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Chapters
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
 
 
 

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 8

The old shaman sitting in the dark corner was calling for a blizzard tonight. The regulars, mostly coastal fisherman and whale hunters, gave a lot of weight to what the old bastard said. There was a fair mix of American Indians and regular old white folk mingling at the bar. The way they clamored on about nothing indicated that they had grown up together, facing each harsh winter as a collective unit. They slapped one another on the back, offered to spot one another when times were hard for another brew, and called each other nicknames they’ve had since they were mere pups. Love thy neighbor. These folks seemed to have got it right. Without any godamn government to oversee the redistribution of resources, to form a standing army out of their own income, or to enslave them with their own values in a false consciousness. These simple people knew who there were.

There was a stranger in their midst tonight, and they treated Victor Creed right by leaving him alone. He slurped back enough whiskey to drop a horse, and then another one. Occasionally, travelers passed through here, so he didn’t not seem out of the ordinary. Though if they had known what he really dragged along with him in the snowmobile, they might take exception to his company.

They goaded the old shaman into telling a folktale. Leaning heavily on his wooden walking stick, he stood, heaving and wheezing. One of the younger men, a stocky fellow just a little smaller than Creed, led him the head table. When he sat, the younger man wrapped a large red flannel shirt around the man’s aged shoulders. The room became quiet for the shaman, who cleared his throat. Men puffed away at their pipes and finished off what little remained in their mugs. For a moment, all that was audible was the violent whipping of the wind outside.

The shaman started off in his hoarse, grandfatherly voice.

“When I was a young man, just after the world moved into its next life, our people saw many changes around us. The lands became colder. The winds more angry. And the people more loving of one another. We became closer as family because if we hadn’t, the world would have swallowed us. Of all the terrible things that came to life in those dark years, nothing was worse than a creature called the Wendigo, a great white beast that was said to come from the mine shafts. It could paralyze a man with its wicked scream, and then rib him to pieces with its always-hungry jaws.”

The wind tore the door open, slamming it hard into the doorway. It startled everyone except for the shaman. The wind carried in a whistle that sounded more like a scream. The shaman yelled, competing against the howling wind, “no man should leave this place tonight! I hear the howl of the Wendigo in the air, the terrible sound that I have not heard since I was a mere boy!

Creed smirked, slamming back a last shot of whiskey and dropping the glass against the bar. He walked to the door and put his fur overcoat over his shoulders. A man was struggling to close the door, when Creed pushed him aside and walked out into the first stage of the blizzard.

It took him nearly two hours to walk through the bitterly cold storm. The primary path up the hill was completely covered, forcing Creed to rely on his own memory and intuition to lead him back up to the cabin.

Throwing back the door, he was somewhat relieved to see that the power generator attached to the cabin had not died out. The portable heaters he had set up before leaving for the bar had kept the girl alive. She remained as he left her, tied uncomfortably to a bench. Her wrists her raw from trying to fidget out of the bindings, but Creed knew enough about rope mastery to make it near-impossible for Houdini to escape.

With a great shudder, Creed dropped the snow that covered him all over the floor. He then walked over to the fireplace, threw a few logs in, stuffed some newspaper underneath them, and lit it.

“Welllll….hello little lady. Did you miss me?” he asked, looking over at Jean.

She stared back at him coldly, wishing that she had control of her powers. She would send the bastard head first into the lake outside that had just iced over.

Creed took a seat by the window, keeping a look out for any lights. Cameron Hodge’s representative was overdue now, and Creed began to wonder if the storm had claimed him. This whole damn trip up here would have been a waste. Even still, Creed preferred if the man did not come. He could use the girl to gain favor with the Crimson King. The fools in his own circle did not realize the asset that they had with him, and he was growing very tired of taking orders from that dainty little fool Cortez. The mannerisms and haughty “how do you do” attitude of the man made Creed queasy. He’d be lying in the ditch one day.

The power began to haphazardly flicker.

“Godamnit…,” he mumbled. He looked over at Jean, sensing how terrified the poor girl was of him. If they lost power, there’s a good chance she wouldn’t make it through the night. Fire heat simply might not be enough for her.

“You know, you’re damned lucky if you’re worth so much to me, girl,” he shouted in her face, watching as she flinched away from his stinking breath. As he passed the fire, he threw another log in, before walking to the door and putting on his cold-weather clothing. “I’ll be back, don’t go anywhere,” he said with a slight, cruel chuckle.

Several minutes passed and Jean heard a few thumping noises. Then, a man flashed by the window. He looked nothing like her burly captor. Then, she began fidgeting again against the ropes, tearing more of the skin from her wrists in the futile effort.

Grumbling, Creed waded through the three feet of snow that had accumulated. He walked around the cabin towards the power generator. The canopy above it was holding steady and it churned away without interruption. There was no obvious reason for the power fluctuations.

“Fuckin’ waste of time,” he said, shaking the snow from of his head. There was something, though. He breathed in heavily and caught a scent of someone else. It registered almost immediately, though his presence here would be impossible. Creed had left Wolverine, Maverick, and Deadpool for dead in Moscow almost forty years ago.

When he turned around he was caught in the face with a solid shot with a snow shovel. The blow was dealt with tremendous force, bending the metal piece nearly in half. Staggered, he fell over into the snow, with momentarily buried him.

Logan jumped on top of him, slashing wildly, cutting deeply into his coat and flesh. The smaller man was then thrown off with ease, as Creed regained a standing position. The cuts lining his stomach closed and then disappeared.

“How in the hell…” Creed began, unsheathing his jagged talons.

Logan charged at him once again, and was met with a backhand across the face. Flinching, Logan instinctively ducked as Creed swiped at him again.

A tremendous wind gust pushed against both men, causing them both to fall over. The icy snow it carried began to stab into the like tiny knives. They were snowblinded until it subsided several minutes later. Until then, they groped into the unknown looking for one another.

Finding himself at least two dozen yards away from the cabin, Logan sniffed the air. He caught Creed’s scent towards the frozen lake, and headed in that direction. A few moments later, he appeared again, charging through the snow at Wolverine.

“C’mon, runt! Let me finish what should have been done years ago!”

They flew at each other, embracing one another in a vicious dance of death. Each dealt the other a blow, only to heal seconds later. Blood spattered across the freshly fallen snow. They traded attacks equally, matching the other’s speed and skill. From a distance, it looked more like a ritualized bout of combat, with both opponents knowing the other’s style so well that they countered it perfectly.

Two ageless warriors met on a snowy day. They were perfect opposites and perfect equals. One fought without a soul and the other fought without a spirit. They fought as they both lived. They were once close friends. They were once mortal enemies. Now they are something much more.

They had stabbed one another countless times, and rolled down the hill they fed into the frozen lakeside. Fate tossed a coin every time they tumbled. Tails. Creed lost.

The ice broke underneath the power their combined weight. The bigger man fell victim to the cold bath as Logan threw him over his own body at the last second. Creed struggled to grab a hold of a piece of the bank, but caught only snow. His eyes froze in terror as the cold gripped him like Death’s Hand.

Panting and wounded, Logan could only hold his own guts inside his stomach until it healed. He watched as Creed’s color drained and he continued reaching for something to grab. The tingling stretched across Logan’s stomach, sealing the wound. Now he could finish the job.

Logan came to standing and pulled back his right hand, claws fully extended. One last hit would destroy Sabretooth’s face. His healing factor was overloaded trying to compensate for his body freezing. Instead, Logan kicked to block of ice that he clung to, setting his enemy adrift in the broken ice. He would leave Creed as the bastard had left him so many years ago-to die a slow and painful death.

“L-l-l-ogan…not like this…,” his voice trailed off. That would be the last of Victor Creed, the scourge of all things pure and good. The world breathed a sigh of relief when it learned of his end.

With a cleansed heart, Logan returned to the cabin. The door was ajar and the girl was nowhere to be found. Somehow, she came out of her bindings. It was a good thing that she had escaped. One of the electric heaters had turned over and set fire to a corner of the cabin. In a few moments, the blaze would overtake the entire building. Logan salvaged a few things and then jumped aboard Creed’s snowmobile.

A blood trail was fresh in the snow and her scent remained in the air. Tracking her would not be a problem.

Jean Grey had made it nearly a mile away, and her body was beginning to freeze. She was so numbed over that she didn’t hear the engine of the snowmobile come up behind her.

“HOLD ON!” Logan yelled at her.

Jean stopped and looked up at him, with teeth chattering.

Logan hopped off the vehicle and pulled off salvaged clothing, wrapping it around her frigid body. He helped her on to the snowmobile. Jean was too tired to resist or to demand that he explained who he was or what he was doing. She simply leaned against his back and closed her eyes, allowing him to take her to wherever.

They stopped at the tavern where Creed had spent most of the night. It was closed up for the night. Logan had no idea when the storm was going to let up, so he decided that it would be their best hope of making it through the night. He popped his claws and cut the lock.

They entered the tavern and were met with both frigid air and relief from the relentless storm. As a first order of business, Logan built a fire and told Jean to warm herself by it. Then, he returned to the snowmobile and took out the supplies. Slowly, the numbness began leaving her body and was replaced with an unpleasant throbbing.

“Get your clothes off,” he told her.

Jean snapped backwards and glared at him.

Making an annoyed face, Logan added “your clothes are soaking wet. Take them off, and put these on.” He tossed some clothing that he recovered from Creed’s cabin. “They’re too big, but will do fine while your other clothes dry by the fire.”

She nodded, feeling awkward for almost accusing him of trying to take advantage of her. He pulled a cigar from his bag and lit it.

“Is there a bathroom in here where I can change?”

“Nope. There’s an outhouse, out there, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Sensing her discomfort, Logan walked over to the window and stared out it. Jean then pulled off her wet shirt that clung to her slender body very tightly, slapping it down on the ground in front of the fire. She then quickly pulled off her torn pants and underclothes, putting them over her shirt. Without taking her eyes off of Logan, who she was sure would turn around to peak at her naked body, she reached over and grabbed the clothes before putting them on. He was right. They were huge. And they were itchy.

“Are you decent?” he finally asked.

“Yes.”

Logan turned around and extinguished his cigar against his boot. He walked over to the bar and helped himself to a bottle of scotch.

Huddling herself by the fire, Jean sat with her dark-red hair matted against her head. Her body continued to throb, which meant that the circulation was returning.

“Do you have any food? Or a first aid kit?” she asked him.

Without answering, he produced the last C-ration that he had and tossed it over to her. He found some bandages underneath the bar. Grabbing a bottle of whiskey, he walked over to her.

“Here. Let me see your hands.”

“No. I’m a doctor, just give them to me,” Jean replied. She poured the bottle of whisky down her throat before showering it over her wrists, allowing it to kill the possibility of infection. Afterwards, she dried them and wrapped the bandages around her raw wounds.

“They teach you that in med-school?” Logan joked. She did not smile at his attempt at levity.

Jean ripped open the package and began shoving the food into her mouth. “So what now? Are you going to drag me back to California and claim your little prize, or are you going to hand me off someone else? Because frankly, I’m getting really tired of being handed back and forth like some godamned baton.”

Rolling his eyes, Logan let out an exasperated shy. He then walked over to Jean, grabbed her arm, and yanked her to standing. Before she could react, he reached up and pulled her left pant leg up, exposing the watch-bracelet that negated her mutant power. With the snap of his claws, it fell loose. He then made a gesture that said, “are you happy now?”

“Lady, you can do whatever the fuck you want. I didn’t come here for you,” he said.

She thought about entering his mind to determine if he was telling the truth, but he had been forthright all along. As far as she could tell, he had no reason to lie to her. Especially not now that she could kill him very easily.

“I’m, I’m sorry. I thought that you were a bounty hunter.”

He walked back over to the bar and mumbled something incomprehensible. Finding another bottle, he began pouring himself shots. “Fact is that I ran in the guy that helped you out in the tunnels back in Seattle-I think he said his name was Frank. The people that tangled with him were with me. After this, I’m heading to Mexico to meet back with them. You’re welcome to join me.”

“I thought you said that you didn’t come here for me?”

Annoyed, he snapped “I didn’t. That fucker that dragged you up here needing to die. That’s why I came up here.”

“You’re a real ethical guy aren’t you?” she whispered to herself, not intending him to hear it.

“Yeah, and you’re a real classy girl for noticing, aren’t you?” he responded unexpectedly. She shut up after that and stared into the fire. After a while, she fell asleep.

A little while later Jean awoke, startled from a bad dream. At first, she could not recognize her surroundings and began to panic. Her head turned to scan the room and found Logan sitting by the window, staring out it. A little bit of sunlight poured through it.

Without turning, he said “the storm broke a couple of hours ago. We should probably leave before they come and open this place up.” Logan then grabbed the supplies they brought and left the tavern to load the snowmobile.

Still groggy, she nodded and picked herself up. Her body warmth had more of less returned to normal, though she was still feeling very sore from being bound to the chair. Jean found her clothes dry by the fireplace. She looked back and decided to get dressed while Logan was outside. Though tattered a bit, her old clothes were a much better fit. And the idea of wearing Creed’s clothing bothered her a great deal.

He came back in a few minutes later and asked if she was ready.

Nodding, she said, “yes, I’m ready. And I’d like to apologize for last night.”

He cast her a perplexed look, making her a bit uncomfortable.

“For, ummm, being such a, well…”

“Bitch?” he offered.

Her eyes narrowed in response.

“Don’t sweat it, darlin’. I’ve traveled with worse. But not much.”

“Yes, well, I’d like to go with you to Mexico. I can pull my weight, so don’t worry about that.”

“I’m not. Do you know how to drive a snowmobile?”

“Sure. It’s been a couple of years, but I think I can manage.”

“Good. I hate the fuckin’ thing,” he said, pushing the door open. She followed him out and they rode until the fuckin’ thing ran out of fuel.

Eventually, they made it to the marina where the fishing vessels were parked. Logan haggled with a deep-sea crew to take them as far as the southern part of Oregon and drop them off on its shore.

The crew went to great lengths to accommodate Jean, making her feel like a lady for the first time in years. They spoke like gentlemen, not sailors, and offered all the available amenities. They made it out to sea without a hitch, and several miles off shore it began to warm up a great deal.

She sat on deck and watched them work, though some were trying to impress her with their wit. The mostly older crowd of men teased her a bit about being a land dweller, and kept asking if she was going to get seasick, which only made her laugh. Logan worked along side of them, flinging the huge fish from the nets and into the icebox with ease. Jokingly, they offered him a permanent position on the boat, which actually made him laugh. He blended in well with the work crew, Jean thought. His appearance wearing the rubber apron and thick work gloves seemed natural. His muscles were conditioned for hard work-nothing chiseled out like a body builder but very thick and deceptively powerful. Not even the largest of the workers could keep up with him. Despite her first impressions of the man, he was quite ordinary, something her father might have called “working class”. The way he meshed with the crew showed how easily he could mold himself to any situation. But he was also something much more-a mutant, like her, no doubt. She had seen his claws, though it didn’t bother her much. And the way he handled things suggested that he might have had special training at some point. The man had a very mean streak inside, that much was obvious. Perhaps he had been hurt very badly in his life. If he had, it made the fact that he was kind to her all the much more impressive. He had helped out not out of self-interest, but because she had needed it. Against her better judgment, she found herself liking Logan.

For the first time in ages, she felt calm-not hunted after like some prey. She felt safe. The sun beamed down warmth and she accepted it, lovingly. It was a beautiful day.

The wind continued howling. He hadn’t heard it before, but the Wendigo’s howl were there now. Creed’s body was paralyzed from the freezing cold. He held on to the cursed piece of ice for dear life before. Now he couldn’t let go even if he wanted. His wounds would not heal. And he could not die. Not yet, anyway. He began to hallucinate, thinking that the great white beast, the Wendigo approached him and stopped at the ice. It was waiting for him to drift over there, where it would consume him. Creed hoped that the fucker choked on him.

“Go ahead, you prick! Eat up! I fu..fuck’in hope you…hope you….fuckin’…”

The hallucination changed. It wasn’t the Wendigo, but a man. A tall, gaunt man with a red diamond tattooed into his forehead. The man shook his head, and began to walk along the water towards him. He stopped on a nearby patch of ice, and leaned down to Creed, staring at him with cold black eyes.

“Victor…it looks like you’re in a bind. Hope you can guess my name.”

“Wh..what are you talking about? Who are you?”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re obviously not a rock fan. What’s important is that I offer you my hand, Victor. I offer you sanctuary from this, and I offer you power. But if you take it, you are mine,” the stranger said, extending his hand out to Sabretooth.

Without hesitation, Creed reached up and grabbed his hand. Instantly, his wounds healed and warmth erupted through his body. The stranger pulled him to shore.

“Don’t ever forget, Victor Creed, where your bread is buttered. I need you. And I do so hate traitors.”

Creed nodded like an obedient yes-man and appraised his new master, and decided that the show of power he had just witnessed was enough to convince him not to back out of the bargain. At least not until the right time presented itself.

“Good. Its not such a long way to Madripoor, from here…”

 

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