Elizabeth Hand: 12 Monkeys

“I didn’t recognize you.”

She smiled and walked until she stood beside him. “Well, you look pretty different, too.”

“In my dream—” He touched her cheek, gently, moved his hand to caress her temple “— it’s always been you.”

She studied him, her pale eyes serious. “I remember you like this,” she said at last. “I felt I’ve known you before. I feel I’ve always known you.”

They stood gazing at each other, the rippling voices from the movie rising and falling around them like waves. Then, Kathryn backed up, pulling Cole after her as she maneuvered past he sleeping usher, past the abandoned refreshment stand and rows of stanchions, until they reached an unmarked door that stood slightly ajar. Still silent, she pulled the door open and they were inside. In the half-darkness Cole saw plastic trash barrels, brooms, walls covered with old movie posters.

“James…”

She tugged at the shirt she had so carefully dressed him in, pulling it open so that she could run her hands across his chest. He moaned and crushed her to him, tilted her head back until he found her mouth and he kissed her, the two of them collapsing onto the floor amidst the tangled detritus of a thousand dark afternoons and sunless mornings. She moved beneath him and Cole tore her clothes away, the too-bright blouse and jewelry and the golden wig, his hands moving frantically over her body as though to find the other woman, the one he even now feared he had lost, the one he had fought his whole life to find, over and over again.

Afterward they slept, dozing fitfully among the stacks of ancient theater seats. It was Kathryn who woke first, peering worriedly out the closet door and seeing the usher still sound asleep.

“James!” she whispered. “We have to go.”

He stirred, groaning softly, but sat up smiling when he saw her.

“I was dreaming,” he said. “But a different dream, this time. Do you think that means anything?”

She smoothed the front of her skirt, then reached to give Cole’s wig a tug, eyeing him critically. “I think we better get out of here before Sleeping Beauty out there wakes up.”

They crept from the storage closet and made their way back into the theater. The opening credits of Vertigo were rolling again. Hurrying down the aisle they passed another couple, a boy and a girl sleeping soundly in each other’s arms. Cole stared at them wistfully, then turned to Kathryn and smiled.

“Key West, huh? So I’ll finally see the ocean…”

Outside, the first wan light of a winter morning was seeping down the sides of buildings. A delivery truck rolled past, a man in the back hurling newspapers across the sidewalk to land in front of locked doors. From a café down the street came the smells of coffee and baked goods. Cole gazed longingly in that direction, but Kathryn was already striding into the street and flagging down a cab.

“James — over here —.”

Behind the wheel a fiftyish woman with white hair and a plaid jacket greeted him. “Don’t keep the lady waiting, hon,” she drawled in a thick Southern twang. “What time’s your flight, friends?”

Cole shrugged and looked at Kathryn, resplendently blond once more in sunglasses and gleaming lipstick.

“Nine-thirty,” she said, patting Cole’s knee and grinning.

The cab shot out into the street. “Might be tight,” the driver announced.

Kathryn looked startled. “Tight?” She glanced at her wrist. “My watch says seven-thirty.”

The cabbie nodded. “On your normal mornin’, okay, plenty a time, but today, you gotta take inta account your Army-of-the-Twelve-Monkeys factor.”

Kathryn froze. “ What? What did you say?”

The cabbie glanced back at them. “Twelve Monkeys, honey. Guess you folks didn’t turn on your radio this morning.” She lit a cigarette, then went on.

“Buncha weirdos let all the animals outta the zoo last night. Then they locked up this big-shot scientist in one of the cages. Scientist’s own kid was one ‘a the ones that did it!” she cackled. Cole and Kathryn stared at her, stunned. “Now they got animals all over the place! Buncha zebras down the Schuykill ‘bout an hour ago and some kinda thing called an ‘ee-moo’ got traffic blocked for miles over on Route 676.”

Kathryn turned wildly to Cole. “That’s all they were up to! Freeing animals!”

Cole began to nod, slowly. “On the walls — they meant the animals when they said, ‘We did it.’”

The cabbie grinned and switched on the radio. With a cry Cole pointed out the window. Kathryn whirled in time to see a neighboring freeway, traffic at a dead standstill, police and traffic helicopters hovering overhead. Down the median strip, their heads moving up and down like those of carousel animals, loped three giraffes.

“— and now we have one of the many animal rights activist who are critical of the so-called Twelve Monkeys —”

A second, angrier voice blared from the speaker. “ Can these fools seriously believe that releasing an animal into an urban environment is being compassionate to the animal? It’s mindlessly cruel, almost as indefensible as holding the animal in captivity in the first place .”

Outside, skyscrapers glittered in the morning sun. As Kathryn and Cole watched, a flock of flamingos rose from a thicket and arrowed across the sky. Cole’s hand covered hers as she gazed at the sun-colored birds and whispered, “Maybe it’s going to be okay.”

They rode in silence the rest of the way. When they reached the airport the cabbie waved as Cole and Kathryn slid from the car.

“Watch out for them monkeys,” she drawled.

Kathryn smiled. “Oh, we will.”

The two of them hurried inside, past waiting skycaps and businessmen. The terminal was crowded, enough so that they walked unnoticed past a ticket counter where a paunchy man in plainclothes was handing flyers out to the counter supervisor.

“Thanks, Detective Dalva,” the supervisor said, and studied the photocopied images.

Dalva turned to go. “Tell your people if they spot either one of them, not to try and apprehend them. They should notify us through airport security.” He walked off briskly, disappearing into the crowd.

Not far off, Kathryn paused to scrutinize an information kiosk, teetering somewhat uncomfortably on her high heels. Beside her, Cole stared at the immense terminal stretching all around them, the huge observation windows and knots of people hurrying toward their gates. From overhead a woman’s voice rang out over the PA system.

“ Flight 531 for Chicago is now ready for boarding at Gate Seventeen …”

Cole shook his head, shocked. “I know this place! This is my dream!”

Kathryn continued to gaze at the kiosk, frowning. “Airports all look the same,” she said tersely. “Maybe it’s—”

She turned and gasped. “James! Your mustache — it’s slipping.”

“It’s not just my dream,” Cole went on. He didn’t look at her. “I was actually here! I remember now. My parents brought me to meet my uncle. About a week or two before… before… before everyone started dying,” he ended in a whisper.

Kathryn stepped back from the kiosk, glancing around nervously. At the other end of the lobby she spied two uniformed policemen strolling side by side, scanning the faces of passing travelers.

“They may be looking for us, James,” she said quickly. She opened her purse, pulled out a small tube of spirit gum, and handed it to him. “Here — us this to fix your mustache. You can do it in the men’s room.”

But Cole was still staring at the observation windows. “I was here as a kid,” he said, his voice detached, almost dreamy. “I think you were here, too. But you looked just like you look now.”