Blade Runner Page #15

SALOME:

And what if somebody did try to "exploit"

me? Who do I go to ?

Deckard's peeking at a pair of fat legs in the next room.

DECKARD:

Me.

SALOME:

And who do I go to about you ?

He looks around... she's out of the shower dripping nude.

Her hair blonde and cropped short. Her black hair is a wig

which now hangs on the wall next to the shower. She didn't

look like Nexus designated Zhora to begin with, but even less

now.

SALOME:

So did you find any holes ?

Deckard makes a sheepish grin.

DECKARD:

One so far.

SALOME:

You're a dedicated man.

Her smile is an invitation. She throws him a towel.

He catches it and she turns her back to him.

SALOME:

Dry me.

The evening doesn't have to be a total waste. Deckard

steps up behind her and starts patting her down.

On the dressing table in front of them the python

noses through the cosmetics, tongue flicking, trying

to get back to its mistress. Caught up in the sensu-

ousness of the moment, absently she reaches out to

stroke the snake.

Deckard works his way down her back, over her buns and

as he reaches her thighs, sits on the cot. Concen-

trating on her buns, he leans back for a handier per-

spective. But jerks forward like he'd been stung as

his ears are hit with the BUZZ OF RATTLES directly be-

hind him.

Partly hidden behind the pillow against the wall is

the Egyptian's pride and joy, a four-and-a-half foot,

ring-tailed diamondback rattler. Its lethal looking

spade-shaped head elevated out of its coiled body,

tail erect and whirring madly.

Deckard rolls off the cot going for his blaster as he

hits the floor. SALOME/ZHORA has her hand around the

head of the python and, using it like a club, she

brings it down with all her might.

Deckard rolls out of the way as the SNAKE WHISTLES

through the air with such force, it ruptures as it

hits the floor.

If Deckard's fast, Zhora's a blur. As he FIRES, her

foot kicks into his groin, and he doubles up with the

pain of it. He tries for a second shot but she's al-

ready out the door carrying a raincoat.

INT. PASSAGEWAY - NIGHT

Bottom lip between his teeth, Deckard hops out of the

dressing room in time to see her go through the door at

the other end of the hall.

It hurts to move so fast, but he jack-legs after her,

arrives at the door and flings it open. Blackness.

The SOUND OF HER HIGH HEELS CLATTER down the metal

steps.

EXT. STREET - OPERA HOUSE - NIGHT

It's RAINING HEAVILY.

The front of the Opera House is open only to foot

traffic these days. A bizarre place on a Friday night,

hawkers and whores, the rabble, the poor and the curi-

ous mill around the crudely built platforms and

brightly lit stands. Zhora, in just a translucent

raincoat, is not out of place in this flea market at-

mosphere. Trying not to run, she slices through the

mob as quickly as she can. Deckard is not far behind,

dodging and side-stepping, trying to move against the

tide of people scurrying for shelter.

She comes to an intersection and turns out of the mall

onto a less crowded street. She glances over her

shoulder as she breaks into a run and runs right into

a couple of pedestrians. All three go down.

Deckard comes out of the crowd in time to spot her get-

ting to her feet. She sees him and runs. The two

pedestrians are in his line of fire. He runs past

them and drops to one knee, leveling his blaster.

DECKARD:

Stop or you're dead!

She doesn't.

Deckard OPENS UP, squeezing off two quick misses.

WHAP! The corner of the building disintegrates --

bricks imploding, dust in the air.

FWAAAP! Another miss! A lamppost wrenched with a

tight air implosion. Twisted metal, a breath of smoke.

Deckard FIRES again!

WHUMP! Zhora takes a hit in the back of the head, and

that's it for her except her motor reflexes which keep

her going right into a showcase window.

CRASH! Zhora explodes through a series of plate glass

windows in adjoining shops.

Deckard is trying to pour FIRE through the tunnel of her

jagged wake, but after TWO MISSES his blaster CLICKS

empty, CLICKS empty, CLICKS empty and he watches her

go.

Zhora breaks through one window after another, getting

sliced, already shot, running on reflexes. Glass

sprays like fireworks as she smashes through the last

two windows and into the street. She's going too fast

to stop.

She hits a passing bus so hard she's smeared all over the

side like a mural and the bus squeals to a halt.

The rain has stopped and turned into a quiet DRIZZLE.

WATER GURGLING down the gutters.

Hunched over, breathing hard, Deckard comes slowly

forward. The crowd starting to gather. Something here

for everybody as they're coming from all directions.

Deckard moves through them, ending up to the side of

the bus.

Zhora is wedged on her side, torn, bloody and broken.

All she can move is her eyes -- they dart about like

a wounded animal doomed in a trap and stop on

Deckard.

He's kneeled in the street, stooped low, head cocked at

an awkward angle looking back at her.

In the cramped and dripping darkness her eyes are turn-

ing glassy. The intervals between the FALLING DROPS OF

WATER accentuate the silence until there is no dripping

and even the gurgling gutters have receded into silence

as the life drains out of Zhora's face until it's

frozen, dead.

Deckard's eyes slowly follow the rivulets of blood that

lead over the slope of a blacktop to his shoes. Deckard

tries to repress his wince. His eyes reveal that it's

getting to him. He's aware of the spectators around

him.

Looking up, he sees them moving nervously away from

him with frightened looks.

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