Popular Clone (12 page)
Authors: M.E. Castle
“Didn't I already feed you today?”
Bump, bump bump.
“You know this is my food, not yours, right, boy?”
Bump, bump bump.
“You're not going to stop until I feed you more, are you?” FP looked up into Fisher's eyes, his expression seeming cheerful. “All right, all right.” Fisher reached into the fridge again and took out a little bowl of corn, which he set at his feet. “Happy?” He took the crunching, snuffling noises for a yes.
Fisher returned to his work as he ate, fetching from a rack over his worktable a device that looked like a weapon. It had a long, cylindrical barrel, a handle with a trigger, and a rifle-like stock at the back. In fact, the device looked almost like an actual rifle, except that the chamber the barrel was attached to was bulky and oddly shaped.
Fisher pulled a small bag out of a drawer and, as FP watched eagerly, he poured a large number of tiny, brown pellets into it. Popcorn kernels.
If his calculations were right, the main chamber should heat up at specific intervals. That would allow him to fire individual kernels of popcorn up to one hundred fifty meters. As he powered it on, he thought of all of its uses: long-range popcorn mouth-catching. Popcorn marksmanship events. Two teams, both armed with popcorn guns: the winning team would get to eat all the ammunition at the end.
Fisher's popcorn fantasies distracted him from realizing just how hot the main chamber was getting. When his fingers started to burn, he reached down to adjust its settings, and
kaboom
.
Not so much a single kaboom, as hundreds of very, very small kabooms all happening at the same time.
Poppopopopopopopop!
The whole mess of kernels erupted out of the barrel at once. Popcorn flew everywhere, splattering against his wall and lodging into the keyboard of his computer.
“Get down, FP! Get down!”
FP squealed and dove under the bed to escape. Fisher dropped under his desk and covered his head with his hands, which he'd read was the correct procedure for an earthquake, a bombing, or an invasion of flying popcorn.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
When the barrage of popping had at last slowed, Fisher uncovered his head. His floor was coated an inch deep in popcorn kernels. They were on his bed, his desk, his equipment. Fisher got up and started crunching through the mess, trying to find his way to the automated cleanup-bot in the corner.
FP was happily running around the room and vacuuming up the popcorn with his mouth. By the time the cleanup-bot warmed up and got going, FP had taken care of an impressively large amount of the mess. The cleanup-bot whirred and buzzed and beeped, sweeping up the kernels into its built-in trash receptacle. Fisher put the defective popcorn gun back in its place, pulling a kernel out of his left ear and vowing to reexamine the blueprints.
After the robot had finished cleaning, Fisher looked at his computer screen. Still the dark inside of a locker. He looked at the time. Funny, gym should have ended ten minutes ago. He wondered what was â¦
Oh, no.
Fisher's train of thought came to a crashing halt like ⦠well, like a train crash. It was Friday. Gym was on Mondays and Thursdays.
Two had tricked him.
CHAPTER 11
People will always do what they want to do, no matter what you ask of them. That is why, while most people have children, I have robots.
Fisher's desk chair was left spinning on its swivel, pieces of paper blown into the air, and a jar of pencils and pens making a clanking waterfall over the desk's side. There was almost a dust trail leading out of his room, down the stairs, across the front hallway, and out the door.
After Fisher disabled the alarm, he eased open the front door very slowly and tiptoed across the yard. The movable paving stones matched his tempo, gliding sneakily along the grass to arrive silently under his feet. He was almost to the front gate when he heard a faint clopping sound behind him. He froze, almost afraid to turn around, wondering if his parents had invented a new yard inhabitant he didn't know about.
Then he turned and saw FP doing his best to move stealthily across the yard. FP delicately placed one hoof in front of another, looking left and right with narrow eyes. He kept sneaking forward until he bumped into Fisher's leg.
Fisher crossed his arms. “Where do you think
you're
going?” Fisher promptly scooped up his pig, marched back to the front door, and tossed him inside. He closed the door behind him as FP squeaked and glided to a haphazard landing on the kitchen floor, narrowly missing the recycling bin.
Two minutes later, Fisher was halfway down the sidewalk when he heard a familiar squeal. He turned around just in time for FP, having leapt from an open window and over the wall, to crash headlong into his face.
“Wâ!” was all Fisher had time to get out, before the force of FP's landing carried him backward and off his feet, and pet and master were rolling, entangled, on the sidewalk. Fisher ended up on his back, with FP bouncing excitedly on his chest.
“FP, I don't have time to ⦔
Fisher trailed off as FP nuzzled his face. He sighed. “You really have a taste for stupid adventures, don't you?” He stood up, dusting off his jeans. “Come on, then. Just try to keep up.”
Fisher kept his head down as he walked to school, trying to keep cars or buildings in between himself and anyone he saw on the street. He wanted to avoid being seen walking around in the afternoon on a school day if at all possible. People would ask questions, and he didn't want to make up any more new answers. This lie was getting big and complicated enough as it was. To give himself courage, he reminded himself of great heroes of legend creeping into the lair of the enemy. Odysseus smuggling himself into Troy. Robin Hood climbing silently up the walls of Nottingham Castle. Vic Daring flying a stolen Venusian patrol craft to land on the Forbidden Satellite.
Two was extremely smart, and if he had deliberately given Fisher the slip, it had to be because he was up to no good. He could be getting into all kinds of trouble
.
He could be flooding the basement with chicken broth. He could be sticking unremovable clown noses to every teacher's face. Fisher might get to the school and find it burned to the ground, or covered in twenty acres of aluminum foil, or relocated to the dark side of the moon.
As Fisher got closer to school, he picked up his pace, until he was practically running. His lungs were burning, and his legs felt like a thousand rats wearing golf shoes were scampering across them. FP was moving as fast as his stubby legs would allow, his hooves clanging against the pavement, in between brief spurts of gliding. A gust of wind from a passing bus threw him off course once, and he veered left and right in front of Fisher, squeaking as he tried to regain his course. Fisher reached up and pushed, and FP nose-dived into a soft hedge. Fisher plucked him out as he ran past, and the pig resumed his half-running, half-flying routine.
The school was still standing when it came into view, and Fisher breathed a small sigh of relief. So far, it didn't look like any massive explosions had occurred. There weren't any strange glows coming from the windows or multicolored smoke plumes rising out of the roof. Fisher mentally crossed off a few worst-case scenarios.
He knew he couldn't just charge in the front doors. There already
was
a Fisher in school, even if he didn't act at all like the original. Luckily, Fisher had plenty of practice getting around school without being noticed. He'd been making it his business to be as unnoticeable as possible for the past few years.
He made straight for a little-used maintenance door whose lock had broken years ago. FP ran along behind him, whipping his head from left to right. Pig and boy slipped inside, and found themselves in a storage room that probably hadn't been used since color TV was invented. Fisher started to pick his way through decades of discarded stuff to reach the door into the basement.
“Squeeeee!”
FP squealed in terror and dove behind a box when he came face-to-face with what seemed to be a huge, fanged beast. Fisher whipped around, heart hammering, and then laughed.
“It's okay, boy,” he said, holding out his hand and beckoning FP back over. “It's just an old-school mascot. Let's Go, Furious Badgers!” he said sarcastically, twirling a finger in the air.
Wompalog's basement was a place Fisher had unfortunately gotten to know beforeâbut not of his own choosing. In sixth grade, the Vikings had once tossed him into the boiler room and locked the door behind him. When a teacher had walked by and asked why they were standing against the door and what the banging sounds were, they'd said that the radiator was on the fritz again and they were keeping people out, for their safety.
Fisher remembered that he had found an escape route that day: an old dumbwaiter that used to carry supplies up to the cafeteria. The door was still loose. Fisher took off the cap and sunglasses, lowered his hood, and crawled into the little compartment, reaching down to pull FP up after him. He reached behind him for the rope and hoisted the contraption up, hand over hand, until he reached the main floor.
Fisher and FP slipped out of the dumbwaiter and found themselves in the very back of the cafeteria kitchen. Weak lights flickered off grease-stained oven doors and floor tiles. Strange creaks and odd hisses echoed around the room. Fisher tensed, looking left and right, but didn't see anyone. Even the cafeteria workers avoided coming this far back into the kitchen when they could help it.
Fisher could hear the commotion from the busier part of the kitchen as the cooks prepped the school lunch. He looked back at FP, who squinted his beady eyes and waggled his tail a little in a show of excitement.
“All right, boy,” Fisher said, petting his pig on the forehead. “Let's get out of here.”
Fisher and FP crawled their way to the main kitchen, where the lunch servers were bustling around, ladling what looked like slop into large metal dishes.
A row of counters ran the width of the room, and on the other side was a door, hidden in a small alcove. Fisher didn't know where it led, but he knew he needed to escape the kitchen before somebody saw him. He turned to FP.
“Stay behind me, boy,” he said, and lurched forward as fast as his hands and knees could carry him. A third of the way, halfway, two-thirds â¦
Then he saw one of the cooksâmassive, lumberingâ heading straight for him. As soon as the man rounded the corner, Fisher would be caught dead in his tracks. He glanced wildly right and left, looked for a cabinet or something to conceal him, but found nothing. He froze. Any moment now â¦
Then a shower of pots and pans from a high shelf made both Fisher and the cook jump. Fisher saw a pot of soup cascading to the floor. And he caught just a glimpse of a curled, pink tail darting along the shelf.
FP!
The cook pivoted and hurried over to clean up, giving Fisher just enough time to slip over to the door. Trusting FP to find his way, Fisher turned and tried the knob. It was locked! He snatched up a pair of forks from a sink and went to work trying to pick the lock.
“Hey! What is this pig doing here?”
Fisher's limbs locked in place. Fear froze his blood, and he could barely force himself to turn around.
The cook was standing over the counter, looking down at FP, who was lying on a plate, with an apple in his mouth. One of his ears was twitching, but the cook didn't seem to notice.
“Huh,” he said, scratching his head. “Didn't see this on the menu. I guess I'd better ask admin.” He walked away without another word. FP's eyes tracked the cook until he was inside his small, windowed office picking up his phone. Then FP hopped down and trotted over to rejoin Fisher, just as Fisher managed to work one of the fork tines into the lock and slide it open.
“You are the best four-legged spy I've ever seen,” Fisher said as he and FP slipped out of the kitchen. “Come on.”
The door, as it turned out, led to a back stairwell. They made their way up the stairs until they reached another door that Fisher believed, according to his memory of the school's layout, led to the main hallway on the second floor. He gently pushed the door open.
And saw Brody, standing no more than two feet awayâ thankfully, facing the opposite direction.
The bullying hulk wasn't moving. He was just standing in the hall, arms crossed. No doubt patrolling for prey. Fisher gulped. He
had
to find Two. That meant he had to find a way past Brody. He considered his options. He searched his pockets. He still had the sunglasses on him that he'd worn to the King of Hollywood protest, but that wouldn't be enough to camouflage him. He also found several popcorn kernels buried in the back of his jeans pockets, but he didn't think
that
would help, either.
Then his fingers closed on a small vial. Yes! He must've have left an extra dose of his chicken poxâsimulating formula in a pocket by accident. It was crazy, but crazy was his only play.
“Let's go,” he said, and scooped FP up with both hands.
A minute later, Brody saw a short kid in a tightly cinched hood and sunglasses walk past him, coughing dramatically. He had a wriggling potbelly, and his sleeves were rolled to the elbow.
“Hey, you,” Brody barked. “Take off the hood, freak.”
“I don't feel well,” Fisher responded in a low, gruff voice. “I need to get to the nurse.”
“Not so fast,” Brody said. “What's with the getup?” He reached out and grabbed Fisher's arm, then immediately pulled back. Fisher's arm was covered in dozens of bumpy red blisters. “What theâ!” Brody shouted. “What
is
that?”
“I think I might be contagious,” Fisher said gruffly again, then leaned over and put his hands on his stomach. A whining squeal rang out through the hallway. Now
Brody
looked like he was going to be sick.
“Get away from me!” Brody bolted in the opposite direction.
And just in time, too. Fourth period was just about to get out.
The bell rang. Fisher slipped FP out of his shirt, took two quick steps, and dove into an unused locker. Students started filling the hall. Through the narrow slats, Fisher spotted a torn-up old T-shirt and a gray fedora bobbing out of a classroom. He'd found Two! He pressed his face to the locker slats for a closer look. Too tall, hair wasn't the right color ⦠He remembered, also, that Two's fedora was still moldering in a crusty gym locker.
Somebody else was dressed exactly like Two. Fisher was confused for a moment, then saw someone else in the same getup, and a third person a minute later. He fell back, bumping his head against the back of the locker.
His clone had started a fashion trend.
After the second bell rang and the halls emptied, Fisher and FP slipped out of the locker, scanning the hallway to check that it was clear. Fisher slid low along one wall to keep out of the line of sight of the small windows in each classroom door.
He had almost reached the stairwell when a door opened out hard and fast in front of him, turning Fisher into instant wall-pancake.
“Urrroommfff,” he couldn't keep from saying as he twitched, the door flattening him against the wall.
