Never Cry In The Night: The Novelettes of T. E. Mark - Vol VII

By T.E. Mark

Derek Novak is living in the four short stories he’s just turned in for a lit assignment. The first isn’t so bad – it’s on Earth. Following Derek and Mireia, a classmate he’s dragged in with him, watching them grow from episode to episode is thought-provoking and fun. Some good Sci-Fi settings, a strong theme, lots of action and a nifty ending twist. DEREK 7

How would you feel about slipping into the future then slipping back? For longer and longer periods. Titti Aillaia is stopping mass shootings and rail accidents and murders and inadvertently ending the world with her heroic acts. This one should make you think. The race to the end will leave you breathless. ENTANGLEMENT.

The theory that viruses were brought to Earth on comets is hardly new. What if, however, they were sent here on comets? With the world crumbling beneath the weight of a species-ending pandemic, five scientists are in a race to make contact when experiments suggest the virus is not only conscious but also intelligent. NEVER CRY IN THE NIGHT

• Language: English
• Publisher: T.E. Mark
• Release date: Nov 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005541378

T.E. Mark

T. E. Mark is an Anglo-American Science Writer, Screenwriter and Editor. He has studied Architecture, Music and Literature in the UK and in the US and has been penning stories since childhood. His first novel, Fractured Horizons, set in the wonderful of Bath England, was written at the age of 12.Mark has written novels for young and adult readers and a selection of science articles for national and international magazines. He also writes and edits academic papers on a variety of subjects for universities, governmental and non-governmental organisations.Follow T. E. Mark at:temarkauthor.wordpress.commthomasmark.wordpress.comtemarkurbanscratch.wordpress.comContact T. E. Mark at: [e-mail].

Book preview

(1)

DEREK 7

SUBWAY PLATFORM – NEW YORK – PRESENT

Seated on a bench stuck to the wall in a New York subway tunnel, DEREK NOVAK, (17), sits with his legs stretched out and his hands stuck down into his pockets.

Derek is a good-looking kid – wide eyes – brown hair – and casually dressed.

He has a backpack next to him – looks like he’s on his way home from school.

But on his face is confusion. Blinking eyes – a lined forehead.

The rumbling sound and lights of a train fill the station – the air is sucked away. A garbled announcement decries a northbound, Blue-Line train. It slows to a stop. He watches the doors open and the rail platform empty – the after-work commuters crowding in.

The doors close, he watches the train speed into the tunnel.

Another swoosh – the air again extracted away – and the train vanishes leaving behind a diminishing echo.

THE PLATFORM

The platform and tunnel are now eerily quiet.

Just Derek – sitting there – inert – consumed – lost in his head.

Until he turns to the only other person on the platform. A girl, (mid 20s) with dark hair in fashion jeans and a charcoal blazer sitting on the bench two metres along – watching him.

He speaks to her casually.

‘You’re not real.’ He gets up, slings his backpack over his shoulder and makes his way to the stairs up and climbs.

STATION

When Derek makes it to the street level inside the station, he holds at the escalators. Two men – classy suits – Albanians, standing at the door – searching.

‘Shit!’

He grabs a subway map from a kiosk and buries his eyes into it – and waits for the next gush of people pouring into the station. His eyes dart – the entry – the men with their heads moving left – right – searching... searching.

He makes his move for the street – trying to blend in.

He gets close, but they have him.

THE STREET

Derek makes a break for it – pushing through a group of students entering the station – sending a chubby girl onto her butt.

He reaches her a hand.

She stares up at him – unsure.

His eyes dart – the men – weaving their way through.

She looks at him – sees the panic in his eyes. ‘Go!’

He squeezes her arm and takes off – winding, weaving through the afternoon rush.

He makes it to a corner. Out of breath, he looks back – and spots them.

And turns.

And vaults into the street.

Horns.

Tyres screeching.

Drivers yelling.

He jumps up a curb to...

ON THE SIDEWALK

...another walk crowded with after work executives. A block-long wall of storefronts – high-rises above buried in fog.

CAFÉ

Halfway along this inner-city street, Derek pulls back the door of a coffee shop café. The place is jammed with patrons queueing for espresso drinks – standing along the ledge – seated at small tables.

He charges through to the stairs down to the restrooms.

THE STREET

The dangerous looking Albanian guys stop outside the café. One looks north – scans – the other pours his eyes into the café windows and shakes his head. They continue searching the crowd.

CAFÉ BATHROOM

Derek grabs the sink – takes in a deep breath settling himself. He splashes his face with water and drags his hands through his overgrown hair – then looks hard into his eyes.

SMACK! He slaps himself hard. ‘Wake up!’ SMACK! Again – this time reddening his cheek. ‘Wake the fuck up!’

He grabs the sink with a psychotic’s grip, shakes it, and again stares into his own eyes.

FLASHBACK – A CLASSROOM – EARLIER

The sun fills a Friday afternoon classroom at John F Kennedy Preparatory School in Manhattan’s Lower West Side. It’s the end of the day. Students stuff laptops and books into their packs. A teacher walks the aisles between desks collecting hefty manuscripts – a major assignment.

She reaches the back – looks at Derek expecting an excuse.

‘If you need more time Derek... you can...’

...cutting her off, he hands her his manuscript – and stares into her surprised smile.

THE BATHROOM (CONT’D)

His teacher’s smile in the mirror blurs. Once again, his own eyes stare back at him.

Then...

A knock.

He spins to the door.

His eyes to the handle – someone trying to force it.

He moves to it – listens – grabs his pack and reaches in.

With one hand stuck down into the pack, he leans his head back until it meets the wall.

Three head slams – a look of dead acceptance, and... he pulls out a 9mm handgun.

He stares at it – incredulous.

Handles it.

Rolls his eyes and breathes.

‘This is not happening. This is not...’

POUND-POUND-POUND!

A heavy hand on the door – he hears keys.

His eyes dart – a desperate look of indecision.

He shoves the gun back down into the pack and stares at the handle.

And waits.

THE CIA – LANGLEY VIRGINIA

A quick view of the spy agency’s main building from above. It’s late afternoon, the horizon is yellow-orange, and the glass sparkles in the low, mid-autumn sun – just falling into the trees.

DIRECTOR’S OFFICE – THE CIA

A corner office with glass doors and floor to ceiling windows. A conference table of oak ringed with black padded chairs. Looks like any other executive office.

An attractive woman of (38), ANETE PARKS, the eastern European CIA operations chief, faces SEAN BAKER, (60), the international spy agency’s director – his eyes on a laptop.

LARGE LCD

Displayed on a large LCD is a grainy image of a heavy, well-dressed guy in a classy restaurant surrounded by others – including the young woman from the subway tunnel.

‘This guy.’ (The director’s voice)

OFFICE

The director, thin face, fully grey, looks at Parks, then returns to his laptop – the image zooms.

She squints – leans closer to the LCD.

ON THE LARGE DISPLAY

The same picture – now greatly pixilated – little detail. Anete changes glasses – looks more intently.

‘He’s Temo Milik. A Bosnian Serb known as

the Alchemist. This photo is from 2017. Taken

in a Paris restaurant.’

THE OFFICE / THE LCD

The director leans back – Anete keeps her eyes on the display.

‘It’s one of the few shots we have of him and his most trusted. We’re still trying to ID the young woman.’

‘Weapons.’ She turns to the director. ‘And technology. To anyone.’

‘That’s our guy. Word is he’s in London with something new on his menu.’

She looks at him.

He reaches to the laptop – the slide changes.

ON THE LCD

Another grainy photo – this one of a small metal briefcase – open. In it, a glass cylinder filled with clear liquid sits within a bed of black foam. At a glance, it looks benign, but there’s also something ominous about it.

The room is silent.

Click! The director makes another change – the new image is of the catastrophic explosion in Beirut on 4 August 2020 that killed and wounded scores and demolished much of the city.

OFFICE

Parks turns to the director.

‘It was...’

‘...reported as an ammonium nitrate explosion – stockpiled fertilizer – for obvious reasons.’

THE LCD

Click! More scenes of the devastation. Slide after slide – different views.

THE OFFICE

‘It was an empty warehouse. Probably a test. Max Duridge at Northrop said... if it’s what he thinks it is... something called BMT 51– Butyric Methylamine Triacitate, the blast in Beirut...? It would only have taken a millilitre of the stuff.’

Anete keeps her eyes on the director who again focusses on his laptop.

THE LCD

A clearer image – this one from a security queue at London’s Heathrow airport.

It’s of a young man, 17 – 20. Looks like a student – looks like Derek. And pulling from his backpack for the security scanner... is that same metal briefcase.

‘Who’s the kid?’

THE OFFICE

Anete leans in close trying to get a better view.

‘His name is Derek Novak. He’s seventeen. A senior at John F Kennedy High in New York. No FBI file, no arrest record... nothing exceptional about him... other than the fact that his passport has more stamps in it than mine. And our young courier...? we believe that’s his function... just flew from London to the US... Yesterday.’

‘Christ.’

‘Yeah.’

NEW YORK – THE CAFÉ WASHROOM

Derek makes his decision – grabs the handle, takes in a deep breath and pulls back the rest room door. And breathes...

And gives the café manager an apologetic smile before moving for the stairs.

LANGLEY VA, CIA – MEETING ROOM (CONT’D)

Anete rises from her chair. She gathers her laptop and notes – looks at the director.

‘There’s a reason I want you taking the lead on this one Anete.’

‘I held the question.’

He appraises her. ‘You know how to get an important job done.’ He puts his eyes on her – hard. ‘This one’s important. Find that kid – find that case. Before New York or Chicago or LA... or DC are craters.’

She breathes then turns for the door.

NEW YORK – THE STREET

When Derek reaches the street, he sees them – the Albanians – menacing faces in the crowd – both with their eyes on him.

He picks a direction and runs for it.

(CONT’D)

Weaving, ducking in and out, Derek rips through the throngs of people until he reaches a corner and turns. He sets his eyes on a truck being off loaded at a loading dock behind a department store... and makes a break for it.

THE STREET

The Albanians meet the corner and start pivoting – searching – eyes darting. The first looks ahead – moves right then left looking over the heads of people.

He turns back to his right – the loading dock – the truck. He nods to his partner.

THE DEPARTMENT STORE

Derek gets angry looks and calls from the loaders when he vaults onto the dock and races into and through the stockroom... then into the store.

He finds his way to Men’s Clothing, grabs pants and a sweatshirt from a rack and heads for the dressing rooms.

Almost immediately – they appear. Scanning the aisles – searching – searching the racks – questioning the cashiers.

INSIDE A DRESSING ROOM

Frenzied, Derek strips off his T shirt and jeans and pulls on Cargo pants and a hooded sweatshirt.

While dressing, he keeps his eyes on his reflection in the wall mirror.

‘Why is this happening?’

He grabs his pack, pulls out the automatic handgun and shoves it into his pants.

‘This was not in the...’

Knock! Knock!

Someone tapping at the door.

He freezes – grabs the gun – takes in a deep breath and holds.

‘Does everything fit?’

He squeezes his eyes tight and exhales.

‘Yeah... fine.’ Another deep breath – he grabs his pack and pulls open the door... and....

OUTSIDE THE DRESSING ROOM

...meets eyes with the employee – and the Albanians – both with guns out. The poor girl is paralysed – frozen – her eyes flooded and red.

With a wild burst of energy, Derek plants both hands into the first guy’s chest slamming him against the door of another dressing room.

And takes off running.

THE STORE / THE STREET

Department after department – running – blasting into customers he continues until he reaches the main doors and charges out onto to 2nd street setting off the exit alarms.

Left – right.

Crowded sidewalks.

People gasping and recoiling at the sight of the gun.

He jets out into the street – squeezes between the jam of taxis and buses and continues on until he reaches the corner, turns and spots a couple getting out of a cab.

He shoves the gun back into his pants, pulls open the door and dives in.

IN THE TAXI

‘Lower west side. 2439 Pine Avenue.’

The driver nods, punches the address into his GPS and edges out into traffic.

Still breathing heavy, Derek slumps down into the seat – peers out through the window – and sees the men as they pass the store.

He closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath – then exhales.

OPERATIONS THEATRE – CIA – LANGLEY VA

Anete walks into the main operations theatre at the CIA.

The room is dark but for three large LCDs stuck to the walls.

There’s a large table at the centre ringed with monitors.

The surveillance techs turn to her.

The operations supervisor, ERIC GERARD, (40), the stiff, corporate type, gives her a harsh look. He turns his eyes into the room.

‘Everyone listen up. This is Anete Parks.... The operations chief from our eastern European office. At the director’s request, she’ll be taking the lead on this. You have any questions... I am more than certain she has the answers.’

He turns to Anete. ‘It’s yours.’

He takes a step back and leans against a railing.

CIA (CONT’D)

Anete ignores the slight barb and the obvious friction and moves closer into the room.

She looks up at the centre screen.

‘Bring up the pictures from Heathrow.’

An operator types.

ON THE LARGE LCD

The image displayed is of Derek at the security queue handing the TSA agent his boarding pass and passport. The picture shrinks – another grows. It’s of Derek placing the metal case into a conveyor tub.

‘He’s Derek Novak – a 17-year-old from New York.’

ON ANETE

She puts her eyes on an operator. ‘Bring up the next one.’

ON THE MAIN LCD

It’s the picture of Derek placing the metal case in its tub on the conveyor.

OP ROOM

‘Zoom in on the case.’ Anete moves closer. She hovers over the operator – and points. ‘That... is what this is about.’

She takes a hand to her chin – studies the photo for a long moment, then....

‘Bring up the other slide of the case.’

ON THE CASE

The image changes to the open case with the cylindrical tube sitting in its bed of black foam.

‘It’s BMT-51 – Butyric Methylamine Triacitate. A teaspoon could take out this building – probably the entire block – the full contents of the phial... a major city.’

OP ROOM (CONT’D)

They stare – then turn to her.

‘We don’t know the target or the client. What we do know is...’ she touches the operator’s shoulder. ‘...the next one.’

The operator – a mouse click.

ON THE LARGE LCD

‘This man...’ (Anete’s voice)

On the screen is the image of Temo Milik she got from the director.

THE OP ROOM

‘...He’s known as the Alchemist. And he has quite a client list.’ She moves close to the LCD wall – stares up at it – looks closely into his bloated, rutted face.

‘This is an NSA priority 4 national security threat. Let’s notify the FBI, Homeland, ATF... and the police – across the country.’

She turns and walks away from the screens towards the upper doors.

‘And get everything you can on the kid. We need to know where he’s been – who his contacts are and what he’s been doing outside of school.’

LOWER WEST SIDE – A FRONT PORCH

After climbing from the taxi, Derek walks to a house where a girl sits reading.

This is MIREIA ORTIZ, (17), the school bookworm. Pretty face, pudgy, a nose ring that looks like it belongs on someone, perhaps anyone else, and old, aviator style glasses.

She has one of those 2-kilogram books open in her lap that you only see smart girls with. She watches Derek who, without a word, claims a seat on the porch next to her.

‘Well... Derek Novak. Your house, if you’ve forgotten, is two blocks away. I could walk you home if...’ She studies him more closely – squints. ‘Hey... you look green. Are you okay?’

He nods yes – then shakes his head no.

A car passes, he turns away – looks back towards the house.

She follows him and the car then ends with her eyes back on him.

‘I gather you’re in trouble. In that case...’

‘...Can we go inside? He turns to her.

Her eyes widen – her head shakes.

‘In my house?’ Her look is flat. ‘You want to go in my house?’

He nods. ‘Yeah.’

‘Uhm... yeah... that’s, uhm... Why exactly would I say yes to that?’

‘Because something really weird is...’

‘...no—no wait. Lead in Q. Before we proceed in this... oh, we’ll title it appropriately later, I’m sure. But... why me? Why not someone from your...?’

‘...because we’ve never emailed... or texted. So there’s no connection between us. Nothing they can.... Nothing.’

‘Ooohh... they... right... the evil they.’

He pushes on. The sarcasm never seemed to register.

‘And we’ve never hung out... but...’ He drags a hand through his hair and turns away from yet another car.

She watches him. ‘You think people are after you?’

‘Not all. I’m not whacked. Or hallucinating or anything. No one could have slipped me any drugs... but how would I know?’ He thinks – biting at his bottom lip. ‘I need to be somewhere to think about something... but I need to feel safe there. Would you...? I mean... just a few minutes to think?’

Her sarcasm and belittling affront change. She closes her book and stands.

‘Yeah... okay, sure.’

She turns, climbs the steps and pushes in the door.

‘It’s messy.’

‘I don’t care.’

He steps casually into the foyer.

She can’t help but check the street up and down looking for... who knows? While closing the door.

MIREIA’S BEDROOM – MINUTES LATER

Derek sits at Mireia’s desk – his eyes focussed on his backpack. She’s sitting cross-legged on the bed watching him – her eyes darting from him to the pack and back. The room is in the rear of the house and dark – average – lots of books on shelves.

‘So... it’s time, right? That you tell me what’s going on? Isn’t that how these things work?’ Mireia watches him – his preoccupation with the bloated backpack. He shakes his head – looks away in thought. ‘Just... let it out. If you’re...’

‘...It’s not dope... if that’s what you...’

‘...Whoa. Whoa. Wait... Relax... I didn’t say anything. Anything about it being drugs.’

Again she squints – watches him – can see the strain and confusion on his face.

He takes his hands to his head – flattens his hair – breathes in then out. ‘I’m a courier.’ He never lifts his eyes – remains focused on the pack.

‘Like... for a service? You have a job? That’s... wonderful... that’s...’

His head shakes.

‘...not wonderful. You don’t have a job.’

Another head shake. ‘It’s not... I mean... sort of.’

‘Oh.’ Her face fills with equal parts of confusion and amusement. ‘Derek Novak is... volunteering?’

Again, his head moves left then right – eyes still on the pack.

‘Derek... what are you trying to say? You got a job, or you didn’t. And what’s wrong with you?’

He thinks – the room is dead silent.

‘I’m a courier.’

‘You said that.’

‘Just... just listen, okay?’

She tilts her head. ‘O-kay.’

He puts his hands together – weaves his fingers tight – takes them to his mouth.

‘I’m a courier for this Bosnian guy called the Alchemist. He sells B-Tech... restricted technology and weapons on the open market – mainly to Al Qaida type groups... lots of Middle East ties... A few in the US... But... you know... Asia, Africa... Europe. That kind of thing.’

She half smiles – doesn’t know what to make of him – the serious look – like... desperation. It confuses her. ‘Okey-dokey? Good job, probably... I mean... right? Benefits? Get to travel? Probably fly business class?’

With a hand to her mouth chewing her nails, she watches him closely – his focus on that pack nearly fanatical. He never even blinks.

‘Wait.’ She crosses her arms in front of her and rubs her shoulders. ‘You’re serious.’

‘Okay, look...’

‘I don’t really want...’

‘...jus... just wait!’ He stands and begins pacing. ‘English. Period six. Ms Parmont.’

‘Yeah?’

‘The assignment.’

‘The short stories.’ She continues to watch him as he moves about.

He stops – she jolts – he lifts his eyes from the pack to her.

‘I’m living in my first one. The first of the four I submitted.’

‘You wrote four?’

‘Yeah... four. All with a version of me as the main character. The last one wasn’t finished.’ He shrugs. ‘I think Ms Parmont’s reading them now. And I’m living the main character’s part. Everything he is in my story... I am.’

‘When did this...?’

‘...right after school. I have all of his memories... I was trained... after Iraq... Holy shit... I built the character, so... I know everything about him. His back story... everything.’

He looks at her... she has a hand to her mouth.

CIA – OPERATIONS ROOM

After several minutes, a tech sends what he’s gotten from his search of Derek’s phone, email, text and social media accounts to the main viewer.

Anete studies it. ‘George... rinse that. Find out everyone he’s been talking to – and everyone they’ve been talking to. Find me a connection with Milik.’ She turns to a different operator.

‘What about the kid’s house?’

The tech operator types. ‘Screen three.’

ON THE LARGE LCD

‘The FBI is getting there now.’

The image on a large LCD to the right changes to an overhead view of Derek’s house.

MANHATTAN – DEREK’S HOUSE

Twin SUVs screech to a stop in front of Derek’s house in Manhattan’s lower west side. FBI Agents climb out and move swiftly to the front door.

MIREIA’S BEDROOM (CONT’D)

Mireia looks at the gun Derek has pulled from his pants.

‘Where did you...? What the hell are you doing with a gun?!’

He shakes his head – stares at the 9mm handgun.

‘I just got chased through downtown by two hitmen. I have no idea how I got away – I’m.... I’m thinking like my main character would. My moves are... Wait... wait!’ He plants the revolver on the desk and takes the pack to her bed. She scoots over giving him room.

He places it in the middle and pulls out the metal case.

They stare at it.

‘They want this.’

She stares. ‘What is it?’

‘A liquid explosive this weapons guy made in his lab.’

‘Give me a break.’

‘I’m serious. It’s enough to send New York into orbit.’

She lets out a strained chuckle.

‘Nice.’ She moves to the wall, grabs a pillow and hugs it as if it were a protective shield. ‘Now tell me what’s really inside.’

Exasperated, he bends over and opens the case.

ON THE CASE

The glass tube, embedded in the black foam, capped at both ends in silver.

MIREIA’S BEDROOM

Together they stare down at the ominous looking tube.

‘Holy shit!’ Mireia looks up at him.

‘Yeah.’ His head bobs. ‘That about gets it.’

Moments pass – both staring.

‘What are you going to do with it?’

‘I’m not...’ He moves to close it. ‘...I don’t know.’ He reaches for his pack. ‘I’m not sure I have a choice.’

He looks her in the eyes while stuffing the case back into his pack.

‘Derek... I’m not saying that I’m buying any of this...’

‘...of course you aren’t.’

‘Don’t get crushed, but...’

‘...Just say it.’

She takes a moment – thinks it through.

‘Okay... Just for conversation then... Is this what you do in the story?’

‘Sort of...’ He struggles with the zipper.

She watches him. ‘Well... why am I here...?! Why would you put me in your story?!’

He finishes with the pack – shoulders it – reaches for her hand. ‘Come on.’

‘Where?’

‘I need you to walk me out.’

‘Why?’ She starts to climb from the bed.

‘You’ll see.’

CIA – OPERATIONS ROOM

Anete hovers over an operator’s desk – staring into her screen.

From the camera of an overhead drone, they watch the agents move up the stairs to Derek’s porch.

FRONT PORCH – DEREK’S HOUSE

One agent is on the porch talking into his phone through his earbud mic while pressing the doorbell and peering in through the windows.

‘Looks like no one’s home.’

INTERCUT – ANETE AND AGENT

‘We’re sending you names and addresses now.’ Anete gestures to another operator. ‘When you finish there, see what you can find at the kid’s school. Friends – friends of friends. Anyone and everyone who may have seen him.’

The agent brings up his phone – taps – reads. ‘Got it.’ His partner appears at his side – he drops to a knee and begins working the lock. ‘We’re on our way in now.’

‘I’m giving you the authority to take everything.’ She gestures to an operator who starts typing. ‘His clothes, books, electronics... I want the light fixtures and wall sockets.’

‘You’ve got it.’ Together they move in through the door.

MIREIA’S HOUSE

Derek and Mireia move swiftly through the house. When they reach the dining room, she drops into a chair and starts pulling on her boots.

He stops facing the front door. Tense – just staring.

She looks up. ‘Tell me where we’re going.’

‘It’d be better if I didn’t.’

‘I thought I was walking you out.’

He turns to her – his eyes glazed. ‘Just to the Green Line on Webster.’

She gives him a sceptical squint. Gets up – pulls on a fleece.

‘I’m not wild about this. Walking you... I don’t know if I want anything to do with this.’

He looks back to the door and grabs the knob – takes in a breath. ‘Just... to the Webster...’

He opens the door.

OUTSIDE MIREIA’S HOUSE

...‘Wait... wait...’ He leans back into the house –

shuts the door and stares at it.

‘What?’ Mireia moves close. ‘What is it?’

‘Uhm...’

‘What?! What’s out there?!’

She reaches for the knob. He looks frozen. ‘Mireia, don’t.’

‘What’s wrong with you?’

She pulls back the door and peers out.

In the foyer with his back against the wall, Derek watches her step out onto the deck