Amber Vinceni switched lanes then spared a sideways glance. In the passenger seat slouched the stolen body: a young woman, completely nude.
Amber shook her head. “Like looking in a mirror.” Snugging her sunglasses, she smirked and added, “After tequila and a poker game with Jenny.”
She focused again on the highway, but touched the photo of Jenny, Sasha, and Tori taped to the dashboard.
“Alright ladies, I’ve taken the first step. Can’t turn back now. And I swear on your graves, I’ll make ’em pay… for everything.”
Silent and unmoving, her clone said nothing. Just sat there, staring blankly at the floorboard, naked as the day it was moved from a tiny vial into its first amniotic tank.
Amber checked the running stopwatch on her wrist — 13 minutes and counting. She’d started it right before pulling the IV, so she could then pile her doppelgänger onto a gurney.
How long before they missed the body? A day if she was lucky, but probably only hours. She made a mental rundown. Yeah, at least a few hours.
She steered for the exit ramp with grim determination. There was time for a pit stop. Had to be. She needed to do this right, after all.
A few more miles and several turns later, she pulled into her garage and killed the engine.
Leaving the VW convertible she affectionately called Bug, Amber unlocked her front door and poked her head inside. She managed a weary smile.
Everything seemed perfectly out of place. Half-eaten pizza. Guitar on the sofa. Unfinished sketch and pencils on the coffee table. There was even a set of clippers still next to a tiny pile of nails.
Her slobbish tendencies were finally paying off.
She stepped into the secluded flat. Turned on the television to leave it blaring, streaming a service that would soon be on the hook for its monthly fee.
She peered into each room. Everything looked nice and lived in. As if she were out for a drive and coming right back. Good. She walked to her bedroom.
Amber slipped from her denim jacket and tossed it to the bed. She opened a drawer then traded her clothes for her favorite drysuit. The Pacific would be cold. She realized how bone-tired she was as she rummaged through her jacket. She found her cell and checked the time.
20:26. The night was still young. Could probably catch a half-hour of precious sleep. Just needed to upload her daily post, then maybe—
The phone buzzed in her hand. Frowning, she touched an icon:
They’ve just opened the chamber. Wherever you are, better keep moving.
Though it wasn’t Bobby’s fault, she cursed her informant’s timing. She’d known this was likely, but had hoped to catch a power nap and still keep ahead. She turned her wrist and reset the stopwatch.
Now it was a race. And she wasn’t entirely sure she could win.
Here goes everything.
Amber took a deep breath. She finished zipping the drysuit and prepared to fake her death. Phone in hand, she pulled up her social media.
No time for Ambrosia Vinn, her internet persona, to properly release the “Sassy Survivalist’s” tip of the day. Tonight would have to be different. Just a quick note:
On Hiatus.
She’d long ago decided against automated posts. No canned pre-made material. Off the cuff was more her style. In this way her posts reflected the immediacy of her subject matter.
Improvise, adapt, overcome. Expect the unexpected … then deal with it. Survive.
Besides, her followers were her tribe. Each post needed to be fresh, interaction as close to real time as possible.
But more important than either of those things, was the particular segment of followers she called “Ghosts”. Though few in number, they were the most savvy handful of people she’d never met. They could read between the lines, even on a two word post, and know something was up. She was betting her life on it.
All the while, she never stopped moving. Working with a careful, yet swift, efficiency, Amber swapped her SIM card with one designed to scrub all data — while providing a complete set of fake info. The cell would probably go unchecked, might even get crushed or lost before all this was done, but better safe than stupid.
While ‘Little Genie’, as Bobby had called the fresh SIM, worked it’s magic, Amber slipped her phone back into the denim jacket, tucking it deep within an inside pocket. She sealed her old SIM into the sleeve of her drysuit.
She draped the jacket over an elbow, grabbed the clothes she’d been wearing, and returned to her car. Two minutes and counting.
Amber dressed the stolen body. Limp and unresponsive, her twin offered no help, but no resistance either. Finally she got the denim jacket in place and closed the passenger door.
She slid behind the wheel of her Volkswagen, started Bug’s engine, let the top down, and headed for the sea. She checked the stopwatch. Seven minutes since Bobby’s text.
As she drove into the night, she cranked the Satellite radio. An independent metal band was snarling a tune to match her mood. On the passenger side, her body double slumped against the door. No seat belt for either of them.
They barreled down the highway. Amber kept glancing at the twin who silently rode shotgun. Head lolled to one side, the unnamed shell of human flesh had made this entire scheme possible.
Identical right down to the DNA, Amber found out about her just the week before. And, within moments, the whole plan formed in her mind. With some inside help, her special set of skills, and a crap ton of luck, Amber stole her just for the occasion.
Of course the scientists at Omniverz labs (which didn’t officially exist) had other intentions, but Amber was preemptive this time. Fool her once and all that.
Besides, this was her DNA they’d acquired, so was it really stealing? If anything they were the thieves. She was just taking back what was hers. Her DNA and her life.
Strange that she’d have to ‘end’ her life to get it back, but whatever.
Her informant, Bobby Serrano, said the clone was designed such that the brain never fired one synapse—to make sure it wasn’t sentient. Omniverz was probably hoping to program the clone and frame Amber.
Heck, maybe they’d even meant to beat her to the punch with this ‘death plan’ so they could kidnap Amber with her fully functional mind.
That made the most sense, actually. No missing person meant no one sniffing around. They could take their sweet time with no risk and no repercussions.
The song on the radio ended, replaced by one even heavier. Amber recognized her favorite band, Spectre, and turned it up.
Looking over, she frowned at her double sitting slack-jawed with lazy, half-closed eyes. Amber gave her the two-fingered metal salute. Rocked her head, as if trying to coax her twin to life. No such luck.
Turning her eyes to the road again, Amber glimpsed the photo taped to her dash. Four femme fatales—she and her three closest friends, right before it all went to hell.
She gripped the steering wheel and wiped a stubborn tear. She still missed those three. Always would.
A few more helpings of Indie Metal and she spied her destination. She checked the clock on the radio. 08:54 P.M. Then the stopwatch: twenty eight minutes.
Amber floored the gas, cutting onto a small section of off-road, right before the guard rail started. Within seconds she careened off her chosen cliff.
So long Santa Cruz.
She gripped the wheel and stood up in the seat. The moment she’d dreaded. As the car tipped forward into its drop, at the exact moment of zero g, Amber launched straight out. While she spread into a dive, she heard her clone smack the windshield.
The double never felt a thing. At least Amber hoped she didn’t. No neural activity had ever registered, so why would it start now? Still, she couldn’t help but think—Sorry Rosie.
That’s what Amber named her twin as she plunged into the Pacific. She surfaced long enough to see Bug tumble in a crumpled heap against the boulders. Not far from where it stopped, Rosie lie sprawled on the rocky shore, broken and bloody—solid evidence of Amber Rose Vinceni’s death.
Amber felt a twinge of guilt as she realized the lump in her throat was more about her car than her clone. “Bug, old girl, you deserved better.” She sighed in resignation. “Thanks for getting me to the end of our road… and for all the memories. You did good.”
Both satisfied and disgusted with her orchestrated mess, Amber ducked underwater and swam down the coast. Surfacing far as she could from the scene, she then swam parallel to the beach in a night shrouded ocean.
She slipped ashore only when she couldn’t see the wreckage. Then she free-climbed another cliff face, hoofed it across the highway and another half mile to the spot where she’d planted a cache of supplies: clothing, cash, a few weapons, and some trail mix—all stuffed into a small duffel bag.
She traded her drysuit for street clothes, shook off the water and bagged everything. Then she pulled away shrubs, revealing the motorcycle — paid for in cash a few days prior.
She checked the stopwatch a final time and pressed the button to freeze the display: fifty six minutes, sixteen seconds since the text.
Amber strapped her duffle bag across the seat and threw a leg over Midnight, her name for the black Kawasaki. With just the right amount of dents, tarnished chrome, and road dust, no one was bound to steal or even notice it. She kicked the bike and revved it to life, then spun off down the highway and never looked back.
Tired as she was, Amber couldn’t suppress a devious grin. The playing field might not be level, but now it would be harder to trace her. She was only a half step ahead, but it was enough. By now they’d turned her place inside out, looking for her and Rosie, and may even be spreading out, taking to the highway to track her down.
Amber had signed up for a roadside service a few weeks earlier, so the wreck had surely registered, with a rescue dispatched. No way any of the Omniverz lackeys would intrude on a scene lit up by patrol cars and an ambulance.
Unless their reach went deeper than she suspected.
She banished the thought. Had to believe they weren’t entrenched in every sector already. Too much paranoia could paralyze her and drain her last ounce of hope. Which was about all she had.
Amber focused on the road. The fact she’d made it this far was proof enough of their limitations. She’d stolen Rosie after all. That in itself was huge.
No, she decided, they no longer had the upper hand. Finally she was off their radar and headed for a place they’d never look.
She saw her exit on the road ahead and steered toward it. The rush of adrenaline was finally wearing off. She needed to get somewhere safe. Get some sleep. Regroup.
Time to lay low for a while, then go on the offensive.
-end of scene one-