyone else called him Grant. Only he and Getty used their childhood nicknames between themselves and then only privately. They had both loved detective television shows as kids and watched many hours of Starsky & Hutch, Miami Vice, and Adam-12 reruns.

Meet me at my house. You are upset and sounding paranoid now! Grant said.

No, it’s too dangerous. It might put you and your whole family in danger. Meet me at our favorite place of birdwatching. They have security there, and everyone that enters is required to go through a metal detector and security X-rays, Getty responded.

OK, I’ll be there in thirty minutes, Grant answered.

Getty sat on the yellow metro train as it whisked him to the main station, where he would quickly switch to the Blue Line and proceed to his destination.

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Getty saw Grant sitting in the Smithsonian looking at the trees in the Urban Bird Habitat exhibit. It was one of their favorite places to go and sit and chat. He could see that Grant was holding a bag in his lap and sipping on a cup of coffee in a disposable cup. Another cup sat on the bench beside him; he knew that Grant had picked up the food and drinks as part of his normal routine. It was just like Grant to stay calm and composed and carry out their familiar routine, even when Getty was freaking out. Getty admired that about Grant, his stoic resolve and sense of tradition and routine.

Birds chirping filled the air with a sense of yesteryear, good days, and a general feeling of happiness and bliss. But today wasn’t one of those days. Getty and Grant had been friends since kindergarten at Buckingham Brown and Nichols in Boston. Both of their parents had felt that an exceptional education was the greatest gift to bestow upon their children, so the parents had pinched pennies to afford the prestigious school. Getty and Grant had become fast friends and stayed close throughout childhood. They had been college roommates at the University of Chicago, and now Grant had followed Getty to DC when he got his teaching post at George Washington University as a math professor. Grant was more intellectual, and Getty was more empathetic. Grant would often say that Getty was emotionally in tune with the world around him, and not driven by science alone. Grant was a logical thinker. He was an astute mathematician and well versed in physical sciences. Grant looked at everything as a cascade of cause and effect.

Getty walked over, slowly and cautiously looking around to see if anything looked out of the ordinary. Then he quickly sat on the other end of the green metal park bench and relaxed slightly. Grant handed him the bag.

Chocolate-covered apple fritter, your favorite. Grant said as he bit into his own chocolate-crème-filled éclair.

Thanks.

Getty took a couple of bites and then sipped the coffee. He again looked around and over his shoulder, taking in the physical landscape. He saw nothing that looked out of the ordinary.

OK, tell me everything from the detective’s call up until now, Grant asked.

Getty went through the entire ordeal in detail. After he finished, Grant pondered the puzzle pieces. He knew Grant was replaying them in his head to apply logic to the chaotic timeline.

So, you think someone killed this cop because he was meeting with you to tell you something about Irene being killed by this AWOL killer? Grant asked.

Getty nodded his head affirmatively. He caught that Grant had used his now often-repeated term for things that defied science—AWOL, which meant absent without logic. Grant believed everything that presented itself in this manner was simply a riddle that was either sleight of hand, fooling of human senses, or some scientific application of a new discovery. Grant was a firm believer that many of our current discoveries were related as much to alien introduction as they were to human innovation. Getty often teased Grant for his staunch belief in aliens and their interventions on our planet.

Grant, I don’t think aliens had any reason to kill those men at the rally or to assassinate the cop … I think someone wants to keep a lid on the source of the killer and who they are.

Grant nodded.

Pepper, what I’m saying is that the shooter disintegrating in your grasp and his resemblance to Abraham Lincoln seem to be based on some highly technological form of deception. If that is true, then whoever controls such technology is watching the investigation, and may be trying to cover their trail. If they have the resources to kill people and disappear into thin air, then they could spy on the police investigation internally. That was my point, Grant responded.

Getty thought about it; that did make sense.

Salt, I am afraid to even go to work … What if the police think I am a suspect, and when I go through the security checkpoint, our internal security teams take me into custody and turn me over to the cops?

Grant smiled and offered a response to comfort this friend.

I doubt the world largest spy agency would need to wait for you to show up at work to take you into custody. In addition, the DC crime camera grid probably captured the event, and the footage would prove that you are not the killer. They may have your identity through facial recognition and might be looking into your background as we speak. But you’re the CIA guy, what do I know? Grant concluded sarcastically.

You know, I sometimes wonder which one of us works for the spy agency. Are you sure you’re just a math professor?

Getty said, knowing that his friend liked to hear that.

Grant chuckled and took another bite of his pastry. He thought about the irony of Getty’s statement.

Perhaps I should have applied to be an analyst for the agency! Aw, but instead I chose the dashing career of being a teacher, becoming a hero to the country’s next generation of scientists. Maybe one of my students will invent the cure for cancer.

They both shared a laugh. That was an internal joke with them that they had spent much time discussing. Getty knew that Grant believed cancer, the common cold, and now COVID had all been invented or hybridized through human genetic and biological research and that the remedies for each were known to man. Grant believed Big Pharma and the health care industry made way too much money treating these maladies rather than curing them.

The brief laugh had also given Getty a moment of respite.

Then Grant’s face became more serious as he thought further about all these events.

Pepper, you said he was going to give you news or further details about your daughter’s death and that he had been asked to do so by a woman who felt you deserved to know and that he owed her a chit and that was why he had agreed to break police protocol and meet with you, correct? Grant asked.

Getty rehashed his friend’s statement in his own mind one more time.

Yes, that is what he told me over the phone in order for me to agree to meet with him.

Getty could tell Grant was now calculating his next deductive statement.

That means it is highly probable that the detective meeting with you was assigned to this case by DC police. In addition, whoever he owed this favor to was someone that had done something important for him or was someone he shared a strong bond with. We need to investigate and figure out if there are any obvious linkages that would create such a relationship between him and a possible female benefactor. This could then be the link to her and why she was concerned for you. Maybe something that happened to her or this detective that created this rendezvous! If we can understand why the detective would break police investigative protocol and confidentiality, we can possibly determine who this woman might be.

Why would I want to do that? Getty remarked.

She could be a very important ally to you in the future. We need to find out everything possible about this Detective Nash.

Getty was now running through the analysis and looking for any links he could think of off the top of his head.

I don’t know of any reasons myself. However, that is a valid presumption given what we now know, Getty said.

Grant placed his hand on his chin and began to consider his next words carefully.

"Pepper, it is also likely that your