The Duplicate

Chapter One

"What is your name?" he asks.

I look down at the man lying on the surgical table.

His file says his name is Addison Wilkes. Fifty-five years old. Suffering from congestive heart failure. But he doesn't look like an Addison to me. He looks more like a Joe or a Paul, an Uncle Joe or Paul, the type of burly, teddy-bear uncle everyone loves to hug.

As Donna, the head nurse, presses an IV needle into his arm, he stares up at me with kind, dark-brown eyes.

I smile behind my surgical mask. "Evette."

"That's a nice name." He glances down at the other needle I insert into the dark blue vein in his hand, and he flashes a quick smile. "I'm a little nervous, Evette."

They always are.

"It will all go by quickly," I say. "You'll be waking up in Recovery in no time."

He nods, flashes another smile, but the smile doesn't touch the seriousness in his eyes.

My fingers slip over his, and I give his hand a squeeze. "You'll be fine."

The swinging doors open behind me. A male nurse rolls in another surgical bed. It is so quiet in this room, its squealing wheels sound exceptionally loud as he steers it to the other side of Addison Wilkes's bed.

Addison's head turns, and his eyes move to the gurney beside him.

Every patient seems to react a different way. Some are shocked. Some are startled. I have even seen patients who refused to look. But Addison is one of the many who seems utterly mystified. For a long time, he marvels at the body next to him. His gaze traces over its mouth, its lips, its closed eyes.

Its mouth is his. Its lips are his. And those eyes, if opened, would be the same dark-brown.

It is him.

His duplicate.

Like most, this duplicate is younger than its Original by a good fifteen to twenty years, and like all duplicates, it is remarkably healthy. Its muscles are well-toned. Its skin is pale and blemish-free. It is a perfect, younger version of Addison Wilkes.

"I knew it would be strange, but..." Addison trails off, watching the duplicate's chest rise as the tube down its throat fills its lungs with air. "Is he alive?"

I shake my head. "The heart is beating, but there is no activity in the brain."

"The heart." He looks at the heart rate monitor fixed to the gurney. It beeps softly, steadily, green line bouncing up and drifting down. "You mean my heart, huh?"

"Daniel." Donna gestures at Dan who has just come in and is still tying on his mask. "Go ahead and prepare the anesthetic, please."

"Yes, ma'am." He nods, sees me then, and wiggles his eyebrows as he approaches the stainless-steel table beside me. "How's it going, Eve? You're working late tonight."

"I'm going home right after Mr. Wilkes here is taken care of."

"Lucky you."

"How late are you working?"

Dan plucks a syringe off the table. "It might be four or five in the morning before I get snuggled up in bed again."

"Yikes."

"Evette, double check the duplicate's IV and vitals." Donna jerks a thumb towards the perfect version of Addison.

I make my way around to the other gurney, and automatically my gaze flickers over the needle stuck in the duplicate's forearm. It is in the proper place—in the vein just above the tattooed identification numbers on the inside of the wrist. I check its vitals. "Everything seems to be right."

Dan snorts and mutters, "That's a first. Usually, those morons in Emulation can't get anything right."

I playfully scrunch my nose at him. "Don't knock Emulation, Dan, thank you."

"Right. My bad. I forgot you're akin to one of those morons."

I swat his arm.

Doctor Hampton walks in then, glasses hanging on the tip of his nose. He flips through the clipboard. Serious now, we nurses greet him, and he nods his head before sending a string of commands Donna's way. Donna gets to work while the Doctor approaches Addison's bedside. For a moment he exchanges a few words with Addison, ultimately finishing with, "Don't worry about a thing, Mr. Wilkes. You're in good hands." And with that, he turns and motions Dan to come forward with the anesthetic.

Addison's eyes dart to me, and with an encouraging smile, I step closer and take his hand.

I hold it as Dan drives the needle into Addison's arm.

I watch as Addison's dark-brown eyes slowly droop closed.

                                                                                    Ѻ      Ѻ      Ѻ

Down the hall, through the automatic sliding glass doors, I see Dan standing outside. He sees me when the doors glide open. And the ice cold air hits me instantly, the breeze tossing my hair and causing me to pull my coat tighter around me.

"Burrr, it's getting colder out here."

"I think that went well, don't you?" Dan asks, nodding towards the doors that are now swooping closed again. What I first mistake for just his breath in this cold weather is actually smoke from the cigarette that he raises to his lips.

I give him an accusing look. "I thought you quit."

"What? This?" He takes a drag, and the tip of the cigarette brightens and glows. "No. Screw that."

"As a nurse, Dan, you should know better than anyone—"

"Please, save me from your lecture. I've heard it a million times."

I go on anyway. "You're going to die from lung disease, cancer, a stroke. Do you want premature wrinkles? In fact—" taking a few steps back "—I'm going to stand way over here so I don't breathe your second-hand smoke."

Dan rolls his eyes. "Alright, now you're being ridiculous."

I smile. "Put it out. I've got to go home."

With a sigh, Dan stubs his cigarette on the sole of his shoe and from the corner of his mouth, blows the remaining smoke out of his lungs. All the while, he glowers at me.

I step forward, arms wide, and Dan pulls me into a hug.

"Goodnight, jerk."

"I am only," I say, pulling away, "trying to save your life."

"Yeah, yeah." He arches an eyebrow. "So, tomorrow? Same place? Same time?"

"Yes, sir." I step off the curb into the road.

"Then I'll see you tomorrow," he calls as I start off towards the parking lot. "Say hello to Larry for me!"

I laugh and wave a hand. "Will do."

The bright lights of the hospital start to shrink the further I plunge into the darkness of the parking lot. My footsteps ricochet off the line of parked cars I pass, and the chilled air, as it rushes through my hair and through my coat, makes my teeth chatter.

I quicken my pace the moment I spot the tail-end of my car peeking out from behind a large truck, and with numbing fingers, I fumble around in my purse for my keys. They jangle from one place to another, evading my every grope for them. By the time I am at my door, I am digging through old receipts and bubble-gum wrappers until one finger finally latches around a key ring. I yank it out of my purse.

Too fast.

A series of curses leaves my mouth before the keys even clatter to the pavement. I am still muttering curses as I stoop down and grab them. I stand.

And something—something even cooler than the chilling breeze—touches my temple.

And the metallic click which follows makes me freeze.

"Do as I say, or this bullet goes in your head."