Jack Ford

            The court found the defendant Jack Ford guilty.  It was not hard reaching a verdict since Jack readily confessed to murdering his roommate Marcus.  Marcus had been shot through the head by his own gun.  Jack turned himself in immediately after it happened and he was quickly prosecuted.

            The one thing no one could understand was why.  And Jack would not say.

            Jack and Marcus were more than simple roommates.  They were childhood friends.  As kids they lived next door to each other, and so close were the Fords and the Williams that they lived more as one family than two.

            Both families were obviously stunned, neither able to fathom why Jack would murder Marcus.  Although the families still lived next door to each other, they might as well have lived on opposite sides of the city.  Once the court proceedings ended, the families discontinued their friendship with each other.

            Although Jack was cooperative about his case, no mercy was shown to him.  He was sentenced to life in prison without the chance of parole. 

Prison was especially brutal for Jack.  Jack was normally the quiet, polite type, and he did not fit in with hardened criminals.  That may sound strange to say about a confessed killer, but such was the case.  Jack was always the nice guy.  He was the friend you called when you could trust no one else.  He was not the murdering type.  But it is as they say.  How well do you ever know anyone?

Inmates despised Jack, and he was beat regularly, among other things.  Everyone knew why he was doing time.  Jack had betrayed the criminal’s cardinal rule—you never backstab your friend.

            Thirty ruthless years passed and Jack was unexpectedly released.  Videotape evidence filmed from a webcam clearly showed Marcus shooting himself.  At the time, Marcus was filming a goodbye video to his family and meant to turn the camera off, but had inadvertently pushed the wrong button.  The video lay hidden on the hard drive of his computer all that time.  Marcus’ father, feeling sorrowfully nostalgic, discovered the video while browsing through his son’s old possessions.  When he made the discovery, he and his family were mortified.

            Jack’s release made national news.  The Killer Who Never Killed, they called him.  There were many speculations as to why Jack did it.  He sought fame.  He suffered from a chemical imbalance.  He was mentally ill.  The explanations got worse, and not one made much sense.  The question remained, why did Jack admit to such a heinous crime he never committed?

            “I didn’t want his family to know he killed himself,” was all Jack would answer.

Blood Soldier

Blood was in high demand.  During the last ten war-racked years, The Red Cross tripled in size.  They even offered a government-sponsored incentive to “donate” blood.  Citizens were paid to donate and they donated often, but more to help line their bank accounts than anything else.  Still, there were many who donated because war was on their doorstep.  America had been invaded.

Blood was vital because soldiers required blood to fight.  Injured soldiers who did not meet a quick death were brought to medical tents and filled with donors’ blood.  Then they returned to the battlefield to bleed again, and again.

Technology had reached new levels of possibilities and most of these possibilities were turned lethal.  For some time the world feared a mutual annihilation as improved atomic bombs and biological weapons were viciously slung at each other.  But, the devastation proved too deadly for all parties involved, and even those not involved.  Conventional warfare took its place, and that’s why for the last ten years soldiers bled instead of being vaporized or melted.

I donated blood as often as I could and I was ridiculed for refusing the Red Cross’ monetary incentive.  While it’s true I disagreed from the beginning with America’s decision to start the war, foreign soldiers were in my land, invading my home.  America needed the money more than I did.  If we didn’t win, none of that money would matter.

My arms look like those of a heroin addict.  Thanks to the advances in medicine, a person can safely donate blood twice a week.  After nearly a decade of donating, my arms and legs are too scarred to allow a phlebotomist to stick a vein or artery that will yield a decent blood flow.  That’s when I was told I could no longer donate.

I was frustrated.  I didn’t know how else I could support the war efforts.  The military had loosened its strict physical standards years ago when it instituted the draft.  Old men, unhealthy men, boys of fifteen, and even women were called to serve.  The military was accepting just about anyone who could stand upright because it was desperate, just not desperate enough to accept me.

Because of my history with asthma, I was severely denied.  But the asthma was gone now, as scientists had found a cure just before the war broke.  I pointed out I had been asthma free for ten years, but the military refused to make a concession.

What was I to do?  Sit by and watch my country be taken from me?  I could not understand why an able-bodied man in his forties was so harshly rejected by the military, especially at a time when they needed soldiers the most.  You see, the draft was no longer in place.  America had been falling apart from the inside.  The president realized the country was stretched too thin so he had ended the draft, knowing America required more bodies at home to run plants, farms, businesses, and perform other necessary day-to-day tasks.

So why refuse me when America needed, nay, depended upon volunteer soldiers?  I am capable, and according to regular standards, I am the epitome of health.  I run every morning.  I lift weights.  People are surprised to learn I am forty five, and I am in better shape than men half my age.

I have neglected to mention I am also a surgeon.  Since the military had denied me a role in combat, I offered my medical talents to patch up wounded soldiers.  Hell, I had been cutting open and sewing together patients for nearly twenty years and was considered one of America’s foremost surgeons.  Despite my expertise, the government still denied me.

It made no sense.  “Military intelligence.”  Perhaps you’ve heard the old joke.

I decided to join the military anyway, though they would be unaware of it.  It was not hard purchasing a uniform, tags, and the right gear to appear official.  I was not able to find a rifle, however, since guns and ammunition were scarce and produced solely for the military.  Fortunately I had an old .50 caliber Desert Eagle and a box of ammo, so at least I wouldn’t be unarmed going into combat.  And, as morbid as it sounds, I was sure finding a combat rifle from a deceased soldier would not be difficult.

My plan was to travel to Boston, where violence had become the hottest, and slip my way into the front lines.  Maine, Vermont, New Hampshire, and New York had been overrun years ago.  If Boston fell, we would lose our principal stronghold in the East.  Military experts projected that the remainder of the east coast would quickly fall if we could not stop our enemies at Boston, and most agreed it would also mean the coup de grâce for America. 

True, the military had issued strict orders forbidding all civilians from joining the battle in Boston.  They claimed well-intentioned civilians would simply be in the way of their trained soldiers and were more likely to hinder their operations than help. 

But I didn’t care.  I just prayed my uniform would prevent me from friendly fire when I attempted to join the fray. 

Flying to Boston was easily accomplished.  The airline’s staff saw me in my military fatigues and made the obvious assumption.  I landed near Boston, as planes could not fly directly into the city, and hopped on an armored bus with other soldiers.

I was not prepared for the destruction I saw.  I knew it would be messy, but this, this was bad.  Boston’s once proud buildings had been leveled into piles of smoldering heaps.  America’s rich history burned in a fiery wasteland, and smoke, dust, and debris filled the sky, making day appear more like night.  My ears began ringing as soon as I left the bus, but the ringing was eventually drowned out by the thunderous booming of explosion after explosion.  To my immediate north were upturned tanks, destroyed barricades, and a crashed helicopter.  Lifeless bodies were strewn everywhere and the soldiers still alive sprinted frantically in every direction.  Mayhem didn’t begin to describe it. 

The troops exiting the buses rushed to tents some twenty yards away in order to receive orders from shouting lieutenants.  Once received, they promptly dashed away to take their positions in the field.  Because of the chaos, it was simple for me to bypass the lieutenants and join a group of soldiers already heading northward.  I pulled my Desert Eagle from its holster and quietly ran with them.

We reached the downed helicopter and an explosion rocked my body, slamming me brutally to the ground.  I coughed violently as fresh debris filled the air and choked my lungs.  Dazed, I looked around to locate my comrades, but all I saw were corpses, and there was no sign of the Desert Eagle that had been rocked from my grasp.  Sliding across demolished concrete and twisted metal, I crawled my way toward the closest corpse so I could pilfer his assault rifle.

The dead soldier lay on his back, his bloody face staring vacantly into the dirty sky.  The strap on his rifle was wrapped around his body, preventing me from simply snatching up the gun.  I pulled his warm, lifeless torso toward me, freed the rifle from around him, and laid his body back down.  Then, I froze.

Staring at the corpse’s face, I saw myself.

I shook my head to clear it.  I had just been jarred by an explosive blast, I reminded myself.  Satisfied my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me, I peered once more at the man’s face.  But my eyes deceived me again, for I saw myself, although twenty years younger.

Shots rang around me but still I stared.  I was somehow looking at a dead man who was me.  I could not understand it, except that fear and shock must have projected my certain future onto the soldier’s silent face.

Hearing the pounding of feet hastening toward me, I glanced up.  Most of the dust had settled by now and my eyes met those of a young man staring oddly at me.

He also wore my face.

He tilted his head slightly as he considered me.  Was he confused why I was looting this soldier’s corpse, or had he noticed the same thing? 

With no time for questions, he darted past me with the other soldiers in his squad.  I watched them as they passed.  They were all identical. 

They were all me.

I could not comprehend it, but I had to keep moving.  I was in a war zone, battling to reclaim my country.  So I gripped my newly acquired assault rifle, leapt up, and set my mind to kill.

My left foot stepped forward and blood exploded out of my calf.  I crumpled to the ground in agony as my leg failed to support my weight.  I was furious at being shot so soon.

Shifting my weight to the right leg, I hopped up and aimed my rifle in the shot’s direction.  There, crouching atop a mass of smoldering debris stood a figure donning a uniform that did not match mine.  As I pulled the trigger, blinding pain tore through me and I toppled to the ground once more. 

I attempted to stand but found I could not.  My right foot was missing.

I lay on my side, my back to the shooter.  I hoped to roll over and fire, finishing him before he could finish me.  Fury boiled inside of me.  I needed to kill at least one of these invading bastards!  But before I could roll over, shots fired out in front of me and bullets soared past my head.  I heard my attacker scream as he was expertly gunned down.

The soldier who saved my life grabbed me under the arms and hoisted me onto his back.  My legs gushed blood, drenching his uniform as he carried me to base. 

Reaching the triage, he was ordered to lay me on one of the cots.  The doctor thought I could be saved.  He could stop the bleeding and fill me with donated blood.  I would have laughed were it not for the scorching pain searing through my legs.  Was this ironic, or fitting?  As the soldier carefully laid me back on the cot, I was able to peer into my savior’s face.  Before losing consciousness, the last thing I saw was myself staring curiously back at me.

I understood in that brief moment why I was not accepted into the military.  I was already in it.

*

Clones were an essential part of the war, I was told.  Because America did not have enough man-power, and because they could not draft every man, woman, and child, cloning was the only viable option.

The CIA, among other U.S. agencies, had been cloning animals and humans for some time.  Not long ago they discovered how to accelerate growth and create adult-sized clones in a matter of months.  Blood was the key.

Clones were informed who they really were and why they were created, since fabricating a believable lie was not plausible.  Battalions of clones from tens of thousands of donors had been fighting in America’s biggest and bloodiest battles around the world, far away from American soil.

But when our enemies had reached Boston, a critical area necessary to hold at all costs, the military had no choice but to deploy the clones there.  It was vital they prevented our invaders from gaining a permanent foothold in America.  So to end the invasion, the military sent platoons of clones to Boston, platoons composed primarily of me.

Why me?

I learned that some thirty percent of clones did not accept their contrived purpose to fight for America and adamantly refused to serve.  You can guess their fate.  The remaining clones were trained and then deployed.  Because the military hoped to discover a higher acceptance rate amongst clones, they began researching possibilities and eventually took an interest in me.

I had made a name for myself, you see.  I was a renowned surgeon, I was physically fit, I donated blood every week, and I even declined compensation.  I stood out not just physically, but mentally.  They hoped my clones would be similar.

It worked.  There was a 99.9% success rate that clones created from my DNA accepted their role as America’s new super soldier.  The military quickly formed platoons composed entirely of me and successfully used them in their most critical missions.

To prevent public knowledge, all soldiers, clones and non-clones alike, signed affidavits stating they would never reveal military secrets, particularly in regards to cloning.  I was also forced to sign these papers, swearing I would never reveal my knowledge of their existence.  Doing so would be considered treason and I would be summarily executed.

The Red Cross was unaware of the military’s real need for blood.  It was true that a lot of soldiers needed transfusions, but the military needed bodies and blood provided bodies.

Blood—my blood—was in high demand.  With the military’s assistance, I continued to donate.