smokeSCREEN: bookONE

I sheath the blade into the walking stick and turn, not looking behind.

If I'm to be killed, they'll have to shoot me in the back.

I hear her walking away.

Now running.

And now, the murmers of a distant conversation. Seventy yards or so.

I keep walking.

Now I hear the blond's voice again;

"Hold!"

I grit my teeth and stop, waiting for the bullet to tear through me. Now I hear an angry conversation in the distance. But she shouts again;

"Tell me your name!" she calls. I can see one of the others trying to keep her quiet, which is smart. Snipers all through these woods.

Why the fuck does she want my name?

Why the fuck would I tell her that?

"Cypress." I know the sound comes from me, but I never decided to yell it out. Not consciously.

The tall woman with the rifle grabs the blond's shoulder now and turns her away.

I turn and continue back, making my way towards the shadows of the buildings, where their sniper will be less likely to pick me off.

"My name's Cat!" I hear a scream echoe off the empty buildings and I stop.

I don't know why I stop, but I do.

And for a moment, I feel something pulling at me on the inside. Something strange.

I am elated, but crushed.

Her name is Cat.

* * *

* * *

i'm happy i'm feeling glad / i've got sunshine in a bag / i'm useless but not for long / the future is coming on

* * *

* * *

Two weeks later, I'm still on the school roof, still scanning the horizon for any sniff of the women's activities. It's been unusually quiet, lately. Unusually boring. The other Thirds have been pressuring Jessie to let me go scavanging again – the choiciest food I brought back last time has started to grow thin.

I hate to admit it, but when I look out over the city, I'm looking for her.

I'm looking for Cat.

I don't know what I might do if I spotted her. I might call out for a sniper by reflex.

I turn and bring up my telescope to the west, spying out the charred remains of the Westwood Public Library a quarter-mile away. Burned to the foundation.

I bring down the telescope and frown.

If only Jessie hadn't caught me.

* * *

I'm in the cafeteria, a can of half-finished dog food in front of me. This is my ration for the day, and though dog food was ambrosia when we first broke out of the bomb shelter, I've found myself with a severe distaste for it lately.

I'll wait for a moment alone, then sneak a can of the peach slices I kept from my jaunt to the David Estates.

"Cypress," someone says. I look up in time to see Dustin, a hulk of a Third, sitting down across from me. "You going eat this?" he asks.

Dustin gets to eat venison every night, but he enjoys throwing his weight around as one of Jessie's liutenants. I push the can towards him.

"Be my guest," I say. He picks up the can and hands it to Colin, the First who follows Dustin around everywhere. Colin's a little guy with nervous eyes and sticky fingers – he finishes the can before I can offer my fork. "What can I help you with?"

"You read too much," he says.

"So I'm told."

"Have you heard about what's going on?" he asks.

"I'm on the roof – I don't hear shit."

"What would you do if I could get you off the roof?"

I pause. He wants something, but if could get me out of Westwood…

"I'd be grateful," I say. Colin smiles.

"That's what I thought."

* * *

Later I'm pulled off the roof by a messenger who takes me to Jessie's room. A bunch of the Thirds are sitting around eating their venison, and they're running the lights – they don't run the lights inside often.

As I squint and refocus my eyes to the brightness, I see Jessie pointing to a point on a map of the city. Everyone else is watching me.

"He's here," Colin says. Jessie seems to pause before turning.

When he finally does, he's got a leather backpack in his hands, which he tosses across the room. It skids to a stop just shy of my feet.

"What's this?" I ask.

"Your gear," he says. "You're going east." I look to Colin, who's decidedly looking away.

"How far east?"

"The train yards." A hush falls on the room.

"This is what you got me off the roof for?" I look at Colin again. "A fuckin' suicide run?"

Jessie shrugs and turns away, waving his hand.

"Back to the roof, then."

I could kill. I could draw blood. I turn on my heels and start to leave, but Richard stops me.

Richard's a good guy for a Third – in my opinion, he should take Jessie's place.

"They're up to something, Cypress," he says. "And we need to know what."

"What if he follows a patrol or something? Maybe he'd hear something about the yards."

"Why the fuck would they tell a patrol about something this big?"

"'Something this big'? We don't even know what it is yet – they might just be scavenging those yards."

"You 'tard! No one just scavenges blindly! They're after something big!"

"Fuck off – maybe you'd know what they were after if you spent less time with Matthew."

I light a cigarette. They'll be fighting for a while.

"Everyone shut up!" Jessie roars. Most don't. Some do. "Cypress?"

I take a drag.

"If they are looking for something specific, they'll have heavy patrols," I say. "Chances are I'll be killed – enjoy your deer."

* * *

Some things just happen and some things are fate.

Jessie tells us we live in a new world now. That philosophy and inflection have no place in it.

Plato once said "the unexamined life is not worth living." He's a philosopher in a country called Greece. I found Greece on a map once – it's a long way away.

I pull up my telescope and scan the hot pavement of Portage Avenue. It's a long hike east, past the park, until I'll have to turn north to get to the train yards.

I consider loading my discman, but I'd rather have my ears free to hear a potential ambush.

I'm alright with the idea of dying today.

Most days I wake up like that.

But I'd like to see her again before I do.

I have daydreams about dying. Cat reaches out and touches her finger to mine. Touches me. And I drop dead.

Perhaps more a fantasy than a daydream.

* * *

In the year two thousand and three, all of us – a hundred or so of us – went to first, second and third grade at the local elementary school. Tuxedo Park elementary, to be specific – we were all upper-middle class. Winnipeg is a test market for different educational practices, and our parents had all signed a paper saying we were allowed to take early years sex ed.

That's when they told us what could happen.

That if we didn't wear condoms, we'd die. That woman have disease. Things like siphillus and herpes and the worst of all – aids. They told us all of this, and it was as if the world had changed.

The girls – these little girls that I had played with and touched on the cheek and pushed on swings were crawling with ways to kill me.

That same week, they took us on the field trip to the marsh.

We were going to see the ducks.

That same day, the busses pulled off the road and we were shoved into a bunker. No adults stayed behind – they just looked really upset.

For weeks, we sat huddled at opposite ends of the bunker – the girls and boys. If one of us stood and approached them, they'd scream.

If they approached us, there was always something available to throw to keep them at bay.

I wasn't gonna' die on account of some fuckin' girl.

But thirteen years later, your priorities have changed.

Chances are I'll be dead by dawn.

* * *

Even as I cut across the old army base, I don't see any of patrols. Either I'm having a lucky day, or they've been pulled in for some other purpose.

With only fifty or so people on each side to work with, we have to keep things running pretty smoothly to survive and defend against each other.

I reach the train yards just before sunset – it's crawling with girls. I circle around to the bridge that extends up and over the train yard to the other side of the river so I can better survey what they're up to.

Two patrols of a First and a Second are taking wide circles around the east side of the yard. Another six are gathered around a tanker car. I whip out the telescope.

I can't read lips, but they all seem fairly happy at whatever they've discovered. We'd never found anything useful in the train yards.

I try to see if there are any markings on the tanker car to tell what's inside, but chances are they've found one of the tanks that wasn't left empty. We found one five years ago – used most of it for Molatov Cocktails, until we emptied out the local liquor mart. The few barrels worth that we have left are for heat in the winter – that's probably the girl's plan.

As a Spy, sometimes I was sent right up close to the Glass Tower. Most of the other guys have never seen it – the girls are smart. They have alternating patrols and a wicked arsenal of explosives. They even found real grenades somewhere.

I've seen both sides of this war, and I can't say I value our chances very well. The girls have ten more people than we do, and worst of all, they have patience. When I was spying, they were tearing up the pavement near the river – they were even using a Caterpillar to heave up the old pieces of asphalt and throw them to the side. They wouldn't go through that much effort unless it was for a long-term plan.

We have the guns, but they have constancy. They'll outlive us.

* * *

Jessie would skin me if I came back without telling him what exactly was in the tanker, but I don't value my chances. It would be easier to just tell him it was gasoline.

I sit back three hundred yards and observe the patrols circling the tanker for fifteen minutes or so until the sun has fully set, then I move forward.

One of the biggest problems in the train yard is that it's all gravel – every footstep crunches. I time my footsteps to coincide with the patrol, stopping when they do – I get to within twenty yards of the tanker in this fashion.

In the distance, I imagine I hear a car, but I slip under one of the nearby boxcars and try to focus on what the six girls are talking about.

"It doesn't mean anything."

"Maybe it means they're ready for a truce."

"If they were ready for a truce, they wouldn't have cut up Angie last week."

Now I definitely hear an engine.

"They're here," one of the older-looking girls says. She's blond, and I think I recognize her from that night with Cat. She climbs up on top of the tanker and starts throwing out a long length of hose. I start to backpedal – I want to get out of the yards before whatever's wrapped around that engine shows up. Soon a pair of headlights blind us all, and a huge flatbed truck with sixteen empty barrels rolls up to the tanker.

Before it stops, one woman jumps from the passenger seat and is calling for the others. She's headed towards me. Their headlights revealed my location.

I shoot out the side of the boxcar and start rabbiting away, but I hear a loud, clear voice behind me;

"Hold!" Crunches in the gravel. I take a deep breath – I'm ready. "Turn around," one of them says. I turn, and twelve women are staring at me. One of them pulls up her rifle and aims – it's the blond rifleman from the night with Cat.

"Mind if I have one last smoke?" I ask.

"I do," she says. A tall redhead puts a hand on the gun and pushes it aside.

"Who's got rope?" the redhead asks. It's the sniper who didn't pick me off that night with Cat. Perhaps the girls stick together in groups.

"We should shoot him dead!" the blond rifleman says.

"It's Cypress," the redhead tells her. They all fall silent. They all know my name. Even the rifleman lets her rifle fall to her side. "Does anyone have any fucking rope?"

I pull off my pack.

"Watch him!" the blond calls, pulling up her gun again. I remove a roll of duct tape and toss it to the gravel at the redhead's feet, then light a cigarette.

"What's this for?" the redhead asks.

"It works just as well as rope," I shrug. None of them seem to want to be the one to tie me up.

The staff and pack fall into the gravel, and the redhead finally steps forward, pulling on heavy leather goves.

* * *

I'm bound with tape, gagged and blindfolded, crashing against the barrels in the back of the flatbed truck. Soon it comes to a stop, and I'm dragged by my feet for about twenty minutes or so – around bends and up flights of stairs - before being thrown onto a carpeted floor.

As the tape is torn away from my eyes – it takes some of my hair with it. For a moment, the room seems pitch black, but I can make out the shaking silhouette of the girl who's now trying to get a gloved grip on the tape at my mouth. She decides to use a pair of needle-nosed pliers to get a hold of it instead.

Now she kneels down beside me and brushes some hair out of my eyes – she looks frightened. Curious. Pitying. She is small – around five feet tall, and has dyed her hair a deep green. Her huge dark emerald eyes match the hair that falls around them.

"Why did you let her go?" she asks.

For some reason, I can't think of an answer to that. She holds out an apple to me. Where she found a real apple, I can't imagine, but she doesn't shy from my gloved hand as I snatch it away.

"Thank you," she says. I can't be sure, but I think she means it.

* * *

* * *

i find the answers aren't so clear / wish i could find a way to disappear / all these thoughts they make no sense / i find bliss in ignorance / nothing seems to go away / over and over again

* * *

* * *

Several hours later, I've had no visitors. I'm not frightened. More curious. This hasn't ever really happened before – capture, I mean. Usually we're just killed on sight.

I find myself in an empty office with huge glass windows, eight floors above the street. I'm in the Glass Tower. The door is locked, and I see no use in trying to break it down – I'd just be killed trying to escape.

I wonder where Cat is. I sit by the floor to celing windows and stare down at the low battlements around the tower – perhaps she's one of those guards moving about under the spotlights.

We never found out where the girls got their power from, but they manage to keep the spotlights around the Glass Tower going all night long. It's a fortress.

A key hits the lock and I spin. For a moment the light from the hallway blinds me, but the redhead steps into the room and quickly closes the door behind her, stepping forward with a dog's leash and collar. She throws it to the floor in front of me.

* * *

I'm lead down to the main foyer of the Glass Tower – lights running off some unseen power source flood the huge open space, and forty or so girls have gathered to witness my fate, whatever that may be.

The redhead leads me to a large purple couch, where a brunette with her hair tied back in a tight ponytail rests, a large-calibre handgun at her side and a beer in her hand.

"Kneel," the brunette says. I look around, scanning the room for Cat. She's not around. I wish she was – something to look at, and all. Instead of Cat, a small sea of femenine eyes stare back at me. Chances are most of them can't remember the last time they saw a man this close.

The butt of the redhead's rifle catches me in the back of the legs and I drop to my knees.

"Thank you," the brunette says. A few older-looking women laugh, but I swear I can hear the redhead whisper;

"Sorry."

"So you're the man who shows mercy," the leader says. "Do you expect the same from us?"

"No," I say. She doesn't like this answer.

"Give me a reason to spare your life," she barks at me. "Offer something!"

"As you can see, I have nothing."

"You won't even beg for leniency?"

"Perhaps we have differing opinions of what's worth begging for."

She doesn't expect this answer. No one knows quite what to say.

"Maybe…" the redhead's voice cracks behind me. She's nervous. "Maybe we should send him back." The brunette balks.

"And why the fuck would we want to do that?"

"Maybe… maybe there's others like him. Maybe some of them don't want to kill us."

"It's not a question of whether or not they want to kill us! It's what they do!" the brunette barks. There are sounds of approval from the crowd. "What – do you want a happy little life with boys and girls together? If he touches you, you die. If he breathes on you – you die."

"I didn't." The voice breaks through the room like the clear, easy tone of a bell. Eyes dart about for the scource, and the crowd clears slightly. Cat stands against the far wall, a bandage showing under her loose fitting knit shirt.

"But you were almost killed none the less," the brunette says. "The sniper nearly took care of that."

"Yes," Cat nods. "And instead of leaving me there to die, he took me to Michelle." The redhead nods. I assume she's Michelle.

"Phoebe…" Michelle says. I assume her name's Michelle. "I could have killed him two weeks ago. He took that chance. He brought her back."

"And then, in turn for sparing her life, you spared his. But now, he's made a move against us. He's seen the tanker, we can't let him go back. We can't allow him free reign here, he would only try to escape," the bunette says. "Wouldn't you?" For some reason I can't imagine her name being Phoebe.

"Yes," I say. The brunette leans back, satisfied.

"See?"

"You should stay," a higher voice offers. I hadn't noticed, but the green-haired girl with the apple has been standing beside Cat. Cat's hand now gently rests on the smaller girl's shoulder. The green-haired girl is too young… she looks to be almost sixteen or so.

"He wouldn't stay," Phoebe shouts at her. "Michelle, if you can't keep your pet from barking, i'll throw her back in the kennel." The green-haired girl looks terrified, and Cat, silent and maternal steps in front of her. Phoebe looks away from Cat, and narrows her eyes on Michelle. "This isn't the first time your floor has brought home a stray."

"And we are stronger for it," Michelle says.

It's Jessie's room all over again. Infighting between the Thirds, competing for the loyalty of the Seconds and Firsts. I never had patience for the politial intrigue – the solutions always seem to simple to me.

"Phoebe," I say. She's surprised I've picked up her name. "It seems to me the most important thing for you to consider is not necessarily the well-being of your collective, but your place within it. Therefor the obvious thing to do is put my fate to a vote, to ensure the majority is satisfied. To spare time, let the Thirds vote, as they most likely represent the opinions of the younger girls on their… 'floors'."

Phoebe is shocked by this. She narrows her eyes and leans in.

"Can you… read?" she says. I nod. A wave of hushed excitement breaks over the room. "Shut up!" Phoebe shouts at the crowd. "Are you why they burned down the Westwood library? You went there to read?"

I nod. Phoebe sits back, contemplative.

"The River Plan – he can help, he-"

"Shut up!" Phoebe roars at Michelle. "It's not a secret if you talk about it," she says, then looks to me. "How well can you?"

"English," I shrug. "Some French."

"French?" She blinks. "Do you understand… technical schematics?"

"Yes."

It is an eerie pause, as if they're all sharing an uncomfortable silence. Phoebe leans back, seeming defeated.

"Put him back on the eigth tower. All of you – I want runners bringing in the Alphas, get back to your posts. I want all the other Alphas back here in an hour – got it? Get him out of here."

Michelle gently tugs on my collar, and I'm led back to the stairwell.

* * *

She closes the door beind her and locks it, waiting as I remove the collar.

"I would have set you free – last night, I mean," she says. "At the train yards." I nod. "But there were so many others around – people who didn't believe us about you. Even Lisa's not sure."