Follow Me Until the End of the World: The Weapon - REVIEW THIS STORY

Written by Sandman
Last updated: 01/02/2007 02:01:11 AM

Chapter 1

Human politics failed circa the 1990s, resulting in a massive nuclear warfare. This story takes place thirty years after, as the remaining pocket communities in the former United States attempt to reorganize. Some groups have returned to a more simple way of life, finding their subsistence in horticulture or herding and re-making their political organization along a tribal level. Others remain in the cities, many of which are but skeletal remains.

A single individual, Nathaniel Essex (AKA Mr. Sinister) seemingly arose from nothingness to rebuild the world in his own vision. His unmatched charisma sold a vision to a group of follows, which eventually large enough to organize and form an army, called the Southern Cross. Taking hold of abandoned military caches, it began along two fronts, the east and the west coast (as much of the central part of the country are wastelands, inhabited by radiated tribals, mutated creatures, traders, and raiders). The Southern Cross began taking city after city, before setting up a permanent government in California. They continue to sweep the country, confiscating property, taking in new recruits, and pillaging anyone that stands in the way. A technological genius, Cameron Hodge began feeding new devices to the cause. His twisted experiments gave birth the Hunter, a unit specially trained in bringing in mutants, who are used in both the Southern Cross and for Essex’s own interests, which include creating a genetically superior being through DNA mapping of mutants.

A resistance emerged not long after the birth of the Southern Cross. Tiny, disorganized, and nearly hopeless, it faced defeat after defeat. A betrayal of one of its most prominent leaders, Alex Summers (AKA Havok) nearly destroyed it. It remains only as scattered pockets.

Worse yet, another evil lurks behind the scenes. Even Essex answers to a higher power, known as the Overlord. Few know his true name, Apocalypse, an ageless demon hell-bent on controlling the world and merging it with the plain of existence from which he came. He uses Essex to find the mutant telepaths of the world-the one tool he needs to open a gateway to fulfill his goal.

Time grows short as a few determined individuals fight against the Overlord. These stories will focus on two of these groups-each with its own cast. The Weapon story arc (the first installment) focuses on Wolverine, Bishop, and Psylocke (among many others who will be mainstays and others that will be cameos), who will remain along the west coast of the US. The other arc, A Place Worth Saving?, includes Gambit, Cyclops, Dazzler, and Colossus (and again, many others will join or appear later).

“Who was born in a house, full of pain….?

Who was trained not to spit, in the fan…?

Who was told what to do, by the man…?

Who was broken by trained personnel…?

Who was fitted with color, and chains…?

Who was given a pat on the back…?

Who was breaking away from the pack….?

Who was only a stranger at heart…? ” Dogs, Pink Floyd

Somewhere in Canada

Logan had been laying naked in shattered glass for what seemed like hours, to weak to move. His mind remained in a haze; he could not recall where he was or what he was doing here. The numbness was being replaced with the unpleasant sensation of jagged glass piercing his skin. It was at this point when he realized he was very much alive and would soon be well enough to stand. “Godamnit,” he thought too himself, realizing that he was still alive. So many lifetimes marred with pain, each nearly ended with some life-shattering event. His last memory was seeing his partner and closest friend, David North, engulfed in a fire cloud.

Logan lifted his head and looked about the dark room around him. It contained a row of tanks, some of which still contained people. Behind him stood the broken tank that he somehow escaped. A small pool of a pungent smelling liquid remained at its bottom, while the rest spilled out unto the floor. A sudden flash of urgency (panic?) overtook Logan, and he jumped to his feet. Throwing his back to a wall, he appraised his surroundings for danger. His fists clenched in fury, ready to pop the claws that they contained. The next person that he ran across had better provide some answers, unless he wanted his guts handed to him. He was inches away from snapping.

After several minutes, it appeared that nobody awake, besides Logan, was in the room. He began picking out pieces of glass from his flesh, and his wounds immediately began to close. Realizing that he was naked, weaponless, and clueless about his surroundings, he slowly gained control over his rage. It was a matter of survival. Just as it always had been. He scanned the tanks. The life readings on each indicated that they housed only corpses. Several were empty. He scanned the name templates on each of tanks, some he recognized, and some he did not. Of the twelve tanks, five were empty-David North AKA Maverick (Logan knew that his body had been incinerated), Lauren Silverfox, Wade Wilson, Thomas Kane, and Victor Creed. It was the last tank that caught his attention the most. If Creed was indeed alive, he would endure a more painful act of vengeance the likes of which Satan could not imagine. But that would have to wait-escape from this hellhole was his priority. Then he needed to fulfill his promise to Maverick. Then Creed, if the bastard still lived.

A single vault-like door seemed to provide the only exit from this tomb. He didn’t bother trying to handle-it was undoubtedly locked. His claws slid from his knuckles, and he skewered its lock as simply as if it was made of hot butter. Pushing the door open took a bit of effort, indicating that it had remained closed for some time. Logan wondered exactly how long he was comatose. A staircase led up toward another door. Emergency lights illuminated the stairway. Logan realized that this place was enduring some type of power outage. “At least that’s something,” he thought. He was used to working against all odds, but at least this provided one advantage. Stealth would be important in the next few minutes.

He climbed the stairwell without making a sound. Pushing the door open only revealed an empty hallway, lined with red Christmas-like lights along the ceiling. There were two doors on each side, but only one was open. Logan approached it was caution, with his claws raised, ready to punch someone straight in the throat. He sniffed only stale air, indicating that nobody had been in the hallway for a while, perhaps weeks. Despite the apparent absence of any other presence, he turned into the room prepared to kill. It was a barracks of some kind, though every cot except one was folded over and without a mattress. If this was the only barracks in the building, it was possible that there was only one person left in it. The one cot was made next to the bathroom, made with meticulous care. Several piles of clothes lay on top of the bed. He walked over to the bed and immediately began dressing-if he was going to die today, he didn’t want to do it with his balls hanging out. The uniform was somewhat of a tight fit, but would suffice. He popped open the footlocker and searched for a weapon, with no such luck. Only several clips for a 9mm pistol, a diary, a flashlight, a shaving kit, several pornographic magazines, and a lighter. He pushed it aside and walked into the bathroom. Confident that no eminent danger was around, he cupped his mouth to the sink faucet and began drinking from it. The water was refreshing, and within moments, he felt more strength returning to his body. He splashed cold water into his face and peered into the mirror in front of him. His hair was not badly overgrown, indicating that he had been some kind of stasis-that would probably explain why it took him hours to regain control over his body after waking from unconsciousness. But how had he broken free from the tank? Had someone freed him? Unlikely, because no scent lingered in the room, and the fact that the door had been sealed. Perhaps there was another way into the room that he hadn’t noticed. Or maybe it was a freak occurrence, a muscle spasm, causing him to kick (during complete stasis, which completely numbs the body?) open the glass.

Logan left the barracks and searched the other three rooms. A laundry, a computer room (which had been completely ransacked) and the other was an exercise room. So far, this place seemed more like a containment facility than a scientific research center. “Good, at least they haven’t been fucking with me”, Logan thought while approaching the stairwell at the end of the hall. He silently crept up them, preparing for the encounter with the whoever had been left behind in this Godforsaken place.

Finding this fellow happened a bit sooner then Logan expected. The smell is what told him a couple of things about what waited at the top of the staircase. First, there was somebody up there and second, he had been decaying for some time. For the first time in an hour, Logan sheathed his claws as he climbed the staircase. He walked into a mess hall, where a single body lay slumped over a table. Upon approaching it Logan realized that much of the man’s face was missing. A 9mm pistol, spattered in blood lay on the ground, directly below the corpse’s hand. The other hand contained a wrinkled piece of paper. Logan pried it from the man’s hand and read it.

A

ttn: Wycheck, Walter, Private 1st Class

TOP SECRET TOP SECRET TOP SECRET TOP SECRET TOP SECRET

Activate Code C:17 plan sigma sigma on 04/01/00, set for 0000017900054,

Passcode: DOOMSDAY.

NOTE: FACILITY MUST NOT BE RECOVERED BY COMMUNIST FORCES. DETONATE IMMEDIATELY UPON SECURITY BEACH.

Logan dropped it the ground and looked down at what presumably used to be Private First Class Walter Wycheck. He had a pair of boots that Logan figured he wouldn’t be needing any longer. Unlike the clothing, the boots fit perfectly, Logan thought, as he pulled them on and laced them. Solitude must have driven this leftover soldier to suicide. The power must have gone out of the place a long time after Wycheck offed himself. It didn’t really matter now, anyway. Arming himself with the 9mm pistol, Logan left the mess hall to find an exit to the facility. After passing a kitchen, a supply closet, and a television room, he came a secured glass door, behind which was an elevator. Logan popped his claws again and cut through the bulletproof glass, which made a painful shrieking sound. It fell against the ground on the other side, leaving enough room for Logan to step across. The elevator, of course, was not functioning. Beside it was a counter of some sorts, which read.

DATE: 4/01/00

TEMP: 107 DEGREES FARENHEIT

RADIATION LEVEL: 5.66

TIME: 12: 45am

The time was stuck at 12:45am, so Logan figured the gauge quit when the power went out. At least he knew that it was sometime after the year 2000. Before leaving, Logan decided to prepare for whatever waited outside.

After showering and collecting whatever supplies he deemed useful, including several dozen cans of food and canteens of fresh water, and stuffed them into a duffle bag. He made himself a meal from the preserved food left in the kitchen and read over Wycheck’s diary, learning that this was, indeed, a holding facility for the survivors of the Weapon X project, a NATO sponsored program to produce a new breed of spy from Homo Sapiens Superior, or more commonly, mutants. This information was classified to Wycheck, but apparently he hacked into the mainframe of the place and read all about it (he mentioned that his occupational specialty, of all things, was computer science). He also learned that the mainframe was programmed to administer poison into the tanks on a specific date to eliminate the survivors. Logan figured that his healing factor must have reacted the poison, forcing himself into convulsions inside the tank. That seemed like the best explanation.

The diary continued on, skipping dates. The last entry was 12/25/99, when Wycheck suggested that he was going to kill himself on this day. There was an obvious progression into madness, where he began seeing hallucinations. Apparently, a man dressed in a black robe had been lurking around the lower floors, so he stopped sleeping downstairs.

Seeing no need to stay there any longer, Logan gathered his duffle bag, stuffed his sidearm into his pants, and walked toward the elevator. After cutting the door open, he entered it, and observed that it only went up. He cut into the ceiling and climbed on top of the elevator. The shaft seemed to go up for miles. “Damnit…I’m underground…,” Logan muttered. Logan slung the duffle bag over his shoulder, and began climbing the elevators cable.

After nearly an hour of climbing passed before he saw the ceiling. Veins bulged from his arms and the tension was becoming immense. There was no turning back at this point. The fall would crush him (but he might survive it , never know, with these adamantium bones). He pressed on, and ultimately made it to the top. There was only a small ledge next to the closed elevator door, just barely enough to stand on. Logan carefully placed one foot on it while holding onto the cable. With his other hand, he sliced open the door, and pushed it out, walking into a warehouse full of crates, which apparently contained spoiled food. Logan smirked. “Clever disguise…the stench would probably cause most people to avoid this place,” he thought to himself. He walked through the maze or crates towards the rusty pull-down door. Logan gripped it, and heaved up, allowing sunlight to temporarily blind him. For the first time in a long, but unknown amount of time, he was free from his prison. He dropped his duffle bag on the ground and beheld the ruined city around him. Fallen concrete buildings with sun-bleached walls told the story of nuclear holocaust. Everyone within miles must have been disintegrated into dust. This place was a tomb, and Logan was anxious to leave, with California as his destination. Somewhere in that state, Maverick’s girlfriend and two sons lived (maybe). He promised Chris during their campaign in El Salvador aiding the contras against the communist wave that was overtaking the continent, that he in the case of his death, he would find his girlfriend and tell her of his demise (which the government would no doubt not recognize, since in fact, North did not technically exist). Despite Logan insisting the North was being paranoid, he remembered a message that his friend and partner requested him to deliver if he died. Logan clung to this goal as his only reason for survival. Maybe it was somewhat selfish, but it was also somewhat instinctive.

It was a beautiful warm day outside, with a clear blue sky that contained only hints of clouds. Logan guessed that it was probably late Spring, good traveling weather. He picked his duffle bag up and began walking without a clear idea of direction. It would indeed be long while of walking before he gained any idea of where he was, but eventually he found a bent sign that read, “Welcome to Toronto”. Resting against the signpost, he took his first drink of water. It would be a long walk to California.