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 3

Guided only by moonlight, Sam Guthrie hurried down the sloping hill. Over the years of making the courier runs between his hometown of Bridgeport to the neighboring locales, he had lost his fear of mountain lions and rattlers. Raiders and bandits rarely came this way, simply because there was nothing of value-only coal, wheat, and perhaps the foulest tasting moonshine that had ever been made. He carried a hunting rifle that had belonged to his father as a matter of insurance, though he never had to use in for defense. Though it was the only inheritance the 17- year old boy received from his father upon his death, he did not assign any real sentimental value to it. It was not that he abhorred violence-several times in the last few years he was called to defend himself against youths from other towns. He was normally slow to anger, but was particularly sensitive about his father. The surrounding communities were all heavily religious and followed a creed that evolved from various denominations of Christianity, and was particularly harsh about the idea of a fatherless son. The term bastard stung worse than any physical blow, and was used more frequently against Sam than any other fatherless son in the region. Popular sentiment within the community was that Sam Guthrie’s father, Elias Guthrie, not only caused his own death, but the deaths of a dozen others working in the same shaft while mishandling explosives during a coal-mining operation. The Guthrie family were slightly ostracized and were generally looked down upon by all by the most compassionate of the their neighbors. Thus, he became adept at throwing haymakers, jabs, uppercuts, and crosses, while knocking his opponents into a daze, lying prone in the dirt. Defeated, they would call up to him, “yeah, well, at leas’ my daddi ain’t no stikin’ mudererah!”

Guthrie bore the heavy shoulders of a coal miner, the full-time occupation that worked since he turned 14 years old in order to keep his family fed. He loved his mother and two younger sisters dearly (so much younger that they did not yet realize their place in the community). Many nights after returning home from the courier runs he undertook to make a bit more money, he found his mother in the yard behind their home, looking into the sky. It broke his heart to watch her cry. For six dark years, Janet Guthrie had sustained the family on her own, before Sam had grown old enough to take work at the coalmines by working as a seamstress. More than anything, she longed to be with her husband. Sometimes, he went to her, and wrapped an afghan around her freezing shoulders. She simply would clutch his hand and lay her head against her son’s chest. Sam would assure her that God had a plan for all of them and that they would never be given more in life than they could handle-the very same advice she gave him whenever he came home weeping from being called a bastard.

He reached a small pond, which served him as a marker for the halfway point. Stopping, he bent down on its shore and began skipping rocks against the water. Though he had to be up before sunrise (which would be about 4 hours from now), he did not feel like going home just yet, as he was stricken with another bout of wanderlust. He kept these feelings secured from everyone, knowing that it would only upset his mother, though he had a feeling she knew. Sam wanted more from life than to waste his life away in a mine, where eventually he would succumb to an accident or get a fatal lung illness. Out there, he knew, so many other people lived. Entertaining fantasies of backing only a knapsack and taking the rifle, he would leave, finding a better life for himself. Perhaps he would even find a wife and start a family, but that would come much later, for he was still in the prime of his youth.

As he bent over to pick up another stone, he noticed something had crawled beside him. A water moccasin rocked back in forth, threatening to inject his venomous death into Sam. His nerves froze-he wanted to jump back, but the serpent would strike him if he moved. They were that fast-he had seen it before, and nobody was around for miles. He would die before he reached home. Who is goin’ to take care of my family?… he thought, wondering when the snake would finally act.

It hissed, and then reared back to strike. Instinctively, he began to jump back, sure that his own demise would follow. The ground exploded underneath him, pushing him at least two dozen feet into the air, enabling him to see over the tops of the surrounding trees. The faint lights of his city were within sight, he noticed, before gravity pulled him back, sending him crashing into the earth.

He lay a few minutes in a pile of rocks, where one had lodged itself deep into his knee. Disoriented, he tried to make sense of what happened. That fall shoulda’ killed me…Feeling faint, he lay down into the uncomfortable rock bed, and pulled out that stone that in his knee. It hurt. A lot.

After an hour, he rose, and limped home, making it home just before sunrise, thinking about the night’s events the entire way. He finally decided that it was divine intervention, and that God had decided to save him to protect his family. Without waking his family, he cleaned his wound and went to work.

Eventually, he learned that what happened was not a freak occurrence. Whenever he concentrated, he could replicate the act…At night, he snuck into the wheat fields and practiced, learning control of exactly where he flew and landed-and eventually, he could jump quiet high. By mistake, he once overshot his path and landed against a tree. Instead of breaking his body in half, the tree burst. Sam had not even taken a scratch. He stood several feet away, admiring how the once-mighty Loblolly pine tree lay in thousands of pieces. The gift, as he thought of it, gave him great release. The rush was unlike anything that he had ever felt. Of course, he kept it secret from everyone, not knowing exactly how everyone would react, though he figured that they would accuse him of being an abomination of Satan.

…

Life went on as normal after Sam learned of his power-he returned to the mines, came home, helped his sisters with their schoolwork, and went to church. One Sunday, his life changed.

While sitting through a particularly dull sermon, the sound of motors could be heard in the distance. The pastor became quiet instantly and the congregation looked about one another in great confusion. A working automobile in times like these was indeed an odd occurrence. Like every Sunday, the entire town filled into the small confines of the church. As they unseated and rushed outside, a small amount of chaos ensued and voices erupted in anticipation. Sam remained inside the church as everyone else exited to stand outside on the porch, attempting to make out what was happening. The mass of humanity blocked his view, so he walked over to a side window to watch a parade of vehicles, all bearing the same emblem-a silver shield with three black stars. The Southern Cross had finally made its way into the former state of West Virginia.

In the lead vehicle, the field commander known only as Stryfe to his men stood on the back seat, presenting an impressive sight to the simple people of Bridgeport. He bore a silver helmet embroidered with his rank insignia as the supreme commander of the Southern Cross field army. At his sides were two silver desert eagle pistols that were specially made for him. Upon his massive body, he wore black armor shined to perfection. His jeep stopped several feet from the church and he greeted Bridgeport with a stern silence. Behind his hummvee, several personnel trucks and armored vehicles then came to a complete stop. With a hand signal from their leader, every engine stopped, and then silence overtook the scene. Somewhere in the distance, a dog began barking.

Stryfe stepped down from the jeep and removed his helmet, revealing a finely chiseled face and a head of snowy white hair. His cold gray eyes announced the man as a warrior, having been through the hells of combat. Finally speaking, he roared a greeting.

“Bridgeport, West Virginia. We have come here to help you.”

Confused, the citizens whispered among themselves. They then parted, allowing their mayor to emerge. A normally confident man, the good mayor buckled at the sight of the giant soldier standing in his presence. He adjusted his glasses, and attempted to speak in a firm tone.

“Uhh, I am, uhhh, Mayor Smalls. On behalf of our town, we welcome you and your men”.

Behind Stryfe in the convoy, there were several repressed laughs.

Ignoring the welcome, Stryfe said, “we have seen that you have a coalmining operation here. Good, we are in need of new sources of power, as oil is scarce these days…”

Smiling now, the mayor said, “of course we’d be happy to negotiate a trade agreement. But first, would you mind telling me exactly who you are? Meaning no offense, of course, but we don’t have much contract with other people these days. Are you from Washington D.C?”

This time, laughter erupted from the convoy. Stryfe stood in silence for a few moments, and then walked towards the man. The mayor stood at least two and a half heads smaller than the warlord.

Without changing his expression, Stryfe said “we are the Southern Cross, the army of the union of reformed states, which is headquartered in Sacramento, California. We are currently sweeping the continental United States in an effort to pacify any criminal persons and to restore the strength of our formerly glorious nation by readmitting any cities, townships, or nomadic tribes back into civilization. Your town now has the honor of becoming a part the union, and you should be eternally grateful.”

Taken aback, the mayor said “well, thank you very much for your offer, but we are quite happy the way we are-we have no problems with our neighbors, or with raiders, and we are completely self-sufficient in every way! We do applaud your effort to bring order to the country, and would be more than happy to provide moral support! But as you can see, we are only a poor community with little to offer. We will have to have a town meeting to decide if we shall join.” Several minutes of uncomfortable silence followed.

Locking his eyes against the mayor’s, Stryfe said, “it isn’t a choice for you to make.”

The mayor then looked about-seeing the heavy caliber machine guns mounted on the vehicles. Battle-hungry soldiers watched the citizens hatefully. Without so much as a threat, Stryfe had made the consequences obvious. It became clear in that moment that it was not, indeed, a choice that he could make.

Behind closed doors, the agreement was made that Bridgeport would surrender an monthly tribute of coal to the Southern Cross, which would leave their own power needs unsatisfied. Worse, their supply of labor was drastically reduced when the Southern Cross conscripted all able-bodied young men from the town, among them, Sam Guthrie.

He was given only a few moments to say goodbye to his family. Two soldiers stood behind, timing his departure. Like a pillar of stone, his mother stood in her best Sunday dress with her arms wrapped around his two younger sisters. Tears welled up in his eyes as he charged and embraced them all. His sister, Allie, asked “Sammy, when will you be coming back?” Gripping her tightly, he simply responded amidst sobs, “I don’t know, darlin’. But ya’ll got to know, that I love you. Girls, you listen to momma, and you be good for her. You be real good for her....”

One soldier gripped Sam by the shoulder and pulled him away.

…

He was put on a personnel truck with other conscripts, many of whom were excited at the opportunity to get away from coalmining. Their smiles faded once they reached their destination-a boot camp. The drill instructor, a 200-pound gorilla that spat nails, put them into lines and systematically broke them down for physical and mental challenges that amounted to nothing more than abuse. Sam learned the routine easily enough-speak only when spoken to, don’t mouth off, do everything as hard as you can, don’t make no friends, and for God’s sakes, don’t let them break you…Following these rules ensured that he was not singled out and that he was beaten no more severely then anyone else.

The training lasted six weeks. Sam saw thirteen men die from heat exhaustion during their running. Whenever a man died, the instructor gathered everyone around. “You see, this man was a pussy! He didn’t have the godamn balls to make it in my army. He’s better off now, because he was worthless anyway!” he’d shout, before giving him the proper burial of kicking dirt and dust over the dead man, who was then left for the vultures.

Around him, Sam saw the young men that he once knew changing in a significant way. They were becoming killers, conditioned to respond to any situation with brute force. Training had eradicated most of their fear, and now they were no longer human, but machines. Killing machines.

Sam passed the basic training easy enough and was appointed as a rifleman. He performed well, but not extraordinarily. Those who showed ability and commitment were given officer commissions. Sam could not hide his detachment from the army-he simply did what he was told and nothing more. He could not wait to leave the Southern Cross. When he asked when his service was up, the chaplain simply laughed in his face and told him that the only real retirement was a hole in the ground.

The demand for new soldiers was desperate now-the training program, originally eight weeks, was cut to six in order to increase the output of the training grounds. The graduation ceremony was simple-they were assigned uniforms and weapons and given leave into Marietta, Georgia, where most intended on getting drunk and finding a willing girl to lay. Sam spent most of the weekend by himself, or with others that hadn’t shaped up to be fanatic killers. At night, he found a church in between a porno shop and a tattoo parlor and prayed there.

God, I understand that you have a plan for us all. I never have questioned your decision before, but now, ah’m lost. Please Lord, help me find the way. Ah’ know that ah’ve never been good with words before, but I hope that you’ll understand me now. I pray that you show me to do good, Father. Lead me the way to becomin’ a good man…

…

A day after the recruits returned from their leave, they were organized into platoons and shipped out. Sam had been assigned to a mechanized infantry division that operated in the midwestern region (now, mostly barren desert), tracking and arresting raider parties. He typically either drove a humvee or manned the mounted machine gun in its back. Sam found little sympathy for his enemies, who openly pillaged communities, murdered traders, raped, and sold their captors into slavery. He had seen firsthand the evil mankind was capable of-skinned bodies left to rot out in the desert, crucified as a warning to anyone that crossed paths with the various raider tribes.

Out here in the hellish wasteland, Sam had learned to kill. While pursuing a biker gang, two Southern Cross Humvees were vying for position. The rough road made it difficult, and the bike’s superior mobility made it difficult to follow. Sam’s driver was not very skilled, and could not put him close enough for a shot. The other gunner shot wildly at his target, missing, while shouting obscenities. The biker Sam’s Humvee was chasing had a prisoner-a teenage girl screaming frantically for help. Her blond hair whipped violently in the wind while her captor laughed like a maniac. The sun bore down hard, decreasing the quality of his vision. Soon, they would be out of range. Sam needed to take his shot-though he hesitated. He remembered back to what his drill instructor had told him “listen up, worms. Despite what you all might think, killing is a real hard thing to do, especially killing done right.” Sam released the mounted M-60 and picked up an assault rifle, clicking it over to single-shot. He aimed, and the world became very quiet. The shot landed directly in the maniac’s shoulder, forcing him to brake, and then topple over. The Humvee pulled up and the crew jumped out. Sam rushed to the girl, who only sustained a few scratches. She was more hysterical then anything. Cradling her in his arms, he watched at his crew appraised the biker, who had fallen on his neck during his fall off the bike. Guthrie cared little about it, and certainly felt no remorse for that sick fuck.

But not everything he did made him proud. The mechanized infantry also went around the pocket communities and tribes conscripting new soldiers. Every time a young man was pulled away from his family, his heart ached, never becoming numb to the sight. He learned, later, that many of the raider tribes came about to resist the Southern Cross from invading these communities, and existed simply as their form of resistance. They could vanish into them after conducting guerilla raids on the Southern Cross, which often prompted brutal reprisals against the communities that harbored them.

Sam’s platoon earned a commendation when they successfully captured one of their leaders outside of Ann Arbor, Michigan. She was a mutant, like himself, and required a Hunter to bring her in. He had negated her power with one of their “watch-seals”, locked ankle bracelets that prevented a mutant from using their powers-one of the technological marvels of the Southern Cross. The “weather-witch”, as she was referred to, had been a thorn in their side for years in the area. Her ability to channel force winds created sandstorms that could wipe out entire patrols. Sam had glimpsed her when that brought her into their firebase. Though shackled, she carried an expression of recalcitrance. She was dressed similar to the rest of the raiders-very simply. Her chest was covered by an armored vest and she wore pants torn off at the knees. The woman was undeniably beautiful, with high cheekbones and light brown eyes. Despite years of activity in the deep desert, her dark skin remained smooth and flawless. Her exotic nature inspired the soldiers to gather and howl catcalls at her. While passing, her eyes caught Sam’s, and they exchanged a confused moment. There was something about her that called to him.

The Hunter walked behind her, ensuring that his prize reached the safety of the base stockade. Though most were nearly numb to fear, Southern Cross soldiers knew better to tangle with a Hunter, especially when it came to his prey. Once paid, however, he could care less what happened to her.

High Command ordered that she be brought to California for interrogation, which usually meant that they wanted her to undergo the brainwashing treatment designed to create Hunters. She would be a formidable one, indeed…

That night, a celebratory mood overtook the camp. The platoon had been order to take part in the operation designed to take Detroit, but after that, they were going to be given a week’s leave in California.

Detroit would be a great asset to the Union with the capacity to manufacture vehicles, the sole basis of its economy. It was said that Stryfe himself would lead the siege.

While the soldiers basked in their various states of drunkenness, Sam had been assigned sentry duty for the stockade. As if by fate, he found the woman. His curiosity drove him to peer inside her cage. She sat in a corner with her knees drawn to her chest.

Ororo Munroe saw the wide-eyed guard hold a candle to bars across the top of her cage’s door. Something told her that he wanted more than to catch a glimpse of her body, as everyone else had done before.

“Are you alright in there’ ma’am?” he asked politely.

“Do you want something?” she demanded, without responding.

“No. I just thought that I would check on you-sometimes the others forget to check if the prisoners need anything. Wouldn’t want you to get dehydrated.”

She laughed, rearing her head back. Her voice was pleasing. “I think dehydration is the least of my worries right now.”

“I suppose you’re right. I’m sorry,” he said, turning to leave, he paused, and then turned back around. Since learning of mutants, he had become very curious about them. He had hid the fact that he was indeed a mutant, and often wondered how the army would react upon learning of it. Would they draft him to become a Hunter, like her? She seemed well-aware of her situation, so Sam decided to ask,”Ma’am, can I ask you a question.”

Without answering, her eyes told him that he could.

“Why are you a raider? Ah’ mean, why do you do it?

“Do not confuse what I do with those animals,” she snapped. “My aim was simply to protect the people here that are unable to defend themselves, from you and from the raiders…

The way she said you stung Sam the same way as…well…bastard…He took a deep breath. “Ma’am, I don’t personally harm anyone around here. Its just my job to protect these folks,” he retorted in a frustrated tone.

Amused, the woman stood and walked to the door. “Your actions define you, that is true. But when you look about you and see the abuses committed in the name of the cause that you stand for, and do nothing…

“Ah never said that it was my cause, lady” Sam interrupted, thinking of all the things that he had seen Southern Cross do-and concluded that there was no moral ambiguity about it. The Southern Cross was a tool for a council of tyrants that sat comfortably hundreds of miles away. They cared nothing for the people they supposedly represented, only power appealed to them. It was a corrupt machination that was a far greater evil than any other in this land. He had seen Southern Cross soldiers committing the same crimes as those they sought to control-murder, rape, and theft.

“Then what exactly is your cause? To follow orders like an obedient sheep?”

Sam thought back to the words that he prayed several months ago. Lead me the way to becomin’ a good man….

At that point, he turned away and left her cell. Ororo shook her head and returned to her corner.

Sam Guthrie readied a nearby Humvee with supplies that he took from the quartermaster, who was not at his post (no doubt he was busy drinking, with the rest). He startled Ororo when he returned and proceeded to unlock her door. Silently pulling it open, he threw a uniform at her and demanded that she put it on. She obeyed, and then followed him to the Humvee. Across the base, merry shouts of drunken pleasure echoed. Sam jumped into the driver’s seat without saying a word to her, and she climbed in the passenger’s side.

Driving the front gate, a drunken gate guard stopped him. Sam managed to convince him that he was driving into town to pick up several more beer kegs. The guard waved him through. Sam had planned to run him over if he refused to give way.

Storm an3 Sam drove into the night, towards Detroit, where they would encounter the least amount of Southern Cross presence along the roadways. There, he would abandon the Humvee and secure her a way the hell out of here. From there, he did not know what would happen.

Storm watched Sam as he drove, still bewildered why he had decided to help her. Perhaps there was something in this young man who was little more than a boy. While in route, he admitted to her that he was a mutant, and that he realized that sooner or later the Southern Cross would find out. She refused to believe that this was the only reason he had helped her. He explained his plan to her.

“What do you plan on doing, then, Sam?”

“To be honest, ma’am, I’m not entirely sure. Maybe save the trouble and turn myself in-they’ll find me anyway. They’re real careful about deserters.”

Shaking her head, Storm placed her hand and his shoulder. The act unnerved Sam slightly. “Perhaps you do not realize the extent of what has happened here tonight. When you decided to free me, you created a bond between us. We are now a part of the same fate, Samuel. We must resist the tyranny that has befallen this land.”

He listened to her in silence, taking in every word as if it was the most powerful sermon that he had heard in his life.

“Samuel, you know in your heart that this is what you must do.”

In that moment, Sam Guthrie realized that she had done what he could not do alone-together, they found his cause.