Short Stories

The Cloned: Part One

The TV was playing in the background, the news broadcasting. He studied his board, the equations filling his head. He made a strange murmur before shaking his head. He erased the last number and tried to correct his mistake. The static of the TV flickered, a horrified voice filtered the room.

"A plane fell from the sky and crash landed on the ground. We have no information at the time about what caused the crash. Flight 81 was on its way to San Francisco, California. As of right now there are no survivors." The news reporter stated, his blue eyes wide and terrified. The man on the other side of the TV, with his strange equations, started to hyperventilate.

He scrambled for his phone, his hands sweaty with nerves. He called his wife, the phone dial on going. Then went dead, an automated voice telling him to leave a voicemail. He huffed out a breath, horror filling every inch of him. He kept calling his wife, refusing to believe the man on the screen. He denied it, until he got concrete proof that his wife and his beloved daughter died in that crash.

Finally, he gave up calling his wife and daughter. He paced his livingroom, his heart racing. A few hours passed before an unknown number popped up on his phone. Hope bloomed in his chest as he grabbed his phone, sliding the answer button.

"Hello?" His voice was hoarse and ragged with hope and anguish. The person on the other side sucked in a sharp breath.

"Is this Mr. Hopper?" A unknown female voice asked, her voice strained.

Logan Hopper stilled, all hope draining from his chest. Tears streaming down his cheeks. "Yes."

The woman swallowed harshly, the motion sounding like a gun shot in Logan's ear. "We need you to come to Licholnshire Hospital."

"Why?" He rushed out, unable to stop himself.

"We'll discuss this in person, Mr. Hopper." The woman soothed, her voice cracking.

"I need to know now!" He screamed through the mike.

A small.son echoed through the phone. "We identified your wife Martha and your daughter, Jami, among the dead."

Her answer was only silence, everything around him blurred together, taking away any hope along with it. He clicked the end call button and flung his phone.  Seeing it shatter among the wall, scattering into thousand pieces, centered Logan.

He went into his work room, looked at the board, a numb feeling surged through him. He grabbed his eraser and cleaned off his board. When it was empty, an idea formed, the idea of madness.

Weeks piled onto weeks, turning into months, stuck behind his desk and board, touching the edge of insanity. His head ached, his hands were sore. But the machine was finished.

It has been six months since his family died in that crash. The world moved on, but Logan couldn't, he wouldn't. He stared at the machine that took over his living room. The buttons lighting up, green or red. Logan smiled, his dream slowly coming true. He sat back, his eyes watching the unique thing.

He closed his eyes, clasping his hand around the brush he held close. The wisps of hair dangling, caught the color of his wife and daughter. He opened his eyes and slipped a strand out of the buds of the brush. He settled it in the a little bottle, tightening the bottle cap. He watched as the strand floated in the formula within. Logan nodded, his eyes mesmerized. He slipped the button on his right, up a few notches. The machine whirled to life. It conducted the strand to melt, something that vouldn never happen. It mixed with the formula within and swirled together to create a dark, coffee color. He slipped his hand around the Luke warm bottle and moved it to another set. He dumped the liquid in a container, the formula sitting there. He turned a few more notches, the liquid freezing. The first coating the liquid freezing it in place.

Satisfied, he took it out and placed it in a machine, where the door closed but a circle window appeared. He drew in a breath, the final part about to come. He turned the notches all the way to high, the machine buzzing, loud enough to catch attention. He settled the container filled with frozen formula into the center. He studied it, his anxiety up the roof. Saying a soft goodbye, he shut the door closed.

He pressed the green button, the machine blasted with noise and a light from the machine door. Logan drew in a sharp breath, his chest heaving with energy.

The light died and his machine whirled to a stop. Stream rolled from under the door, filled the room. Logan took an unsteady step and then rushes toward the carrier. He flung the door open, paused to see nothing in the center. Then a small sound filled his ears and he turned, to see by the door a figure.

The figure was that of his wife, the perfect copy cat of his wife. A wild and insane laugh burst from him, the eyes of the one he loved the most flickered up, meeting his.

"Logan?" She murmured, her arms twitching by her sides. He ran then, not caring how she instantly knew him. He picked her up and twirled them around, more insane laughter bubbling from his lips.

"I did it." He murmured, looking down into her eyes.

"Yes. Now its Jami's turn to come home." Martha replied, her eyes the exact shade as her former self.

"Yes." And they set to work, careful with each step, watching the process. An exciting feeling passed through him, the door closing on the machine. Him and Martha held their breaths the whole machine shuddered. The light died, clearing the room. Smoke and steam filled the as they rushed to open the door.

Inside the little room, a small figure looked up at them, her eyes a bright hazel. Logan let put a small sigh, before pulling his daughter into his arms.

"I'm never letting go."