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smokeSCREEN : book6.0

By: Riven___Caulfield



Dear Literotica reader, 

 Please forgive spelling mistakes and the like – my spell-checker has decided to take an extended vacation, and I'm afraid you and I must suffer for it. 

 -Riv

* * * 

my hurt inside is fading / this shits gone way too far / all this time i've been waiting / oh i cannot breath anymore / for whats insides awaking / i'm not i'm not a whore / you've taken everything and / oh i cannot give any more 

* * * 

* * * 

We grab an O-bag of stuff guaranteed to put you to sleep and head upstairs, pawing each other the whole way. 

I wish I wasn't stoned. I hope I'll remember this tomorrow. 

We toss the bag at the others, still giggling in their circle of couches and keep right on going. 

"Hey, are you guys, um..." and Cat trails off, just before I slam the door to his room behind us. It's dark, except for the light let in by the office windows and he strikes a match for his candle. 

For a second he's at the window and I'm still by the door, and we're uneasy. If I go to him, am I being too forward?

No – crossing a room is just crossing a room. 

My feet begin moving anyway, and soon I'm beside him. Even while lighting the candle he hasn't looked away, and he wraps an arm around me, slowly as I kiss him again. He clutches me tight, and the kiss becomes slower – longer – wet. 

I don't know entirely what to do in this situation – what little I know I've pieced together from a children's book called Where Did I Come From? that my parents showed my older sister when she was six. That along with some pamphlets, some porn and a little masturbation forms my basic understanding of sex. Perhaps 'a little' is the wrong phrase... I used to fantasize about Cypress all the time. 

"Hey?" I'm staring at him – we've stopped kissing apparently.

"What?" I ask.

"What're you thinking about?" 

"I've never done this before." 

Am I nervous? No. Curious. I suppose he is too. 

I shove him over to the bed and pull my shirt off – he gives the bra a double-take. 

"Like it?" 

He takes his shirt off – there's still a bandage on his shoulder, but most of his cuts are healing nicely. I'm very aware of the bandages on my arms now, and the not-quite healed bullet wound in my shoulder. 

"Come here," he says, reaching out for me in the dim light. I let him take me by the wrist and draw me to the bed as he sits, reaching up and behind me to fumble with the clasp of my bra. 

"Want help?" 

"I need practice," he grins, kissing me as he finally gets it. 

"Quick learner." I kiss him back and place a finger against his chest, pushing him down onto the bed. I lean over him and kiss his lips – his chin, his chest and his stomach before whispering, "Stay," and kneeling to his boots. I quickly unlace them and pull them from his feet – huh – he's got big feet. His socks come off next, then I stand up and place one my little feet on his thigh. 

He unties the bows and helps me out of the Chuck Taylors before I step back and let the skirt drop. 

Jesus Christ I'm naked. 

"Take your pants off," I tell him, he smiles and stands, unbuckling his belt. He reaches for me but I step just shy of him and raise a hand to my chin, contemplating him. "All the way off," I say. He does, kicking them away and stands completely naked in front of me – he's not wearing underwear. Huh. He's up.

I want to ask if that's all me – if he's thinking about somebody else. I don't. I let a finger graze my breast while I look at him, though. Scarred but strong. Sharp lines – broad shoulders, slim hips, long legs. He reaches for me again and I finally come to him – I'm getting cold. 

He folds us into the bed under a soft blanket and wraps his arms around me. Warm and soft but firm and solid, it's like cuddling up with the best teddy bear in the world – he kisses me again, but I have to ask in a whisper,

"You sure there's no one else you'd rather have?" 

He thinks about it. 

"What the FUCK is your problem?!" 

I'm not in the Tower – I'm in my army-surplus bunk bed. 

I'm being screamed at, for sleeping late it seems. 

The old one doesn't stop shouting as I throw my one outfit on, calling me names. 

Worm. Maggot. Slut. Dyke. Walking shit. I look forward to tonight, when I'll be able to sleep again. It's the only pleasure I'm allowed. 

I've felt like many different people over the course of my life. I've been a daughter. A confidant. A sister. A mother. A cook. A friend. A doctor. A solider. A killer. 

It hasn't occurred to me until this moment what I actually am now. 

I'm a whore.

At the moment, I am, and this is my story – but it's not about sex. To be truthful, I know very little of sex – I've never met the man in my dreams. 

So far he never touches me. 

He just looks. 

And it's hard to believe what I've become. 

His name is Michael Connor – but everyone calls him Mickey. The man in the black leather mask. He first took a shine to me before the Forks went up. After Crow ran off, he spoke to me. He was nice. 

And then, in the scramble afterwards, when they were rounding us up, he made certain I wasn't hurt. And when they took me to him, and he offered me food, I took it willingly. I spoke to him and became comfortable with him. So when he held back food until I showed him my shoulder, I didn't think it was much to risk. 

He still doesn't touch me. I stand before him, naked, as his eyes roam. 

"I don't think I've ever asked how old you are," he says. He likes talking to me, while he's looking. 

"Twen'y," I say, with extra Kenneydean, and the scars that mar his face crease as he grins

"I didn't say it mattered," he nods. 

"Yes, Michael," I chime. I'm a trained monkey, now. Pull a lever. Push a button. Get a food pellet. 

"Do you enjoy coming here at night?" he asks, finding a cigarette and handing it to me. "Sit," he motions to the chair beside him. I light the cigarette and take greedy drags. Michael doesn't smoke – it's a filthy habit, he tells me. 

"Yes, Michael." 

"You do enjoy it?" 

"Yes, Michael." I keep pushing my hair behind my ears – he's gotten me into the habit. He says he likes to see my face. 

"You're a lot smarter than you seem, aren't you?" he says now. I ash my cigarette. He's never asked something like this before. What does he want to hear? 

"Yes, Michael." 

"And what do you think of me, in your secret thoughts, when you're back in the Hotel at night?" His dark eyes burn in the soft light, and I'm cold. I used to be overconscious of my nudity in front of him, but after a few weeks I didn't care any more. 

I just didn't care. 

"That I'm happy you favour me, Michael," I say finally. 

"You're just telling me what I want to hear," he says. 

"That's what you want," I whisper. 

"That's not what I want," he says. 

"You want to have me?" My eyes shoot up to his. The scars don't bother me any more. We're as comfortable with his disfigurement as we are with my exposed nipples. But he looks away. 

"I suppose I would," he nods. "Do you know why I've kept you separate on Washing Day? Why the others are put through all sorts of things while you remain untouched? Simply viewed?" 

"You want to make certain I'm... pure." 

"Yes – exactly that," he nods. "Exactly that. You are intelligent, aren't you? Brie is still convinced you're basically savages." 

"We are, Michael." 

"Spread your legs," he tells me. I do. 

He'll starve me otherwise. 

He tells me I'm beautiful. 

I could have been a hero. I could have affected change. I could have been braver at the Forks. 

His eyes burn me in the old hotel suite, and I know what I've become. 

He tells me to turn around. 

He wants to see my back. 

"Perfect skin. Perfect curves. Perfect face," he says. 

And I hate what I've become. 

"The perfect beauty," he tells me. 

I hate who I am. 

"My perfect Sophie," he whispers. 

* * * 

Michael is not the man I dreamed about this morning. I can't see that man's face, and I've never been in such a situation, so I pick the dream apart symbolically. Surely, I must be able to offer some insight into myself. But my mind just randomly makes connections. 

Crow used to say I have an overactive imagination. She said I think too much.

They're not really thoughts. Just escapes. 

I used to daydream that I impressed Michelle. I don't recall what I did to deserve it, but Michelle was proud of me and Crow patted me on the back. Good daydreams. 

Lately, I dream of killing Michael. Mickey. Whatever. 

They do worse to the others. Sometimes Brie will come into the hotel and select one of us. Last week she took Phoebe. No one was more surprise than her. 

So Phoebe's gone. 

That leaves thirty of us girls left in the hotel. They have us mending things. I never sewed up something that wasn't alive until they captured us. They use the boys in their auto shop, I think. 

But us girls are only good for sewing. Or so Michael says. 

Thirty of us. Ten old ones, all armed. 

I dream I steal a gun. A big fuck-off Desert Eagle or a nine millimeter with the fifteen round clip. One in the pipe. 

He would tell me to take off my shirt, and I would whip the gun out. 

There would be a moment – we would finally share a moment. 

He would understand that I never wanted him. Never wanted his affection. His praise. His favour. I would have him kill me, rather than feel his eyes on me again. 

And as I squeeze the trigger, he would know the best part of his day was the worst part of my life. 

The part that gives me nightmares. 

And I would squeeze the trigger. Again and again and again until he's just a steaming mass of gore on the scuzzy old hotel carpet. That's for what you did to me. That's for what you did to us. That's for what you want to do. 

Eight months. 

It's been eight months since I breathed free air. 

Eight months since I saw my best friend. 

Six months since I thought of stirring rebellion. 

Four months since I lost hope of escape. 

Now I fantasize about killing Michael. I kill him. The guards hear the shots. They bust in the door, and gun me down. I hit the floor, watch my life flow out in a thick red on the scuzzy hotel room carpet – just adding to the stains – and it's all okay. 

Because now I'm free. 

And he'll never make me feel like that again. 

"Sophie," a whisper comes from the bed under mine. "It's not so bad, huh?" she says. 

"Shut up, Diane," Amy snaps a little ways away. 

This is how we spend our nights – in little army-surplus bunk beds in a cleaned-out suite. 

I don't answer Diane. I feign sleep. 

They took Diane once – brought her back because there was something wrong with her. 

"I just mean it's not so bad," Diane says again. "We have food. We're warm. We gotta' do a little work every day, but it's not like there's anyone shooting at us." 

"Shut the fuck up, Diane," Amy hisses from the other side of the room. 

BOOM!

The door blasts open, two women in the doorway. 

"Who's talking in here?" one of them shouts.

No one answers. 

"WHO is talking?" the other one calls. Amy sits up. 

"It was Diane," she says, pointing towards the bunk under mine. At first I expect them to reprimand me, but they give Amy a pack of cigarettes and Diane a concussion. A black eye. A broken collar bone. And they take her away to the infirmary.

I return to my daydreams. 

* * * 

Two days later, Diane comes up to Amy in the Eating Room, her head bowed. 

"You were right to tell them," she says. "I was causing trouble." But Amy just narrows her eyes, and hisses;

"What do you think you're doing now?" 

It's been this way pretty much since the beginning. Old Floor relationships aren't the same. Lisa and Michelle were two of the first to be taken by Brie. No one knows where Cat is, and Anze is kept with away from us. 

It's like I woke up in a different world. 

But it's still reality. 

I am not a soldier. I may be a whore. 

I am definitely a slave class. 

I eat small bites of hard bread and think of justice. Dream of justice. 

One day, we will be avenged. 

I glance around – the guard is gone. 

"Martha," I whisper. She looks from her plate up to me – Martha has really nice dark eyes. "Did you see anything?" 

"I didn't look," she whispers harshly back. "Be quiet." 

I break another piece of hard bread and munch on it. A half a crust – that was it, today. Glancing at the clock, I know Michael will come for me within the hour. 

We'll be cleaning the Eating Room and I'll be called aside. 

The woman will take me hard by the arm and drag me to the side, where she'll strip-search me in front of everyone. Then she'll drag me into the elevator. 

Fifteenth floor. Ding. 

And she'll push me into his room. 

"Good evening, Sophie," he'll say. 

"Good evening, Michael," I'll say. I know to say. 

WHAM! Martha kicks me under the table. 

"What?" 

"He's calling you," she points behind me, and I turn to see Michael. I bolt to my feet. 

He's never early. Why is he early? 

I'm so shaken that I don't get rid of the knife I always pocket. I usually toss it aside before the strip search. But they don't search me. They don't touch me. He walks with me to the lobby, and my head is spinning. 

This break from routine is unprecedented. What's going on? Does Brie want me? Is he going to kill me? Rape me? Feed me? I hope he has cherries. 

"When was the last time you were outside?" he says now, from behind his mask. He doesn't take it off in front of anyone else – not even Brie. 

"Five months thirteen days, Michael." No one else can tell, but I know when he smiles under his mask. 

"Let's go for a drive," he says. 

And as he leads me to a car, he still doesn't have someone search me. He pushes my head down under the roof, and I'm too shocked to smile. Today, I have a knife. 

* * * 

* * * 

// boom / here comes the // boom / ready or not / here comes the boys from the south // boom / here comes the // boom / ready or not / how you like me now? / is that all you got? / i'll take your best shot

* * * 

* * * 

The last time I was outdoors, the snow had been around for a while. Now it's spring. The long grasses are lush and green – the ruined city of Grand Forks is overrun with a young forest.  But we're not in the city long. We drive out, through some grassland and into a forest. I'm riding shotgun – there are two other old ones in the back seat. 

He lets me roll down the window, so I can feel the fresh air on my face, and offers me cigarettes. 

Soon he stops the car beside a field with a tree in the middle. He instructs the others to stay by the car, and not to disturb us. We walk for ten minutes or so – the tree is farther than it seems, and I realize the grasses are giant – perhaps six fet tall. The tree itself is immense, probably a few hundred years old, and he spreads an old quilted blanket beneath it, before setting out a picnic. 

I feel the bark of the tree and smile at the sunlight in my face. 

I wish Cypress would have taken me on a nice picnic. Just once. 

I decide to get this over with, and stalk over to Mickey, fingering the knife in my pocket. It's just a butter knife – no good for slashing his throat. But one fatal stab, perhaps. 

"Look at you," he says, looking up at me from his knees. "You look happy." 

I can only smile back; 

"I am happy," 

before I stab him in the eye. 

He doesn't even look surprised as he falls back, the ugly blood spoiling the pretty quilted blanket. 

Funny, I don't feel as good as I thought I would. But he doesn't look surprised. He's still smiling as he spasms, the spike of metal shaking in his eye. 

In the long grasses, they couldn't have seen us from the car. 

I shove a few strawberries into my mouth and rip open his leather jacket to expose the hand cannon he keeps under his shoulder. A big silver .449 calibre revolver, and the two bandoliers of ammunition wrapped on one of his shoulders. 

He sputters as I stand. 

He sputters and gurfles – he's trying to breathe. 

I thought I'd stabbed him hard enough to get through to the brain, but I pull back the hammer on the revolver and squint down at him over the barrel. 

No – he's out. I've got a gun – I can go anywhere as soon as I take care of the two by the car... But I point the gun at his head again. 

No – it will alert the others. 

I sneak through the tall grass towards them, the big revolver hanging loose in my hand. It's a little lighter than my old Desert Eagles, and even though it's been almost nine months since I handled a piece, it feels familiar. A good balance. Good weight. 

They're sitting in the front seat, running the engine, enjoying the air conditioning, and chatting. The windows are closed to seal in the cool air, and they're so involved in their discussion they have no time to react as I pop up in the passenger window, unloading the revolver into the car. It's deafening.

I yank the door open as I reload, but they're already down. I drag the bodies out, and find that one of them is about my size, which satisfies. They've had me in sneakers for the winter, and I've been dying for a pair of good sturdy boots. 

As I inventory my new belongings, I find I've become quite wealthy. Perhaps my sense of humor has become macabre through my captivity, but I chat at them as I go; 

"Didn't know who you were fuckin' with, did'ja? That's right – we're soldiers – every one of us. Just give us a piece, and we'll fuck you up. Sure, Phoebe and Jessie surrendered to you, back in Winnipeg, but they were just the leaders. 

The rest of us are fuckin' savage. And now we've got a revolver. A shotgun. An uzi. Ammo. Lots of ammo. Food. We got food. 

Everything's gonna' change," I grin, looking down at my haul. 

If I hadn't been so happy, I probably would have noticed Mickey coming up behind me. I don't know what he hits me with, but it does its job – and I'm out. 

***

She's choking me. 

Crow is choking me. I can't breath. I can't do anything. I can't break away. I can't move my arms. She's hurting my arms. 

Everything hurts – but she doesn't stop choking me. I thrash. 

I thrash and smack my head against the concrete wall, and wake up. 

I realize why I'd been dreaming that. 

I'm chained to a wall – two handcuffs hold my wrist above my head, while a solid steel collar tied to the floor holds me down. I've been more comfortable. 

Under the single bulb that hangs from the celing, an old one sits, leaning against the far wall. He cradles a rifle, and smiles at me. Sort of. 

He doesn't speak. He just stands, knocks on the door, and is let out into the dark beyond. 

I wait three minutes or so and start working on an escape. With my head chained down, I can't get any leverage to break the cuffs or the chains that hold them. The walls are just concrete, but I'm not strong enough to pull the bolt that holds the whole assembly to the wall. I decide to think of a more graceful solution. 

Squatting there, I wonder how long I'd been asleep for. I wonder what they plan to do with me. Is this the same thing that happened to Michelle, and Lisa and Phoebe? 

Or is this some new punishment, devised for my unique and unforseen betrayal?

I grin. 

This is gonna' suck. 

And so I start crying. I'm still crying when Mickey bursts through the door. He strides quickly forward and leans back, lining up his knuckles before smashing me straight-on in the face. God, he's got a big fist. 

I smack against the concrete wall, and the rusty chain that's holding me down cuts my back. It doesn't hurt so bad, but it's bleeding enough for me to feel it flow. 

Before I finish swinging, Mickey's gripped my face in one big hand. He pulls me to his scarred grimace; 


smokeSCREEN : book6.0



"I wanted you to be awake for that," he tells me. "I really don't care if you pass out for the rest."

He spits in my face.

I'm still crying. 

* * * 

A few hours later I'm all cried out. I've thought long and hard about any possible means of escape. Much like things back at the hotel, all seems hopeless. 

Two days I hang there. 

Two days, pulled up and kept down. 

Two days of never getting enough air – no sleep. Just constant, ragged breath. 

No guard, it seems. 

No food. Just empty, hot, ragged breath. 

I think perhaps they'll just leave me here to die and rot. 

But early on the third day, Mickey enters followed closely by Brie. 

She's dressed strangely – in green robes – but I can tell it's her under the green cap and white mask. In front of her, she pushes a metal trolley. The collar holds me down so low I can't see what's on it. 

As Mickey closes the door behind them, she pulls up a huge syringe and he says; 

"No – you don't need that." 

"She's in a great deal of pain, Mickey, I don't want to leave her completely useless." 

"No – don't undo her restraints. Do it like this." 

She doesn't heed him, and the metal collar falls from my bruised throat. Air rushes in like, for a time, I'd forgotten it could. I gasp, and find my muscles disobeying me. I spasm under the new lack of tension. 

"Can you talk?" she asks me. "Do you know where you are?" 

I don't know what she wants me to say. 

"Grand Forks – captive," is all I can think of. 

"It lives," Brie smiles, pulling down her mask. Strange – it's a real smile. Even a warm smile. "She's severely dehydrated – I'm not sure I even want to try this until she's more healthy. You should have had her fed at least." 

"It doesn't have to be clean, it just has to be done," he says. 

"Water?" I ask. My voice is tiny – a sqeak. It surprises me. 

"Yes, of course," Brie says. "Mickey? Get her some water – not too cold." 

For a moment, it looks as if he's going to challenge her, but he simply leaves. She leans down, stroking my hair. "I would have taken you with the first of them, if he hadn't singled you out, you know," she tells me. "You were so healthy."

"Thank you," I say. But she shakes her head;

"Not today, dear. You have to understand that some things are more important than a few lives." 

"Kill me, then," I tell her. She shakes her head again, and pulls up the syringe. 

"No – you're an excellent specimen, as a whole. Don't tell Mickey about this – it will make things much easier on everyone." She jabs me in the leg with the needle and shoves the plunger down. 

I bite my lip – it's a big needle. 

But soon it's back on the cart, and Mickey has returned with my water. It hurts to swallow, but the cool flood is like a reunited loved one rolling down my throat. Brie lets me take my time in swallowing it all, before she sets the glass on the cart. 

I'm not entirely sure of everything now. It's fuzzy. 

It's good. 

"Now?" he says. 

Brie leans down and lights a cigarette in front of me. She stares deep in my eyes as the match flares to life in the dark room, and lets me take a drag before grinding out the smoke under her heel.  Her brow furrows – she's not sure. So she drags the tip of the cigarette across my shoulder lightly. It takes me a second to look over an cock an eyebrow, before slowly looking up to her. 

What? 

"Now," she says. 

I am fucked up. 

It's not like being stoned. It's different. Liquid. Fuzzy. Good. 

Mickey's in my face now, grinning. 

"What're you gon'do?" I manage. 

Brie pulls him aside, and leans down with something silver in her hand. The silver thing is moving towards my face, but I can't focus on it. 

"Take a deep breath," she says.

I try to, but I can't work like that right now. 

Everything's real weird. 

* * *

Someone's touching me. It's Cypress. 

We're together. 

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

Whoah. 

I wake up. 

Cool. 

My head sorta' hurts. It's a weird feeling – and I can't really focus on anything. 

No one's around. My arms aren't bound any more. 

I've been sleeping for a long long time. 

First time I've slept in days, and I notice I'm laying on one of those metal beds they have in hospitals. Wow. 

I lean back and grin, feeling the soft blankets and pillow luxuriously. I look around – I'm still in the concrete room, but now only my right arm is chained to the bed. My left arm is free to grab the pack of cigarettes on the table beside the bed and munch on real fuit while I smoke. 

My head hurts, and I scratch at my eyes. Then I notice the bandage. 

Then I remember. 

No – no way. 

I tear at the bandages, ripping them out like hair. 

She wouldn't.

Carefully, my index reaches towards my blind eye. 

...fuckoff.

Nothing. Nothing is there, and it hurts. Like. Shit.

"Fuck!" I shriek, covering my face. 

They wanted me to live, they just took my eye as punishment. Oh, God. First they shoot off a finger, now this. 

Brie didn't seem to want to take my eye. She seemed concerned for me. She did give me the heroin. 

Mickey told me he loved me on a daily basis. He told me he never expected me to say it back. I don't suppose he expected me to do what I did – but then I didn't expect him to react in such a way. 

I suppose this is the state of life. Of becoming accustomed to one world – one way of existing – and being thrown, blind, into another. 

I'd never been chained up before the past few days – aside from the trip south. They walked us on two long chains behind their cars. 

That was a long walk. 

But I'd never been really chained up until this. I've decided I loathe it. I've decided if I ever take a prisoner, they may be locked up or kept watch on, but I will never chain them. 

Except perhaps Mickey. 

Speaking of Mickey, he comes in now. 

"Good evening, Sophie," he whispers. 

"Good evening, Michael," I say. I know to say. 

"You had me very fooled, didn't you? Here, I thought you had reserved yourself to feeling nothing at all, " he says, leaning down to me. "But there is a spark of passion somewhere in there, isn't there?" 

"Yes, Michael." 

"But not for me," he says. 

"For freedom," I tell him, glancing up with my one good eye. This hits him like a load of bricks. This pushes him back, until he is pressed against the cold concrete wall, just staring at me. 

"You understand nothing!" he shouts at me. "You – living your little lives. You – fearless in your preserved city, eating what those before you had left! Smoking drugs! Illiterate! All of you! You think you understand true values? True concern for an idea? A way of life?" He comes forward now, gripping my hair as he tears off the mask. He holds my good eye to his scarred face and says; "You will not die, Sophie. I won't allow it. You have suffered now, and perhaps it will give you some perspective. You'll return to work at the hotel, and you will never see me again. Do you understand?" 

Frankly, I don't. 

"Yes, Michael."

I re-enter the hotel that night, and no one says boo to me. Everyone goes about their work. We eat in silence. We clean the Eating Room in silence. We retire to our beds in silence, and Michael doesn't come for me. 

I'm re-working events in my head, and I don't understand why he returned me to the general population. If Brie had wanted to 'take me', as she said, from the beginning, why wasn't I removed? 

I am so lost in thought that it takes me a moment to realize Martha is whispering at me in the next bed; 

"What happened?" she's saying. I look, and I see almost eveyone else is sitting up, waiting to know. 

"I killed two of them," I say, "and took Mickey's eye." 

"Is that why..."

"Yeah." 

Eveyone's just grinning for a moment, before Amy says, 

"How did you do it?" 

"Every night in the eating room, I would pocket a knife on the chance I wouldn't get searched that day." 

A small bark comes from the back of the room. It's followed by another. And another. 

Soon we're all barking – something we used to do when a raiding party came back successful. 

Two old ones burst through the door, but they just stare as we all bark, the volume rising. 

"Stop it!" one of them shouts. 

We bark louder.

"All of you! Stop it!" 

I let my bark exend into a howl – and the others quiet down. In a moment, the room is silent. 

I'm grinning under my blanket. They can't possibly punish all of us. 

They lead us in our nightwear out of the hotel, through the broken streets in bare feet until we come to an old building. We're given huge hammers that we can barely move, and told to knock it down. 

If we do it quick, perhaps we can be back in time for lunch. 

But the day turns so hot. We're so tired and hungry. The hammers are too heavy to use as weapons, so we can only work under their gun barrels. 

We don't make it home for lunch, but we do make dinner. 

* * * 

The event falls into memory. My experiences with Mickey become a memory. My routine is like the others – I get up, I work. I eat a little, then work 'till dinner. I work, then go to bed. Rinse and repeat. Every week Brie comes to take a look at how my eye is healing. She's replaced the bandage with a small black patch, like pirates wore. This makes me the village freak, which satisfies. 

Days turn into weeks again, the repetition takes over, and even I stop thinking of escape. Constantly, of escape. Of rebellion. 

I am convinced that nothing could stir any of us. Things are too hard as it is, to risk making them worse. 

Five weeks after I lost my eye we're at work in the sewing room. Today's work consists of three quilts, with ten girls working on each. My fingers move deftly and quickly – the work will be done when it's done, and we work swiftly to help it end sooner rather than later.  But today, the motony is broken again;

"Alright, look alive bitches!" a megaphone shouts from the indoor courtyard of the hotel. "Fresh meat!" 

Martha looks at me from across the sewing table and cocks an eyebrow. 

"'Fresh meat'?" 

"I didn't hear a lot of cars moving," I whisper. 

"You know how to sew?" I hear an old one say, distant behind me. 

"Just wounds," she tells her. I stiffen like a board, and my heart begins to thrash. I know it before Martha says; 

"Crow." 

* * * 

She sits across from me at dinner in the Eating Room. 

"Jesus Christ," she whispers. "What's with the patch?" 

"Remember the one with the mask?" I say. She nods. "I stabbed him in the eye with a butter knife." 

"One of these?" 

"Yeah," I nod. "What the fuck happened to you?" 

"I found Cypress under the Forks – he got us out in time," she says. 

"Where did you go?" 

"Grand Beach. We stayed the winter at a cabin there." 

"Wh... why'd you come back?" I whisper. 

"It's a long story," she grins. I've missed her so much. I feel like crying. 

"I thought you were dead," she tells me. 

"I thought you were dead," she laughs, but wipes away a tear. 

"HEY! No talking!" A huge old one stands beside our table, her rifle in our faces. Crow and I both go back to eating. 

"I'll tell you everything tonight," I whisper. 

* * * 

one day i was walking by / with a walkman on when i caught a guy / givin' me the awkward eye / so i strangled him off in the parkin' lot / with his karl kinnard / i don't give a fuck if it's dark or not / i'm harder than me, tryin' to park a Dodge / when i'm drunk as fuck / right next to a humongous truck / in a two-car garage

so from here on out it's the chronic two / start a new day, tomorrow's anew / and yet i'm still loco enough t'choke ya to death with a charleston chew

* * * 

"It was Brie who guessed Cypress had planted a bomb at the Forks – she ordered us all out, and for a while we were scattered across the city. They took the Tower and hunted us. If we ever tried to go home they were there, with tranquilizer darts. Phoebe officially surrendered when they got to the Tower, but a good half of us made it away. 

They hunted us down. It took about a month for them to get all of us. A week before the first snow, they chained us all together and started to walk us South. 

It was a long, long fuckin' walk. Eventually, we get here, to Grand Forks, and they set up shop. I'm almost positive they've got three different locations. One for us, one for them, one for the boys." 

"They do," Crow whispers in the bed next to mine. For about ten minutes now, we've been able to maintain a level of volume that no one outside the room can hear. 

"And now, that's it," I say. "We work all day, for them. Sleep for six hours. Rinse and repeat. What happened to you?" 

I hear her shift in the bunk – she's looking at me. 

"We left Grand Beach as soon as the snow started melting. Only stopped in Winnipeg for a day – Cypress was sure you guys were here." 

"Where is he?" 

"I dunno. He'd gone scouting when they nabbed me. Most likely he knows where I am, by now." Her eyes flash in the pale light. "He'll be here soon." 

"But what could he do? There are so many of them," Lori says. Crow shakes her spiky head, just as the door bursts open. 

"Evening," Cypress says. He's at the door. 

Cypress it at the door. "Making quite a bit of noise in here," he grins. 

I'm out of bed in a shot, squeezing him. For some reason I'm not even conscious of Crow there – it's good to see him again. 

"Where are the guards?" Amy asks. . 

"Passed out," he says. 

"Gas?" I cock an eyebrow at him. 

"Staff upside the head." 

I turn and look at the room – someone hit the lights and they're all sitting up, staring at him. For a moment, I get a flash in my head of a catholic girl's school with all the tiny girls in their white nightgowns staring curiously down the hall, like uniformed angels. 

"They're all out?" Crow says, hopping from her bed and shedding the nightgown – she's wearing her old field clothes underneath. 

"Every one – there's a shift change in two hours, though," he tells her, lighting her a smoke before handing one to me. 

"When should they wake up?" 

"Four hours or so, give or take. Either way – two hour safety net." 

"Sophie, go get the others," she says. 

"They're up the hall," I nod, scampering out of the room in bare feet and hopping over an unconscious guard. 

I don't walk – I run. The door is locked, but a sturdy kick opens it and five shapes sit up inside. 

"All the guards are out," I say. "General meeting in my room. Set?" 

They just stare at me. 

"Fuck off, you guys – the guards are out, Cypress is here – meeting in my room. Set." 

"Cypress is here?" 

"I'm not fuckin' with you – are we set?"

"Set," Jennifer nods. 

"Set." 

* * * 

Cypress has brought a map of the city, and is highlighting points. 

"This is the factory where the boys are," he circles a block about a mile away. "This is us, and this is where the old ones are holed up. It's a mansion five miles north." 

We all nod. Just like that. 

Things change in a moment. 

"Weapons?" I say. 

"Here," he puts a red dot three blocks away. 

"Ours?" 

"No – I don't know what they did with them," he says. "For all I know, they're back in Winnipeg. But there's rifles, machine guns, everything here." He points at the red dot, before turning back to us. 

"There's only twenty-six of you left?" he says. 

"They took the others," Jennifer says. Jennifer has a voice that always sounds something like a moan. "They took the strong ones first." 

I'm sitting, crosslegged in the middle of us – Crow is leaning against the far wall, and she's growing impatient; 

"Who's ready to make a run for those weapons? It's dark, we could end this by morning." 

Cypress goes to say something, but stops. 

"Not yet," he says. 

"Why not?" For a second, I was sure I had only said it in my head. But he's looking at me. "It's only three blocks." Something is different about Cypress. He seems to radiate good faith, while his speech is almost cold. 

"Not tonight," he says. "Something's up." 

"Where?" Crow says. He shakes his head, closes his eyes and turns East. 

"I don't know." 

"What do you mean, you don't know?" Crow snaps at him – I don't understand what they're talking about. 

"I mean I don't know, alright? I'm stressed out, it's hard to get centered." 

"Put it to a vote," Crow says, turning to the rest of us. "The weapons are three blocks away – this is our chance. Do we go?" 

"Set," the small crowd barks at her. She nods, and turns triumphantly to Cypress. He only shakes his head. 

"Something's not right," he tells her. "You don't feel it? They know." 

"How could they-" 

"They know." 

"Cypress, we're making a run on those weapons with or without you. Are you in, or what?" 

* * * 

I can't get the Little Angel picture out of my head as I watch everyone pour down the stairwell – all in the long white nightshirts. We look like fluttering ivory bells with hair. 

Cypress leads us down into the lobby, and pushes open the doors to the city with his staff. We step out into the night, and freeze. 

"Thought you'd waltz on in, did you?" Brie says from behind her men. Thirty or so of them. Cypress just leans on his staff as some of us dash back into the hotel. Seven stay with him. 

"I did waltz in. It'll just take fancier moves to get out." 

"Take him," Brie says to no one in particular. And then suddenly, Cypress drops to his knees. Crow shrieks as his face smacks into the concrete, and two old ones rush forward to retrieve him. She moves to jump forward to intercept, but Cypress doesn't stay down. He yanks what looks like a pin from his neck, and slashes out in a big awkward arc as he stumbles to his feet and forward. It's not as elegant as usual, but the two old ones fall in four blood-splattering pieces onto the concrete – thuTHUD thudthud. 

Cypress manages to regain his balance, wipes the sword and sheathes it with a regained ease. For a moment, everyone just stares at him. Remember when you were a kid, and your uncle pulled off his thumb? You stared, and just couldn't grasp how it was done. So, we stare at Cypress. 

"Again!" Mickey roars. 

"No!" Brie snaps. "Two will kill him." 

"Well one didn't do much!"  Brie seems to grow, bearing down on Mickey, her hand raised. He shies from her. He's terrified of her. And to me it's like the first time you beat your Alpha at something. You stare, 'cause it never occurred to you that you were equals. Just people. Not characters or creatures, but thoughts and wills and good intentions gone wrong. If she can scare him, so can I.  Brie's saying something, and now twenty old ones pour forward and surround Cypress. And Cypress does something very very strange. He bows his head, and seems larger in the shoulders. Even the lights around us – the lights of the hotel, the lights of the cars dim around him. He reaches out his hand to an old one. Staring, almost blankly – but his eyes burn all the same. He's not reaching for the man's hand. He's reaching for his head.

"Oh God no," Crow whispers. I open my mouth to ask her, but a spray of bullets erupts from the circle – it's just one of them – he's slaughtering the others around the swordsman. And now Cypress spins and lashes out with the sword, and what was twenty is now eight. The old one who started firing – the others shoot him until he's dead on his feet, and he collapses, steaming on the bloody concrete. 

"Why did-" But Crow claps her hand around my mouth and draws me back into the building. "Quiet," she whispers. "Everyone – retreat." 

"What?" 

"Back!" she hisses, spreading her arms like wings and fanning us backwards into the lobby. As the doors close, she nods to a few others; "Bar the door." 




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?" 




smokeSCREEN : book6.1



* * * 

4:20

* * * 

you're looking down again / and then you looked me over / we're laying down again / on a blanket in the clover / the same boy you've always known / well i guess i haven't grown // same boy you've always known // 

* * * 

* * * 

After two weeks, we're suddenly a family. 

Given that it's year fourteen, it falls to Floor One to make a new claim for leadership. Seeing as Floor One's leader is Phoebe, she's back in the saddle again but infinitely more easygoing. We have a steady rotation of scouts in the city around us, plus a full compliment of sentries around the tower walls, but most of the effort is put into repairing our way of life. With Martha wanting more work on cars, I opted to get our greenhouse working again and headed to the basements. 

In my Fortress of Underground Solitude I'm keenly unaware of the social goings-on around, but I observe a lot through my floor. The boys are integrating, perfectly. 

Josh has developed a keen instinct for keeping Lisa satisfied as she either regains her health or gets worse – we really can't tell – and Phoebe was kind enough to assign him as Lisa's personal Nurse until she's up and about again. He makes sure she's well-fed, clean, entertained and anything else he can set his mind to. Justin, strangely enough, quietly goes about his menial duties as a scout and guard without complaining. Much like Cypress, he's strangely serious about it all, but enjoys it nonetheless. 

I'm staring at him over one of Cypress's old National Geographics right now – I like the pictures. Or that's my explanation – I'm staring at Justin, who is eating a breadstick. 

What right does he have to be so cheery? 

"So you're down in the Growhouse now," he says suddenly – I purposefully look up from my magazine. 

"Why?" is all I can think to ask. 

"Maybe… Phoebe thought it was best?" 

"No, I mean why do you ask?" 

"Nothin', just… I hear you guys were all into growin' pot." I cock the brow over my eye. 

"Uh-huh?" 

"Well, it's been like, a long time, and I could…" he pauses, like he's not sure if he should proceed, but adds, "I could sure go for a good hoot." 

My cocky eyebrow has settled – what? 

"I thought you guys never smoked pot." 

"Well, you see magazines, you find it, you try it – whatever." 

"How many of you?" 

"Smoke?" 

"Yeah." 

"Three that I know of, self included." 

A broad smile spreads across my face, and I point a finger. 

"You're totally a chronic, aren't you?" 

"What's chronic?" 

"Gram a day." 

"Well, yeah." 

"Fuck – let's go smoke a bowl." I thumb over my shoulder towards the stairwell and he nods, munching on the breadstick as we go. 
 He needed a redeeming quality. 

We share that bowl, and many more as the days start to swing by. Phoebe's impressed with my work, and when Reiko from Floor six applied for my post as an Alpha, Phoebe shot her down and let me pick a new assistant instead. Reiko was assigned to the courtyard garden. 

For first few weeks she came down here every few days, borrowing this or that, all the while making snitty comments about my fledgeling crop. Reiko all tall and perfectly-proportioned and cute with her almond eyes and full lips and the only thing that gets that bitch out of my mind wears a worn-out baseball cap.

Today, he comes up behind me as I lean my jaw on my knuckles, staring at a little budlet that's seen fit to pop up. 

My vision goes black, and I bat Justin's hand away, not looking from my tiny plant. 

"Stop doing that," I tell him.

"This place looks so much better." 

"Well, they fucked up the lights pretty bad, I had to do some running around to replace 'em." 

"What's that?" 

He's looking over my shoulder, I can tell. 

"It's my plant." 

"What kind?" 

"Tobacco." 

"Wacky tabacky?" 

"The wackiest." I finally turn to him, and smile as he presents me with a plate of food. Good food, too – the kitchen's been running for ten days, now. 

"This is all you guys grow?" 

"We keep the veggies one floor down," I tell him through my food. "I'll get to that in a couple of weeks." 

"So, I'm doin' my circuit, right?" 

I know this voice – this is 'Justin's-got-something-he-thinks-is-important' voice, and I roll my eye as I eat. 

"And guess what trots right up to me, not growlin' or nothin?" 

"What?" 

"A big fuckin' black wolf." 

"Fuck off." 

"Phoebe's got it upstairs – it's friendly as all Hell, too. We think it's Cypress's." 

"This I gotta' see," I put my plate down. 

"What, right now?" 

I pause. Should we…?

"Alright, one bowl," I nod. 

"Atta girl." 

* * * 

Stoned out of our minds, my toque and his baseball cap pulled down low over our eyes, we wander, giggling, upstairs. 

Justin's great being stoned with – I do get the vibe, but everyone else probably does too, he's so Goddamn friendly. Point is, he makes you laugh a lot. It takes us a while to get out to the courtyard, and when we do a circle's already formed around Phoebe and the wolf. 

It's weird, even though she sold us out to the old ones, everyone's had a renewned faith in Phoebe. She seems to be making all the right calls, though I personally don't buy it. 

She's sitting in front of the wolf, stroking it's head. As soon as I step into view the beast jumps to her feet and trots over to me.

"Hi Douglas," I say politely. The wolf isn't as scary as Crow made it out to be. 

"How did you know his name?" 

"Her name – Crow told me." 

Phoebe shakes her head and stands. 

"I thought you knew what to do when and if this dog showed up," she says. 

"He just told us to wait for the wolf," Justin recites, kneeling to the shaggy beast. "Now what? Woof."

Douglas is not amused. She looks up at me, puzzled as she pants. 

Now she looks questioningly, asking 'why did you leave them?'

"It's not like she tried to get me to follow her or anything," Justin shrugs.

"But still, he sent her up here," Martha says. "That means they're alive." 

"That means he's alive. Michelle and Richard could be dead," Justin says. 

"And the others." 

"We're a decent size already – sixty can hold its own." 

"That's not the point-" 

"Sophie – what does the dog want?" Phoebe snaps at me. 

Pressure. 

I look at Douglas, and she pants up at me in the hot sun. 

"The dog wants water." 

* * * 

Douglas seems to like me. I say this because she won't go away, not that she's offered deeper insight into Cypress's situation. The Alphas are meeting right now up in Fourteen with Phoebe to discuss a broader plan. Do we stay and wait for Cypress? Do we continue the River plan? Does Justin like me? Like, like me like me?

"Who are you talking to?" Anze pops an eyebrow at me. 

"What?" 

I just noticed her. She's carrying two five-pound bags of weed. Her hair, once a brilliant green is a pale, pale off-white. I'd never noticed how white it was before – but her natural color is closer to silver than blond. 

For some reason, it makes her eyes greener. 

"Why are you staring at me like that?" she asks, stepping back. 

"I'm not." I pull my toque down. 

"You're totally stoned." 

"I'm the official Tower Potgrower, d'think I'm a nun?" 

Her jaw drops and she shrieks, "You fucked Justin!" 

My jaw drops and I shout, "What? I'm stoned! Who fucked Justin?" 

"You." 

"Since when? I hope it was good." 

I find a smoke – it's real good. Smokes are always better when you're stoned. 

"Well did you?" 

"I just said, no. He's not sayin' that, is he?" 

And now she blushes a deep pink as she says;

"Well, no, you just hear things." 

"From who?" 

"Wwww…. Where do I put these?" she asks. 

"Hold your arms out." 

"How?" 

"Hold the bags out – stretch your arms." 

"Ah… okay…" 

"Okay – hold it," I tell her. 

"What?" 

"The bags go right there. Now who said what?"

She drops her arms, and sticks out her tongue. 

"You can't torture me, it's against Tower rules, I'm not tellin' you shit." 

"Did he say something?" I ask as she trots off to the Dry Room. 

She spins, walking backwards as she goes, sticks out her tongue again and says, "Not shit." The whole thing might have been very sharp if she hadn't smacked right into Him, of all people. 

As he helps her up, she whispers, "Did you sleep with her?" 

"Anze!" I bark. 

"Did she say that?"

"Sorry – I'm stupid," she tells him, giggling. He hands her the second bag as she adds, "I'm stoned," and walks off. 

Huh… she didn't seem stoned to me. But it does explain a lot – she's been acting weird, despite working out well as an assistant. 

Nevermind – Justin's walking up now. I can't pull the toque quite low enough, but before I try I can tell he's smiling. 

"Are you goin' around tellin' people we're all together?" I ask quickly, dryly. 

"Never said shit. But whatever – people talk, it's what they do." 

"I guess so." 

Let me say, firmly, that Justin and I have never held hands. Never kissed. Neverwhatever. It's been five weeks, and there've been no signs, no hints. Just a vibe – sorta. 

I turn around and look back to my plants. They're getting big pretty quick. 

And why would there be signs, or hints? I remind myself. 'Cause who wants a five-foot-cyclops, covered with scars?

"Jesus, you're good at this." 

"It's a miracle," I nod at them, proudly. 

"Pfft – act of God?" He shakes his head, and says, "It's an act o'Sophie." 

I grin widely, but inside take a long, sad sigh. I'm glad he's on my left side, 'cause he won't be able to see my patch when he invariably-

"Give it back," I snap. 

"Why do you always wear this thing?" He twirls my toque on long fingers.

"Why do you always wear that stupid cap?" I point at his old, worn red hat.

"It's not stupid! Bubba-Gump Shrimp! Don't you remember that fuckin' movie with the on on the bench – the guy from Saving Private Ryan? My dad made us watch it a million times, it was awesome." 

And I'm taken aback. But still I point at my toque and say, 

"That's a… it's mine." 

I open my hand for it, and he drops the his BubbaGump cap into it, pulling my toque over his eyes. 

"Christ, it fits," he grins. "Trade?" 

"Are you serious?" 

"Would'ja?" 

I try the cap and it fits. 

"Totally." I'm grinning too, now. 

"This is why people think you're sleeping together," Anze calls – we peer back at her. She's holding another two bags. 

"Get back to work, Babe," I snap at her, and she continues on. 

"'Babe'?" asks Justin. 

"It's her rank, 'cause she's so much younger than all of us." 

"She's nineteen." 

"No she's not, she's seventeen. In three months she'll be eighteen," I tell him. 

"Are you sure?" 

"Positive – I was her babysitter." 

"You were not a babysitter…" she hurries off to the Curing Room for another pair of bags. 

"No, I just had to teach her everything because she couldn't figure it out." 

"Yeah? Like what?" she calls back. I wait 'till she's out of earshot and whisper, 

"Like her period." 

Justin nods, and says; "What's a period?" 

"Nevermind – make yourself useful, grab the end of this and help me move it." 

"I'm just fuckin' with you – I know what it is," he leans down and places his hands deep underneath the table and lifts the whole thing, plants and all.

Ooh, tough guy, I'm thinkin'. Way to impress me. That's right – hold it for a second. 

"…really," I grin. 

"Yeah – I can read. The period comes at the end of a sentence." 

"You can read?" I nod, giving my best I'm-impressed face. 

"S'why I got busted down to nurse," he nods.

Keep holdin' it up, tough guy. 

"…really." 

"Where would'ja like this?" 

"Too heavy?" 

"No, just wanna' be productive." 

"Down that hall, a hundred yards – tenth door on the left." 

"Fuck off…" He sets it back down again, and frowns at me. "You're messin' with me." Accusing eyes. Have I told you about his eyes? 

"Anze?" I call over my shoulder. "Where's the Blueberry Room?" 

"Hundred and twenty yards – eleventh door on the right." 

He glances down at the picture of blue berries, stuck into the middle of the trays of plants. Not the colour of real blueberries – more of a sky blue. 

"You were gonna' have me go a hundred twenty yards?" 

I pout and bat my eye, and do my best ingenue; "Well I'm so weak and helpless, you strong manny-man." 

"This is why people think you're- " 

"Shut up, Anze!" 

He looks down, and nudges the concrete with the steel toe of his boot. 

"…I'm not all tryin' to impress you." 

"Well if you are, I'm totally not fallin' for it." 

"This is why people-"

Justin spins to her and says quickly, calmly; 

"Anze, I'll smoke a bowl with you later if you just… shyaddup." 

She mimes locking her lips and throwing away the key, and returns to moving the bags. 

Justing leans against the countertop and looks back at her with me. 

"Since when is she out of the kitchen permanent?" 

"She asked for a transfer," I say. "One of the guy soldiers wanted to go in for kitchen duty, as a chef. The guy soldier was replaced by Donna, the old assistant, who wanted more action. Phoebe offered me a new assistant, so Anze's here full-time." 

He nods, "Phoebe's real cool about that stuff, huh?" 

"She is now. She's totally different." 

"Anze's comin' along as a good little stoner," he says, lighting a cigarette. 

"I know – I even have her passing a joint the right way." 

I light a smoke for myself, and we're content to puff for a moment or two.
 "…and I wasn't all tryin' to be sweet when we traded caps," he reassures me. 

"Well don't think I was," I shrug. "I got ten more of those upstairs." For some reason his face goes limp, and he nods. 

"Oh," mumbling, "…that's cool." 

"Hey," I punch his shoulder. "I like it. It's cool. Now help me move this. Lift at the knees, here we go…" 

* * * 

* * * 

dead leaves and the dirty ground when i know you're not around / shiny tops and the soda pops when i hear your lips make a sound

thirty notes in the mailbox will tell you that i'm comin' home / and i think i'm gonna' stick around for a while so you're not alone

if you can hear a piano fall you can hear me comin' down the hall / if i could just hear your pretty voice, i don't think i need to see at all

* * * 

* * * 

And so, it finally becomes clear to me, what everyone else had known for weeks; 

I love him. Previously, I'd acknowledged to myself I had something of a crush on him, being such a damn nice guy and all… 

But now it's clear to me, so naturally I'm depressed – wallowing in my plants. Because even having established that I'm all about Justin, I'm still left with the fact that Justin treats everyone as nice as he treats me. And so I wallow in my work. 

Right now I'm going over a table of budding plants, searching for the males. I patiently going from plant to plant with a magnifying glass, squinting my one good eye. 
 Allow me to let you in on a little marijuana horticulture; it's the female plants that produce THC – the chemical that gets you high. They produce this to attract the male plants – to entice the males to start making pollen. Once the females are pollenated, they shut down THC production. If they're not pollenated, they'll continue until it's dripping off. Obviously, the male plants are kept on a separate floor. 

But in every new crop of plants, there's bound to be males, and it's always best to find 'em before they even start to really leaf. So I squint into the magnifying glass with my one good eye.

"You okay?" Anze sips her morning coffee. She was up late with Justin last night – he shared a lot more than one bowl with her – their chatting in the common area kept me up 'till two or so. 

"Got one of those for me?" 

"Is that my job now?" 

"Yes – you're the assistant." 

"Losta cream, lotsa sugar?" she holds up a big mug. 

"Yeah…" I reach for it. "Thanks." 

She leans against the counter with me and we each take a long sip, and a long breath. 

"Who made this coffee?" 

"Some ex-soldier guy Herskie," she shrugs. 

"It's pretty good." 

"Yeah, all this time we thought they couldn't cook…" 

"You're really growing up," I tell her. She shrugs again. 

"We all grew up. Why is that dog always here?" Anze points her toe at Douglas, who lies sleeping under a table of plants. 

"She's a wolf, Anze – give her some respect." 

"So she's yours now?" 

"She likes me, for some reason." 

"Do you get anything from her?" 

"Nothin'. She just sleeps," I say. In response, Douglass huffs and turns her head in the opposite direction. "…but she listens to me." 

Anze frowns and says, "That's creepy. So Justin and I talked for a while last night." 

"I know, you kept me up." 

"So you know what he said?" 

"No, I just heard the sound of it – just natter-natter-natter-natter-natter-natter for like, three hours straight." 

"Whatever, he said he wanted to party a little before he had to go out on that big three-day scouting run…" 

She sips her coffee, nodding. Green, green eyes sparkling. I wish my eye was as bright as… one of hers. 

"What did he say?" 

"About what?" 

"About me." 

She sips her coffee and says, "So you're curious, now." 

"Gimmie a break, Anze," I sigh into my mug. She's a good head taller than me now, finally had her last growth spurt – my baby girl. "What'd he say?" 

"He doesn't understand why you don't like him." 

"He thinks I don't like him?" 

"So you do?" 

"Of course I…" 

"Hm," she grins. "I'll have to pass that along." 

"Anze. Come on." 

She shrugs, sets her mug down and finds a cigarette. Lighting it, she takes a drag before telling me, "He actually said… he said he doesn't understand why you never visit him." 

"We talk all the time." 

"No – he comes down here all the time. You never go see him on his shift." 

"He's all the way out on scouting runs, how would I find him?" 

"He does guard shifts at night." 

"I sleep at night." 

She throws up her hands before grabbing the coffee cup – she's done. 

"That's just what he told me," she says, walking off to the dry room. "I'll be finished the bags today, what am I starting on next?" 

"You wanna' learn how to grow?" I ask. 

"Well – yeah," she nods.

"Good, you'll plant your first crop." I flip open a binder of symbols and trace my finger to a particular group of bags. The previous grower kept perfect records, based on a system of symbols of her own design – a series of coloured pictures with a series of numbers. I grab the crayons and quickly copy the crop name and location to a card, and hand it to Anze. 

"This is the number for an O-bag," she says, and I nod. 

"Yeah – I'm gonna' show you how to process seeds straight off the bud. After that, I'll show you how to find the male plants – it'll be fun." 

She grins and hurries off to her work as I sip my coffee. Shit – I should have asked her for a cigarette, and I sigh down at my plants.

Why would he want a cut-up midget? 

The dark clouds storm over my head again until Anze comes back in with the O. As I remove a stick of bud from the bag and she seals it back up before sitting beside me and saying, 

"He's totally into you." 

I needed that. 

* * * 

Stupid scouting runs. Why go all the way south? The dogs could be back. They could be back. There was way too many of them, and Cypress couldn't kill them all. 




smokeSCREEN : book6.1



Three days. "Three Goddamned days!"

Anze pauses, looking up from her Novel, as she calls it.

"He'll be back Friday," she reassures me. 

"Who?" 

She narrows her eyes at me. 

"Are you oblivious to even yourself? You spend way too much time in that growhouse." 

"The growhouse is wicked – Justin thinks he could find a stereo for it. So then it'd just be me, and you and… y'know, whatever – walk-ins." 

"Sophie, what is wrong? 

"Crow's gone! And she was it for me, she was my friend." 

"I was your friend!"

"She was my best friend. Like you an' Diane." 

"…poor Diane…" 

"God rest'er soul," I mumble, nodding. "You know exactly what I'm feeling, somewhere deep down inside that airhead brain of yours." Her childrens' book's shiny cardboard cover makes a slapping sound as she slams it shut.

"Airhead? Look, you don't get it. You talk? To no one except me, and him. You spend all day in the growhouse, and you come up to sleep." 

"I'm working hard." 

"Yes, gowing weed – everyone's real proud of you, it's looking like great stuff, but Sophie… when are you gonna' come out into the Sun?" 

"I'm tan."

"You're Latino." 

I huff and flop down onto the couch beside her. 

"Seriously, Sophie. They're not comin' back." She pats my shoulder – got a warm hand for such a skinny chick. 

"He got us out." 

"And we waited for him, he didn't come," she tells me. I find a cigarette, lighting it and inhaling quick. My eye scans the room. A few table lamps this late at night – two candles on the table in front of us with the hookah. The stereo – Anze and I have been listening to a lot of White Stripes and Tea Party lately, and The Badger's on now. It's comforting, even though she's right. …she must be. 

"He sent Douglas," I say more for my benefit than hers. 

"Maybe to say goodbye." 

"Goodbye for now – we're alive somewhere," I pat the wolf's head when she comes up beside me. Why is this thing so damn affectionate?

"You gotta' start moving on." 

"But we're not… whole." 

"Hey, no way…" She sits on the coffee table in front of me and looks me straight in the eye, saying, "You, me, every one of us? We're whole on our own. Cool people just compliment what's already there." 

Huh. 

How should one respond? 

"Who told you that?" 

"Cypress," she grins, shrugging ever-so-cutely. 

"Didn't know you were that close." 

"Oh, we weren't – we only really talked five or six times, but he was nice to me." 

"Cypress was nice to everyone." 

"Like Justin," she nods. I narrow my eye at her. 

"Aren't we the sharp one lately?" 

"Well think about this, Sophie – remember way back when? That night Cypress ran off, and Crow went after him? What if you'd been the one running after him? Who would he have picked? Did you want to?" 

"Well, I-" 

She shakes her pretty silver hair and says, "Doesn't matter. Question is this; Justin's camping a four hour's bike south – it's marked on the map in the main hall. Do you wanna' be in the grow house, or out there with him?" 

Well shut me up. 

"You still got your bike?" 

"Skateboard," she shrugs. 

"Better," I nod. 

* * * 

Klackity-klackity-klackity-klackity-klackity-klackity-klackity-klackity-klackity-

 I whip along the old cracked Osbourne sidewalk. I like the sidewalks, sorta – it's like counting. 

But now I drop onto the generally more uniform pavement and speed up. I want to get there before two AM, so I decide to pass the time with music. I press play on Cypress's old discman and nod my head – Zeppelin had been a good choice.

I pass confusion corner and continue south – it's pretty beat-up, but I manage. 

A lot of being a stoner is trusting yourself to make the right choice the first time you're presented with a problem, so you won't have to be worrying about it later. You learn to trust your instincts. Yes, Zeppelin had been a good choice. 

I wonder if I remembered to bring my bowl? 

I did remember smokes. 

Looking to my right, Douglas trots along with me, asking if I brought her food. 

"Well I didn't know you were comin'," I shrug. She snorts and trots off to investigate something. 

And I sigh, trying to speed up. 

I'll be talking to myself for a while.

* * * 

I see a light far up ahead down the highway. Checking the stars, I figure it's just after three in the morning. My legs are killing me but Douglas trots briskly ahead, happy with the exercise. She turns to me and cocks her head to the side; 

'Come on, come on – it's not much further,' she's telling me. 'Don't slow down now.' 

I'm real tired, but the thought of a soft bed and Douglas's support push me for another two whole miles. I can't really feel my lower half when I roll towards the parking lot the scouts are camping in. 

"Who's there!" a boy shouts. 

"Friendly!  Sophie!" I call back. 

"…I don't know a Sophie…" he mumbles. 

"Sophie?" someone stands up from behind a pup tent and looks for me. He's wearing the toque. 

"Yeahyeahyeah – the Pot Girl," someone tells them. 

"Well keep it down!" a girl shouts from inside her dark tent. Justin puts a finger to his lips and creeps over to me, wide-eyed. 

"What the fuck are you doin' out here?" he whispers. 

"The dog wanted to go for a walk." 

Douglas is already curled up by the fire, quite content. 

"What about the pack up there?" 

"Pack of what?" 

"Dogs – psycho dogs." 

"Never saw one." 

"Jesus, Sophie, they coulda' killed you." 

"Hey – I'm here, I'm fine. I brought you a present…" 

"…smokes?" 

I hold up a pack of Reds. 

"And weed," I grin. 

He smiles and cocks his head to the side, adding, "You think of everything." 

So far so good. 

* * * 

We go for a walk – him and I, alone together. It's August so it's still real warm, and the stars are so clear and the sky so broad and twinkly, we're ants walking along a trail in some unimaginably big yard. 
 Justin and I go for a walk, and I don't mention that I feel I'm about to collapse – I'm too happy. I don't tell him how bad my legs ache – this is fine. We're all alone, in the middle of nowhere. I want to think more about the stars, but I'm thinking about his face. Sharp features. At first the sharpness of his nose bothered me, but… 

I wasn't going to say what he looks like. 

But his nose works. The hazel eyes and brown hair and broad grin and four-day stubble and heavy black toque and military sweater and boad shoulders work. 

"So I wanted to say I appreciate how much you've been coming down to the growhouse," I tell him. "It's really cool, you helping out and all." 

And he flashes that gorgeous grin of his. 

"No problem." 

I didn't want to tell you what he looked like. 

Damnit. 

"That's why you came all the way out here?" 

I nod. 

"Pretty much." Rooting around in my backpack, I pull out my pipe. "That, and I figured you might wanna' get stoned." 

"Can't," he says. "I'm on duty right now." 

"Oh, and is this a guard patrol circuit we're on?" I joke. 

"Well, yeah." 

"…oh." 

I thought we were having a walk – just him and I. I put the pipe away, and decide we still are – sort of. 

"So when does your shift end?" 

"Five," he sighs. "I get another three hours sleep before we set out for the border." 

"We're going all the way to the border?" 

"And from there to Grand Forks, if we think there's a need." 

"How come you just didn't take a few cars?" 

"…we did – two sedans." 

"My legs are killing me…" I sigh, stopping. He turns around and stares at me – he's shocked. 

"I… I gotta' finish my circuit," he tells me. I never see him carrying a gun, anymore – he looks good with a big rifle. He even looks good when he's shooting me down. 

"We're not that far from camp – I'll just go back," I say, but he shakes his head. 

"You don't have a weapon – what if a dog comes? Or a pack?" 

"I didn't see a single one," I remind him. 

"They chased us ten miles," he snaps back. "We were in the cars – they're starving." 

"How far away did you leave them?" I ask. 

"Not far enough, for my liking." 

I tap my boot and look back at the glimmering light of camp – a glow around a distant corner. 

"How far is your circuit?" I ask. 

He points west and says, "One hundred yards, another three hundred back north after I hit the old school." 

I sigh. What's another half a click?

I pull down the cap and take a step forward, but he stops me. 

"Hey – Energy-Girl – how are your legs? Really?" 

"They hurt." 

"How much?" 

"A lot – whatever, let's go." 

He slings the rifle from his shoulders and takes a knee. 

"C'mon," he tells me. 

"What?" 

"Piggyback." 

"You are not carrying me." 

"Look, you could like, damage yourself or something if you put your body through too much." 

"I'm fine to walk. They hurt, but I'm fine." He stands up. 

"You came out here 'cause you missed me?" 

"Not really," I shake my head. "I came 'cause I wanted you to know I did." 

He's grinning again – he won't stop. "I'll totally carry you if you want," he says. I kiss his cheek and push ahead. 

"I know you would," I tell him. 

He follows a few paces behind me, so I allow myself a grin of my own. 

* * * 

I smoke a bowl – assuring Justin it will wake me up. He doesn't partake, but I know he will once we're back at the camp. He's decided Billy is going to cover his shift – the guy wants more action anyway.

I mix it twice as he shields me from the wind with his hoodie on both sides, patiently waiting as I take perhaps too long, so close to his warmth. When I finally tap the bowl out he's looking around nervously. 

"What's wrong?" I decide to ask – doesn't look like he's just going to tell me. 

"You don't hear that?" 

"I don't hear shit," I tell him. 

"You're stoned – close your eye and focus on what you hear." 

I do. 

The wind. The grasses everywhere. We're close to the camp again – the distant fire. 

"It's coming from the camp," I tell him. 

"No it's not – something's following us." 

I listen. 

Nothing. Nothing. Something. 

The clickity-clack of claws on concrete. 

"It's probably Douglas," I tell him. 

"Douglas is sleeping by the fire – I saw her." 

"Douglas?" I call. 

Silence. 

Then the clickity-clackity – faster. Running. 

"Flashlight – flashlight!" he whispers. I get my fingers around it and click the big white button – the beam flashes out sharp and clear, and we can see for two blocks. 

I pull my butcher knife anyway. I've found so long as you keep it sharp, it's a great multi-purpose blade. 

"See? It's Douglas." 

She's poking her head around a building wall about fifty yards away. 

"That's not Douglas, it's brown," he tells me, loading a shell into the chamber. 

"It's black – it's Douglas." 

"You're just sayin' that 'cause it's dark." He squints through the scope. "Keep the light on it." 

"Forget it – it's Douglas." 

"Sophie, trust me –" 

"It's Douglas!" 

"You're stoned!" 

"Doesn't mean I'm wrong, you are so-" The boom of the rifle shuts me up, and I scream before I turn and see the corpse of that huge, bone-skinny wolf not three yards from us. I scream again, of course; "Oh, God!" and cover my mouth, turning to him. "I am so sorry – I trust you," looking at the body again, "Jesus Christ, good thing you didn't get stoned." 

"Good thing – look at this wolf," he says, reaching for the flashlight and leaning down to the body. 

"…what?"

"Right here – it's been written on. Like, on the skin." 

He points at the wolf's inside hind-leg. It's a series of numbers and we both look again before looking up at each other. 

"What the-" 

"-fuck?" he finishes. 

"What does this mean?" 

"Well, nothing unless it's on more of them." He borrows my butcher knife and cuts off the writing in one clean rectangle, rolling it neatly and placing it in his pack.  

"You're very professional," I tell him. He shrugs, so I ask, "What does it mean if it is on the other dogs?" 

"I dunno," he shakes his head. "If it's not nothin', I can't imagine what kind of somethin' it would be. …can you?" 

…huh.

* * * 

Billy's more than happy to be prodded awake for an extra shift – he wants to prove himself, so Justin and I quietly retire to his tent – a big round one he's set up with military precision. 

"I thought you were a… a Third?" I ask. He nods, so I add, "Why aren't you sleeping in the store?" 

"I'm running this mission," he whispers to me. "You have to be beside your men if you want them to respect you." 

"Where'd you hear that…lemmie guess…" 

"Hey, he mighta' been a psycho, but that guy knew his shit," Justin wags a finger at me as he sets down on his sleeping bag. I sit beside him and stretch my aching legs out in front. That's not comfy so I try to sit on them. That's worse, so I lay on my stomach as I go through my pack. 

"You brought a half an ounce?" 

"There's a lot of people out here," I tell him. 

"Got the budbuster?" 

"Locked and loaded…" I'm already turning the little wooden grinder. "Put a fresh screen in the bowl – the way I showed you." 

We prep the pot in silence, and not until we're halfway through the bowl does he finally break the silence and say, "What did Anze say to you?" 

I cock my head to the side. 

"How did you…? What did she say to you?"

"She told me that if I thought I might miss you on the trip to bring a double-sized sleeping bag." 

I look down. 

"You don't usually?" 

"What do I need a double for? And she told you…?" 

"She just asked me if I wanted to be down in the growhouse, or out here with you." I give my prettiest smile, "And here I am!" 

He's really blushing – he's so Goddamn cute, and he chuckles, 

"You're fairly confident alluva sudden." 

"Well what the Hell – you brought a double-sized bed." He goes redder. "What? You think I'm all about sleeping with you?" He pulls the toque down to the tip of his sharp nose and smokes the bowl blindfolded – silently holding it back. 

Damn. 

"I just did what Anze suggested," he shrugs.

"Anze's a child," I tell him. "But she's pretty smart, eh?" 

I set the bowl down and light two cigarettes, handing him one. 

"So you're not all pissed?" asks Justin finally. 

"Don't think so – move over." 

"What?" 

I push at his crossed legs, and he shoves over onto what will henceforth be known as His Side of the bed. Now I can stretch out on my back and God it feels good. 

"Thaaat's the shit," I sigh, staring up at the blue celing of the tent, lit by our tiny kerosene lamp. This is the shit. 

"Your legs still hurt?" he asks. 
 More a Throbbing Hind-Limb Hell than a hurt.

"A little." 

His hand's on my thigh. His other one's on my knee. It's not a sexual touch, more… medicinal. 

"What're you doing?" 

"I'm tryin' to make you feel better." 

I skateboarded for five hours – this is taking too long. Maybe when he tells me he's not trying to be sweet and he's not all about sleeping with me – maybe he means that. 
 This is taking way too long. 

"I got a question for you – c'mere," I tell him. He looks over at me, so I say, "c'mere" again and he leans up to my shoulder. I grab his hoodie and pull him closer. This close, so I can feel his breath on my face, and he says – I love this; 

"You… had a question?" 

"What wouldja' like to do? Right now?" I ask. And he finally lowers his eyes to my lips, finally leans in on his own, and snaps his head up, gazing into the wall of the tent. 

"Tell me you heard that," he says. 

"Heard what?" 

"We got action!" someone calls in the distance. 

"What does that mean?" I ask. He springs to his feet and snatches up the rifle as he goes to the door of the tent. 

"We're under attack," he tells me as he steps out. 

"From who?" 

"Does it matter?" He jumps out of my line of sight before poking his head back in. "Bring some weapons," he says. 

And he's gone again. 

Damnit. 

I go quickly through his big pack and discover a decent-sized handgun – it's not as big as I'd like – not enough stopping power, perhaps – but I also find three extra clips. It'll do. 

Damnit damnit! It's always something! Well that damn dog is gonna' suffer with me. 

"Douglas!" I snap as I step out of the tent. She sleepily opens an eye in my general direction. "Let's go!" 

She gives a deep, dissatisfied 'rrruf' as she hops to her long, spindly legs and trots in a perfect heel as I board east, in the direction of the gunfire. As we go, she's not looking at me or straight ahead. She looks up, at the skies. I see nothing but the twinkle of the milky way. More gunfire. 

"Get it off me!" 

More gunfire. I kick the board until Douglas has to break into a full-out run to keep up and zoom into the parking lot where we've been ambushed. It's snowing thick, heavy chunks, and the soldiers are coming in my direction – they're fleeing. All but one. 

"What the fuck is it?" I call. The three women and two men flee back to the safety of their tents. Justin stays, scanning the area. "Justin?" 

The board glides up to him across the still-smoothe pavement and I hop off, noticing it's not snow that falls around us – it's feathers. 

"Birds," he whispers. "Why would… birds attack us?" 

"Did we kill any?" 

Something hits me light a freight train in the back. I'm smashed into the concrete, and I look up to the talons of a huge brown eagle. It's trying to get at my face, but is happy to slash up my arms as it pecks at my head through the hat. 

Then – nothing. It draws back, hovering with its wings spread and frozen. Justin's got it by the shoulders – he's holding it steady, and it can't quite reach his fingers to peck at them.

I leap to my feet and hold out the gun. One in the head. 

It goes into spasms and he drops it. "Jesus Christ," he says. "How many more of them do you think there are?" 

"Look at the sky," I tell him. 

"It's night." 

"So? You're a scout – you know the stars – where are they?" 

My arms are bleeding pretty bad, but he looks up. 

"I only see… two big ones… maybe," he tells me. 

"Back to camp – back," I tell him, folding my arms into my chest and relying on the skateboard to propell me back to the bed, the smokes. 

We get twenty yards away before he stops. 

"I gotta' go back," he tells me. 

"Fuckoff." 

"I have to check something!" 

"Check it in the morning! Come on!" 

"Go! I'll be right there – get everyone inside the garage, it's only got two windows." 

I leap onto the board and keep going. I can hear a bird of prey screetching behind me. Maybe getting closer. But soon I'm back in the camp – it's empty, and I see a cigarette cherry burning in the garage door so I just keep going – right through until I skid to a stop inside the garage bay. 

"Birds? Fuckin' birds?" Wendy is shrieking. Someone's trying to calm her – speaking with that low, put-you-to-sleep voice. 

I'm staring back east, into the darkness. 

"…where is he?" I say. 

"Get serious – we didn't lose Justin to a buncha' birds!" a guy snaps. I hold out an arm. 

"They're pretty big," I tell him, and tap my foot. He was only going back twenty yards, where is he? "Douglas?" I look at the dog, expecting an answer. And I get one, as she rises to her feet and starts out ahead of me. "…fuck." 

"What?" 

"Someone has to go get him." 

"I'm sure as fuck not goin' out there," the snappy guy beside me says. "Look at your arms." 

"Sophie, let me see them," a guy with a medical kit is saying. 




smokeSCREEN : book6.1



"No, who is going after him?" 

No volunteers. 

"Someone go after him!" 

And someone does – I slap my board back down on the pavement. It wasn't that far. 

I find him – in the middle of a bunch of birds, blindly fending off the hugest vulture you've ever seen or read about in books. I couldn't guess its wingspan, and its beak is doing the greatest amount of damage to his shoulder as he tries to slash at with a knife. I pull out his gun and fire twice – the condor finally goes down and he chops its head off for good measure before going to work on its leg. 

"What are you doing?" 

He hacks the foot off and holds it up to me – there's a little band of plastic around its ankle. "They're numbered," he says. "All of them." 

"What?"

"Every one!"

I seize him by the collar and scream; 

"Are you insane? These things are going to kill you!" 

"…why didn't you bandage your arms?" 

"Look at your shoulder! Come on!" He nods and starts trotting back to camp, the legband around one of his fingers. But I can't keep up to a trot, my legs won't do it. And I can't keep my balance – I'm falling off my board and into his good arm, and I can feel him holding me up before I everything fades to white. 

* * * 

* * * 

wild thing / you make my heart sing / you make everything / grooveh // wild thing / wild thing i think you move me / but i wanna' know fo' sure / come anna' sock it to me one time // pop // 

* * * 

* * * 

'You move me…'

Jimi Hendrix serenades me as I wake up drooling on Justin's hoodie, stuffed in the back seat of a full-size sedan headed north. My arms are bandaged, along with a few tears I hadn't noticed in my side. Justin's got a long cut from his ear to his chin, along with two deeper ones on his neck and a nasty hole in his shoulder. His left arm is messed up, but he still grins at me when he sees I'm awake. 

"Headed home?" I ask. 

"Fuck yah," he nods. "How you like bein' a soldier again?" 

"I missed fieldwork," I laugh. 

"Why would you leave the garage?" 

"You were being attacked by giant birds, I had just cause," I stick out my tongue at him and he smiles, even though it probably hurts his cheek.

"My hero," he says, and he reaches an arm around me. He holds me close, and it doesn't seem as if he's going to let go. 

And I can sigh, and it's not sad. And I can smile, and it's not to cover something. Finally. 

"On our second date you'll hafta' cook for me," I tell him. 

* * * 

When we get back, Phoebe is not pleased that we didn't even make it to the border. It's decided we'll send out another, larger party soon. They'll take the vans we stole from the old ones and not leave them unless its crucial. Justin was given credit for the lives of the soldiers who survived the attack, and his rather large collection of Animal Numbers has landed him with a new job – Conspiracy Guy. 

Justin, along with Carly and Billy have first been comissioned to figure out approximately how old the Numbers are – pre or post-war – and then to come up with hypotheses for the Why. 

"Okay, okay – check it out. Bikers, right? Bikers were all about tattoos – they tattoed themselves all the time. Now Bikers made a lot of drugs, a lot of that was underground – they could have survived the war in their drug bunkers. Maybe there's a whole crew of bikers out there somewhere with an army of animals at their command." He nods confidently to himself, but his eyes beg my approval. 

"I've told you a billion times," I say, for the billionth time. "People used to tag animals for a living to like, keep track of them." 

"Do eagles live thirteen years?" 

"Fourteen, and I don't know – that's your job, you're the one who can read." 

"Yeah, but you're the one who can count – where are the smokes?" 

"Over here." 

"Don't get 'em wet." 

"They're not wet – dry your hands." 

He does as I light the cigarettes, and takes one before leaning back against the edge of the tub. He grins his easy grin at me and I smile back, 'cause I'm sure he means it. It's been two days since that ground-breaking hug, and we still haven't kissed. And fine, it might be neurotic or dependent or something, but when he didn't come down to the growhouse today I got worried and came looking for him. 

To my horror and boundless joy I interrupted his bath, and he decided I should stick around while he bounced Animal Conspiracy Theories off me. God, he's cut. Chiseled shoulders. Shoulders are a big thing for me with a guy – Cypress had nice shoulders, but Justin's broader in the chest and this makes for very clean lines tapering down to his hips, somewhere under the water. Mmmmm.

"What do you think they are? I'm not sure, but I don't think birds live that long," he says. 

"You wanna' know what I seriously think?" 

"I just asked." 

"Fine…"

And as I tell him, I take the opportunity to examine his shoulders again. I've got his face memorized already – I like him better in the black toque – so I'm concentrating on his torso. The cuts have already stopped bleeding – the pecked-out hole in his shoulder still seeps. 

I look at him because I don't actually have to think while reciting Thoughts, as I call them. As a stoner, I spend most of my time working on the plants and thinking. My good thoughts, I write down and memorize later – it's good for conversation and it pays off, 'cause I don't have to make an ounce of effort as I say;

"I think what we got is a big fuckin' flock of old birds whose food sources are dyin' out 'cause animals are probably wanderin' more and more into the sections polluted by radiation and they can't keep reproducing. So these birds band together and are just sweeping across the country, eating when they can. The birds are probably why I didn't see any dogs." 

So I look away from him – back to the tile floor – to one of the candles. 

"We saw a dog together," he says. "It hung around." 

"The thing was probably mad with hunger. Anyway, that's what I think." 

"Good logic," he says, dipping his head under the water for a second. He comes up shiny, like glass in the candlelight. It's so warm in here, and I have to remind myself we gave up the custom of having baths with open doors when Cypress moved in. 

He's so beautiful, right now. 

He's cut up and he's tired – showed me his missing toe – even his strong frame looks a little hungry from overwork and lack of real food – but God, he's beautiful. 

And I'm so damn ugly – and what the fuck is he staring at? 

"What?" 

"Nothin', you just… look real good," he tells me. 

And my insides are liquid, frothing around in a loose shell. How does he do that? I turn my good eye to him and let my hair block the allowed smile, but I still cover my shoulder with a hand. 

"I'm all fucked up," I say softly, more to myself than anything. "I should probably get back to work." But I don't stand, and he calls me on it. 

"Sophie, what's goin' on?" Now I'm standing – I'm backing away, towards the door, and my heart is thrashing. 

"I've got a tomato crop in the workshop right now, they're not doing well, I need to work on it…" 

"There's a veggie garden in the courtyard," he tells me. 

"That won't do come winter, I need to get this fixed." My hands find the doorknob as I back into it, and I turn it quickly, feverishly. 

"Sophie, wait-" 

"I can't!" And I slam the door shut from the other side, breathing hard. 

Lisa walks by with a bouqet of flowers – Josh takes his job too seriously. She's wearing a white dress and her blond hair is shiny and perfect and she smiles beautifully. We're all happy she's getting better – happier still she's got her own hair – but I'm jealous, 'cause she's already kissed, branded and pissed around Josh, so we're all clear he belongs to her. Lisa, the warrior-turned-weeping-violet now does very little aside from the cleaning around Floor Thirteen, and looking gorgeous. 

She stops on her way and scans me up and down as I press my back against the door. 

"What's wrong?" 

"Nothing." 

"You're all flushed." 

"I'm just… Fuck you, Lisa!" And I storm off. 

"Sophie!" she snaps at me. 

"What?" 

She gives me The Commanding-Officer Look and I snap my posture to attention. "My apologies," I say quickly. The?ook is gone, and she smiles as she says softly, 

"Alright, what's wrong?" with all the comfort of a mother's voice. Or that's what she goes for, but I can't take her seriously. Lately she just kinda' looks like a china-doll. 

"It's nothing," I say. 

"Is it about Justin?" 

"He's right in there, so can we please not talk about this right now?" 

She looks at the door, and on cue he calls from behind it; 

"Please do – I'm kinda' curious myself." 

She bursts out laughing, and I take the opportunity to escape. Fleeing to the stairwell and down, down fifteen flights to my Fortress of Solitude – the lights at the far end are out. What? Now the central lights, now the lights near the door, and Anze locks up for the night. 

"What are you doing?" I snap. 

"Locking up," she says. "What's your problem?" 

"Have you been shutting the lights off every night?" 

"Yah – that's what locking up is." 

"This isn't the kitchen, Anze – plants need light. No wonder the tomatoes are taking forever! Gimmie your keys." I hold out my hand. 

"What?" 

"Your keys – I'm revoking your keys." 

"How will I make coffee in the morning?" 

"There's no coffee-maker in there," I growl as my impatience threatens to boil over.

"I… found one last night in the mall – it still works, I thought… we could make coffee together..." 

Oh, God, she looks like she's going to cry. 

"Take the keys – get outta' here – don't shut off the lights tomorrow night." 

"Got it – burnin' the midnight oil?" 

"Yeah – see you tomorrow." 

"What's wrong?" 

"Nothin' – see you tomorrow." 

"Is it Justin?" 

"Goodnight!" I bark, flicking the lights back on and looking out at my lab. She's been shutting the lights off – fuck. My poor tomatoes…

First thing being first, I go into the little office in the back, draw a pipe and stash out of the desk and set it out for prepping. I lean back in my chair, cover my eye and cry. 

Why couldn't I have just stayed? 

But soon I'm cried out, and packing the bowl becomes the next big priority. With the question of my lackluster tomatoes answered, there's little other reason to be down here, aside from maybe making oil… 

Bah – I smoke the bowl and decide to give it a think. I could start on the strawberries – everyone's begging for those, and the ones in the courtyard don't seem up to snuff. I wonder if it would be possible to have a cherry tree? 

Clear out the four subbasements – make it one big four-story room. Maybe go all the way to the fifth, but that's a lot of weight. Terraform it so the trees have a half a floor's worth of earth to grip to. We'd have to move the transformers, and that's a lot of work. 

No one would ever go for it. 

That's a Sophie Thought that won't be filed. I keep smoking the bowl. What is Reiko doing wrong with the strawberries in the courtyard? They're just not getting big enough. 

I should ask her if she's using fertilizers – maybe that's their problem. 

As I smoke, I notice that yet again my competition with the courtyard Garden Girls is growing. Reiko and Tanya, the warriors-turned-horticulturalists first put it forth in the courtyard one day that anything I could grow in the basement they could grow better. 

We'll see how they feel come January. For now, best to start on the strawberries. I open the book of symbols – I think I've figured it all out. The numbers are the locations, the coloured symbols is the article itself, and the position in the book is relative to the age of the article. For example – if I wanted seeds I would go to the very beginning of the book and simply find a picture of a strawberry – I'm then given a room number and a shelf location. 

Copying it down on a slip of paper, I flick on the hallway lights and wander about seventy-five yards down before I come to a door with a big '0' on it. Zero – youngest. 

Inside are bags upon bags of seeds, and I have to use the ladder to get to shelf 7-14, but the symbols and numbers match, so I take my bag back up the hall to the workshop. I decide I'll make myself some coffee, and am on my way to the sink when I shriek and drop the bag. 

He's here. He's standing there, all lanky with his easy grin and sharp blue eyes. Leaning againt the counter, hair in his face. 

"…Cypress?" 

He grins wider, and says… something I can't make out. 

"What?" 

But he's gone – I'm just a crazy girl with tiny black strawberry seeds all over her nice workshop floor. 

Jesus Christ – that was some great weed. 

But I'm having trouble thinking – I should go to sleep. 

I wonder if the elevators are working, and decide to check. If not, I'll sleep on the couch in the office. As I'm about the leave the workshop, I see him again in the glass of the doors. If I spin, I know he'll be gone, so I don't blink either. 

When you're stoned, you recognize moments when they come. 

"You're the one," he tells me. 

"What do you mean?" 

"You'll have to kill her, but this is beautiful." 

"You're not making sense. Where are you?" 

"Douglas knows." 

"Douglas just sleeps-" 

"Thinkaboutit." 

And he's gone. 

"Cypress!" I shriek. I'm upset, now. Paranoid. I smoked too much, or something. Something's wrong. 

"Soph?" 

"Yaa!" I spin and smack the brown paper bag out of Anze's hands. It bounces off the wall and hits her in the head. 

"Jesus Christ! What is going on?" 

"Why are you here?" 

"I thought you'd want coffee for the machine." She gropes for the bag and I help her to her feet. 

"Sorry. Help me upstairs." 

"What's wrong?" 

"I need to sleep," I tell her. 

"Sophie – what happened?" 

"You're the best, Anze. I'd go crazy without you." 

"Then it seems I've failed you miserably." 

She grabs me under the shoulders and helps me keep my balance as we head for the stairs, and I think to ask; 

"Is the elevator fixed?" 

"No, sweetie." 

"Shit." 

"We're at the stairs, lift your feet – there you go…" 

* * * 

* * * 

i said 'what about tomorrow?' / she said 'what about tonight' / she said 'trust me baby / it'll be alright'

* * * 

* * * 

I'm touching someone. It's Cypress. 

We're together. 

He's stroking my breasts, and I kiss him. 

Whoah. 

We're alone somewhere. It's dark, but he glows in the light of a single candle. 

And he's touching me. 

He would give anything to have me. But he's Crow's. Isn't he? 

"I'm the one," I tell him – but it sounds like something else. 

He leans back. 

"What?" he says. 

"Think about it," I tell him. 

"I don't understand," and he pulls the toque down lower over his eyes. It's Justin. I know it's a dream – I'm aware of it. But it's not over yet, so I grab his hands and he looks up from the floor to me. He loves me, too. 

"Not yet," I say. I touch his face, finally. I stroke his stubble, and he leans down and we kiss. It's perfect. He leans back and I stroke his perfect, smoothe shoulder, and I know we'll make love. It's just a moment, I remind myself. An isolated thought, emotion – just once – and I kiss his chest as he wraps a heavy blanket around us. 

He's hard already – as a rock. Warm and smooth. 

"It's noon, Sophie," he tells me in a very pretty voice. 

"Aw, fuck!" I snap, sitting up and scowling at Lisa as she leans over me. "I was having the best dream!" 

"Anze can't run the greenhouse by herself – she's freaking out about the tomatoes." 

"How would you know? You never leave the floor." 

Josh leans in, munching on a sandwich. 

"You guys hungry?" 

Cat too. 

"What's going on?" 

"Sophie's still in bed." 

"I'm going – does everybody need to be in my room?" 

"I'm out here," Justin calls from the living area. 

"So how are things going with him?" Lisa asks. 

"Something's going with Justin?" asks Billy. 

"What are you doing here?" I slip behind my curtain to change. There must be six people in my room, and I'm getting frustrated as I fumble with the knot on my sweat pants. 

"Well these two just can't make up their mind – it seems that Sophie-" 

"Lisa!" I bark. "Out of my room! Out out out!" 

"Fine, God…" 

They mumble to themselves as they go and the door slams shut as I finish pulling on my hoodie. I look at myself in the little mirror, and discover I'm not only a one-eyed scar-o-saurus, I'm a frump too. Baggy cargos, baggy fuckin' hoodie! 

I yank the grey hoodie off and toss it onto my bed, looking back to the mirror. 

Baggy T-shirt – that goes too. I rifle through my chest of clothes, hoping to find something… but no. Huh. The lingere I went out and found in case I ended up landing Cypress...

I slip out of my sports bra and try the lacy thing on. 

It feels weird – but it doesn't feel like it'll leave marks as much. And it's… flowery. Sorta. I look back in the mirror. Yes – the red bra adds something. 

My hands go to my hips, and I strike a pose. 

Yeah – my figure's okay. Not really a pudge, but I wish I had a six-pack like Michelle did. The cargos have to go – they miss the bed and hit the wall, falling in a lump on Douglas as she sleeps. The wolf doesn't seem to care as I try on the French-cut panties. I look in the mirror. These aren't as comfortable as I'd hoped. I sigh, and pull at the sides – no, that's just all there is to it. What's next…

I remember a box of old clothes in my closet, and I get the chair to reach up and pull it down. Hum – T-shirt that's too small for me… I don't remember when I was into clip-on earrings… or when I liked pink, for that matter. It seems hopeless until I find a sarong my mom gave me. Black with a white pattern – very acceptable. It goes on the desk, forming what will henceforth be known as the Maybe Pile. 

Nothing else in that box. I pull another down and find some of Michelle's old stuff, from when she was fourteen. Hm… Michelle was always into – yes, red tank top. …more red tank tops. In all, five of them – I lay them out on the bed and scrutinize. We've got ribbed wide-strap, ribbed spaghetti-strap, cut-off cotton spaghetti strap. Looking at my scarred shoulders, I remind myself that perhaps I'm not a tank top girl. 

I go back to the box, but change my mind again and return to the bed. Guys like tank tops, don't they? Back to the box. I find a white dress shirt, sorta' like Crow's, but a much lighter fabric. Huh. 

I try it on, and it's not so tight it's uncomfortable. With the black sarong it's not bad. With the lacy red tank top underneath it's even better. I go to pull on my boots, but something stops me. Something I hadn't thought of – a massive factor I'd never thought to consider hits me like a blast of icy but exhilirating wind; 

"…shoes," I whisper. 

* * * 

When the door marked with a No Skateboarding sign finally opens, there's not many people left milling about in the living area. I close my door quietly and step out into the world, suddenly terrified that someone will lay eyes on my new ensemble and see fit to laugh.

In the end I chose a black sweater with grey trim instead of the white shirt – it went better with the skirt and didn't clash with the tank top. Finally, I found an old pair of black Chuck Taylors under the bed, and they didn't clash with the skirt so much after I cleaned them. 

I'm about to grab a chunk of bread from the kitchen when somebody calls out, "Holy shit." It's Justin. I try to nonshalantly strike a little hip-action pose, but it doesn't work out quite like I'd hoped.