[Reviews - 66]
-
Table of Contents [Report This]
Microsoft Word Chapter or Story |
Printer Chapter or Story |
ePub eBook Chapter or Story |

Has been viewed 1192 times

- Text Size +




Thank-you to all the reviewers—I was a bit swifter this time ;). It’s appreciated very much, M’iko, xx


Chapter.6.


There was still no scent for him to follow but he had to continue. He relied on his other senses now, not smell which was his acutest like it is for everyone but more so for him; his sight, his hearing, even falling back on his natural ability as a tracker, tracing steps...anything. But in order to do the latter, he had to stay calm, to stay rational; a task he was rapidly admitting was a lost cause. He had dropped into a mid-paced run now, after spending the first fifteen minutes at break-neck speed. Jude Miller was certainly thankful, not being blessed with any extraordinary gifts as he was, his body would not have allowed him to keep up with his former pace.


For a second Logan stopped, tilting his head back to sniff at the air that still held a dampness from the impromptu storm of earlier, that unmistakeable clammy heaviness of recent rain; the static electricity in the air still had his senses in their grip, making his task doubly difficult. It hung about him like sticky cobwebs he could not simply brush away.


Jude looked at him with a kind of confusion, but was too preoccupied with his own fatigue to really question him; half bent as he was, leaning on his knees. For a moment, for that one blissful instant, it managed to override his growing sense of fear; the type of acrid fear that left a nasty, bitter taste in one’s mouth. He swallowed hard, hoping that fear-tinged saliva would wash away...but it returned quickly vile and twice as acute. “Yae know,” he panted still, “he won’t be found unless he wants tae be.”


“I wouldn’t bet in that bub,” Logan growled lowly—his voice somewhere between man and animal. He moved in stiff quick jerks as he continued to scent the air, just like a blood-hound searching for the tell-tale stench of a fox on the hunt...


It was no good; Jude simply had to ask... “What’re yae doin’?”


Logan ignored him, his devilishly focused eyes scanning out into the night; he had reverted to working on pure instinct, willing the Wolverine from its dark slumber in his deepest, blackest parts And then...there he had it; blood. Ororo’s blood. And now his was taken from its growing simmer into a furious boil...


“Where are yae goin’ now man?!” Jude bellowed as Logan suddenly darted toward the open field at the side of the narrow path. He did nothing but watch for a moment as Logan fairly leapt over the wooden boundary fence with the grace of a prize stallion and burst out at full pelt once more across the long pale green new-growth grass. Again, he had no opportunity but to follow, wading his way across the pasture land with much greater difficulty than the former.


* * *


Dark eyes peeled open slowly, the loamy room nothing more than an indistinct haze. Her vision spilt, appeared to shimmer briefly before coming into some semblance of sharp focus. But still, her entire being felt numb; she felt herself a disembodied mind. What on earth just happened? She questioned herself as she stared up at the unfamiliar white ceiling with black beams tracing across it, rather lower than ceilings she was used to at the mansion, caught by the brightness of the moon that streamed through the uncovered window behind her on the left hand side. She murmured groggily, not even being conscious of where exactly she currently found herself as she attempted to move but nothing came of it. The frustration built within her as bits and pieces came back to her; a cottage...somewhere in Scotland...with...Where was Logan? At the sharp intrusive thought she had the automatic urge to bolt upright though her body would allow no such action.


It was only then that physical feeling began to return to her, perhaps aggravated by her concern for Logan. But why concern? She couldn’t remember a thing—but felt a twanging in her chest, the feeling of irrational gut-wrenching fear...The growing sensation of wetness from her clothes was making itself prominent now; that clammy dampness that was almost unbearable in its uncomfortable contact to the skin. Though her mind was soon taken from that with the dull ache that ran around her; slow at first, picking up gradual pace as it made itself known with all the subtly of being hit by a double-decker bus. But the neck...the neck hurt the most...


“Logan...” she called meekly, gaining the ability to move her body a little on the soft mattress; the sheets sticking to her chilly wet clothes. Every limb suffered from at least some tendril of pain, some sharp tweak as she shifted herself; having to wait a minute, bracing herself, before moving a little more. With some difficulty, accompanied by a soft weary moan, Ororo got herself up into a sitting position, resting on the flat palms of her hands, and scanned the empty room. It was as silent as the grave and just as still. “Logan?” she tried again with more certainty, but she already knew that she would receive no answer.


Leaning forwards she edged her legs off the side of the bed, letting them fall to the floor with a heavy thump, as though she had bricks in both her shoes. And again it brought her mind back to what the hell was going on here. She was in the bed, not just fully clothed but soaking wet too. Why would Logan have put her into the bed in such a state? Why had he left her alone like this...? Alone...the sudden thought of that sent a cold shiver down her spine. She was alone here and that creeping tendril of an unknown dread caught about her heart once more. She thought of trying again to call him, hoping to hear the comforting gruffness of his voice in return. But there was no point...


With more than a measure of trepidation she attempted to push herself from the mattress like a bed-ridden patient taking their first steps in months, completely expecting to meet the floor up close and personal. To her mild surprise she did not; somehow managing to stay upright and relatively balanced. Although the relief at that was somewhat tempered by the fact that her various aches and pains were becoming more insistent by the second. She took her first few steps with not undue care, inching forwards. Her first thought before she even attempted to fathom any of this was to get out of these clothes. Becoming more sure on her feet with each step she made her way around the end of the bed, taking hold of the end post on the way around, just in case, and then over to the hefty wardrobe at its foot.


The one or two items of clothing they’d brought each for the short break were hung up there, at her insistence. Logan would have left them to crumple in the suitcase if he’d had his way. She took out some jeans and a plain white shirt, letting the door fall shut of its own accord. Laying them momentarily over the brass bedstead she began to take off her sopping clothes; still so saturated they dripped once or twice onto the floor boards. She had shrugged out of her long cardigan and taken the ankle-length and now extraordinarily heavy skirt off; it plopped down to the ground heavily in indication of its new weight. As she began to remove her top it was only by chance that she glanced at the full length mirror on the wall to her left. She instantly stiffened, her hands rigidly holding onto the hem of her top....The large dark patch that stained the light material was unmistakable in what it consisted of. Even in the poor light the fact that it was blood was a certainty...Her neck throbbed even more on the sight of it...With sudden urgency her hands desisted in the reluctance, ripping the stretchy top as she yanked it off and threw it as far from her as she could. Swiftly she grabbed the fresh clothes; the simple task of putting them on hindered by the shaking of her hands; true tremors, the like of which she’d never experienced before.


What happened? What, by the Goddess and the Bright Lady too, had happened...


...The eyes...that toxic green made sallow, the blood pooling at their rims...


Ororo clenched her own orbs shut tight, shaking her head as if to rid herself of the unwelcome thought. Thought or memory?...But her mind was still unclear, smeared with a virtual Vaseline, a thin layer that prevented her from accessing them, if that image was indeed a memory. It only made her current confusion and growing anger at her inability to recall all the stronger.


She made to move towards the door and see if perhaps Logan had left her a note but an unexpected wave over dizziness over took her and she staggered backwards into the central space of the room. With increasing breaths the panic rose; the pervious ache developing into something more sinister. A scrambling fire raced up through her veins. The burn had started...


“Huh!” Her back hit the wall at the other side of the room without her realising that she’d been reeling backwards so drastically. She slid quickly down it, dropping to the ground in an ungainly heap, “Oh Goddess...” she panted as she opened her eyes finally, gazing wildly around the room though her lids still felt low and heavy. Her hand flew up to her neck; sensitive finger tips grazing across the skin, discovering two small lumps, an equal distance apart from each other...


...His lips against her skin...icy breath...the hard *pop* of the puncture...the sting of cut skin...a searing fire...the warm seeping...sucking. “Oh Goddess...”


* * *


He was close, so close now that Ororo’s blood on him was all Logan could make sense of. Ororo’s blood...on that bastard. All thoughts of what Jude had told him had long been lost, it wouldn’t have mattered if the man had been the Devil himself, Logan was taking him down tonight...whatever may come. The pure concentration on that single task heightened his senses ten-fold; the animal inside guiding every move. They had passed through several fields and just come through onto the path again in half the time---whereon Logan jerked to a sudden stop.


It was so pungent that everything seemed to be tainted with it...


Logan walked slowly out into the middle of the dark country lane, vaguely recognising it as the one that led into the village. But that was furthest from his mind...Jude struggled over the fence behind him, his gun swinging around to his front as he tried to surmount it, making for a more cumbersome task. Finally over it, the stolid Scotsman tripped quickly down the short incline coming to a stop close by Logan. He could feel it...even he. Something was about to happen. Like a perfunctory gesture, every bit as instinctive as Logan’s reactions, Jude took hold of his double-barrelled shot-gun with two steady hands. He brought it into a comfortable position, slung low and diagonally across his mid-riff, ready to be cocked to the shoulder if needs be. And he was sure they would...


“He’s here,” Logan growled, deceptively low in his throat, but before Jude had the chance to question him, his heart leapt into his mouth as the sharp sound of knives being unsheathed rang out into the still night sky.


Jude glared in shock, awe and most prominently fear as he witnessed the six razor sharp points rigidly protruding from in between Logan’s knuckles; thin traces of blood dripping down to the ground. But he soon noticed that even the raw red around the six thin slits had quickly returned to a perfectly normal pinkie colour. He would have gasped if he’d have had it in him to.


“Sweet Jesus!” he whispered after he’d recovered enough to rediscover his voice; his wide eyes still fixed on the glinting blades, one hand coming unconsciously from his gun to gesture a quick cross from head, chest, shoulder to shoulder; a dim remembrance of childhood ritual.


The course voice distracted Logan for a moment, making him turn his head to his companion; his dark eyes evincing nothing but their latent anger, “What?” he asked gruffly.


Jude gave a short slow shake of his head, his face creased more with confusion now than the former trepidation, “What...what in the name of all that’s holy are yae?” Both hands were back on his weapon now; maybe Branloch wasn’t the only danger here, he couldn’t help but think to himself.


“What does it look like bub?” Logan shot back with growing irritation; he didn’t have time for this. He could hear movement up ahead, he was coming towards them, or something was...at least that’s what his ears were telling him, but he was quickly realising that his senses weren’t going to be the most reliable thing against this guy, whatever he was.


Jude finally managed to tear his eyes from the claw-esque knives and fixed with Logan’s; they looked as black as night beneath his dangerously furrowed brow, “Yae’re a mutant aren’t yae?” he asked rhetorically, “...like those freaks up at Muir---.” He hadn’t meant to say it but he couldn’t stop himself.


“Hey bub,” Logan countered, “you live in a village over-lorded by a goddamn vampire—I don’t think you’ve got room to be picky about yer allies.” He said it, but he still couldn’t believe it...but what other explanation could be offered...? It didn’t matter; all he wanted was to see the son-of-a-bitch on the end of his claws like a pig ready for the spit.


Jude remained tight-lipped and silent, feeling more than ever that he was in the middle of something that simply didn’t concern him. If only he’d listened to his gut instincts and stuck to his guns. If Shirley was so bloody concerned then it should have been her up here, risking her neck, for a couple of mutants of all things. But then, how long could they go on living with him like some nasty black cumulus hanging over every minute of their lives? It had been that way for as long as he could remember. Maybe if any one was going to help rid them of this scourge, then perhaps it would be these mutants. What other options were there left?


From the corner of his eye Logan suddenly caught sight of a dark mass in the sky, like a cloud of the previous storm, but with something unnaturally dense about it. He emitted a feral growl, fighting enough to stop from bearing his teeth back like an angry dog, but he knew he was at the end of his tether...It would not be denied for long.


“What is that?” Jude said to himself, his grip now so tight on his gun that it began to shake, ever-so-slightly.


The black mass swirled down as if caught on a wind that did not exist; dropping down and being lost against the silhouette of the trees before them until it became visible once more on the path up ahead. It looked more like a plume now, insubstantial but still somehow heavy, forty yards in front of them. And then the most amazing light...exploding from it...there he stood. As bright as life...


Logan roared; he bolted forwards...


Jude was frozen where he was for a moment, shocked at Logan’s brashness as with nothing more than those unnatural knives he charged head long towards the stony-faced pallid figure of Branloch, who didn’t even flinch; like some kind of living sculpture. He wasn’t sure he could watch, but similarly could not take his eyes from the scene as it unfolded before him. He gawped with his gun now ready and cocked with a loud loading clack, as Logan thrust forwards both of his hands, driving all six claws into Branloch’s chest, dead centre.


It all happened in the blink of an eye...the mutant was then suddenly flung backwards with unbelievable force; crashing to the ground, roughly where he’d started from, close to his feet. Jude spared a quick glance down at him; he wasn’t unconscious as he’d expected him to be but he was certainly a little worse for wear.


He took his attention back to Branloch, who hadn’t moved from where he was, still regarding the men with almost patient eyes, but they were the like of which he hoped he would never see again after the last time...the screaming fire of yellow, the swirl of liquid blood...He felt his stomach drop into his boots, an overwhelming numbing paralysis in his legs, making them rooted like tree trunks.


“Miller,” he said simply, with all the Beast in his voice, the sneer twisting his mouth with natural malice.


There was no going back now, he wouldn’t run. No, not again...His hands became possessed with their own determination as he brought his shot-gun higher again, squeezing one eye shut, its head perfectly in the sights of the crossed target...With one determined press he pulled the trigger....


With an explosion of liquid blackness, he witnessed through the small target atop of his weapon the Laird pitch backwards, falling with a heavy thump to the ground. But there was no satisfaction in that. He knew it wasn’t over, not by a long shot, the dread worsened with the anticipation of reprisal. After all he’d witnessed, those years ago...he had no hope that it would be so simple, so clean cut.


Logan pushed himself up onto his elbows, cricking his neck this way then that as he did a mental check of his body; something felt out of place but he couldn’t be sure what. The force with which Branloch had backhanded him and the crash landing had temporarily robbed him of all sensation. The next thing he’d been aware of was the thunderous noise of gun fire. He looked over to where Branloch lay; half the contents of his head spewed out behind him in a thick treacle on the ground. Well, whatever he was, it hadn’t been quite the tussle he’d expected. He’d even go so far as to say he felt a little disappointed that it had ended so swiftly. More-so that he hadn’t been the one to finish him off.


“What were ya sayin’ about this guy bein’ tough?” Logan half-scoffed as he tried to stand up, but fell back to the ground as he realised that his right knee cap had come completely out of its joint. “Damn it,” he grumbled to himself as he took hold of it with both hands and with gritted teeth shifted it with a hard movement several inches to the left and back to where it should have been. It hurt like a bitch, but he managed to get through it with nothing more than a slightly sharp intake of breath, like he’d only had to remove a splintered rammed down a cuticle. Finally he was able to get to his feet, keeping his constantly angry look on the sprawled body flat on the floor. “Fucker,” he mumbled, thinking darkly about dismembering the body...for nothing more than the satisfaction of doing so. But he soon pushed away such macabre leanings.


“It’s not over...”


“What?” Logan turned to Jude, “You just blew the bastards brains to kingdom come. I don’t think he’s gonna be gettin’ up anytime soon.” Hell, I don’t think even I’d be walkin’ away after that, he thought to himself, but said nothing. The man already thought he was a freak; he didn’t need to add to his presumptions.


“You don’t understand,” Jude continued in a quiet, grave timbre, “this isn’t over...I’ve seen...things,” finally he took his eyes from the figure, fixing Logan determinedly, “...things yae wouldn’a believe.”


Logan snorted humourless laughter, “I wouldn’t bet on it bub, you’ve no idea the shit I’ve seen---.” His words stopped sharply as he appeared to lose focus into the middle distance.


The bitter taste of fear flooded back into Jude’s mouth with renewed vehemence, “What is it?” he ventured but didn’t think he wanted an answer; the look on Logan’s face was not an encouraging one. “We should get out of here,” he said quickly, starting to turn, “Yae should get back tae the cottage, get yer woman an’ leave—now if yae know what’s good fer yae.”


But Logan didn’t appear to register a word of what he’d just said, instead he was concentrating on something that only he could hear; it was so low range sonar that he doubted that even dogs would have picked it up, but it was there...It slowly dawned on him what it was as snapping leathery flaps filled the air, tearing through the trees with ferocious pace. His eyes widened as he saw the swarm rushing towards them, its squealing enough to cause an extreme pain on his sensitive ear drums. Automatically he ducked, grabbing Jude on his way down to the ground, flat on his stomach, as over head the black tittering mass swooped by. Hundreds of them, at least; bats...Logan quickly looked behind to see them doing a U-turn against the cloudless navy sky, swooping back like a squadron of bombers, coming in for the second wave of attacks. But just as Logan unsheathed his claws once more, ready to slash wildly at anything that came within his vicinity, for all the good it would do him against such a target, they instead purposely flew out of arms reach, back towards the direction they’d come from.


“I told yae!” Jude roared, the anger just enough to cover how utterly scared he was by this point as he scrambled back to his feet, “This isn’t over! HE isn’t over!”


Logan joined him on his feet, claws sliding back, for now, as they both witnessed the most awesome and bizarre of sights. The bats had gathered into groups about the body of Branloch, several separate balls, forming much like that which had heralded the Lairds arrival.


“I told yae...”


Logan heard him gasp again as he truly couldn’t believe his eyes at what was starting to happen; the black clouds moulding into definite forms, taking on humanoid shapes...human bodies...


“What the fuck?!” Now he really was confused, and begrudgingly, he was beginning to realise that perhaps Jude had been telling the truth the whole time...no, no, he couldn’t accept that...But what else could explain what he was seeing?


Then?...The unfolding coup-de-grace, as ‘Lazarus’ arose...Branloch came up from the ground as if levitated, straight as a poker, and as far as Logan could tell, still with that gaping hole at the back of his head; the one at the front, an oozing black hole, certainly remained where the two bullets had entered the centre of the forehead. The tight, smooth features of his face remained more-or-less unaffected, an expressionless pallor still characterised it. It was just stained with abstract marks from the wound; the wound that may-as-well have not been there. And as all other revelations came into fruition Logan was reminded of what Jude had said as he’d been about to leave the cottage first time to search for Ororo before absolute insanity had erupted... #...an’ he wonna be alone either...# And he was right...


All around the man clad in black stood several...forms, which could barely be described as human, or as anything else. They were people...but of what genesis one couldn’t say. If he could have thought of a more appropriate word for them he would have, but only one came to mind as he looked upon them...zombies. He looked questioningly at Jude, only to notice his face drained of blood even more so than before, if that were possible, and his mouth now stood slightly agape. A soft word, barely audible even to Logan seemed to escape from the open orifice rather than be deliberately spoken...


“Chrissie...”


Logan looked to where his eyes were fixed; a figure at Branloch’s right shoulder, patches of bedraggled red hair sprouting with a certain randomness from a pale, raw scalp, its clothes in rags, hanging from an emaciated body. And as his eye tracked slowly across them, he noted the similar appearance of all of them—bodies with the look of corpses long drown, decaying as they stood, their bone structure painfully visible through translucent skin. But what transfixed him the most were the orbs; eyes of a dull red swirled with blind patches of a slivery blue. “What the hell are they?” Logan had to ask, almost as if it were a requirement to do so.


“What do’yae think?” Jude retorted grimly, still gazing upon that one, the one he recognised... “They’re what she’ll become...”


Logan felt a wretch at this, a wretch of re-stoked anger as he slowly sunk down, knees bent into his predatory position, “Not if I can help it bub.”


SNIKT!!!


Wiping his hands back with release the feral X-Man raced forwards, at the same time the strangely mute Branloch motioned his arms forwards and with a speed that belied their appearance the...things, at his sides raced to meet him. Their mouths open, fangs clear in the moonlight that streamed down upon this unlikely scene. But the surrealism was far outweighed by Logan’s sheer need to attack. And attack he did...


Slicing left, right and centre, Jude had never seen anything like it. Unlike the swift encounter with Branloch, it was not Logan who was made light work of, but them. He had witnessed people go up against them before, these minions, Branloch’s living dead, but none had survived the encounters much less mowed them done with such precision. They may have looked weak, being no more than acolytes in truth, but as Mr. Logan there clearly showed with his own feral fighting skills, they too worked on a kind of instinct, driven by a mindless hunger. They both fought one another with a similar passion. But they seemed to learn that their foe was not the usual human fodder...


The first two had been easy for Logan, two quick decapitations and the bodies had been nothing more than dust in the air. But then the others came in, careful to avoid his lethal weaponry, but lunging for him every time he left them an opening to do so, but feinting away to avoid his wild attacks when the need arose. Not so simple after all. So far they had only been able to scratch at him in their own attacks; their claws, gnarly and jagged, not the calibre of his own by any stretch of the imagination but effective enough to take chunks from his skin and clothing with each uncontrolled swipe. They were like wild animals in a ring...


*BAM!* *BAM!* *BAM!*


The shots were fired off regularly, followed by the quick snap back of cartridges being unloaded, dropping to the ground and new ones being put in their place; the air soon filled with the tangy scent of gun powder and the hot smell of their firing. On his periphery Logan saw the things, the ‘zombies’ go down as the shots hit—unlike their master, for want of a better word, they were quickly ‘offed’ by such assaults, dissipating as swiftly into nothing as the others had. But he soon found he could ill afford to pay attention to how Jude was coping as he felt the iron grip of two hands on his arm, part of his jacket sleeve having being ripped away in preparation to expose the flesh. They may have been easy to kill when one knew how to but they were still strong. One of them had hold of him, a crushing inescapable grip about his left forearm, arching its head back and issuing a snake like hiss as it threw its head forwards to plunge its fangs into the skin....As it came down though, it met not with the soft tissue of regenerative flesh, but with the pointed end of three claws; rammed into the wide open mouth, taking off the fangs on the way through, piercing the hard palette at the roof and emerging out of the back of the skull. This one had time to spew blood, giving Logan a generous covering, even letting out a strangled cry, of male or female origin he could not tell and certainly not by its grotesque appearance, before it too went the way of the others.


Now Logan only had one thing in his sights and nothing between him and it. He quickly ran his forearm over his face as he strode determinedly over to him, wiping off the thick splatter of blood before it got in his eyes or dripped into his mouth. The firing was still going on behind him, random shots now. He even thought he caught a panicked shout for his help but he couldn’t be sure in the myriad of cries and squeals these monsters made, and frankly he didn’t care either. Only Branloch was in his sights now, the mark on his head being considerably smaller than it was moments ago. So the man...or whatever he was, was a healer?


Branloch’s thin tight lips creaked up into a smile as Logan approached for round two and all the while he wondered what other delights this mutant had in store for him, what other secrets other than these unusual but extremely affective knives. The woman’s powers would be useful enough, but what quarry had he here? He took a step forwards as Logan lunged at him, his arm straight out and hand stretched ready for the grasp and with minimum effort he did just that; had him gripped tight by the throat. Branloch watched him carefully as Logan let out a spluttered choke in stunted rage at being caught so easily. He began to struggle against his hold so he simply squeezed tighter, resisting the laugh that threatened at the mutant’s look of bewilderment as slowly he began to lift the two hundred and fifty plus adamantium laced man from the ground with apparent ease.


“Metal...” he said ponderously as he continued to lift him higher, eyeing the claws that remained free from their housings, the blood and gore that had stained them slipping off so easily it was as if they were greased, leaving nothing but the pure reflective surface in their wake. “Fascinating,” he said in a course whisper, the change in his voice remarkable, “And I wonder what other secrets yae have, eh?” By now Logan’s feet were clean off the floor by at least five inches, kicking pointlessly at thin air in reflex, his hands gripped tightly about Branloch’s wrist.


Suddenly Branloch’s sallow orbs flickered with interest to Logan’s jaw. His eyes tracked them as best he could but he was finding it increasingly difficult to breath and his head was becoming light, his consciousness hazy as air became sparser and sparser...It even made him wonder for a moment whether a healing factor could compensate for lack of oxygen. He seriously doubted it...He felt Branloch draw a long finger lazily over the bottom of his chin, the sting reminding him of the cut he’d sustained there that hadn’t quite managed to heal. That fact alone alerted him to the fact that he must have lost a copious amount of blood, for that was the only time whereon healing was slowed down some. He watched in impotent fury as Branloch brought the blood laced finger up to his mouth, a lizard-like tongue flicking out and lapping it up with obvious relish. His strange eyes seemed to sparkle, his lips quiver, “Secrets indeed...”


“Fuck...you bub,” Logan managed to croak out, renewing his struggle for freedom, jerking him weight around as much as he could, “I’m---no-ones...blood-bank.” He gritted his teeth and with his fading strength brought his clenched fist up underneath the arm his was suspended from with as much force as he could. The forearm severed from the elbow like freshly cooked meat beneath a chef’s carving knife as adamantium sliced with ease through bone, muscle and tissue, so much so that Logan barely felt the strain of the separation. Superhuman strength? Maybe...but he still cut as easily as the rest.


Logan fell to the ground with a thump, the hand and arm about his neck disappearing as his reddened face pouring with sweat and he held his throbbing neck, coughing desperately for breath. As for Branloch he reeled back with a horrendous howl, clutching to the stump of his arm that bled profusely.


“Heal from that--,” he burst into another fit of coughing, hacking up thick glob of white phlegm trapped in his windpipe, “...you dumb fuck!” He managed to finish his insult after all.


The last thing Logan remembered was a sound that was somewhere between a scream and a roar and Branloch, mouth wide open bursting with that awful piercing noise, rushing towards him. He tried to get to his feet to move out of the way, or at least roll to the side but he was slammed by the blackness with a tremendous force. And every thing fell away...


* * *


It was quiet...too quiet. Then a fox cried, echoing across the hills and his hazel eyes flipped open with instant alertness. Blood and gun shots...his senses were assaulted with these familiar scents and nothing else as he jerked to sit upright, looking left and right at a scene that would not have looked out of place on a battle field save for that while there was a copious amount of blood to paint the dirt red there were no bodies to accompany it. Well, not until...He turned around, pushing himself to his feet as he went. He stopped short, confronted by what he could only describe as scattered remains, but there was still enough there to recognise the man they once were. He grimaced at the sight---he’d seen a lot of death in his life, the type of death most people couldn’t even imagine in their worst nightmares, though that’s what his consisted of most of the time, snippets of memories coming back....But he still had enough human reaction left in him to be abhorred by total mutilation. And that was what was before him now; nothing else.


He moved past what was left of Jude Miller, stepping carefully around mauled lumps, looking back and forth down the lane. His whole body ached, though he was completely healed, the pains sometimes lasted a little longer than the wounds, especially when they were as deep as his had been. But there was only one thing on his mind now...


“Ororo...” Forsaking all else, he ran...


*


The old front door clattered open with such force it was a wonder the near five-hundred year old entrance didn’t splinter to pieces. All the way here he’d tried to catch a scent, some sign that those things had passed this way but as earlier, there was nothing; not even the scent of their blood that had stained their battle ground so and covered his clothes. Beyond that he could detect hide nor hair of them and that irked him badly. They could be anywhere at any time. And if there was something Logan hated, it was surprises.



He halted in the still darkness of the living room; nothing but the echo of his boots on the grey flagstones and the familiar scents of the cottage; herbs, spent fires... He was sure, as sure as he could be in the circumstances, that there was nobody else in this cottage save for Ororo and him as he listened carefully. But that left him confused and more than a little suspicious—why would he have not come for her when he had the chance? For Logan had no idea how long he’d been unconscious for—it could possibly have been hours. But the one thing he was certain of was that Ororo was still here, her scent was still too strong for it to be mere remnants; that dusky sandalwood, intoxicating natural musk...


Without further dalliance he darted for the staircase, swinging around the banister and leaping onto them, aching inside to see if she was okay, only now berating himself that he’d left her alone. His boots pounded on the fragile wood...


-TBC-

R ‘n’ R always loved!





You must login () to review.