Blade

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Darkness, BLOOD-CURDLING SCREAMS. Presentation credits roll as we

FADE UP ON:

INT. HOSPITAL, INNER-CITY TRAUMA WARD - NIGHT

It's 1967, the Summer of Love and --

BOOM! Entry doors swing open as PARAMEDICS wheel in a FEMALE BLEEDER,

VANESSA (20s, black, nine months pregnant). She's deathly pale,

spewing founts of blood from a savagely slashed throat --

A SHOCK-TRAUMA TEAM swarms over her, inserting a vacutainer into an

artery to draw blood, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around her

arm --

NURSE #1

(with stethoscope)

She's not breathing!

SENIOR RESIDENT:

Intubate her!

The RESPIRATORY THERAPIST feeds an endotracheal tube down the woman's

ruined throat, attaches that to an Amblu bag --

RESIDENT:

Blood-pressure's forty and falling --

The woman starts spasming violently. It takes three staff members

just to hold her down.

SENIOR RESIDENT:

Jesus, her water's broken --

(calling for help)

She's going into uterine contractions --

CAMERA PUSHES IN on the woman as she bolts upright, SCREAMING to wake

the dead. We PLUNGE INTO the darkness of her mouth and find

ourselves --

INSIDE HER BLOODSTREAM

The sound of a HEART BEATING, pounding as we whip-snake through --

CORPUSCLES:

floating in amber plasma. Erythrocytes, leukocytes, neutrophils and

eosinophils.

The rhythmic expansion of the artery walls, pulsing with each

successive surge of blood as the HEART BEATS FASTER AND FASTER,

taking us --

IN UTERO,

A CHILD, alive but unborn, shifting in a sea of amniotic fluid,

surrounded by the white, protective substance known as vernix

caseosa. The HEARTBEAT races like a locomotive now. The unborn child

shifts, turns its head towards us --

-- and opens its eyes.

CUT TO:

A SWORDBLADE:

cleaving the darkness, radiant light slicing across gleaming Damascus

steel. Words acid-etched in the weapon's fine-tempered surface:

BLADE:

Main credits end.

EXT. INNER CITY, INDUSTRIAL GHETTO - NIGHT

A decaying no man's land populated by condemned buildings and HUNGRY

HOMELESS. Steam rises from manhole covers, drifting across the

litter- lined streets. Suddenly --

A black Mercedes 850 appears over the crest of a hill, ROARING past

us, stereo system belting out FILTER.

INT. MERCEDES - NIGHT

Raquel, a wasp-wasted woman, sits behind the wheel. 20s, rich,

sickeningly attractive. Hungry eyes.

Squirming around in the passenger seat is DENNIS, a model/actor boy-

toy with a sub-zero IQ and a "f*** me sideways" grin.

DENNIS:

So where we going?

RAQUEL:

It's a surprise.

DENNIS:

I likes surprises.

Raquel eyeballs Dennis -- "if looks could devour".

RAQUEL:

What do you have down there, little

man?

DENNIS:

Heat-seeker.

RAQUEL:

I'll bet.

Raquel slides a manicured hand up his thigh, squeezes his groin.

Dennis MOANS. She pulls her hand away, downshifts.

EXT. VACANT LOT - NIGHT

The 850 threads a narrow alley into a vacant lot, BRAKES hard. Raquel

and Dennis climb out. She leads him into --

EXT. MEAT PACKING PLANT - NIGHT

Industry never sleeps, and certainly not this grisly facility. Raquel

leads Dennis around the back of the plant, where a host of WORKERS

are loading refrigerated trucks with product.

DENNIS:

What the f*** are we doing here?

Raquel just smiles, heads on into the plant via a loading door. The

workers ignore her.

INT. MEAT PACKING PLANT - NIGHT

Dennis follows Raquel through the bowels of the plant, catching

glimpses here and there of carcasses being rendered or hacked apart.

Through one partially open door we see what might be a line of

BODYBAGS being trundled into the back of a truck via a hook and chain

pulley-system. But Dennis doesn't have enough time to be disturbed by

the vision, because he's being pulled away by Raquel, led down --

A STAIRWELL:

We are in the basement now. At the end of the hall is a steel door,

with perhaps, just the faintest HINT OF MUSIC heard coming from

beyond. Raquel knocks.

A "peep-hole" slat opens and a BLACK LIGHT shines into Raquel's eyes.

A VOICE behind the door offers a verbal challenge, speaking a

language we've never heard, laced with a devilish cadence.

Raquel responds in kind. The door opens. Raquel gives Dennis a

knowing wink, enters. Dennis follows.

INT. CLUB - NIGHT

Raquel and Dennis move past a hulking DOORMAN, making their way down

a narrow stairway. Dennis is suitably impressed.

THE CLUB:

is elite, underground -- an "abattoir-chic" version of an old-time

juke joint with a greasy, dangerous vibe. White-tiled walls and

floors for easy hosing, chromed fittings, run-off gutters, drains. No

bar.

BODIES:

writhe on the strobe-lit dance floor. A heavy S&M scene. Leather.

Latex. Tattoos. Body-piercings.

A D.J. wearing head-mounted spotlights orchestrates the tunes on

twin- decks. MUSIC assaults us -- a beat so heavy it could jar the

fillings from your teeth. Brutal "DARKCORE" along the lines of

Prodigy or Underground.

Raquel pulls Dennis out onto the dance floor. They sway.

A lupine-featured GAULTIER GIRL with a streak of white running

through her raven hair moves in behind Dennis, pressing up against

him. Rachel Williams as the Angel of Death -- we'll call her MERCURY.

Mercury flicks her tongue against Dennis' ear -- it's been pierced

with a silver post which clicks against her teeth. Tattooed across

her back in black is a swirling, tribal vortex.

Dennis is now sandwiched between Raquel and Mercury, the three of

them dry-humping their way to every man's glory.

The beat gets LOUDER. The action heavier. The atmosphere more

narcotic. People are stripping off their clothes, sweating like

fiends. It's a virtual orgy.

Dennis laughs, reveling in the hedonism. Everything rises to a fever

pitch --

DENNIS:

(over the music)

F***, I need a drink!!!

Raquel just smiles -- then Dennis notices a DROP OF SOMETHING spatter

his hand. It looks like blood. Dennis looks up, concerned --

-- MORE BLOOD DROPLETS are falling. Raquel's face is sprinkled with

them now. Dennis stops dancing. What is this? Some kind of f***ed up

performance art?

Raquel turns her face toward the ceiling, as if washing herself in a

summer shower, now the other club goers are looking up too --

BLOOD SHOWERS DOWN

from sprinkler heads in the ceiling, drenching the dancers. The club

goers love it, thrusting their heads back, mouths open wide to

receive the crimson offering.

Horrified, Dennis recoils, turning towards --

RAQUEL,

whose face morphs into a preternatural snarl. Her canines extend,

tapering to razor-sharp points. Her tongue flicks, lizard-like as

fingernails sharpen into claws. All this while the whites of her eyes

BLEED RED, pupils oscillating hypnotically.

RAQUEL:

What's wrong, baby?

Dennis SCREAMS, pushes away from Raquel, only --

-- Mercury has fangs now too. In fact, everyone in the club does,

with the exception of poor Dennis. That's because they're all

vampires.

Dennis tries to run, but the burly Doorman blocks his exit, brutally

smashing his fist into Dennis' face.

Dennis falls, dazed. The club-goers close in around him. They make a

game of it, shoving him from one person to another, their pale faces

leering like twisted jack-o-lanterns.

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