Then again, that probably mattered to her.
The hug continued, as if she was after something that Jack could not give – and did not even know how to give. Not only did he have zero experience in the field of romance, but he had no motivation either. Jack Hopper felt no attraction to girls. He felt no attraction to boys either. He didn’t feel it for anything.
There was probably a word for it somewhere, but he had been too afraid to check. Life as a teenage boy without physical attraction was difficult – especially in a world where he was expected to go after the ladies, as if it were his civic duty as a male. His lack of sexuality had been one of the many factors that had led to him heading to his room with a bottle of pills on two different nights. Just one more thorn in his side, alongside his dead mother and years of relentless bullying…
Gracie squeezed, and Jack squeezed back. It seemed polite. But inside he was struggling with the morals of the situation: was it OK to let Gracie think there was a chance at all? Would it be better to tell her the truth? Which option would hurt her less in the long run? He may not have felt any attraction to Gracie, but he cared about her. And he didn’t want her to get hurt by something beyond her control.
A third option appeared in his mind, and he used it without thinking.
‘Are you hungry?’ he asked.
‘Hmm?’ came a voice from the face buried in his combat uniform.
‘It’s getting dark soon. I can get some food for us, if you don’t mind guarding for me.’
Gracie nodded, and Jack escaped the hug. He took his first steps towards the staircase, but felt the need to do something nice before he left.
‘If it makes it easier, you can borrow my rifle while you’re up here. Two automatic weapons are better than one.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’ve got a loaded handgun,’ he said, surrendering his assault rifle. ‘I’m fine. See you in a bit.’
Going by Gracie’s reaction, he had not done badly. He doubled-checked his pocket for the handgun before creeping downstairs, and his thoughts drifted to a frightening question: how long could they afford to stay in Lemsford before heading home without Ewan?
There was a thump somewhere on the ground floor.
Jack froze, but smiled. Perhaps Ewan had been his usual stealthy self and arrived without them noticing.
Well, we spent a whole minute hugging with our eyes away from the window. A parade of clowns could have wandered through the front door , as long as they weren’t too noisy .
All the same, it was better to be careful. The thump could have been nothing, like the half-dozen thumps at Spitfire’s Rise each night. Or it could have been something.
Jack reached the foot of the stairs, which joined on to the living room. He crept across towards the doorway to the hall and poked his head around. After a long, tense silence, Jack was relieved when he saw a familiar figure walk out from the kitchen. After almost a year living under the same roof, he recognised his companion immediately.
But…
What the hell is Alex doing here?
The clear and obvious figure of Alex Ginelli, tall, black and muscular, edged into the hallway with slow, calculating steps. He peered around with hawk eyes and a bad-tempered expression, his submachine gun held in a way that did not suggest self-defence.
Jack didn’t know the correct response, but he knew it had to be an instant one. Alex was a friend, but something seemed wrong with him – even without the obvious question of why he had abandoned his post at comms. Unwilling to raise his weapon and uncomfortable with breaking his silence, Jack withdrew his head from the corridor and looked for a place to shelter. He slipped towards the back wall of the living room to duck behind the television. It seemed like a decent place to keep an eye on things.
Alex stepped into the living room and took a look around. He seemed focused on learning where the entrances and exits were.
It didn’t seem right. Alex knew this house just as well as Jack: he had been here that same night, and slept upstairs in little Matthew’s bed.
Then a second Alex Ginelli followed him into the room.
What the everloving crap in a handbasket…
The two Alexes walked into the most well-lit part of the living room, and Jack noticed the navy blue shade on their uniform.
The obvious question entered Jack’s mind, but there was no time to think about how the hell Alex had been cloned. A third Alex entered the living room, a third submachine gun in his hands.
Jack, sheltered in the dark with his feet tangled in the snake-pit of television wires, would not jump up and shoot. He had given his assault rifle to Gracie out of social awkwardness, and his handgun was semiautomatic: one bullet per trigger pull. One moment of hesitation or one bad shot, and three submachine guns would answer back. He would have to wait until they turned their backs on him.
The first Alex cast his gaze up the stairs.
No, no, no. Just assume there’s nobody up there. Nobody has to die for this…
Alex One, as Jack had subconsciously named him, took his first step onto the staircase. Alex Two started to follow. Gracie would have her gaze pointed out of the front window, and assume any noise to be Jack – who couldn’t afford to call out and draw the clones’ attention—
‘Hey,’ came Gracie’s voice from upstairs, loud and joyful, ‘I think that’s Ewan heading up the road!’
All three Alexes leapt in surprise, with the same shocked expression that the real Alex wore whenever Thomas jump-scared him for fun. The shock faded a moment later, and all three faces turned angry. Their war modes had been activated.
Alex One accelerated up the stairs.
‘Gracie, you numpty…’
The whisper was loud enough.
Alex Two turned to investigate the darkness. When he found nothing visible he opened fire indiscriminately, his bullets riddling the walls, the mounted lights, the DVD rack and the television. Jack ignored the strobe light of the muzzle flash, flung himself to the carpet and fired all eight of his handgun bullets. Two of them flew towards the staircase, and pierced Alex One in the shoulder blade and kidney. One of the others hit Alex Three in the chest and sent him dead to the floor. The rest struck nothing but the painting next to Alex Two.
Alex One toppled to the staircase, alive but in tremendous pain. But even then, there was fury in his twisted facial expression rather than fear. Gracie’s voice sounded from upstairs, asking if Jack was OK. Alex Two looked at his colleagues in surprise, giving Jack enough time to cast his empty handgun to one side, leap to his feet and reach for his hunting knife. He threw it towards Alex Two but it missed pathetically, bounced off the wall and drew the clone’s attention to where he stood. In desperation, he grabbed a glass pot of boiled sweets on the mantelpiece. He charged across the room, his enemy too angered and confused to aim with any accuracy, and raised the glass pot over his head. He brought it crashing into Alex Two’s face, where it shattered upon impact.
Jack did not feel the sting, nor the warm trickle of his blood as it spilled from his hand. The clone before him was in agony, his eyes closed and his hands picking glass shards from his cheeks. Jack grabbed the clone’s submachine gun in one hand and used the other to deliver his strongest punch to his enemy’s nose.
Jack realised the hopelessness of his situation. The real Alex Ginelli was twice as strong as Jack Hopper, and the clone versions were no different. They may not have been grown with Alex’s taekwondo skills, but they shared his muscular form. That, and Jack had never seen that kind of ferocity in Alex’s eyes.