“I have to pee.”
The kid -- Andre -- has been squirming for a while now. I’d been wondering whether he was going to let us know or just go in his pants and face the consequences.
I say, “didn’t you go at the apartment?”
“Yeah. I have to go AGAIN.”
“He has to go a LOT,” says Keisha. “Mom says his bladder is the size of a chickpea.”
I chuckle. It’s a while since I last had to deal with kids. My sister and her brood live about 700 miles west, of here, in Utah. Thinking of my kid sister and my nephews gives me the shivers, so I stop. “Sure, kiddo. Pick a tree.”
Come to think of it, it’s been a while since we started out, and a look at my watch confirms it: suppertime.
Come to think of it, it’s been a while since we started out, and a look at my watch confirms it: suppertime.
“We can sit here for a few, have a quick bite, but then we have to get going. Gonna get dark soon, and we’re gonna need to find some shelter.”
Keisha nods, understanding. Planning, maybe. She’s a smart kid, this one. It’s only been a few hours, but I can already tell. “What do we have,” she says.
“For tonight, it’s--.” I’m cut short by a scream from behind one of the trees. Andre.
I’m up in less than a second, pistol at the ready, and moving in before I remember the girl. I hold my hand up. “Stay back,” I whisper.
A few more steps and I’m around the cluster of trees. Andre is unhurt, but looks frightened. Is frightened -- looks like he didn’t make it in time after all. I follow his unblinking stare to see a male clone, mouth opened, and snarling. I have time to register the blood smeared on the silver suit in a pattern that looks an awful lot like a handprint -- and then the thing is on us.
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