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 7

The prostitute nearly made it to the door before expiring. The Black Knight hovered above her body, taking in the full effect of the murder. A natural high came over him as he ran his fingers across the deep, bloody grooves that were just cut into her back. I think you said that your name was Christy, or maybe Rachel. Well Christy, thank you for a very lovely evening, Victor Creed thought to himself.

The other hooker, bound to a chair in the corner, began violently fidgeting and screaming, which was muted through the ball gag in her mouth. The chair toppled over, crashing unto the hard wood floor.

His euphoria interrupted, a sudden rage overcame Creed. The sexual appetites of the Black Knight were not easily quenched. He was near satisfaction, and the stupid bitch ruined it. Talons slid out from underneath his fingernails, dripping with burning death. Shuddering momentarily, the madness began to seep through his entire body, invading every inch of it-possessing him with homicidal rage. Creed gripped the petite blond in one hand and lifted her, snarling hot breath into her trembling face. He was so engaged in the act that he barely noticed that someone had entered the room. Dropping the girl, he sniffed a deep inhalation, catching the scent of his doorman.

Creed swung around and growled a horrendous sound before grabbing the man by his throat. His larynx was nearly crushed before he had time to say, “the Rook is here, mi’lord.”

The rage quickly subsided in the Black Knight. Releasing his grip around the doorman’s throat, he nearly fell into a panic. Throwing a robe over his nude body, Creed charged towards the door.

“Under no circumstances will you let anybody in this room. You will personally stand outside the door,” Creed ordered the man, pointing a clawed finger into his chest. As he paced down his penthouse’s hallway, he worried that his superior had already seen too much.

The Spaniard had already made himself at home, fixing himself a glass of bourbon and admiring the atrium behind its glass door. As always, Cortez was adorned in a gold and black cloak, something that a monarch of old might favor. His dark-blond hair was slicked back into a ponytail that fell past his shoulders (the Black King wore his own hair similarly).

Creed stepped over to the bar and poured himself a tall glass of straight whisky. The Rook let loose a bellowing laughter. “Always a man of simple tastes,”

Creed grimaced. “Always.”

Cortez lifted his glass towards the atrium. “I didn’t know that you were such a lover of plants, Mr. Creed.”

“I’m not. The architect thought it would be a nice touch.” “What brings you here, Mr. Cortez?” he asked, changing the subject.

Cortez opened the glass door and motioned for Creed to follow him into the outdoor garden, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The splashing waves were audible from even this height. The Capital Building owned the skyline, and Inner Circles of the Hellfire Council occupied the top sections with their temporary lodgings, whenever business called them into the capital. Only the White Inner Circle had permanent residence here and consequently possessed the finest suites. A great deal of labor and time had been put into it-including a reinforced titanium structure mixed with new alloys of Cameron Hodge’s own creation-only to insure safety against the earthquakes that frequently occurred here.

Cortez casually leaned against the sandstone barrier that prevented one from getting close to the steel ledge, and looked over at the water. The sky was even now barely visible as years of air pollution had accumulated and remained. Instead of a starlit night, a dull smoggy blanket was visible.

“HE has become concerned with the state of affairs in Seattle,” Cortez said as his face molded into a serious façade.

“What? I thought that the Crimson circle was granted free reign to operate there.”

“Yes, they were. And we have known all along that Essex has been expending a sizable portion of his resources into finding that mere scrap of a girl. In short, he is planning something with her-he must be,” he said, sucking an ice cube into his mouth and crushing it. “We think he might be trying to disrupt the balance of power.”

Creed smirked. “How so? He only wants her to be able to track other mutants more effectively. Essex already has a dozen or so telepaths under his power. Why is the King so concerned about this one?”

Cortez through him a look that read, are you really that fucking stupid? “She studied under Xavier, and might be the most powerful telepath next to him. I can’t pretend to know what Essex has planned, but rest assured, it probably doesn’t exclusively have to do with putting down mutant rebellions.”

“So you’ve come here to ask me to find and kill the girl,” Creed said, adjusting his posture. He silently patted himself on the back and thought, the King must have personally requested me for the task-I wouldn’t get too comfortable giving orders to me, Cortez.

“Close. You will find her, hopefully before one of Essex’s Hunters, and you will take her to Alaska. If she has been captured, neutralize whomever you need to and make up any story you desire, should one be needed.”

Creed’s eyes widened as he dropped his empty glass. It shattered over the brick-inlaid floor. “You plan to give her to that fucking nutcase, Hodge?”

“Yes. We will buy his loyalty with the girl. If Essex is vying for power, than we will have an ace up our sleeves. That “nutcase” has been constructing an army of cyborgs, Reavers, he calls them, out of the denizens of the wastelands.” Cortez sensed Creed’s next question. The simpleton was quite transparent. “ His intentions with the girl are far more innocent. The poor fool has fallen in love with her-from only seeing her picture…now if that isn’t true love,” he joked, throwing his empty glass over the side.

“Do they realize that this might lead to open warfare between the circles? Certainly the Black King did not order this himself?”

“Don’t be a fool. He would never dirty his mouth with the words. Besides, our circle isn’t the only one involved.” Cortez walked to the door and slid it open. “This conversation, I’m sure that I don’t need to tell you, never occurred.” The haughty Spaniard slowly walked to the front door and let himself out.

Nodding to himself, Creed realized that the job was far more serious than he initially thought. He would either be the harbinger of war, or the minister of peace, all depending on its successful completion. Either way, he would benefit if he played his cards right.

Needing a temporary distraction from the demons battling inside his head, he returned to his room and the to terrified hooker. Creed fucked the poor girl’s brains out, putting her through demeaning and terrible sexual acts. All the while, he thought of Jean Grey, pretending it was her pleading for mercy and groaning in pain as he slammed himself inside her. While the prostitute lay on the bed, unable to move, he decided against strangling her to death. That mood has passed and he had other things on his mind now.

…

1.1.2 Seattle, Near the Northern Edge

The merciless heat of day gave way to a bitter cold that was carried by a relentless breeze through the night. Kurt wished that Ororo had been assigned to his search party-maybe she could have quelled the wind. A sinister looking moon loomed above like a spotlight, guiding all unholy forces to the ruined city. Most had retreated to the shantytowns for the night, though some remained. It was Kurt’s expectation that these were the worst.

The roads became impassable for the Humvee almost immediately. Soon, the roads disappeared nearly altogether. So they sold it for a significant sum in a shantytown, reasoning that it would have been stolen if left behind. From here on out, their feet would be their only mode of transportation.

At point, Bishop raised his hand, signaling that he spotted something. Sam quietly walked over and consulted with him.

“What’cha see?”

“Over yonder is the city zoo. Might be worth checking out. Lots of empty caves and maybe even direct access to the city storm drains and/or sewers.”

Sam nodded in agreement, and motioned over to Nightcrawler to advance forward.

The Seattle Zoo stood as a monument of senseless destruction. As he walked over the broken cobblestone walkway, littered with debris and bullets, Kurt thought about how children used to run carelessly from one animal pen to the next. Now all the pens attracted were flies and scavengers, both feeding off the rotting carcasses.

For nearly an hour, they searched the place before coming to the bear caves. A plaque introduced the three bear skeletons as Bugsy, Randy, and Josephine. They were all huddled next to one another, almost embracing while they starved. The show of affection disturbed Kurt more deeply than the violence he had seen just three weeks earlier.

The moat used by the bears for swimming had since dried. Near the back of the pen, Bishop noticed that a large metal grate was exposed. He hopped over the side and gingerly landed several feet below to the ground. When he made his way over to rusted grate, his expectations were confirmed- the area directly around it had been recently disturbed. The dirt was brushed aside, the lining between the grate and the ground was gone, and there were even patches of rust missing that indicated that a crowbar had pried the thing up. Bishop smiled and motioned for the other two come down.

Sam and Bishop had little trouble lifting the grate from the ground. Experienced with tunnels, Sam volunteered to take point. The sewers were not so much unlike the coal mines-dangerous, smelly, and very dark. He carried a pistol in one hand and a flashlight in the other. The signs Bishop had noticed seemed to be guiding them like some guarantee that this was, indeed, the path. Fate was a deceiving mistress, though the spirit tonight suggested that she was smiling upon them.

…

Seattle, The Docks

A line of seven vessels sat anchored about two miles into the coast. The largest ship, a pleasure yacht, was flashing a spotlight into the city. It was code, but not one that Storm recognized. She was less concerned about what was being said than who it was being said to…

“Are they Southern Cross ships?” Betsy asked, leaning against a crate along the pier.

Storm looked at her and shook her head softly. “Unlikely. They are flying the Jolly Roger skull and crossbones banner-they are probably just pirates of some kind.”

Abruptly, Logan returned from raiding the some of the warehouses. Throwing down five military grade MREs (meals-ready-to eat), he chuckled to himself. “You ladies have a choice of some fine cuisine tonight.” He then turned towards the ships. “Are they still at it?”

“Yes. And I noticed they are flashing the lights at regular intervals. I think that they’re waiting for a response of some kind,” Ororo answered, retrieving an MRE and opening it. Psylocke declined hers, unable to find her appetite amid all the surrounding apprehension. The other team was supposed to rendezvous with them here an hour ago. She had gone through every possible scenario not involving their capture or death and had concluded that they had probably lost their map and had gotten lost. Or maybe it was her group that was in the wrong place.

Storm and Logan were annoyingly calm, focusing more on the flotilla of boats off the coast.

Gulls squawked in a broken chorus, announcing the sunrise in a couple of hours. Betsy was tired of feeling powerless, and even more tired of the other two not empathizing. Worse yet, Logan even seemed to be in better spirits than usual. Their company was suffocating her, so she walked to end of the pier and sat down on its edge.

The water was murky-almost oily looked. Its noxious smell and its navy of dead, floating fish suggested that it was almost certain toxic. Betsy thought better of dangling her bare feet into the ocean.

A few minutes later she heard creaking and light footsteps, knowing them to belong to Storm. Ororo sat next to her and asked “is everything alright, Elizabeth?”

Betsy withheld her annoyance at the woman’s half-assed attempt at consolation. “Fine, Storm. I’m just a bit concerned about the others, that’s all.”

“We all are, Elizabeth, but it will never do any good to dwell on it.”

“All I know is that from this standpoint, the whole idea of coming here is a bloody waste. This waiting-waiting for the unknown is absolutely abhorrent. I just have a feeling only bad will come of this.”

Storm sighed and looked at Betsy, who refused to return to look the other woman in the eye. “Are you a psychic, Elizabeth?” Storm asked coldly.

“Wha-of course not,” she stammered, appalled at the woman’s nerve.

“Then I think its better not to make such predictions. You cannot sit in a cloud of fear in times like these-you will slowly unravel. I have seen it happen to too many good people.” Storm stood suddenly, and turned to walk away. “Sooner or later you will come to grips with the fact that people that are close to you are going to die, Elizabeth, and you will never be prepared for it when it happens.”

Angry, Betsy stood and nearly shouted, “so what is your bloody solution then? Be like him (nodding towards Logan), don’t let anyone get too close?”

“No, Elizabeth,” Storm whispered, walking over to Betsy and putting her arm on her shoulder. “Love them all by letting go of your fear. The path ahead is not an easy one, of that I am certain-and we must all be willing to give our lives and to watch others die. Never will you be able to build a wall of callousness and it never becomes any easier to deal with the loss of a friend. You do, however, learn in time to honor their memory by continuing to fight. That is an understanding fighters share.” Storm paused for a moment longer to see if Betsy would respond. The dumbstruck telepath could only look out to sea. And then, Storm walked back down the pier.

It was the last statement that struck Psylocke hardest, simply because she knew it to be true. She was both inexperienced and naïve, making her a liability in the field, and she hated Storm for making her realize it.

…

1.1.3 The Storm Drains

Fresh tracks through the mossy mud-caked ground indicated that two individuals had recently followed the same path. Bishop was able to register their size and calculated that one had to be male, and the other female. Possibly, the female that were looking for. Cannonball was still at point, silently walking through the muck and trying to catch every single detail through the masking darkness.

Two voices, a male and a female, echoed down the tunnel.

Sam signaled and the others stopped moving. The conversation was barely audible and certainly unclear.

Bishop raised his plasma rifle and began creeping down the tunnel. Sam and Kurt took his flanks. Several yards later, a light glowed around a corner, revealing the shadows of two individuals. Bishop swung around and yelled, “STAND FAST! YOU MOVE AND I’LL MELT YOUR FUCKING FACES!”

The man dove to the side, causing Bishop to fire. The heated blast smashed just above the stocky man’s right ear, raining hot rocks over his body. Reaching his M-60, the man pointed it directly at Bishop. Both of the men’s trigger fingers needed only a bit more of a push to end the other’s life.

It was the girl, surely enough. She had a watch-bracelet on and Bishop had caught them trying to release it. The poor bastard didn’t even know that once a Hunter was killed, his release card was instantly deactivated.

“I’D DROP THE RIFLE IF YOU DON’T WANT TO BECOME LIQUFIED!” the Punisher bellowed at him.

Jean looked down the hall, planning to run.

“DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT SWEETHEART!” Bishop yelled at her. The urge to turn and disintegrate her was great, though he knew the instant he turned his rifle the bastard would blow him away.

The Punisher noticed a stench of brimstone in the air before he noticed the knife at his throat. “Put down the gun, chief,” Kurt whispered.

Slowly, the M-60 was lowered and then dropped. Kurt forced him to his feet and walked backwards, still holding the knife against his throat.

Sam walked over and claimed the Punisher’s weapon. Grunting, Bishop turned and aimed the rifle at Jean. Then he fired.

Moving faster than his own thoughts, Sam reacted, allowing the explosion underneath his feet throw his forcefully towards the girl. He tackled and carried her several feet down the tunnel, preventing the plasma blast from hitting. She groaned upon smacking against the ground, and Sam protectively rolled over her.

“Bishop, what the hell are you doing!?” Kurt demanded.

“YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND! SHE HAS TO DIE! SHE IS A POTENTIAL WEAPON TO DESTROY ALL OF US!”

While Bishop and Kurt argued, Sam lifted his head.

A man, well over seven feet tall grinned back at him. The bastard had not made a sound in approaching.

Instinctively, Sam jumped to his feet and reached for the pistol tucked into his coast pocket. With blinding speed, Sabretooth leaped forward and smashed his fist into the side of Sam’s skull. Cannonball reeled backwards, trying to regain control over himself. Creed jumped forward, punching him twice more, busting his forehead wide open and knocking him out.

When Bishop came around the corner with his rifle raised, Creed swung Guthrie around as a human shield. Bishop had barely enough to move his rifle, preventing the blast from tearing through Sam’s chest.

“Sam! What the hell is going on?” Kurt yelled. Seizing the opportunity, the Punisher slammed his elbow into Kurt’s stomach and he doubled over. He grabbed the knife and ran down the tunnel, standing at Bishop’s side.

“By all means! Walk a few steps forward and kill him!” Sabretooth growled. They both froze.

Creed then chuckled like some drunken madman, and produced a grenade from his belt.

“SEE’YA!” he hollered, pulling the pin and lobbing it towards them. They both jumped back around the corner as the explosion rocked the tunnel, sending concrete shards flying everywhere.

The pain in Frank’s side was enough to tell him that the shrapnel had shredded him. He groaned and tried to stand, but the pain was too much.

Bishop brushed the rocks from his hair when Kurt went storming past him. The rocks had barricaded them on this side, but Kurt teleported to the other side without breaking his stride. Sam had awakened and was trying to stand, and Kurt leaped over him in pursuit of Creed. The golden haired giant had Jean draped over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes. Kurt reeled his fist back, teleported, and struck him with all his might directly behind the kneecap. Creed toppled over, dropping an unconscious Jean into the mud. Nightcrawler began punching Creed in the back of the head, breaking his fingers as he did it.

Jumping to his feet, Bishop immediately began digging through the rocks, trying to reach the other side an engage the enemy. He did not know how long Kurt would stand against Sabretooth.

Creed swiped his massive, clawed fist back and cut three streaming cuts into Kurt’s midsection. Nightcrawler was knocked down. He clutched his midsection and searched for a place to teleport into when Creed lurched upwards and seized him by the throat, squeezing the air from his lungs.

Kurt Wagner heard Bishop yelling something, he felt a tremendous pain, and then felt a perfect calm.

He transcended consciousness, feeling the glory of all things beautiful illuminating the world around him. Virgin soil sprouted new life from the earth, the winds carried fresh sands unto the shores, sapling trees breathed fresh air into the sky, and felt the forgotten love of humanity bloom a new hope into life. It was springtime, always his favorite season, when birds returned from their vacations to light the day with song. Dandelions and daffodils sprung from the ground, giving new hovering pads for the pollinating bees. All around him was the field of green, green grass that was home. He was alone for now, but company would soon come. For now, he basked in a sunbath, awaiting their arrival. But he preferred being alone for a long, long time.

A voice whispered something into his ear, and he a smile tore across his face and brought a flood of euphoric tears to his eyes. Everything at once had become very clear, addressing every unanswered prayer and forgotten question. His work on earth was completed.

Creed had punctured Nightcrawler’s stomach with all five talons, reaching far into his guts, lifting him several feet off the ground. The maniac’s eyes suddenly glazed over, and he twisted his fist inside of Kurt, tearing his organs to shreds. Blood poured from the wounds. In a final demented act, Creed pulled out Kurt’s spleen.

Sam couldn’t believe his eyes. He ran at the cold-hearted murderer and shot at him. Upon impact, he felt and heard all of the bastard’s ribs break in unison. The impact broke Sabretooth nearly in half. As Sam prepared to finish the job with one final blast at close range, Creed grabbed his head and smashed it into the concrete, having almost instantly recovered from his wounds. Cannonball toppled over, unconscious. Creed was about to kill him, but the sounds of Bishop (the one with the plasma rifle…) breaking through made him change his mind. Instead, he grabbed Jean and fled.

…

They reached the docks nearly five hours later. Logan saw them as they came into view with the morning sun on their backs. There were three men, though one of them was most certainly not Kurt.

Logan jumped from the crate and charged at them.

“Where’s Kurt?” he demanded, almost accusingly.

Bishop looked at him squarely in the eye and found himself unable to say it. He could only shake his head.

Logan’s face trembled with fury. The sight of the three men told the entire story-Cannonball’s face was caked in dried blood, the stranger limped while holding his side, and Bishop wore a façade of a defeated man who had just lost a brother.

Logan nearly ran over to Sam and began sniffing him like a possessed hound. “Who did this?”

Bishop dropped to the ground and opened his canteen. “It was a man named Victor Creed-he serves on the Hellfire Council,” he said. After taking a long drink, he continued “he has the telepath.”

Clenching his fists, Logan realized what had to be done.

…

That night, the Punisher explained that the offshore boats belonged to his group, the Corsairs. He signaled to the boats with his flashlight, indicating that he was ready to leave the place. After the entire ordeal, it seemed only natural to invite his newfound companions aboard his vessel.

The injured man stood at the edge of the pier while making the invitation. “We’ll be traveling to Mexico-we have bases there and the Falkland Islands, off the coast of Argentina. We had planned to use the telepath to bargain with the Hellfire Council, but I changed my mind when I found her.”

Logan stepped forward with his bag slung over his shoulder. “I want you to give me an exact location where I can meet you all.”

Stunned, Betsy asked “where are you going?”

“I’m going to find the girl and take care of some unfinished business.”

Psylocke began to protest when Storm put her hand on her leg, suggesting her to stop. She cast Betsy a look that said “its no use in trying”.

Frank nodded and told Logan “we’ll be just southwest of Mexico City. If we’re not there, we’ll be at the islands. There will be folks in Mexico that can secure you passage if you need it.”

Logan nodded again, stepping forward and shaking the Punisher’s hand. “See you down the road, friend.” He then nodded a goodbye to everyone else, and began walking towards the storm drains, where he planned to catch Creed’s scent and follow the bastard all the way to hell, if necessary.

…

Abroad Frank Castle’s vessel, Bishop leaned against the railing, watching the vortex of the white surf being sucked underneath the speeding boat. Betsy asked him earlier if he was alright, and he had told her that he was, which seemed to satisfy her. Bishop thought that for a telepath, she sure had trouble reading people at times.

The lady had gone to be with Sam, no longer caring about keeping their relationship a secret.

The fact of the matter was that Bishop was one hell of a far cry from being alright. He could not stop from thinking over how things should have turned out differently-if he had hit the shot on the girl, if he didn’t start the fight to begin with, if he reached Kurt in time…the fact of the matter was that the man was dead and nothing would change that now. In their short time together, Bishop had grown to love the man like a brother and a savior, who had taught him to open his heart and soul far enough to embrace hope. Like Essex, Kurt had a vision-a pure one. If Bishop lived through the ordeal, he promised Kurt that he would not let it die. I don’t have the right words, little buddy, but I’ll find someone that does…you deserve at least that much…and so does the world. I see that now.

And it would be just a bit longer to reach California-to reach his son and to save him from living the same torturous youth that his father had in the labor yards, breaking rocks. Eventually, his son would be free- of that Bishop was sure.

For you, Everett, and for you, Kurt…I’ll ride this train to its end.