smokeSCREEN : book6.0

"He's still out there!" Martha says, but Crow shakes her head. Just shakes her head and says;

"That's not Cypress."

Martha and Laura look to me, and I nod. As I follow Crow back into the hotel, I can hear them lay the beam into place, as a bloody chorus of screams, gunshot and shouts rise from outside.

I guess life's funny like that.

And when they tell us to go back to our bunks, we do. The blame is placed solely on Crow, and she's beaten in the lobby in front of us. They break her nose and dislocate her shoulder, but it's nothing we're unable to snap back into place later that night.

"They knew were were up to something," Crow whispers. "How did they know?"

From the way she's shifting in her bunk, I know she's looking at me. Maybe it's the pain.

"I don't know," I whisper back.

"Maybe she's a witch," Crow says.

"Whatever," someone else whispers.

"Cypress chopped her arm off, remember? But there it is, back on her hand – it's not natural."

"She's an old one – they know lots of things we don't."

"They can't know that much," she says. "No – she's magical."

"How do you know?"

"Because it's the only Goddamn explanation, Sk8ter!" she snaps at me.

"Fuck off," I snap back. "While you were off with Cypress all winter, we were here sewing at gunpoint."

"Watch your mouth – I'm still your senior," Crow tells me, reaching for a cigarette. I wonder if we're being too loud, but they haven't been doing rounds very closely tonight – I suspect they're trying to tempt us into another escape, so they can discipline us as a group.

"Oh yeah? Diane – what rank are you?"

"Rank schmank – I just sew," she says. It's too dark to see, but by the sounds of my movement I know Crow can tell I'm looking at her.

"There's no rank. There's no way out. There's nothing we can do but sew. They got you. They even got Cypress. We're fucked, Crow. So go to sleep – there's lots of sewing to do tomorrow."

Things change so quickly.

And now the conversation pauses, as a sound moans through the open windows;

A dog is howling somewhere.

"That's Douglas," Crow says. "Cypress is probably safe."

"Who's Douglas?"

"Cypress's dog."

"Cypress will try again," I whisper – more to reassure myself than anything. But Crow nods.

"Yes – in a week." That night, I sleep very very well.

* * *

Someone's touching me. It's Cypress.

We're together.

He's stroking my stomach, and he kisses me.

Whoah.

We're not at the hotel, or even the Tower. We're alone somewhere. It's dark, but he glows in the light of a single candle.

Whoah.

And he's touching me.

And he kisses me. And his lips are so... soft and...

And he's touching me.

I would give anything to

And I wake up.

I'm gasping for breath. Whoah.

"What's wrong with you?" Crow says, cocking an eyebrow at me.

"Nothing. What?"

"C'mon – breakfast."

And we go.

Instead of tightening security, they have loosened it. Crow's at a loss to explain it, but none of us complain, now that they let us talk pretty much any time. They signal for silence with a whistle, and we're all something-short-of thankful for the new freedom.

Immediately, of course, it lead to plans of escape. Crow refuses to think of it – she says they know something we don't. She says they know, somehow – but she won't suggest any explanations.

As she eats her Twinkies across from me, I trace the day's events in my head and reassure myself that no, as a matter of fact she hasn't spoken all day.

"Why not?" I ask.

"Why not what?" she says through the cake and mystery filling.

"What's wrong?"

"It was a week yesterday," she frowns. "I don't know why he didn't at least send word. He could have broken in, at least. He could have done something."

I open my mouth to interject, but now that she's finally speaking, she doesn't seem able to stop.

"If he were safe he would have done something. He would have been here yesterday night. He would have sent word. He would have howled. Barked. Shot off a gun, something. I don't care – he would have signaled. If he were safe. He's not safe, Sophie – they've got him. Do you understand? He could be dead now."

I'm just staring at her. She's realizing that she rambled.

"He's fine," I tell her. "Eat your Twinkie."

She bites, chews, but doesn't look any happier.

She figures Cypress will come a week to the day he was supposed to. She figures he might have figured something really important out. She says he'll come.

I'm not so optimistic. Tomorrow is Washing Day.

* * *

* * *

a little less conversation / a little more action / all this aggrivation ain't satisfaction in me / a little more bite and a little less bark / a little less fight and a little more spark / close your mind and open up your heart / and baby satisfy me / satisfy me, baby

* * *

* * *

Washing Day sounds like a lovely group activity where we all wear plain white cotton dresses and laugh as we scrape cloth on corrugated-metal boards. That's not the case.

Washing Day is the first of every second month, when we strip naked, as we're only allowed one set of clothes, and wash them. It was initially humiliating to be naked in front of each other, but shortly after it began the old ones decided Washing Day was something of a spectator sport. First it was five sweaty old men. Then eleven. And very quickly thirty-one became the average number. I know all this because I was told – Mickey never allowed me to go to Washing Day, and this is my first. After the fight at the front of the hotel, there are only twenty-eight men here tonight. It seems their slaughter hasn't decreased their interest, as a few begin to sweat as they watch us.

"What are they allowed to do?" Crow says. She's been shivvering the whole time.

"They can only touch us," I tell her. "Unless they have something to trade."

"And if they have something to trade?"

My eyes dart from my soaking sweater up to those cold, huge cracked-ice blues. She's scared.

"That's up to you," I say. Her brow furrows and she returns to her scrubbing.

"No one's touching me," she whispers.

"Crow, Martha, Sophie – NOW!"

We snap our necks up like three birds, craning towards the swinging double-doors. It's Brie, and three old ones beside her are holding piles of clothes. They're clean, comfortable and warm, and we're told we will wash ours when we get back. They lead us into the blinding Sun and quickly into a limo with the windows blacked out by electrical tape. We drive for about thirty minutes, but there are so many turns I lose track, and I have to look at the Sun again when we get out to have any baring on direction. We've gone North more than anything – one of the upper-class suburbs.

They show us into a very large house, and we're lead to a long heavy table – dark wood and lacy white placecloths and napkins. Candles are lit – strange music is playing and Brie sits at the head of the table with Michael and an unshaven, rough-looking man. He's gaunt – late twenties – but has quick reflexes and sharp dark eyes.

He's sexy. And for a moment reminds me of Cypress.

"Do you...?" I begin – but a guard pushes me to my seat and I'm obliged to sit as food the likes of which ye have never seen is brought in. We're not allowed to touch it, and neither do they. We're all expected to drink our wine – and so do they.

"Alright, let's have introductions all round, shall we?" Brie starts. "The man to my right is Michael, you all know him as Mickey. The more able man to my left is Father Shuji Sakura, but we just call him Priest. I am Brie. Gentlemen, meet the women of importance from Winnipeg. The Latino is Sophie, the tall brunette is Martha – she's the only Alpha of respect left in the hotel – and the slim one is Beth, but everyone calls her Crow."

"Ladies," Priest nods his head – Mickey says nothing.

"What're we doing here?" Crow says. "And can I have a cigarette?"

"Yes, you can," Brie says, nodding to a servant who produces a silver tin and lets Crow select one. "You're here because things can't go on like this. With you trying to escape and us punishing you – it's detrimental to both of us."

"Last I checked, you're down a lot more than us," I say. Mickey huffs, but Brie nods.

"True," she says. "I've lost over a hundred men to you, and you – what? Ten, perhaps?"

"Twenty," Martha nods.

"Yes – you're up in the score, Sophie. But you've only twenty five left to protect – and I have three hundred men."

"What're we worth to you?" Crow pipes suddenly. Priest grins, but Brie looks at her strangely.

"What an odd question," she says. "Why do you ask?"

"You don't want us to just stop fighting you, you want our full-out cooperation in something. What is it?"

"How on –" Brie's mouth hangs open, and Priest laughs.

"I told you," he says as he stands and finds a cigarettes. "I told you. How long did you think it would last?"

"Sit down," Brie snaps. He leaves instead, and she turns smiling back to us.

"Now ladies. For the moment, we simply want to begin giving you more freedoms, on the condition that you won't take advantage of our good faith."

"We're prisoners."

"And I'm trying to ease your shackles."

"Loose shackles are still shackles."

"Quiet, Crow," I snap. She stares at me in fury for a moment, but I say, "What do you propose?"

"What would you like?" Mickey asks. Brie nods.

"Cigarettes. One pack a day for every four girls," Martha says. Brie nods.

"Clothes – at least seven changes – Washing day twice a month with no spectators," I say. Brie nods.

"Guns," Crow says. Brie sighs.

"Sophie, Martha, I appreciate your cooperation. Crow – your attitude will land you in tighter shackles than you've grown accustomed to." Crow puts out her cigarette. "I am trying to ease things. I am extending a laurel."

"What the fuck is a laurel?" Crow snaps.

"Ah yes – no public schools," Brie grins. "Tell me, honestly Crow – give me a possible suggestion."

Crow lights her cigarette butt and takes a long puff before saying;

"Tell me how you knew Cypress was inside the hotel." Brie grins, and nods, and says;

"We see everything on the security monitors."

Martha and I look at each other. Crow and I crease our brows. I say it;

"What the fuck is a security monitor?"

* * *

After they stop laughing, they tell us what a security camera is. Turns out they have electronic eyes all over the Goddamn hotel, watching us. It's hard to explain, they're like... nevermind – it's scary shit, let me tell you. That afternoon, we're all led to an old mall where, under armed guard, we're each allowed to select seven outfits – we'll get another in a year, if there are no more rebellions. When we get back to the hotel, each of us have two packs of good hard cigarettes waiting for us on our beds – with a lighter and the promise of one pack each every four days. We didn't negotiate for this initial two. One thing it did take us a while to get was the pot – forty-five minutes of negotiation landed us two ounces a Month – we decide to smoke one tonight. Around eleven o'clock, stoned out of our minds, we wander downstairs to the kitchen for food. We know the cameras are watching, but the new rule is we keep up with the work, and they don't come in. They can guard the outside all they want, but we get the inside. The kitchen is now fully stocked. Brie's taking it all very seriously – and by the end of the night most of us are very happy with the new conditions.

"Think about it, it's like home, but with adults taking care of us. They bring us food, they give us something to do – and c'mon, it's just sewing."

"I'm not a seamstress, I'm a solider," Crow snaps. We're back in our room, smoking pot by candle light – still got a quarter of an ounce to go.

"It could be a lot worse, Crow," Martha tells her. Crow shrugs.

"Could be a lot better. We could be smoking our pot in our home doing our work. Did we keep the Goddamn breakers in that place working for thirteen years just 'cause we needed a hobby? No – that's where we were gonna' live the rest of our lives."

"It's not so bad," Amy shrugs. And now I hop off my bunk and wander over to Crow, to whisper in her ear;

"They probably have the place bugged – they can hear us." She nods, and I head back to my bunk.

"But something'll happen," she says.

"How do you know?" Martha whispers.

"Something always does."

* * *

Something doesn't. With our newfound freedom, we've taken to storytelling sessions. These equate to Crow reading us Cypress's journal. She says he kept it with her because he didn't have any secrets from anyone. She never started reading it 'till now;

"May 10 -

We reached Winnipeg today. Westwood's cleaned out, along with the Tower. There's nothing left of the Forks – and even now, when rage bubbles around inside at the sight of the ruined Tower, I don't feel Drac breathing on my neck. There's no sniff of him – and to be honest, I'm surprised. Relieved, but surprised. I suspect Crow doubts me – though she stays. I wonder if he keeps his distance because he knows I'm stronger with her around. Either way, we're making good progress South now..."

Crow pauses.

"He repaired a jeep," she says, grinning – her eyes shine for a moment. "It was shot to shit in the battle, but he said it was workable and he spent six hours in grease. It lasted us three hundred miles."

"How did you find us?" Amy asks.

We don't know that somewhere far away, someone is screaming at the top of his lungs for Brie. We don't know that as Crow tells us what very few believe, Brie is listening closely, recording every word, as if it's the key to some lifelong puzzle;

"Cypress... is very strong in the mind," Crow says.

"Yeah, he's sharp," Martha shruggs.

"Nono – you don't understand. If Cypress concentrates, he can... do anything."

"Like what?"

"Anything. He can light a cigarette without a match. He can understand animals – and they listen to him. He's... aware of everything. Do you understand? He proably knows what we're talking about right now."

"Pfffwhatever."

"I'm getting better at it, but I'm not as strong as him," she says.

"You're fulla shit!" Martha laughs – the others laugh too, and Crow nervously reaches for a cigarette.

And far away, we don't know that Brie leans into the green glow of a monitor and narrows her eyes. But I guarantee, we both have the same look on our faces when Crow's cigarette flares to life without aid of match or lighter. She takes a drag and looks down, her hair covering her face as a billow of smoke surrounds her. "Jesus Christ," Brie says.

I say. "How did you do that?":

"Same way Cypress could be listening," she says. "We accepted he didn't make us sick. We accepted him as a soldier. Let's accept this."

"You keep talkin', soon Cypress is gonna' be God," Martha huffs.

"No, that's not it," Crow shakes her head. "It's so simple – God is life. And we're alive. Just like everything else on Earth. Do ya get it?"

And somewhere far away Brie leans back from the monitor, covering her mouth, her eyes wide.

Back at the hotel, we don't get it. But the next morning we hear alarm bells far away. And shouts. And gunshots getting closer. Crow doesn't go stare at the windows with everyone – she sits crosslegged on the roof, her eyes closed for all of it. All she says is "Cypress is coming." "Crow, I don't understand any of this," I tell her.

"Cypress knows something – I don't know what. He's not Drac. He's in control."

We sit alone up there, and I chain a new cigarette off my dying butt – there's nothin' worse than smoking filter.

"There are worse things," Crow says. I snap my head up to her, my brow furrowed and eyes huge. "Close your mouth, it's unseemly."

She still hasn't opened her eyes, but I'm sure she knows I'm slowly backing away.

"Sophie."

"Yes."

"They're going to execute one of us."

"Who?"

"She doesn't know."

"Who?"

"Brie." Her eyes open finally, and she reaches for me. "Smoke," she says. My shaking hand places it between her rock-steady fingers, and she takes a quick, smoothe, easy drag.

"...wh... what's going to happen?" I whisper. She grins and hops up.

"Fuck, I dunno," she says. "Let's get downstairs – I wanna' have the doors open when he gets here."

"When?"

"Soon."

She's already at the access door.

* * *

She stares out the windows in the lobby, tapping her foot.

"It's been really cool – seeing you again, I mean," she says, not glancing at me.

"I love you," I blurt out, and my brow creases suddenly. Dumb Sophie.

Now she glances.

"Like, how?" she says, eyes slightly narrowing – they're cold for a split-second, and I'm judged.

"Like big-sister," I tell her.

"Soph, I've always knows that," she grins, turning back to the windows.

"I wish we were back at the Tower," I sigh. "I wish we were still at war with the boys, getting in trouble with Cypress." But she shakes her head.

"Cypress never would have showed up without the old ones," she says.

"Fuck the old ones," Martha snaps.

"Yes, fuck the old ones," Crow nods. "I can't see them listening to reason. But we only accepted Cypress in is because he spared Cat. And the only reason he bumped into Cat is because she went to meet an old one in West St. James."

"Jesus, Crow, you sound like Cypress," Amy laughs. Crow doesn't smile or laugh, she just looks back to the window –

"Thank you," she says. "Open the doors."

They're pulled wide, and Cypress dashes in as if on cue. He's dirty, bleeding and splattered with the blood of others.

"Anyone got a smoke?" is the first thing he asks. "Didn't have time on the way – ah, thank you Martha." And he glances to Crow as he takes a drag. She cocks her head to the side and he nods, and they both turn towards the inner courtyard.

"Are you sure?" she asks.

"Downstairs – third subbasement," he grins. "Everyone! Come with us!"

* * *

* * *

i am a man of constant sorrow, i seen trouble all my days / i bid farewell to old kentucky, the place where i was born and raised / for six long years i've been in trouble, no pleasure here on earth i find / for in this world i'm bound to ramble, i have to friends to help me now

* * *

* * *

Three flights down, Cypress has discovered something. Something even the old ones didn't know about – he uncovers a panel in the floor and we're lead down into an armory.

"How...?"

"The owner of this hotel lived in the top floor – she stockpiled weapons."

"One – how did you know? Two – why did she keep a ton of guns?"

"First, she's still here – sort of," he says. "Second, she was a patriot and she thought there would be armed conflicts on American soil, but no enemy ever set foot over here."

"Why not?" Martha asks. She's selected a large American army carbine-powered machine gun – they just call it a SAW.

"They were already dead," he says. "Every industrial nation on Earth had stockpiles of biological weapons."

"Bio...?"

"Like a rocket the size of a building that releases poison," Crow tells her.

"But not poison – disease. Doesn't matter who fired first – once the first one was in the air, everyone fired – they had about a three-hour warning. Most people fled the cities, but prevailing winds carried it across the planet and wiped almost everyone out. The only people who survived..."

"Were people in bunkers with its own air supply," I say. He nods.

"Only ours didn't have it's own air supply – it had an extensive filtration system."

"Why does that matter?"