BLADE
                                -----





                                  by
 
                            David S. Goyer













     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 'fuck 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 fuck 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)
               Fuck, 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 fucked 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.

     The strobe lights quicken to a seizure-inducing intensity. Dennis
     spins, tumbling into Raquel's arms. She shoves him forward -- Dennis
     lands on the floor, falling at someone's boot-clad feet. He looks up.
     A DARK FIGURE sits in the shadows, unnoticed until this moment. The
     figure stands, moves into the light as time screeches to a halt -- 

     A BLACK MAN, 

     towers above Dennis, wearing dark glasses and a leather longcoat -- a
     sneer of cruel contempt etched upon a face tempered by a lifetime of
     horror. His name is BLADE.

     Blade whips open his long coat, shrugging it off, revealing an
     arsenal of high-tech weapons strapped to his body: 

     6-point adjustable body armor, a modified CAR-15 assault rifle with
     an ultra-violet entry light, two Casull .454 revolvers, a 'Demon'
     automatic cross-bow, a bandoleer of mahogany stakes, an Indian-style
     katar punching dagger -- and last, but certainly not least, his
     namesake -- a silver sword which is secured in a back-scabbard.

     CLOSE ON BLADE

     A gaze as cold and pitiless as a midnight sun. The vampire club-goers
     stare back. Nuclear silence. And then --

     All hell breaks loose. With a SNARL, Raquel charges at Blade, moving
     at superhuman speed, practically a blur -- 

     Blade draws his Casulls, FIRES in multiple directions --

     MACRO BULLET SHOT 

     as a round roars through the air towards Raquel. A silver-tipped dum-
     dum bullet which explodes on contact.

     WHAM! The round punches a fist-sized hole through Raquel's chest,
     continuing on into the vamp behind her! Vampire blood fountains. Both
     creatures tumble forward, their bodies liquefying into puddles of
     black oil which go gurgling down the run-off drains.

     Blade continues FIRING, then -CLICK!- magazines empty. Next. He
     holsters the Casulls, swings up his assault rifle, calmly flicks on
     the UV entry light mounted above --

     MERCURY 

     leaps twenty feet straight up into the air. We've never seen anything
     move so fast. She CRASHES through a glass skylight, disappearing into
     the night just as --

     -- a shaft of blinding UV 'sunlight' cuts across the vampires. They
     rear back, skin smoking from the light's corrosive effects. Blade
     opens FIRE, pumping round after round of wooden fragmentation bullets
     into the crowd -- vampire genocide.

     The strobe lights flicker as the mayhem mounts. Some of the vampires
     try to flee, scurrying up the stairs, but the exit quickly becomes
     clogged with liquefying bodies -- 

     -- then Blade's CAR-15 jams. The remaining club-goers see their
     opening, surge forward en masse -- 

     Blade drops the rifle, reaches over his shoulder and -SCHINGGG!-
     unsheathes his sword with a double-handed grip. 

     THE SWORD

     Four acid-etched feet of blood-soaked Damascus steel. An edge so
     sharp it could cleave a shadow in two.

     Blade moves like lightning, hacking his way into TWO CHARGING
     VAMPIRES. Blade spins again, cuts ANOTHER VAMPIRE clean in half --

     ON THE FAR END OF THE CLUB,

     a LATEX-CLAD VAMP makes a break for it. Blade flings his sword,
     sending it spinning end over end -- THUNK! The sword punches into the
     vampire's heart. The hellish creature convulses, dies.

     Beat. Blade retrieves his sword, then senses --

     SOMETHING BIG

     rising up behind him. In a flash, Blade swings his sword downward,
     cutting off the vampire's right hand at the elbow. The severed limb
     falls to the floor -- 

     -- but it doesn't slow the hulking creature down. It SLAMS into
     Blade. Blade flies backwards thirty feet, tumbling over tables,
     slamming into the rear wall so hard that plaster rains down from the
     ceiling. 

     Blade suddenly finds himself wrestling with a feral-faced six-foot-
     something nightmare named QUINN. The vampire rears back its head,
     jaws stretching wide. Every inch of his face is covered with ritual
     scarification patterns and Maori-like tribal tattoos. 

     Blade forces an elbow against Quinn's throat, trying to keep him at
     bay. With his other hand he reaches to his bandoleer, pulls out a
     stake -- CRUNCH! Blade shoves the stake through the vampire's larynx.
     Quinn gurgles, clutches at his throat. 

本文发布在演艺圈门户网，演艺吧，请勿转载．域名www.yanyi8.com .08:03本报讯(记者金力维)为呼应国庆期间合家欢乐的节日氛围,10月2     Blade rolls out from under, unholsters the cross-bow secured to his
     leg. With a flick of a switch the arms of the bow -SNAP!- open,
     drawing the bow-string taut. Blade FIRES -- 

     The bolt hits Quinn in the shoulder, throwing him backwards and
     nailing him to the wall. As Quinn reaches over with his other hand to
     pull out the stake --

     Blade FIRES AGAIN. A second bolt slams into Quinn's other arm,
     effectively pinning him like a butterfly to a board.

     UP ABOVE, 

     mounted in one of the corners, is a security camera. Blade fires a
     cross-bow bolt straight into the lens. 

     Blade strides over, placing his sword against Quinn's chest.

                           BLADE
               Where is Deacon Frost?

     Quinn glares, trying to speak, gagging on the stake still lodged in
     his trachea --

                           BLADE
               Got something in your throat.

     Blade yanks the stake free. The vampire laughs, air whistling through
     his ruined larynx. 

                           QUINN
               Fuck you, Day-walker, I ain't saying 
               shit --

                           BLADE
               Frost.

     Quinn responds with a slew of rapid-fire vampire invectives. Blade
     sees he's getting nowhere fast, calmly sheathes his sword. He unclips
     a white phosphorous grenade from his combat harness -- 

                           QUINN
               You won't stop him, Blade. The Tide's 
               rising, the Sleeper's gonna --

     Blade shoves the grenade in Quinn's mouth, pulls the pin. WHOOSH!
     Quinn goes up like a roman candle. Blade turns, surveying his work,
     ignoring the howling pyre behind him:

     All evidence of the vampires is gone -- with the exception of a few
     oily-black puddles. Clothes, jewelry -- it's all been burned away by
     the acidic process of the creatures' accelerated decomposition.

     DENNIS sits huddled in a corner, having pissed his pants. As Blade
     approaches, he cringes back --

                           DENNIS
               Please don't --

     Blade simply grabs Dennis by the jaw, tilting his head upward,
     rotating it from side to side -- looking for bite marks. There aren't
     any.

     Blade moves on, leaving Dennis alone amidst the carnage. As Blade
     starts up the stairs, he pauses in mid-step --

     A COCKROACH

     scurries out from underfoot. 

     Blade adjusts his footfall, sparing the roach. He continues on up the
     stairs, disappearing in the smoky haze. 

     CUT TO:

     INT. CITY HOSPITAL, AUTOPSY ROOM - NIGHT

     CAMERA FOLLOWS a bagged corpse as it's rolled into the autopsy room
     by an ASSISTANT. 

                           ASSISTANT
               Brought you a baked potato, nice
               and crispy. Still warm, too.

     CURTIS WEBB, the forensic pathologist (30s, white bread, a little on
     the smarmy side) steps forward, unzips the bag --

     It's Quinn, what's left of him, anyway. Burnt to a charcoal
     briquette, limbs twisted horribly, oozing fluids.

     Curtis turns his head, grimacing, wafting the air.

                           CURTIS
               Jesus, that's rank -- 

     Curtis turns back, makes note of the blackened stump where Quinn's
     arm used to be, the ruined throat -- 

                           CURTIS
               What's his story?

                           ASSISTANT
               Paramedics said he was still screaming 
               when they found him. Looks like some 
               joker had stapled him to a wall.

                           CURTIS
               Pretty.

     CUT TO:

     INT. HOSPITAL, HEMATOLOGY LAB - NIGHT

     MICROSCOPE POV

     of a slide-mounted blood smear stained with Wright stain (blue ink).
     What we see is a collection of donut-shaped pink things (red blood
     cells) intermingled with some small blue specks (platelets) and the
     occasional larger, light-blue blobs (white blood cells).

     KAREN JANSEN (20s), a fine-featured hematologist with a social life
     in suspended animation, sits back from the microscope, stumped. Next
     to her is JULIE WHITAKER, a cheerful chemtech. 

                           KAREN
               You took this off a DOA?

     Curtis sits on a stool nearby, slowly nodding.

                           KAREN
               This isn't human blood.

                           CURTIS
               Then what is it?

                           KAREN
               I don't know --
                    (re: microscope)
               Look at this blood smear -- 

     Curtis takes a look for himself.

                           KAREN
               The red blood cells are biconvex, 
               which is theoretically impossible. 
               They're hypochromic, there's virtually 
               no hemoglobin in them. 
                    (shaking her head)
               Look at the PMNs, they're binucleated, 
               they should be mononucleated.

                           CURTIS
               What about the chemistry panel? 

     Karen looks to Julie, who reaches for a computer print-out.

                           JULIE
               Blood sugar level is three times the 
               norm, phosphorous and uric acid are 
               off the scales.
                    (shrugs)
               Like the woman said, impossible.

     Karen removes her glasses, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

                           KAREN
               Curtis, it's three in the morning. I'm 
               really not in the mood for one of your 
               practical jokes.

                           CURTIS
                    (insistent)
               It's not a joke. I've got the stiff 
               sitting in the morgue right now -- 
               look, just come up and see him, okay? 
               Five minutes, that's all I ask.

                           KAREN
               I thought you promised to give me some 
               distance?

                           CURTIS
               This is purely professional curiosity, 
               Karen, I swear.

     Karen rolls her eyes, lets loose a tired sigh.

                           KAREN
               Five minutes, not a second more. And I 
               don't want to hear a word about 'us'.

                           CURTIS
               No problem.

     INT. HOSPITAL MORGUE - NIGHT

     The dead of night, not a mouse in the house. Curtis and Karen, each
     garbed in a mask, stand on either side of Quinn's body, which now
     rests on the autopsy table.

     QUINN'S BODY

     A preliminary exploratory Y-incision has been made across the chest,
     stretching from shoulder to shoulder, then continuing on down the
     abdomen. Ribs and cartilage have been cut open to expose the heart
     and lungs.

                           KAREN
               You haven't started in on the internal 
               organs?

                           CURTIS 
               Just the blood sample from the 
               pericardial sac.

     Curtis pauses, studying Quinn's disfigured face -- the features seem
     much less damaged now -- almost as if the corpse were healing itself.

                           CURTIS
               That's weird --

                           KAREN
               What?

                           CURTIS
               He looks different now, burns are less 
               extreme, some of these wounds have 
               closed up -- 

     Curtis pulls out a penlight, flicks it on. He leans over Quinn,
     shining the light into one of his eyes.

                           CURTIS
               Tell me something, honestly, you ever 
               have second thoughts about us?

                           KAREN
                    (grudgingly)
               Sometimes --

     Curtis looks up from the corpse, grinning beneath his mask.

                           KAREN
               -- but then I remember what an 
               ass-hole you were and I'm snapped back 
               to reality. 

                           CURTIS
               Jesus, Karen, you're breaking my heart 
               here --

     Quinn suddenly bolts up from the autopsy table, sinking his fangs
     into Curtis' jugular. He snaps the man's neck in two for easier
     access, sucking in blood like a living vacuum. 

     Karen stumbles backwards, sending autopsy tools CLATTERING.

     QUINN

     rises from the table, flinging Curtis' twitching body aside. He curls
     his blood-soaked lips back, baring viper-like fangs, emitting a
     GUTTURAL GROWL --

                           QUINN
                    (crazed by thirst)
               -- more -- blood --

     Karen backs into the corpse drawers, but Quinn is upon her in a half-
     second, wrapping a hand about her throat. His mouth opens/morphs
     disturbingly wide as if to swallow her head whole, caustic saliva
     dripping from his canines -- 

     Karen tries to turn her head away, but Quinn's grip is vise-like. She
     finds herself staring into his eyes -- pupils pulsing rapid-fire,
     opening and closing, hypnotic --

     As Quinn sinks the tips of his fangs into Karen's carotid artery and
     starts to nurse --

     BANG!!! A load of MAHOGANY buckshot chews into Quinn's side. He HOWLS
     in pain. Another load catches him full in the face. He drops Karen.
     She falls to the floor -- 

     KAREN'S POV
岸观影时2018年10月04日22:11刚刚结束的《中国相声小品》大赛,来自天津的杨仪、杨少华父子为我们奉献了一段相声,作为今晚大赛的压轴戏。正如在相声中杨仪所说,他已经十几年不说相声了。那这些年《相
     The sound of RUSHING BLOOD pounding through her skull. Everything
     spinning. She struggles to move, turns her head, finds herself eye to
     eye with Curtis' corpse.

     ON QUINN

     rising, his face torn up, smoking. WHIP PAN TO --

     BLADE, 

     standing at the entrance to the morgue, a streetsweeper auto-shotgun
     in hand, sizing Quinn up.

                           BLADE
               Now don't we look dapper?

     Quinn BELLOWS with rage, ripping one of the heavy steel refrigeration
     doors from its hinges, flinging it at Blade like it was lawn
     furniture --

     Blade rolls to the side as the door CRASHES against the wall. Quinn
     runs, moving through the morgue like a human tornado, heading for the
     windows at the end of the room --

     SMASH!!! Out goes Quinn, taking half the wall with him. Blade rushes
     to the decimated window, looks down --

     BLADE'S POV

     Quinn lands on the roof of an ambulance parked four stories below,
     caving it in. He springs off, loping across the tarmac on three
     limbs, then -SCREECH!-THWUMP!- rolling up onto the hood of an
     oncoming car, before disappearing into the night --

     BACK UP ABOVE,

     Blade spins, SEES Karen bleeding her life away on the floor. She
     reaches a hand out to him, beseeching --

     Blade pulls away from her grasp, takes a step towards the exit --
     then hesitates. 

     A flicker of doubt washes across Blade's face. He looks down at Karen
     once more, wrestling with his conscience, finally making a decision.
     He kneels, scoops Karen up into his arms. Just then, 

     TWO POLICEMEN 

     rush into the morgue, weapons drawn --

                           UNIFORM #1
               Hold it, ass-hole!

     Blade ignores them, turning to face the window before him. It's a
     good thirty feet to the roof of the adjacent building, a parking
     structure -- and damned if Blade doesn't seem to be considering the
     jump.

     The Police close in, agitated. Blade crouches, switches Karen to a
     one-handed grip --

                           UNIFORM #1
               I said hold it!!!

     -- and jumps.

     EXT. HOSPITAL/ROOFTOP PARKING STRUCTURE - NIGHT

     Blade clears the impossible distance -- almost. He snags the ledge of
     the adjacent parking structure with his left hand even as Karen slips
     from the grasp of his right --

     -- a last-second save, his fingers clamping around her wrist, is all
     that stands between Karen and street pizza. She SCREAMS anyway,
     dangling below him --

     Blade GRUNTS, swinging Karen like a pendulum, heaving her up and over
     the ledge as if she were a sack of potatoes. She lands on her
     shoulder, clutching it in pain --

     Blade heaves himself up, crouching beside her.

                           KAREN
                    (gasping)
               My shoulder -- dislocated --

     Blade places a hand on her shoulder, another around her elbow and
     without any consideration to discomfort -CRACK!- brutally pops it
     back in place. Karen SCREAMS again as he scoops her up once more and
     heads for --

     HIS '69 OLDSMOBILE 442, 

     which is parked nearby. Midnight-black. The definitive high-
     performance heavy-metal muscle machine with an engine big enough to
     power an Apollo rocket. 

     INT. BLADE'S OLDS - NIGHT

     Blade sets Karen down in the passenger seat, climbs behind the wheel,
     keys the ignition. The engine ROARS to life, belching fumes through
     the dual exhaust. Blade floors it, burning serious rubber as the Olds
     vanishes from sight. 

     BACK AT THE DEMOLISHED MORGUE WINDOW 

     as the two policemen stare numbly in open-mouthed astonishment.

     CUT TO:

     EXT. CITY STREETS - NIGHT

     Blade pilots the Olds down the streets, moving through a series of
     increasingly degenerating neighborhoods, coming at last to the
     sprawling warehouse district.

     EXT. ABANDONED FACTORY - NIGHT 

     The Olds approaches a mammoth industrial facility that's been
     cordoned off by cyclone fencing and razor wire. Ultra-violet
     floodlights illuminate the area, while an army of security cameras
     keep a watchful eye. 

     INT. BLADE'S OLDS - NIGHT

     Blade glances at Karen, cursing himself for giving into his emotions.
     He hits a remote secured to the sun visor --

     EXT. BLADE'S OLDS/ABANDONED FACTORY - NIGHT

     A gate grinds open. 

     We follow the Olds as it cruises around the back of the building,
     heading down a concrete loading ramp. At the bottom of the ramp, a
     heavy iron door rises. Blade's Olds disappears into the darkness.

     INT. ABANDONED FACTORY, INDUSTRIAL ELEVATOR - NIGHT

     More UV lights flicker on. We're in a massive loading elevator which
     HUMS as it ascends, eventually reaching its destination with a
     BOOMING CLANG. The doors at the rear glide open. Blade guides the
     Olds out.

     INT. ABANDONED FACTORY, WHISTLER'S WORKSHOP - NIGHT

     Set up in an old ironworks, the place looks like a cross between an
     auto junkyard and an armory. Equipment is strewn everywhere --
     lathes, mills, old furnaces, gutted vehicles, an ad hoc surgical
     theater -- all of it jerry-rigged in a brutal, oily-tech.

     Blade climbs out of the Olds. He opens the passenger door and pulls
     Karen out, carries her in his arms. 

                           BLADE
               Whistler!

                           WHISTLER (O.S.)
               Are we bringing home strays now?

     ABRAHAM WHISTLER (60s)

     hobbles out of the shadows, leaning heavily on a cane. Gimlet-eyed,
     bitter, his right leg encased in a metal brace. Though his face is
     lined with wrinkles and his hair has long since gone gray, we sense
     he could kick the living shit out of any man half his age. 

                           BLADE
               She's been bitten.

                           WHISTLER
               You should've killed her, then.

                           BLADE
               She hasn't turned yet. 
                    (pointedly)
               You can help her.

     Blade and Whistler stare each other down. Finally, Whistler turns and
     heads over to the operating theater.

                           WHISTLER
               No promises. You watch her close. She 
               starts to turn, you finish her off.

     Blade nods, lays Karen down on the operating table. Whistler turns on
     an overhead light. Karen is sheathed in sweat, ashen. She's lost a
     lot of blood.

     Whistler snaps on a pair of surgical gloves, probes the wound in
     Karen's neck with an antiseptic swab -- there's capillary damage
     around the perimeter of the wound, the tissue looks bruised,
     gangrenous. 

                           WHISTLER
               Localized necrosis. She's borderline. 
               Another hour and she'd be well into 
               the change.

     Whistler cracks open a smelling salt capsule and waves under Karen's
     nose. As she starts to stir --

                           WHISTLER
               Can you hear me, woman? 

     Karen's eyes open wide. She's scared, disoriented --

                           KAREN
               What -- ?

                           WHISTLER
               You've been bitten by a vampire. We've 
               got to try and burn out the venom, 
               just like a rattlesnake bite --

     Whistler reaches for a massive syringe filled with caustic-looking
     fluid. Karen sees the syringe, resists --

                           WHISTLER
               Hold her. 

     Blade forces Karen back. Whistler readies the syringe.

                           WHISTLER
                    (reading her name tag)
               'Dr. Karen Jansen'. Listen close, I'm 
               going to inject you with an antidote 
               made from allium setivum -- garlic. 
               This is going to hurt. A lot. 

     Whistler sinks the needle into Karen's neck and depresses the
     plunger. 'Hurt' doesn't begin to describe what Karen experiences
     next. Imagine undergoing childbirth while someone pumps battery acid
     through your veins.

     Karen SHRIEKS, her body going into uncontrolled paroxysms. The wound
     on her neck begins to smoke as the antidote attacks the poisonous
     vampire venom.

     Karen clutches at Blade's arms, digging her nails in. She stares up
     at him with unflinching intensity, like a child desperately searching
     for assurance. 

     ON BLADE,

     uncomfortable playing the roll of nursemaid. He'd like nothing more
     than to be done with this, but the only thing he can do is hold Karen
     while she rides out the seizures. 

     KAREN'S POV

     growing darker by the moment. The last thing she sees is Blade
     staring down at her -- then the night closes in. 

     INT. HOUSE OF EREBUS, MEETING ROOM - NIGHT

     CLOSE ON a monitor featuring footage taken at the vampire club
     massacre. Blade turns and stares into the camera, fires his cross-
     bow. The screen cuts to static.

     A WITHERED, CLAWED HAND

     moves into frame, holding a remote. With a tap of a button, the
     monitor goes dark. 

     PULL BACK TO REVEAL a large, minimalist conference room -- the House
     of Erebus, seat of the vampire race's legislative assembly.

     Gathered around a massive table are the TWELVE VAMPIRE ELDERS,
     representing a 'rainbow' of racial colors -- names like PALLINTINE,
     VON ESPER, ASHE, BAVA. Two of them, the FAUSTINAS, are identical
     twins -- lethal-looking women with alabaster skin. 

     Chilled carafes filled with blood are situated along the table. From
     time to time, a member will pour themselves a glass, or perhaps, help
     themselves to the bowls of human finger bones which serve as snacks.

     At the head of the table is GAETANO DRAGONETTI, current vampire
     'Overlord'. Blood-red eyes, parchment skin stretched over skull-like
     features. Incalculably ancient, but still deadly and virile as a
     viper. 

     Dragonetti speaks. He uses the 'secret tongue' -- the ancient vampire
     language which utilizes consonants human vocal chords are incapable
     of reproducing. 

                           DRAGONETTI 
                    (subtitled)
               Blade. Once again, our interests have 
               fallen victim to his ridiculous 
               crusade. He must be destroyed.

                           FROST (O.S.)
                    (in English)
               You're wrong, Dragonetti. 

     All heads turn. Who would dare such impudence?

     DEACON FROST, 

     a mere 'Underlord' in the vampire hierarchy, steps forward.
     Strikingly handsome, younger, less conservative than his superiors,
     fueled with a passionate intensity. Amongst the vampire community
     he's known as an agitator. He's also the vampire equivalent of a
     racial supremacist.

                           FROST
               The Day Walker represents a unique 
               opportunity. We'd be fools to waste 
               it by killing him. 

                           DRAGONETTI
                    (subtitled, taking umbrage)
               Deacon Frost. You refuse to speak our 
               language, you insult the House of 
               Erebus by using the humans' 
               gutter-tongue, have you no respect 
               for tradition? 

                           FROST
               Why should I respect something which
                                

                                
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