Tuesdays with Ted

Ted crouched in the bathroom stall, the hunter become the hunted.

In the abandoned ballroom the WB raged vainly, a creature searching for the scent too like its own to be detected.

Ted considered calling in a tactical strike. He even reached for his radio but pulled back. The WB would no doubt sense the radio signal and find him. Anyway, nuclear weapons had only a 70% success rate against even the early imperfect clones, and the strongest missiles had long since been shot. A nuclear strike at best had a 50-50 chance. Ted wouldn't risk.

Outside, a table hit the ceiling and crashed back down. It was making enough noise that Ted could safely move around the restroom, getting his thoughts in order. It would never hear him over the sounds of its own destructive impotence.

He stepped out the stall as the lights flickered. Why were the lights on? No doubt some panicked engineer -- or more, likely, some unlucky survivor impressed into plant duty -- had forgotten to properly shut everything down. No matter. This had to be the original. Its path had been more linear, its hunts more frequent, its killings more vicious, its desecration of the corpses more depraved. Ted was certain.

He stood up, looking at himself in the cracked mirror. Slim and muscular with a body any forty-year-old would be proud of, but his face, weathered by stress and hunger and losing that which you love, looked two decades older. He stood habitually with his left shoulder forward, making his missing right arm less apparent.

Ted was struck by doubts, not only about his next steps, but about his past decisions. Had he made the right ones? The doctors had insisted he apply the experimental serum. It was the only way, they told him.

Leave the past in the past, he told himself. The original was fifty feet away. His concentration had to be perfect. He would only have one shot at killing it, and he had to forget that it once was his own ...

Or was it? If it wasn't, the clones had become so close to perfect that there was no chance of survival. He pulled a small metal box out of his bag, pressed his thumb to the pad, and entered the code. It popped open, and he brought out one of only six surviving packages.

Like father, like son, he thought. Ted eased the restroom door open, peering out. The WB was on the other side of the room, but it was obvious it had caught the scent, even before the bag was open. Ted held the package in his teeth and ripped it open, freeing the decades-old flavor of Hormel Individually Sliced Pepperoni Snacks. Across the ballroom, the WB began to walk, then run toward him. Ted flung the pepperoni to his right; the WB followed as slices rolled across the floor.

The WB eyed Ted as it greedily scooped up the meat, aware in what remained of its mind that it was risking its life but unable to stop. Each bite revealed the bright pink mouth, its only weak spot. Ted carefully took aim with his pulse rifle.

"I'm sorry, William," he whispered as he pulled the trigger.

Before it even hit the ground, Ted knew it was the original. It did not begin to dissolve like the clones did; it was over, for good. The room filled with a sickening smell as its bowels evacuated in death. But Ted had to see the body. He crept forward and carefully pulled the protective carapice off the back of the WB's head. There, as he had expected, as he had found after every other quest, was the inexplicable symbol:

:-D

The prophecies were true. Seven down, five to go. But he was so exhausted! He tried to think of how he could keep going, when each test had been more difficult than the last. Almost as soon as he began to question himself, though, he pushed the worries out of his mind. He would keep going, and he would fulfill the prophecy. Some day, Tuesday would be called Tedsday. He would make sure of it.