Wolves in Wool

The main character for this story is Mikayla Bloodmoore, a singer and activist for the equality of clones in the Fallen Earth setting. This story is a three parter, all three included here.

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An exerpt from Wolves in Wool by Eileen Throughbrook:

Humans and Clones are not the same thing. They may look the same, they may act the same, they may even sound the same but they are not the same. One of the intrinsic differences is that Clones do not have souls. Souls are what make us Human, given to our as we’re born. Thus why they call us Nabis, short for Natural Births. They resent our origin and theirs alike. Clones are Human made, they are machines. They are nothing but carbon copies of people long dead.

Take a look at them for a moment. Clones are incredibly violent and heedless of the safety of themselves or others. They hold little to no sense of self-preservation in any sense, which can be attributed to the fact that they cannot die. Whether old age and entropy can claim them or not is yet to be seen but what’s to stop new versions from being unloaded into the world when the previous models die?

Clones are not people but monsters. They’ve infiltrated our towns, been assimilated into our populace. Right now they work for us but who is to say when that’s to change? Already they gather together in their own exclusive groups treating we Humans as outsiders. What if they’re plotting to take control from the inside?


The sun sat high in the empty sky, the burning yellow orb radiating heat down onto the parched earth and sweltering road. A hundred years of wear and tear on the road with no maintenance had left it seeing better days, tufts of brown grasses and bushes struggling to claim the bare patches of earth between the cracks. It was a dog eat dog world and even the plant life was trying to shoulder a way in.

Off in the distance the high-pitched rumble of a smaller engine grew louder and louder, a stark contrast to the otherwise silence of the wastes. A few moments later, a woman on a dirt bike built out of scrap and modified to take a hit or two shot down the road with reckless speed. Her path ran straight ahead and she took each bump and jolt with an aggressive ease, practically challenging the road to throw something new and different at her.

Her long black hair hung strung out behind her like a silk curtain in the wind, a pair of sunglasses keeping the air from her eyes. Even though the heat hung thickly in the air like a cloud of insects the rider wore a dark brown leather jacket over a black tank top with a modest neckline. She didn’t give the impression that she was the sort of woman who flaunted what LifeNet had given her. Her collar pulsed softly to a rhythm all of its own. An ear bud sat cradled in each ear, a cord leading from them down to a unit strapped to the waistband of her low-riding brown cargos. Black boots and fingerless gloves finished off the ensemble, the dark tones of her clothing contrasting with the relative paleness of her skin.

The motorcycle held only three unique features if armored plating was considered unique. Otherwise it held a box on the back of the seat, welded onto the frame for cargo space and a sheathed sword beside the box on the left side of the bike. The sword had a straight four-foot long blade, a generous hilt, and a pummel set to accommodate one hand as well as two. The vehicle was pretty much a solid matte grey, weathered and beaten. Not a hint of the metal shined or reflected and probably wouldn’t without a serious buff job and some industrial tools.

The rider wore a wide grin on her face as she shot down the road at break-neck speeds, the sound of what some might consider ancient music pounding in her ears. It wasn’t nearly as good of quality as she could replicate with her own particular skill set but the Tech who’d built the device for her had done a good job. She’d be the first to admit there was nothing quite like blasting through a post-apocalyptic wasteland at seventy-five plus with AC/DC’s Highway to Hell pounding in your ears.

Her destination was another two miles ahead, half of that off road. People out here didn’t like building right on the side of the road. Sure it brought in more commerce, but at the same time it made it so much easier for raiders to decide to ransack the place just because they were passing through. Raiders were growing popular in this region, specifically of the Clone hating variety. A few Clone settlements had tried to spring up away from the Nabi populace what with tension what it was, however a few puritans decided to band together and take things into their own hand.

It was just such a group she was seeking out now. Normally she didn’t take recovery jobs because she didn’t like having to watch where she stepped were a fight to break out but she couldn’t turn this one down. A Clone family had had something rather important to them taken by a small group of militant Nabis. They thought that just because the couple weren’t ‘real people’ that they didn’t deserve to have real things. That kind of outlook got under her skin.

She didn’t hate the Nabis, after all she used to be one until she’d been reborn. She just hated the ones that treated her and her kind like artificial beings, tools and nothing more. Her people were just like their people just hers actually remembered where they came from. There were also the Clones that were convinced they were nothing but tools as soon as they came out of the Pods. Those were just as bad as the Nabis if not worse for they didn’t understand why the other Clones fought against that treatment. Some even fought to bring other Clones to their understanding. It was an ugly thing.

From what she’d been told the raiders that had hit the couple weren’t that well equipped, they were just menacing and more than willing to deal out a bit of violence to get their point across. Lawnmower blades strapped to hockey sticks, baseball bats with nails and razor wire, pipe with pieces of jagged metal welded on. All of the above and more were the type of arsenal they carried although they likely had at least one pistol or rifle between them. After all, everyone had a gun these days if just to look cool for the women. Or boys, as it were.

She took a right off the road, catching a piece of upturned concrete on the crest of a hill just right and using it as a ramp. The relatively light-weight bike caught the air, her hair flying behind her before it hit the hard and arid soil with a thud and a clang. She let off a laugh and revved the engine, looking to catch the raiders off guard. Her past experience showed that nothing took a group of raiders by surprise quite like a motorcycle through their front door. Followed, of course, by Mikayla Bloodmoore.

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The difference between a good man and a great man is that a good man tries while a great man does.
-Dr. Jeffery Woods, Professor of Philosophy at New Flagstaff University 2030-2057


The camp, or hide-out as some of the raiders referred to it as, was an old barn that had been reinforced over the years in a battle against time. It still looked as if a stiff wind would topple it over, long wooden planks throwing patchwork designs over holes and old windows where metal plates hadn’t already been affixed. Fortunately, the barn had been built near a steep hill face to keep the wind off of it, likely the main reason why it still stood.

A fire burned in a fire pit in the center of the room. They always kept it fed, always roaring. While the heat may get to be pretty harsh inside, it was their only real source of light. None of them wanted to waste any of the group’s money on glass or plastic to cover the windows in case the rains came by. There were already was a make-shift grating directly above the fire pit so the smoke could escape and that made the freak rains all the more uncomfortable.

Four men sat around the fire, ATVs parked in a row along one wall. Above the ATVs was a shelf with half a dozen gas cans full and ready to refill when the need arose. They always made sure to pick up new fuel when they went out. The last thing they wanted out here was to have their ATV die in the middle of nowhere. Another wall was decorated with their weapon supply. It was mostly a collection of melee weapons, easy to repair and with no ammunition to worry about. A rifle graced the top of the weapon load out, an old lever action that looked like it had seen better days. A pair of pistols hung in their gun belt on a peg, six shooters with plenty of punch.

The remaining walls suggested this further that this was a living environment. Stacks of food in a variety of cases littered one wall just beside barrels of water and alcohol alike. Slabs of meat were impaled upon spikes on the wall like primitive artwork left to drip dry. The final wall had a row of four cots laid out in various states of disorder. Various trinkets dotted the small barracks, marking each bunk as personalized in whatever small way they could manage.

Around the fire the men laughed and spoke, “All right, all right. So there I was, lookin’ at this ranger’s lodge right? Right there on the side was this huge old picture that looked like they tried to maintain it. It had this bear with a hat on pointin’ at you, you know, if you were readin’ it, and said ‘Only you can prevent forest fires’.” The laughter erupted again as one of the men pounded his knee roughly in amusement, spilling a bit of his drink in the process.

“So I look at it, right? Look at it long and hard, make out what it says under all the dirt and grime they let grow on it. When I finally make out what it says, I say ‘Yeah? Well I can start ‘em too!’ and throw my bottle of gin at the sign. Huge crash and there were shouts from inside, all a-“

“Wait wait wait. You mean to say you wasted good gin and you didn’t even check to see if anyone was in there first?”

“’ey, shut up! Who’s tellin’ the story? Yeah, me. Anyways, where was I? Oh, right. So they’re all shoutin’ inside tryin’ to see what’s going on. Well, I’d drank like half the bottle already so I kinda forgot to run away after throwin’ it. Since I got everyone’s attention, though, I figured I should follow through. You know, for completions sake.” He winked and the others chuckled between spoonfuls of food.

“So I ran up to the sign and pulled out my matchbook, that’s why I had to bum yours Rick.” One of the others nodded in understanding with a big grin on his face, knowing exactly where this was going. “So I pulled out the matches, ripped one out, struck it, and lit the gorram sign on fire. The thing lit up like, like, well like a box of matches! Hah! Dirty Vistas!” The group exploded in laughter and congratulated him on a job well done.

As the laughter started to die down, one of the other men mumbled, “Only you can prevent forest fires,” into his drink. The laughter exploded out, renewed once more. They were much too loud to hear the sound of a motorcycle in the distance.

--

Sure, the wastes were quite a bit bumpier off the main roads but that only made it more fun. That’s also why she had the Tech that built this baby work on the shocks a bit more. She knew she was going to punish the bike like it’d never been punished before and didn’t want it to crap out on her.

In the distance Mikayla could see the top half of a barn peering over the crest of a hill. The grin on her face shifted to something more pointed and meaningful as she set her shoulders and kicked up the speed. The most important element in any fight is surprise. She’d been told that a long time ago, although she couldn’t exactly place from where or who. Nonetheless she kept that single rule of engagement close in mind every time she had to pick a fight. It didn’t matter how big of a gun or how many people they had if you thought about your approach and caught them off guard.

Minutes later she reached the slight incline of the hill. Considering the low incline but the depth of the barn before her, she knew right away that the hill ended abruptly. Shifting back in the seat just a bit, she accelerated further and gunned right for the second story loft doors that were held closed by a single, ancient two by four. With a wide grin, Mikayla turned at the last moment and threw her weight to the side. The bike shot off the edge of the hill like a bullet, a wide comet tail of dirt following in her wake.

The laughter inside the barn was cut off abruptly as the loft doors blew apart, pieces of wood flying free as the motorcycle burst through. The rider kicked off the bike just before it hit the ground with a loud thud, the engine shut off before it hit the door. The rider flew from the bike, hair leaving a black streak as she pivoted in mid air to hit the ground running. Steel flashed as she abandoned the bike, her long sword drawn in the same fluid motion. She landed at a dead run, blade out to the side with her sights set on one of the raiders.

The men burst from their seats at the initial crash, running for the wall of weapons a moment later when the situation struck home. The bike landed hard on the packed dirt, skidding through the beds and cots, throwing them aside like children’s toys before coming to a stop. The armor was good but she’d have to check it out when they finished to make sure she didn’t screw it over too badly. Repairs were all part of the game, after all, but she wouldn’t be too happy if she broke it.

Mikayla caught the first man right as he ripped a baseball bat covered in rusty razor wire off the wall. She skidded to a stop, using the forward momentum to swing her blade forward at the man’s exposed thigh. The sword cut through flesh like butter, eliciting a sharp cry of pain from the raider. Ducking low, she dodged a haphazard swing from a pipe with metal pieces welded on just barely, her sword snapping out to knock the clumsy swing from the bat aside.

She caught herself from losing balance due to ducking with one hand and used it to pivot back and out of the cluster of now armed assailants. An old tire iron slammed into the ground where she had been standing, narrowly missing her hand before she pulled it back. Her boots bit into the packed dirt, spraying dust behind her as she slowed to a stop and stood quickly with her sword brought back to bare with both hands.

The man who’d taken the gash in the leg was still against the wall, bat in the dirt and hands trying to keep pressure on the wound. The two of the other three closed in quickly while the third leaped up to snatch the rifle from the wall. She slapped an awkward swing from the tire iron away before taking a quick slash at the man with the pipe. He hopped back on nimble feet, a scowl on his dirty face. She followed the slash with a second to the man with the tire iron which met with a wet, solid thunk in his gut. While she’d attacked the other man, he’d stepped in to try and grapple her. His mistake.

As the man died on her sword, Mikayla tugged at the blade to pull it free only to find it lodged in the man’s spine. She hadn’t expected him to step into the attack so hadn’t followed through with the cut. Silently she cursed herself for the mistake. Abandoning the sword, she dove to the side, narrowly missing a direct hit by the heavy and wicked pipe. Instead, it only scored a glancing blow, digging a nasty trench into her jacket and leaving her shoulder to bleed.

She rolled on her good shoulder to her feet, plucking two immaculately kept steel knives from the back of her jacket as she did so. Behind the man with the pipe she saw bullets being rapidly chambered into the rifle. She knew she didn’t have much time before things turned ugly quick and she didn’t want to have to run out here again, especially not without her bike.

Having learned from his friend’s example that it wasn’t a good idea to rush her, the man with the pipe stayed back a fair distance and waited for her to approach. His eyes were wary, his stance balanced, his hands spaced evenly along the pipe. He knew how to use that thing which worried Mikayla. There were some weapons that people just shouldn’t grow used to using and a metal pipe with heavy bits of jagged metal welded on was one of them. She took a quick moment to take stock of the situation and noticed how limited her options were.

Just before she stepped forward in a charge, she pulled back and hurled one of her knives at the man with the pipe. She’d spent a small fortune in having some truly balanced knives made and every time she threw one she knew why. The blade bit into his cheek, bounced off his cheekbone, and slid home into his eye. He dropped his pipe in shock as he cried out in pain as she ran forward, twirling the other knife around in her hand so the point was down. As she closed the distance on him, she brought the other knife down in a brutal stabbing motion to the top of his head, burying the blade deep. Instead of stopping, she jumped and used the knife in the top of the man’s head as a balance point, flipping over him and ripping the one out of his face. As her feet found the ground once more behind the man, she pulled the knife from his head and let him topple forward.

With her speed only slightly diminished from the acrobatics, Mikayla continued her charge forward toward the rifleman. Both knives trailed blood behind her, both pointing down and held in fists as the rifle raised to level on her. The rifle’s barrel barked in anger as the trigger was squeezed. The bullet caught Mikayla in the shoulder where she’d been hit with the pipe, the impact and pain knocking the knife from her hand. A grunt of pain escaped her lips but she was too focused on the task at hand for the pain to fully occupy her mind just yet.

As the rifleman chambered another round, she reached him. With her right arm injured and empty she just used it to knock the rifle out of the way before she threw a solid left hook with all of her weight behind it. Her fist flew to the right of the man’s head, his eyes showing a flash of relief until the knife in her fist caught him under the chin and scoured through the side of his neck. Her body’s impact against him sent him backwards with her on top.

She rolled off of the man as he bled out and flopped onto her back, breathing heavily and taking a moment to center herself. With a deep breath, she pulled the radiant gamma in her body together and focused it on the bullet wound, hoping that it’d boost the healing process if just a little. It definitely did something for the pain. With another deep breath, she hopped up to her feet and went around the various bodies, gathering up her various weapons and whatever chips they may have on them. It looked like it was about time to go look for what brought her here.

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Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.
-George Santayana



The radio barked to life. “Songbird to Skirtchaser, do you read? Over.” Kssht.

“What's up, Mika?” Kssht.

“You suck, Jacob.” Kssht.

“Don't tell me you just called ta flirt. Wha'cha need?” Kssht.

“Go to hell. And on your way here, get the twins.” Kssht.

“Did you die again, Mika? I thought you were going ta try and be a bit more careful these days?” Kssht.

“No, I didn't die again you ass. I just can't carry all this crap myself. So get the boys and haul ass out here to pick up the swag.” Kssht.

“You know just how ta talk ta a man, Mika.” Kssht.

“Keep it up and you're loadin' the truck.” Kssht.

Jacob chuckled into the receiver before hooking it on the catch beside the main console. Turning around in the salvaged swivel chair, he cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted out of the room. “Oi! Time ta get yer butts in gear, boys. Mika rang and she needs a pick up. Get both trucks and trailers going.”

As the sound of quickened footsteps picked up outside, Jacob turned back around and went back to monitoring the radio frequencies. Just because the world had ended didn't mean no one needed help, and not many people remembered the old CB Radios. In fact, it seemed like it was only the Clones that did, whether they knew it or not.

A knock on the doorframe several minutes later pulled Jacob from his scanning. Time to go pick up Mikayla. “She probably thrashed her bike again,” he mumbled to himself with a chuckle as he stepped out the door.



It was silent inside the barn save for the crack and pop of the bonfire in the center under the smoke hole. Mikayla squatted beside her bike with one of the side panels pulled off, fiddling with the frame of the armor and the fasteners. The damage to the vehicle was superficial, the impact had just ripped the bolts out of one of the frame's crossbars. She didn't have the tools on hand to fix it so, while she waited for her pick up team she just wanted to make sure nothing else was broken.

The bodies of the four men she'd met earlier lay in a pile in the corner, stripped of all valuables and weapons. She'd left their clothing and what little armor they wore on, partially because she really didn't want to seem them in the buff and partially because you had to be picky with what you scavenged. Someone else would be by after they left to pick at the remains anyways. Nothing went to waste in the waste.

Her leather jacket was thrown over a stack of debris against the wall where she'd originally started fiddling with her bike. Vibrant black ink peeked from beneath the shoulder straps of her black tank-top, the outlines of feathered wings on both shoulder blades. She was well muscled even if she was still slight of frame. A better term might have been wiry, but no one really got that impression when they looked at her. She had a presence about her that made her seem bigger than she really was.

The sound of heavy engines rumbled from the south, going unheard as Mikayla fiddled away with her bike, exploring the depths as far as she could. Her ear buds blocked out pretty much anything but the closest or loudest noises when the music ran, which it did now. Singing along with To the Edge by Lacuna Coil, she swayed her hips while keeping her center of balance firmly in place. A girl had to keep entertained somehow.

Ten minutes and two and a half songs later, the big front doors of the barn rumbled open. The movement in her peripherals snapped Mikayla's head up, her squat turning instantly into a crouch, toes digging into the dirt and ready to propel her forward. The sight of Jacob guiding the two trailers back through the door dropped her guard and brought a grin to her lips. She plucked one of the ear buds free as she stood, walking towards her partner.

“All right, stop 'er there. That's good. Okay, lets load 'em up boys! Double time. We want ta get back before sun down.” Jacob clapped his hands twice in encouragement. Old habits die hard. The first Jacob had been a football coach at New Flagstaff High School and he treated the twins as though they were his team.

The twins weren't really twins. Sure, they looked a little similar if you forgot the fact that they were completely different. Alex was a very large black man, standing at six foot four, weighing somewhere around two-fourty, and bald. Mike on the other hand was short and white, towering under Alex at an impressive five foot two and barely clocking in at a hundred and ten. No one in their right mind would consider them twins until they started talking. They'd woken up the same day in the same pod at the same time. Ever since they'd been inseparable, always finishing the others sentence or else wise acting like life-long brothers. Which they were.

The twins climbed out of the trucks and walked into the barn bickering. “Damn it Alex, learn to drive. You almost backed into me!”

“Me? Me?!” Alex exclaimed, looking at Mike indignantly. “I need to learn how to drive? You practically ran m' ass off the road!”

“What road?”

“See!”

Mike pulled back as if he was going to haul off and sock Alex before the twins caught sight of Mikayla. “Hey girl!” Alex exclaimed with a big grin on his face as Mike said “What kicked your ass, Mika?”

Mikayla rolled her eyes with a smirk and thumbed to the pile of bodies in the corner. “Already stripped 'em. The pile of salvageable stuff's by my bike. Mike, could you fix up the frame? I took a bit of a fall. There's also four ATVs.”

Shielding his eyes as he peered up at the big hole in the top side of the bar, Mike raised a brow. “A bit of a fall, eh? You're lucky you didn't break anything important. Yeah, I'll go grab the kit.” He turned around and went back to the cab of his truck.

“I thought I told ya ta be more careful, Mika?” Jacob chided, crossing his arms like a father trying to look stern.

“I was careful. I jumped off,” she stated matter-of-factly. Alex laughed as he pushed the first ATV onto the trailer and began to strap it down, earning a brief look from Jacob.

“One of these days yer goin' to get yourself killed, you know that?” He tried to give Mikayla a very serious look but it was hard to hold the severity in your voice when you realized you'd just made a very stupid point.

Mikayla flashed Jacob a rogue grin and patted him on the shoulder. “Don't worry, coach. If I die I'll clean up the mess. Now why were you on the radio and not Richie?”

“Because I don't have my head shoved up my ass.” Jacob grumbled, stepping around the woman before him and moving to the pile of 'valuables'.

“What he means is Richie was off indoctrinating a new girl who'd just woken up,” Mike explained as he squatted over the exposed motorcycle and opened his tool kit.

Mikayla rolled her eyes and walked over to grab one of the ATVs. “Do I need to have another talk with him?”

“Doubt it'd do any good, Mika.” Mike said as he slipped a tool inside and got to work.

“And why's that? He actually paid attention last time.” She grunted as she got behind the ATV and started pushing it towards the other trailer. Sure, they could drive it on easily, but that'd waste gas.

“He wasn't payin' attention ta yer words.” Jacob said as he sorted through the pile. Mike and Alex snickered almost identically, minus the differences.

Mikayla stopped pushing the ATV for a moment as she raised her head to look at Jacob. “Then what the hell was he paying attention to?”

“You were wearing that white top of yours and you'd just gone running,” Mike explained.

“You could practically see through that top,” Alex chimed in, chuckling.

“You're a dirty pervert, Alex. Dirty as hell,” Mike admonished, shaking his head sadly.

“You're the one that took the pictures you little twerp.” Alex gave Mike the finger. Mike responded by suddenly becoming very interested in his work.

Mikayla shook her head with a laugh and went back to pushing the ATV onto the trailer. Once she got it in place, she set to tying it down. “Then maybe Alex should have a word with him.”

“Good idea,” Jacob agreed, shoving various items from the pile into a sack. He'd tossed the various melee weapons to the side already deciding they weren't worth the effort.

“Yeah, and make sure you go for a run first.” Mike grinned into the bike as he pulled the tool out and gave the frame a good thump to test. Alex gave him the finger again as he finished securing the second ATV into his trailer. Mikayla laughed.

“So long as we can make it back to the Origin by Wednesday then I don't care how you do it. Just leave him in good enough condition to play.” Mikayla stood and rubbed the back of her forearm across her forehead. She glanced over at Alex, “You got the last one?”

“Yeah. Go grab a bite, there's a sandwich in my glove compartment.” He thumbed to the truck as he moved toward the fourth ATV.

“What kind?” she asked as she vaulted over the side of the trailer and opened the passenger side door.

“Philly cheese steak.”

“I'm not going to ask how you made that,” she stated simply.

Jacob chuckled this time, “Probably a good idea. I didn't want to know either.”

Mikayla leaned into the truck, cracked open the glove compartment door and snatched the sandwich. “You know what they say. Ignorance is bliss.” She turned around and sat down on the seat with her legs hanging out of the truck, digging into the sandwich.



Half a mile outside of the convoy's destination Mikayla pulled off and continued down the road, accelerating and letting the wind claw at her hair. The sun was starting to set behind her, giving her the feeling of racing towards the darkness. She just had one errand to do before she could return to camp and call it a night.

Several miles down the road she pulled a hard right and took some air off a sudden drop where something had made a rather sudden hole right beside the road. The old farm house in the distance had a dim light glowing in three of its four front windows. The family had said they'd keep the lights on at night until she returned so she could find her way in the dark if necessary.

All the raiders had knowingly left them with were candles. Of course, the family had been smarter than your usual sort. The man of the household remembered a movie from Pre-Fall where a guy had buried his important belongings before leaving so no one would find them, so that's exactly what he did. He'd toiled for weeks building a hidden underground shelter in their backyard, covering the mouth of the hole with debris so no one looked at it twice. It was down there they'd stowed the majority of their food, water, and valuables. They'd left just enough out so people thought them just terribly impoverished.

However, he'd had one oversight. And it was that he'd asked Mikayla to retrieve for him, knowing full well that she and the rest of her crew would help out any Clone in need. In these dangerous times they had to support one another and stick together. So she'd gone out and retrieved the old, battered briefcase. She didn't ask what was inside, didn't look. That wasn't the job.

As she pulled up to the house, she cut the engine and coasted the rest of the way in. A name plaque hung on the front door reading 'M. Wallace'. It brought a chuckle to her lips. Parking her bike, she hopped off and opened the case on the back to pull out the briefcase. Another case sat under that but she ignored it for now. She didn't need to pull that out tonight. Case in hand, she strode towards the door quietly.

She strode toward the door and sat the briefcase down in front of it. She delivered a quick but loud knock to the door before turning around and returning to her bike. She hopped on, turned got it running, and was heading back the way she came before the front door opened to receive the package.