Smokescreen Bookfour

smokeSCREEN bookFOUR : THEbecoming

*

Note from the Author:

bookFOUR is running long, and so I've broken it into large segments. I had planned to submit them all at once, but that plan's gang a'gley.

[knocks on metal] I know this is going to give me a continuity nightmare, but here goes.

I hope you enjoy it.

Yours,

-Caulfield

*

part

i

:

assaults

* * *

* * *

manic depression is / torching my soul / i know what i want but i / just don't know / how to go about getting it // feeling, sweet feeling / drops from my fingers, fingers / manic depression // has captured my soul.

* * *

* * *

I didn't dream last night. I'm smiling as I walk along.

The first few days after I met Cat, I didn't dream once. As the weeks wore on and I moved to the Tower, it seemed more and more curious to me. That they would just stop.

But they've stopped and stayed away – so I'm smiling as I walk along.

Prior to the end of the world, the forest was confined to Assiniboine – the center of the city, branching out from the park. Sure, every suburb was lined with elm trees, but the rest of it was all paved. Prior to the war, of course.

Everything's like that in your head;

You lived two lives. One before the war.

And this one.

And who you are now is not what you hoped you'd be.

I sigh. But I'm twenty.

You're supposed to have an identity crisis around now – right?

Just like our big scar of a city. Sometimes I swear to God it's a city but nothing but.

Prior to the end of the world, I woulda' swore to it.

But now it's more forest than anything. The thick trees stretch from downtown, through Wolosley, parts of the West End, all of Assiniboine, half of Charleswood, most of Saint James, half of Weswtood.

As I crunch through the few leaves that have been bold enough to fall this early, I suddenly wonder if it's best to travel through the forest.

Sure, it's less visible, but…

I mantle up a tree and lean out, peering at the dark horizon. A good ninety minutes until sunrise, yet. I drop to the ground and proceed for a while – and I think of Crow.

I stop.

Should I start calling her Beth?

Beth – Crow – wants me to lead us. All of us, I think. The men of Westwood, the women of the Tower, living happily together.

Pfft – I don't think so. I light a cigarette.

One lie less thirteen years ago, and all of this could have been averted. All of this.

It occurs to me as I walk, that this is the first time I've been on my own in a long time. Perhaps I've become dependent on the close companionship offered by Tower society. Less reliant on myself. My brow creases.

Phoebe's had me stuck indoors, behind a desk for two goddamn weeks. Weeks I could have spent with my Floor. The leaders, always becoming twisted by power, always leading astray.

I push Phoebe out of my head and turn to brighter thoughts.

I wonder if Sophie's wearing my discman right now. If she's got one earphone hanging loosely as she walks beside Cat. Cat, who is following Crow, who is following Lisa and Michelle.

And yeah, I miss them. I wouldn't mind glancing south to discover Michelle, grinning back at me from behind an elm tree.

Maybe I am getting soft.

Long while till sunrise, yet. Crow should have gotten back to the Tower a few minutes ago. She'll be on her way to the Forks by now with the others. Frankly, once the Forks are taken, Floor Thirteen will have a pretty cushy assignment for a while. If I make it back from the old ones' assault on Westwood, I'll be more than happy to join them.

If.

* * *

"In the cool of the evenin', when everything is getting' kinda' groo-veyyy…. I call you up and ask you, would you like to go with me and see a mooo-veyyyy…first you say no, you got some plans for tonight, and then you stop. And say alll-ri-hiiight…"

I like to think I have a decent singing voice. I carry the tune as I mantle up the nearest tree and squint east.

"

Life is kinda' crazy with a spooky little girl like you….

"

Sun'll be up soon.

I plop to the ground and head north. I should have left earlier.

I'm missing my discman, now.

I'm missing everything about being back at the Tower. I light a smoke.

Shit.

I'm running low on smokes.

I stop and remember what I'm doing here. In my recently discovered weakness of character, I leaked key Westwood secrets to the leader of the Tower, who subsequently gave an army of radiation-soaked old ones from the States all they need to bring down my old crew at Westwood Right.

I start up a light jog. Sun'll be up soon.

Westwood's not gonna' fall on account of my weakness of character.

But now I skid to a halt. I sniff the air. I look to my cigarette.

I stomp it out and continue my jog north.

And now I skid to a halt. I sniff the air. I mantle up the nearest tree and stare west.

"Fffffuck..." I scan the horizon. The whole horizon. "….me."

I smack into the forest floor and start up a mad dash as that sharp-dry smell of smoke rises to more than a hint.

I'll get out somehow.

* * *

* * *

woke up this morning / all that love had gone / your papa never told you about right and wrong /but you're // one in a million // 'cause you got that / shotgun shine / born under a bad sign / you got a blue moon in your eye

* * *

* * *

Getting out of a city-wide, burning forest from the very center is harder than it sounds.

For one – I'm primarily special ops – I'm never running around in the woods with the grunts. For two – the place is very quickly becoming nothing but a big grey blur.

In my mad dash, I've fallen twice and only just now coughed up, I believe, half a lung. The left one.

I am going north. I'm sure of that – I can still make out the glow of sunrise through the thinning trees.

So much fucking smoke… I can pass out later.

Just run.

…shit. Where's the sun again?

I can't see anythng. But out of the mists come a dog. A wolf – huge and black. Nearby flames dance in its eyes as it says;

RUN

Ow. …that hurt.

GET UP,

the wolf tells me.

And I'm so tired…

The wolf is barking now.

run or you'll die, Om

we have to live

run

now

I can pass out later. I'm not dashing – more stumbling. But I'm almost there the trees are thinning – and now there is nothing. Nothing. I'm falling into space.

But the air is fresh. I'm tumbling.

And in a mighty splash of freezing water, I am jolted awake.

The Red is a very fast river – best to catch my breath and just move on.

I check the staff – still strapped to my back – and proceed to swim across the river to the north bank, taking it slow – getting my breath back.

Unfortunately, it sweeps me five hundred or so yards back east, and by the time I get to the other side I'm quite prepared to pass out again. As I lay on the north bank, staring up at the looming veil of smoke that whips overhead, I realize the futility of defending Westwood – the entire city will be dark as midnight in two hours, at this rate. Westwood is in the middle of this forest – and they're burning it

all

.

They're destroying our forest. They're destroying our city.

Even if those poor souls inside Westwood manage to survive the smoke and heat that close to the fire – the artificial night provided by the smoke, and the limited battery power of the spotlights spell one thing – Westwood will fall by midnight tonight.

I'll get there around noon – I'm going further north to get away from the heat. I hear shouts from deep in the forest. Now the flames are washing across the dry trees like waves on a floating ocean. Westwood, Tower or old, they're not getting out alive.

A lonesome howl sounds out above the deafening crackle of trees and dry leaves.

* * *

"When one is making an omlette, one must break a few eggs."

My armband serves as a satisyfing mask, but my sunglasses do a mediocre job of keeping the smoke out my eyes. I should have goggles.

"But twelve men, Brie…"

"Eight men," the woman sharply corrects. "Four women."

"You risk too much."

"I'll decide what's too much. Westwood is the first step, Mickey. They're ripe."

Kneeling outside this particular window in west Saint James, I discovered I was actually listening to a conversation between two old ones. From the sounds of it, two important ones. Perhaps I could strike a fatal blow, here and now.

"Is the gatling gun ready?"

"Yeah, I got it right here…"

Perhaps not.

"Are you sure you can carry it without tiring too quickly?"

"Don't worry about me – just make sure you're back at the camp before the attack."

"I'll be there by ten."

"The attack starts at nine."

"My counsel may be required – I'll attend the opening minutes," Brie says firmly. I still haven't dared look, to match a face to the name.

"No," Mickey starts, but a resounding slap echoes off the walls. "Pardon me," he says now. "I'll make sure the hearse is fully prepared."

"Good – and make sure the wagons are set on Portage – I'll have no mistakes."

Attack at nine. Wagons on Portage. Attack at nine. Wagons on Portage. Got it.

I dash off into the smoke towards Westwood. Perhaps I can still make it by nightfall.

* * *

Once I'm past the Moray bridge, the breathing is easier and the smoke has begun to clear. I consider that the fire may spread to the old one's precious South End, but from this distance I realize what they've done – they've destroyed the only unihabited strip of the city. The rivers come in from the west and southwest and meet at the Forks downtown, south of the Tower. The smoke has blackened the sky, but Westwood has not been touched by the fire.

The attack will come at nine.

* * *

Strolling up to Westwood, I've seen no sentries. No guard patrols. The sky is still dark, but breathing is not uncomfortable. Not a sniff of the old ones. It's only eight-thirty. I still have time to warn them.

The gates are locked, and no one is attending them. I stroll around the length of the walls before finally just climbing a nearby elm tree and dropping onto the battlement.

Everything is still as the dead.

Westwood is tidied, and clean, and empty.

I drop down to the courtyard and run up to the school doors. They're locked, but I break them open and proceed straight to the band room.

"Jessie!

Guys?

"

What the fuck?

Scanning the band room, all I find is a bar stool with a tape recorder. Pressing play, the message I hear is this;

Greetings, dirty-ass bitch, or loyal Westwood solider.

If you're hearing this, we have gone to plan B.

And whatever you did to drive us out, sluts, we will revisit upon you ten-

I smash it under my boot. I smash it again. Again. Again. Again. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. The backup bike… the backup bike…

I explode throught he band room doors and race down the hall, whipping around a corner and skidding past the gym. Doubling back, I barrel across the hardwood floors and into the storeroom, tripping on the doorframe as I do.

Thank God they didn't take it.

* * *

I grip the handles and roll the superbike out the service doors and down onto the sidewalk just inside the courtyard walls.

Rolling it up to the parking lot, I can hear the old ones approaching. Why hadn't Westwood at least tried to fight?

I wasn't expecting to be taking on the entire old one army alone, but I'm needed at the Forks. The old ones can just wait.

Rolling the bike silently to the back of the parking lot, I check my watch – one to nine.

I start the bike. I'm a hundred yards from the gates – and even that seems too close.

Something very loud is rolling up now – I can't imagine what it could be. At least, I've never heard anything like it.

I check my watch.

Nine.

I light a smoke.

Nine-o-one.

Some voices.

Nine-o-two.

That very loud thing is rolling again. I lean forward on the handlebars of the Dukati and narrow my eyes at the gate.

In what is more a shockwave of auditory information than, per se, a sound, the gate is blown from its hinges. Five tons of welded steel rockets from the outer wall, spinning towards me. I have time enough to pull a stupid-looking face just in before it screams over head, and tears the top off an elm tree.

As the smoke at the empty space where the gates once stood clears, I'm treated to the source of the unusual noise.

My head begins running what I call "potentials". Potential routes of escape are X-ed out in my head. X. X. X. X. X. What if…? X…

With all the doors locked and a forty-ton tank in the front gate, my options have become somewhat limited. I'll give the old ones this – they do have the capacity for original thought and effective execution.

The tank rumbles forward a few feet, but the cannon does not retrain its sights. Behind this tyrannosaur of steel are at least ten other vehicles of various more conventional design, and at least sixy old ones accopanying.

My brow creases. There's no way I came out here for nothing, only to be killed.

"Fuck that!" I bark across the parking lot.

The tank opens, and the man with the leather mask rises out. He pulls up a megaphone and calls into it;

"Repeat your last statement, or be fired upon." Hm. It's Mickey – the poor whipped bastard.

"

Why?"

I yell. "

Did you not get it?

"

"No," the voice booms across the compound.

"

I said – FUCK. THAT!!!

Y

ou're coming in here with a TANK!! Are you INSANE?

!"

Mickey drops his megaphone and calls behind him. It's not really audible from this distance, but the megaphone still picks some of it up.

"…would someone go kill that little shit?"

Oh, thank God. That's right boys, come for me one on one. I gun the engine and rip through the parking lot, into the front doors and deep into the school, parking it in a stairwell at the rear of the building for quick access later. I dash to the basement and hit the breakers. Most of these fuckers only have one eye, anyway. If they want me, they'll have to come in. Tight, enclosed spaces.

I can do this.

* * *

* * *

i beat my machine / it's a part of me / it's inside of me // i'm stuck in this dream / it's changing me / i am becoming

the me that you know // he had some second thoughts //

he's covered with scabs // he is broken and sore // the me that you know he // doesn't come around much // that part of me isn't here anymore

* * *

* * *

I can hear muffled, distant voices – they're a good distance away, still. Outside probably. I have to think ahead. I have to plan ahead. What do I need? What will I need?

I sneak through the upper hallway, pressing to the walls. Most of the windows are blocked up, but someone could still see me breaking a shadow somewhere.

Locker 329… 330… 331…

Footsteps behind me. He's big. And he's running. I don't turn yet.

332… Ah. 333.

As I move to grab the locker, I turn my profile to him. Only about ten feet away, and coming fast.

I hate to make the noise, but I open the locker door into his face. It crashes into the bridge of his nose, ribcage and yes, I think groin, and is far too loud. He sputters and begins to fall back, but it's too late – I've already slashed him from groin to sternum, and he's now finding it very hard to breath – his lungs have collapsed.

I snatch a particular plastic baggie out of the locker, along with two old SOCOM pistols with silencers and about four clips. I peer into one tiny drawer. No. Then another. And another. Who took my key? Shit.

More footsteps.

The sound of someone drawing up a large-calibre firearm. A rifle of some sort.

I quickly spin and pull up a SOCOM. He fires first – a round that clips my torso as I dodge away from the lockers. I narrow my eyes and squeeze off two rounds – both hit him cleanly in the chest, just up and to the left.

He dies more slowly – sputtering for life as I quickly return to my search. I remind myself to be systematic as I peer into the dark locker, gripping the wound at my side. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. Two rounds from the SOCOM – another old one falls on top of his rifleman friend down the hall. No. No. Nononononono. No. No. FUCK.

I think for a moment, dip two fingers under the laces of my boot, and remove a small silver key. Goddamnit.

I head for a particularly dark stairwell.

Pressing myself into the deepest shadow I can find, I pull out the plastic baggie and open it, licking the tip of my pinkie. I dip my pinkie into the bag and encrust it with powder, close the bag, close my eyes, and slip the pinkie under my tongue.

It's been too long. It's too intense.

It's way too intense. It's not safe. I begin shaking. Spasming. I may be making noise, but I'm not aware of it. My heart is screaming, thrashing against my ribcage. It hurts. It really hurts.

I'm going to die. I can't see. I can't see anything. I can't hear anything. But it hurts. It's killing me. I've accomplished nothing.

And now it's less. And now it's less.

And I can control my breathing. And it's okay. And I'm okay. It's all okay. It's all okay. My system just isn't used to it after all those weeks at the Tower. But I'm okay. It's okay.

I stand and pull out the sword – footsteps. From where?

My hearing is still bunged up.

It's a woman, bounding down the stairs. She points an uzi at me, but I take her hand at the wrist and whip up a SOCOM, putting a bullet through her eye into the brick wall behind her. First her shoulders hang loose, then the eyes roll back in her head. The mouth gapes slack, and the shell gives up on effort as gravity does the rest.

Hm. An uzi. …no.

Down to the basement floor. Absolute darkness. Unless…

"Dick – turn on your flashlight."

Fuuuuck.

This isn't getting any better. I kneel and peek my head around the corner – it looks like they came in the same way I did, and now they're checking in the opposite direction. I quickly get rid of my boots.

It's two of them – slinking through a concrete section of hallway that's about four feet wide.

"Dick – stop." Dick's the one in the white undershirt with the two uzis. He whips around and pulls up his flashlight, but I'm pressed into a doorway. This won't work at all. I look up.

They're coming up to the generator. It's still running – I think they're looking for the breakers. The generator's pretty loud. This will do.

"Find the panel," the one who isn't Dick says. He turns the corner and I drop from the overhead pipes, drawing up the sword. As Dick turns I keep the sword at his throat and rush in to grab him by the shoulder. The other one bangs around in the power room, searching obvlivious. Dick opens his mouth to call out, but the tip of the blade peirces his throat, slips through his windpipe and just misses completely breaching a section of neckbone. And Dick discovers he cannot call out. He cannot breathe. And things are growing dark.

Holding him up by the steel lodged in his neck, I draw him back into the shadows with me.

"Dick! Where the fuck are you?"

The other one whips around the corner and stares into the blackness.

"If you're gonna' be a lazy ass, at least go tell Brie he's already killed one of us! This ain't worth it, man."

And he stares into the blackness.

"Dick? Stop fuckin' around."

Hm. He's scared – he'll react quicker. Leaning out of the overhead pipes, I grip the sword.

I swing the blade down and it slices half his skull cleanly off. He takes another half-step, twitches and falls. I hit the ground behind him, snatch up his flashlight and run back to the boiler room.

Holding the flashlight in my mouth, I slip the small siver key long forgotten from my boot into the iron locker. It sits, unsuspicious, at the very back of the uncomfortably warm boiler room. Repaired, the circuits retested every two seasons, the small door swings open to reveal the failsafe panel. I punch in the seven-digit code; 222-2222. Jessie never was particularly imaginative – it's the phone number of his favorite pizza place from when we were kids.