smokeSCREEN: book5IVE

bat your eyes girl, be / otherworldly / count your blessings / se / duce a stranger / what's so wrong with / being happy / kudos to those who / see through sickness, yeah // over and / over and / over and / over and / over

* * *

* * *

I can't help singing softly to myself.

"over and over and over and over and ohhhhhh hoh hoh hoh…"

Sophie's nodding her head as I sing. The others don't seem to mind, thank God – it calms me down.

"she woke in the morning… she knew that her life had passed her by…"

But Sophie eyes are welling up.

We're all terrified.

"…she called out a warning…"

They brough a tank.

"…don't ever let life pass you by."

And then for a while, we just watch forty or so old ones nervously finger their overseized weapons. Soon the platinum-blonde from before appears out of a car and shouts at some of the old ones, including… the huge brute with the leather mask who had grabbed Lisa that first night we bumped into them.

He takes about ten soliders or so and walks up to the Market.

They're let in, and all we can do is wait.

The Tower should have been here a half an hour ago, at least, assuming Michelle got that far.

"…she woke in the morning… she knew that her life had passed her by… she called out a warning… don't ever let life pass you by."

And now I notice Sophie staring at me. Or my hand. Looking down, I see that the shotgun is vibrating.

Sophie gently holds my wrist, and she smiles at me.

She's saying it'll be okay.

And I nod.

Sure it will, Soph. Sure it will.

Whumm…popop.

We both peek around the corner towards the Market.

"…what did that sound like to you?"

"A grenade… sort of," I say.

And now five old ones exit the terminal – one is limping. The rest of them prepare to fire, but the man in the leather mask talks to the platinum-blond, and then looks over to us.

"…oh, what the fuck?" Sophie whispers.

"It's okay, it's okay – this is good. This is fine," I say. He's already halfway to the doors.

"At ease!" I bark at the others. They set their weapons at their sides, but keep them easily accessible as the huge man – I'd guess six-foot-seven, now – steps up to the doors and into the Terminal.

"Who's in charge here?" he says.

"Me."

Under the black leather, his dark eyes scan slowly from my boots to my hips to my breasts to my eyes with a grim mix of curiosity and disappointment.

"I remember you," he says. "The firey one who slit my man's throat."

"And tossed a few molatov cocktails, as I recall," I smile. "What's the problem?"

"He won't come willingly."

"Um… Sophie, Saku, Kristen – c'mon. Diane's in charge 'till I get back."

"We just need to know how to make him docile," he says.

"The boys said they have gas for it."

"They don't."

I shrug, and nod to Sophie, Saku and Kristen.

"These are his friends – they can talk him down. Let's go."

* * *

We go across, into the Market. Despite the floodlights and spotlights outside, the inside is near pitch-dark. One of the Westwood Cetas explains that they never had to deal with an intruder before – they always got them before they were inside.

He leads us down a long hallway until we finally come to a place that looks like it's been the victim of a horrible fire.

There's a doorway at the end of the hall – the door has been blown off its hinges, and the hallway is littered with gore and about eight bodies – five old ones and three Westwood men.

"…Jesus Christ," Sophie whispers.

"What happened? Someone drop a grenade?" I ask, stepping into the room.

"There were three men from Westwood here with us – plus my ten men," the one in the mask says from the hallway. "When we opened the door, it exploded. Glass shrapnel – killed four men instantly. The ones who didn't run after that door was open, well…" He nudges a corpse with a boot. "…I just don't know why she wants this one," he sighs. "He's a soldier – a Patriot – I'll give him that."

I hear him saying all this, but I'm not really listening. I'm staring at the walls – tracing my fingers over the cool dark concrete that flakes here and there.

It's wet in a few spots.

"Can anyone out there read?" I think it's… ash and spit.

I hear a huge boot crunch through the glass at the door, and the man in the mask hands me a black flashlight.

"Can you?" I ask – he nods. As I click the little device on, I can't help but shriek.

The flaking was dried blood under my fingers. The sticky spots… I wipe my hand on the wall, but it's sticky too.

"Is it English?" I whisper.

"Yes." And now he crunches away through the glass, out of the room.

"Well what the fuck does it say?" I push past the others and follow him back to the main area of the Market. Sophie catches up to me and grabs me by a sleeve.

"Crow - we need to find him now," she whispers.

"The staff," I say, stopping. Everyone bumps into each other behind me, and the masked man turns along with the westwood man.

"What staff?" the old one says.

"He would have had a staff on him when you grabbed him, right?" The guy shrugs.

"I don't know."

"He did – we need to find it, 'cause he'll be looking for it."

* * *

The men stick to the shadows – afraid to reveal themselves to whatever is hunting them. Sophie, Saku, Kristen and I step boldly forward towards the large iron doors that bar Jessie's section of the Market.

They've been whispering behind us the entire way. What they've heard about him. One of them actually saw the way he moves, and they're so terrified I can't help but grin to myself. But this comes with an epiphany.

All fear is only ignorance.

Cypress told me that before, but I never connected the dots like I do at this moment. We didn't know the whole story about sex – and were terrified of the boys. The old ones have only ever seen Cypress as the swordsman who kills and never dies. I guess I can understand them being terrified.

I double-check my shotgun.

"You're sure Cypress's staff is in here?" I call behind me.

"Yes," a voice comes from the shadows. I yank the doors open and pause. I listen. Yes. Yes – I hear something. Someone trying to breathe.

Waving Sophie towards me, I creep ahead, peeking around the corner towards what looks to be Jessie's bed, and-

We freeze.

He knows we're there.

But he's not moving. Cypress, I mean.

He's got Jessie stapled to the wall – skewered on his blade.

Cypress stands calmly, holding the sword in place as Jessie laibours for breath.

I'm still frozen. Maybe I freeze too long.

I try to memorize him – this might be the last time I see him.

I wish he looked better right now. His hair is matted with grit and blood – his pale sweater soaked to a rusty-black from carnage. It drips on the floor.

I try to memorize him, but too fast, he whips the sword out of the wall – the blade scrapes against Jessie's bones as he draws it through. I jump forward and call out, but he throws himself through a window before even glancing my way.

I yell for him – I scream.

I run to the window to make sure he's not dead.

I look down, in time to see the glass tinkling on the pavement two stories below.

The swordsman is gone.

And Jessie is crying.

* * *

* * *

she woke in the morning / she knew that her life had passed her by / she called out a warning / don't ever let life pass you by

floating in this cosmic jacuzzi / we are like frogs oblivious / to the water starting to boil /

no one flinches / we all float face down

* * *

* * *

We make a fine outfit.

Eleven old ones, including the masked fellow.

The doubly-skewered Jessie, and the Westwood Ceta.

And us girls.

The masked one is grilling us for what Cypress would do next. He wants answers. The deal is off if we don't produce the swordsman.

"Listen – I showed you where he was, you just had to go in and get him!" Jessie snaps.

I'm pacing – smoking.

"Okay! Just shut up!" I bark. The small puddle of men turn like one flowing mass to me. "He's got guns – right?"

"I didn't see any," Jessie says.

"But he did take the staff?"

"Yeah. Did you know there's a fuckin' sword inside that thing? Has been this whole time!"

The girls and I just stare at him.

I want to shout at him for daring to be related to Cypress, but in the name of diplomacy, I turn to the masked old one.

"So obviously, it falls to the two of us," I say. He nods, grimly.

"You know how to do it – I can make it happen," he tells me.

"How much does Cypress know? Did you guys tell him anything about the trade?"

Jessie nods.

"How much?"

"Everything."

BOOMba-bangbang. We all spin – it was far away – on the other side of the building. BOOM. The walls rattle a bit.

"…sounds like around where we keep the weapons," the Westwood Ceta says.

"What the fuck is this guy on?" one of the old ones gapes.

"You're sure he's going for more weapons?" I snap my eyes up to the Westwood Ceta.

"Ninety per cent," he shrugs. I turn to the masked old one, and say very slowly;

"Speak clearly – word for word; What was written on that wall?"

The old one rolls his eyes;

"Just some bullshit about fairy tale endings."

"Word for word – this is important."

"Uhh…" He counts on his fingers, but he flips the middle one up first. "Do. You. Still. Believe. In. Happy. Endings. Questionmark."

I chain another cigarette. Jessie says it;

"What's he gonna' do?"

* * *

We check out where they keep the weapons, but he's already been there and gone. Everything is in such disarray, there's no way to know what he took.

We just head out the front doors.

A mass of humans has gathered in the center on the pavement – the rest of the girls from the Terminal are out – it doesn't look like the Tower has come. Half of the Westwood men have opted to stay inside the Market.

My mind is running. He went for weapons. What could he possibly be planning?

The masked man directs me to the platinum-blond, who shakes my hand, smiles warmly, and says;

"Brie."

"Crow."

"This is Mickey, but don't mind him. So where's our little mystery, Crow?"

"I didn't make this deal with you," I say. "If you guys had been watching the outside of the Market, maybe we'd know where he is…"

"Let's just look at where we are. Deliver the swordsman in half an hour. Yes. Yes, that suits me." Brie just grins.

"Why do you want him?"

"For my own purposes," she snaps.

Screams and shouts rise from the Market, and now another of men come dashing for the group. Cypress has us all on the run.

"He's quite a specimen, isn't he?" Brie muses, grinning even more widely now. I shake my head.

"That's not him," I say, looking up at the observation Tower. Cypress is a pretty mean shot with a sniper rifle. But perhaps that's too cliché for him – to go mad and end up in a tower with a rifle.

What is his purpose?

He has us all on the run.

That's his dream. That's his fear. That's why he doesn't want to lead.

This is his evil. He's going to kill us all.

I drop to the pavement and put an ear to the ground.

"Do you have anyone in the Tunnels?" I look to Brie, then to Jessie – they both shake their heads as I start towards the Market.

"Where are you going? Where is she going?"

"Get eveyone out of the Forks!" I call back.

The crowd parts as best they can as I begin to walk, then run.

He was afraid of what he'd do. And now he believes he has to do it.

That's got to be it.

As I run out of the floodlights into the desolate shadows and neverending dark of the Market, I trip over a Westwood solider who's trying to escape. He's bleeding heavily from the leg.

"Get out!!" he shrieks at me. And as I launch myself down the stairs, he screams for me to come back. To run for my life.

But down the stairs.

Down, down, down to the old maintenance tunnels. There's a new wounded Westwood soldier halfway down, but he's alive and will stay that way. Another few flights and I feel consumed with the darkness. It presses down on me from all sides, and it takes a moment to finally see where that sound is coming from.

At first, I thought it was machinery working somewhere. But the closer I got, I realized that not the beat, but the sound itself was too random.

And as I get closer, the paff, paff sound accompanies a spasm of shadow. And I see that there is light – some light – filtering from far away down the hallway. And now

Paff I can see his boots.

Paff his ripped cargos. And I find it funny that I don't have the shotgun ready.

Paff I can see his shredded, bloody sweater.

Paff andhis matted, grungy hair, whipping back and forth as he smacks his head into the brick wall.

Paff.

Paff.

"Cypress?" I whisper.

In a blink, he shoots from the corner and past me, to a flashing panel on the wall beyond.

"CYPRESS!" I roar – and he stops. He freezes. His hand is paused over the blinking panel, and now I notice the bags of plastic explosive that he's gathered. I wonder how many he's already got set up.

His eyes staring wide at me me – not blinking.

"…what are you doing…?" I say finally.

"Something is really really wrong," he whispers. "Really really wrong."

"I know – it's okay," I tell him – but he shakes his head.

"It's not," he says.

"Tell me what to do." It's now I notice he's got one hand on the staff, and I reach for my shotgun.

I'm never prepared for how fast he moves. Never. Even though I've seen it.

He moves way too fast for me to block him. Or dodge. The blade flashes faster than you can see.

…how could you prepare for that? For that blade that moves faster than you see, ready to arc across your throat?

As he leaps forward, the only thing I can think to do is say;

"Iloveyou."

And the moment is paused again. He stands a full five feet away, but the sword tip is poised, ready to slit my throat. I want to see his eyes.

All I can hear is my breath. Fast. Harsh.

I want to see his eyes, but it's too goddamn dark here.

It's too dark to see his eyes, and now, the lights blink out. And all I can hear is my breath. And now I'm blinded by the flaring light of his Zippo, as he lights a cigarette.

Something goes 'ping' on the concrete floor, and I don't look to see what it is. As he closes the Zippo, his hand grips mine, and I barely have time to scoop up whatever he dropped off the ground as he whispers;

"Run," and drags me, Hell-bent down the hall.

Into the blackness.

* * *

* * *

I never knew about this tunnel. I don't even know where we are.

But he keeps on dragging me. He hasn't spoken. Hasn't pulled out a flashlight or a lighter in the pitch-dark. He just drags me, limping heavy down long halls and around short corners. Down stars. Down, down, down.

Oooooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…

He doesn's turn around as whatever bomb he planted erupts. There isn't so much much as a rattle of the light fixtures.

Eventually, it feels like we're walking on gravel. And now, wood and gravel. Train tracks, somewhere underground. Which quickly becomes above ground. And now, he sits me on an ancient little rail trolley, with a little low box attached to one end.

He throws a couple of blankets in and hops up to the bar you shove up and down.

He tells me to go to sleep. Just try to sleep.

He'll wake me when we get there.

I tell him to fuck off – he'll sleep and I'll push the bar up and down. And when do I stop?

"Wake me up in four hours, and I'll take over, alright?

I nod, and the rig whines and squeaks as the bar pumps up and down. That squeaking really takes you over. You feel like it'll drive you insane until you get the sense that you have some control over it. Just as it has a certain measure of power over you. The Sun still isn't near rising when he wakes up to take over. And frankly, I'm happy to let him.

It squeaks as we glide along, but soon I do fall asleep.

The squeaks ring into forever, and I dream of the Ocean. I've never seen the Ocean with my own eyes, but I watched movies that had it. I dream, and my Ocean starts out black as night, with fog all across the hazy-grey lines of surf. Freezing wet sand and a chilly wind that stinks of the rotting sea.

But as the Sun rises, so does my Ocean from the cold and hard to the warm and inviting.

The Sun glows down, warm but not hot on my face, and the birds are calling to each other. The neon-blue waters collide gently with the soft sand. And somewhere Sophie is laughing.

"Crow," his voice cuts, like a rusty coffin nail. As I open my eyes to the now-full Sun, I see him in all his torn and tattered glory. I'd like to be able to compare him to the chick in the original Carrie near the end, when the school was on fire. I always thought she looked oddly pretty, for someone who's creating their own Hell. Or at least that's how I saw it.

I'd like to say he looks sorta' like her, but have you ever seen the movie Cujo? Remember how the dog was so dirty, bloody, scraped and ragged by the end it looked like he was being held together by tendrils of sinew and unconquerable will alone?

That's what Cypress looks like. Someone who had come through Hell, and survived because they simply. Weren't. Done here.

"Where are we?" I ask as he helps me off the trolley. He leads me, limping, up a path and across a paved road – the rail line and the road are the frame on a wood, shielding it from the open, overgrown prairie.

"A long way away from the city. A long long way. No one will ever look for us here," he says.

"Cypress?"

He turns to me. He's shaking – his eyes are burning, heavy with straining blood vessels as he twitches.

"I don't know if this is the right thing," he says.

"Are they all dead?" I ask. He shakes his head.

"No. They drove away. Not just the old ones – Westwood vehicles too. A lot of people ran on foot. But if they weren't out, they're gone. He's gone. I buried him."

"Who?"

But his sticky, gritty hand cups my cheek, and he manages a weak smile.

"I'll explain," he says. "But let's clean ourselves up. You for one, could use a comb through that hair. And I think I should take a look at my hair. I think I might have cut it off."

"Cypress, I'm sorry for saying this, but you don't really sound like yourself."

"I know," he tells me. And he lights a smoke. "And I haven't really been myself lately. But I'll explain. I can't ask you to understand this right now, but I have had… a very, very long couple of days.

There's a cabin, six hours through the woods here – right on the beach. Stocked up with clean gravity-fed water, smokes and food. …can we get there first?"

"…are you going to kill me?"

"No."

I do have to think about it.

"Alright."

* * *

It takes us a very long time to reach that cabin – I suspect it is, in fact, more than the six hours he had promised me. I don't ask, and Cypress doesn't suggest otherwise. He doesn't say anything. We just wander on through the sand and fighting trees under the burning-hot sun. I pull off my cotton shirt and sweater, leaving the white tank top on.

That's better.

Cypress is smiling at me. Under all the crap, he almost looks like his old self.

"…what?"

"That's new," he says, regarding the tank top. First thing he's said in five hours.

"A lot's changed," I nod.

He doesn't say anything – he just smiles and nods, and turns back to the trail that ceased to be definite four hours ago. I don't ask – it seems like he knows where he's going. He ambles along, his classic… wolf-trot carrying him easily across the powder sand. I hadn't notice the limp go away, but he is trotting indeed.