Chapter One

Someone once told me that the teenage years of my life would be my best years. But for the son of a farmer, I never got a day off.

All I wanted was to be a typical teen, to enjoy the summer. To feel normal.

Now, I am haunted by the memory of the summer. The feeling of regret that I made a great mistake and have no idea how to rewrite it. Almost half of my family is dead or missing, the people I love have abandoned me, and the entire town thinks it was me who did it.

But I swear it wasn’t me. I swear on our Lord and Savior, it wasn’t me.

You could say it was technically me. But it wasn’t me. Does that make sense?

The person, though, just looked like me. He was a clone or a copy of me. I’m unsure of the actual term because Pa, God rest his soul, hardly let me go to school. I’m good at it - like I’m smart, but I was self-taught because Pa thought school wasn’t necessary.

But my father was a drunk who knew about farming and drinking—nothing more. He eventually wanted me to take over the farm as he did, his father and his father’s father. Yet I wouldn’t say I liked that for myself. I hated being a farmhand; it was miserable.

So, anyway, it was a stupid idea. Who thinks they can make a copy of themselves? Who in their right mind thinks that would be a good idea? I sure did, and it worked for a while.

It was all supposed to be a quick getaway—a way to decompress. But I never really thought this all the way through. How was it going to be a quick "getaway"? What was I going to do with the clone? I wanted to learn. I craved the expansion of knowledge. I tried to understand why things happened and figure out life. Not to shovel cow shit and throw slop throughout the day.

But, anyway, how did this all start?

This entire situation began a long time ago, you could say. Thanks to my great-grandfather, who purchased the farmland that we now own. Hundreds of acres of rolling hills, with plenty of agricultural use, livestock, and Crops—we do it all. I was forced to make sacrifices at a young age, just like my father did. Years later, my family is nothing but farmers—past, present, and future generations. I wanted to break that mold, and I think I did.

And those sacrifices it took to get there added up over time.

The news is going to run a significant story here soon. The disappearance of an entire family and their close friends. Murder. I have seen the local newspaper run the story and how they let it run wild. This story will be national news. So please, let me explain my side of the story before you hear it elsewhere. Okay?

It started at Pop’s old diner—the only authentic sit-down joint in town. Kids my age usually hang out there with their friends. They’d gather in big groups and get a float or an excellent burger and fries. They always took their ladies with them.

But then there was me.

I was the loner, isolated from people my age so I could work full time on the farm. I also wasn’t the prettiest to look at, a red-headed, weird kid who was dumpy in stature and shaped like a pear at times. The son of a farmer who smelled like cow shit and pig slop. The boy who was always in ragged clothes and had no money. No one cared about who I was until after "the murders."

But before I made national news, I was just the old dirty kid who showed up to Pop’s for nickel ice cream and was frequently truant at school.

The day began like any other typical day when I worked the farm. I was up before dawn to start my chores. The morning chores were always the easiest. Those were the ones I did not mind. I enjoyed the solitude because they were always alone; no one in the house would be awake. I could finish my chores and then do a light reading in the loft as a treat. The chores mainly consisted of feeding the animals before I fed myself. To Pa, the animals were his babies; his actual children were mistakes. His answer was always the same: those farm animals made him money, not took it away. It just makes me boil on the inside hearing him say that.

But, like the fantastic son I was, I always half-assed the chores. I was the only one who worked on the farm, Pa hardly did shit. I’m not going to lie now. What’s the point?

So, where was I?

Oh, yeah. Pop’s Diner.

So, about three past noon, I finished my afternoon jobs while Pa polished off his beers and watched. All I can remember is that the day was hot. The entire afternoon I spent working, I was thinking of—no, not just thinking—salivating over just one scoop of ice cream from Pops. And as soon as Pa waved me off and said I was free to go, I went ahead and started walking straight to Pops.

Pop’s place was about a thirty-minute walk from the farm. His shop was one of a kind, snuggled right in the middle of Mount Zion, smack dab in the center of town. Our town, Mt. Zion was small and a pressure cooker for drama. The old ladies loved to babble that drama at the hair salon or grocery store. But the town itself was beautiful, serine almost and if you drove too fast through it, you’d miss the city altogether. I had a decent walk from the farm to town. The town had a central strip of businesses, a fire station, and a small fountain.

The sun was high in the sky when I started my walk to Pop’s. The heat blistered my overalls, and I got sweaty while walking. I cleaned up before taking my daily trip. I didn’t need to impress anymore. I was there for the sweet goods. And a little conversation.

There was this one girl I was always sweet on, but she never knew I even existed. Carolyn Wells had the prettiest blue eyes you would ever see, sandy blonde hair, and a tall figure. Reminds me of Alice from the book Alice in Wonderland. But the thing with Carolyn was that she was one of those cheerleader girls, an athlete. And boy, was she a beauty.

When I arrived at Pops, I was greeted twice: once by the jingle of the bell and the other by the hostess, a little broad I went to school with named Julie May. Now, I know that these are a lot of names to remember, but they might be important later on, so I’m writing them down now so I can remember them, too.

Julie May was a cool girl who was pretty good-looking and constantly chewed gum. She was petite, had long dark brown hair, and a cute smile, but she didn’t want a boy like me. I don’t think anyone in this town did. Like many other girls, Julie was into the greasers—the bad boys of town who slick their hair back and wore white T-shirts. Sickening.

But the thing with Julie May was that she remembered me; she knew my seat because I was a regular here. And she was sweet enough never to make a face like everyone else did when I walked in—greeted me with a smile and wave. She didn’t need to seat me and would always tell me if my spot was available. Pops had a shotgun layout, a bartop on the left side of the store, seated with barstools for the kids who want to swivel when they eat their banana splits or ice cream floats. A jukebox is right by the door, and the hostess stands, and then a wall of penny candy is on the right side wall. The joint was the spot and always poppin’ for kids of all ages and walks of life. Pop didn’t care who came in, what color you were, or your age. Money was money. Pop was a sucker for conversation; he knew it would always increase his bottom line and make the time go by a little smoother for Pop.

I sat at the high-top, farthest seat from the door, so people coming in wouldn’t see or smell me. I’m pretty sure the little red round seat had my butt imprinted in it as much as I sat there. I enjoyed picking the stuffing out of a small crack in the cushion as I licked my single scoop of vanilla, which is one thing I miss. Cool ice cream after a long ass day of manual labor.

Nice. Smooth. Sweet. Damn. So much regret now that I look back at that day.

So anyway, I went to my seat. Pop slid over with a smile and brought a scoop of my usual—one scoop of vanilla soft serve packed heavily in a clear glass bowl. But Pop, being the sweet man he was always, threw an extra scoop on the house.

As I sat enjoying my ice cream cone, the bell above the door dinged several times, and a few kids from school walked in. A large group of them laughed. Sporting their letterman jackets and cuffed jeans and arms wrapped around their girls. I was always so anxious at the time and thought they were probably laughing at me. My face was with lines of sweat that cut through the smeared dirt, my worn overalls, and the rich smell of manure. It wasn’t attracting anything good but jokes and the occasional flies.

But Pop liked me and said I wasn’t like others. I had a curious mind and an old soul. The older man was sweet; he always initiated a conversation.

Today, there was a magazine slapped down in front of me. The cover page was decorated with comically funny monsters and had questions written on it such as "Monsters, are they real?" and "Lab-created specimens confirmed to be created by Nazis and USSR."

Pop pointed his fat snowman finger at the magazine, "Science - monthly pal, fresh off the press." He lifted his eyebrows. "Some pretty neat stuff in there, kiddo."

"Ah, thanks, Pop." My eyes genuinely showed excitement. But I was put off by the questions that decorated the magazine. The questions made me giggle. They couldn’t be serious, could they?

"Hey," Pop extended his words. "Remember that problem you had?" Pop poked at the question but danced around the subject again. He remembered that it was a sore topic.

I looked Pop up and down quizzically, trying to remember my red brows furrowing.

"The one about all your chores?" He questioned, trying to jog my memory.

He saw my face light up because he nodded and tapped the magazine.

"Article in there teaches ya how to grow a clone of yourself." He looked at me curiously, gauging my interest.

But my mind was already racing with questions, ideas, and possibilities. It was all endless right then and there. I understood this was science fiction, and the questions were all attention-grabbers to get you to purchase the magazine. Still, boy, my mind was racing with the idea.

"How is that even possible?" I asked Pop, who smiled, almost anticipating the question. But my demise was laid out right before me, my curiosity and the questions of life and its creation. I never saw it coming. I was unsure how, but one thing was sure: I was about to figure it out.

The more I reflect on these past events and can look back with some clarity, the more I realize my one desire was to explore—to learn about the unknown and what was out there. I yearned for it like I did for scoops of ice cream from Pops on a hot day. I craved learning and attention more than I did anything else in this world. Perhaps it was from my learning being taken away at a young age; maybe that was my driving force, but who knows?

And I cannot stress how much I wanted to learn on my own, not from Pa or the farm, but I wanted to learn what I wanted to. What I was genuinely interested in was science, not agriculture. What makes life, what creates life, what makes the world go round, and what happens after death? Things like that are things people should have learned about right now. But Pa never let me. He held me back, so I burned the midnight oil to learn. To understand, and boy, did I learn. Pursuing knowledge can be dangerous, but the most challenging part about learning the hard way is how lonely it gets.