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Clone Chronicles

I’m an international, multiple award-winning author with a passion for the voices in my head. As a singer, songwriter, independent filmmaker and improv teacher and performer, my life has always been about creating and sharing what I create with others. Now that my dream to write for a living is a reality, with over a hundred titles in happy publication and no end in sight, I live in beautiful Prince Edward Island, Canada, with my giant cats, pug overlord and overlady and my Gypsy Vanner gelding, Fynn. CLONE THREE: BOOK ONE The fate of the world lies in the hands of a clone who can't remember anything... "Clone Three." The old man's voice is a softly echoing sound, volume and pitch altering as he speaks, as if over a great distance. "Pay attention, dear. Final instructions." Is he talking to me? He must be. His holographic eyes seem to be meeting mine, he looks at me with great expectation. And yet as I lie here and begin to regain sensation and control, I realize I not only have no idea where I am, what I'm doing here. I haven't a clue who I am. Clone Three wakes in a decaying city she is sure doesn't match the one she came from. If only she could remember. She has a purpose at least--she must find her fellow clones and the statue whose image is embedded in her mind. But she is lost, surrounded by a dead and crumbling metropolis, fought over by those who have been altered by the illness that has ravaged humankind, turning survivors into strange and terrible new forms. She must risk everything, including the safety of those who try to help her, in order to fulfill her task. But is she this crumbling world's salvation... or the source of its downfall? Don't miss the exciting sequels! Clone Two and Clone One are now available!

Patti Larsen · Sci-fi
Not enough ratings
125 Chs

Chapter 90: Their Story

The pavement on the other side of town is in worse condition, forcing us to slow our progress. By the time I pull myself together enough to take real notice, Duet is scowling in fury, no longer singing along to the country music she's learned to love. The kids stay quiet, huddled in back as though aware she's dangerous from the mood she's in. I clutch at the door as we roll over a substantial heave, the sound of scraping metal on pavement enough to make me grind my teeth.

Duet pats the dashboard gently, soothing the truck as it rumbles and shudders. "Need better ground," she growls.

"Try the shoulder." I point at the side of the road, relatively clear if choked with weeds. She grunts and does so, though it's only marginally less bumpy.

We stop twice to get out and stretch, the kids wicking away into the brush to do their business while I stay close to the SUV and hope there aren't more like them out here. Or worse.