Wolverine: Weapon X

by Marc Cerasini

  Langram glanced at his watch, then stood.

  “Got to go, Logan,” he said. “But we’ll be seeing each other a lot in the coming days. In the meantime, remember what I said about the CIS being a good place to start over. To ditch your past if you want to… not many get a second chance.”

  Langram turned to go.

  “Hey, Langram.”

  This time, Logan was on his feet and facing him.

  “I’ll watch your back if you’ll watch mine. And when this mission’s over, if we’re both still alive, I’ll buy you a drink…”

  Another drink. And another. But never enough to bring release. Wait. What was I thinking about?

  Like wisps of mist, the memories of that first meeting with Neil Langram slipped away.

  Reduced by a creeping amnesia to dazedly pondering the drink in his hand, Logan watched as the whisky morphed from clear brown to cloudy green.

  Nauseated, he looked away.

  On the other side of the window, the word PROPHECY glowed with ghastly phosphorescence. An acrid, chemical stench assailed his nostrils, and battered couch springs dug into his flesh. But despite his physical discomfort, Logan’s head lolled and his eyes closed.

  Sleep came, but Logan’s dreams were no different than his waking life. He longed for escape while he continued to run, his legs pumping on a perpetual incline, stretching farther and farther into the future. At the top was the humming neon of the Prophecy sign, waiting there, waiting for him.

  Suddenly awake, Logan bolted upright, crushing the glass in his grip. Thick red blood pooled in his palm, but he felt no pain.

  Logan staggered to his feet, impatient now to flee, to escape before the apocalypse swallowed him up.

  He tugged the flannel shirt over his wide shoulders. He pondered the predictability of his nightmares. Visions of pain and bones and spikes. Of vile stench and horror. And of dagger hands…

  Searching for the keys to his car, Logan rummaged through a pile of yellowing newspapers. He noticed a headline on a grease-stained tabloid:

  MERCY KILLER “QUACK” ELUDES FBI.

  Under the headline, next to the story, a grainy black-and-white image. The photograph of a portly, bearded man with a bland, unremarkable face.

  The picture and the headline vaguely troubled Logan, but he didn’t know why. When he tried to snatch the memory threads to connect them, they dissolved like streams of vapor in his increasingly clouded mind.

  Lightning cracked the sky split another tree.

  Another warning.

  Storm’s comin’, and it’s a big one. The big one. The one I’ve been looking out for.

  Logan pocketed his money and his keys. He left the Prophecy without a backward glance. His last memory: the neon sign blinking steadily in the rain.

  Suddenly, Logan was sitting on a bar stool, hunched over a stained counter of a dingy gin mill. Outside, through filthy plate glass, the rain had stopped. A blanket of dirty snow covered the broken streets and sidewalks.

  When did it snow?

  Hands shaking, Logan reached for the bottle at his arm. He swallowed, wondering if all the booze had finally caught up with him and induced some kind of mental blackout.

  Logan had no memory of the drive, yet through the big window he could see his Lotus-Seven parked in the lot.

  Did he drive through rain, then snow? Had hours passed? Or days? Had he missed the freight train… and with it his only chance to escape?

  For the first time in Logan’s memory, panic welled up inside of him. Another swallow of whisky took care of it, but left confusion in its wake.

  Logan regained a certain measure of control by observing his surroundings—the bartender calmly washing glasses while watching a muted television tuned to a soccer game. Another man seated at the opposite end of the bar, drinking quietly. Logan sniffed the air, and his nose curled at the smell of rank booze and stale tobacco.

  Tubes like worms. Boring their way into his ears, nose, his mouth, his brain.

  Outside, a lone traffic signal switched from green to yellow to red and back again. There were no pedestrians on the sidewalks, and the clock on the snow-covered steeple down the block was running backward.

  We travel into the future every second we live, but no one can go back in time, according to Einstein. Which proved the old geezer wasn’t so smart after all.

  In the shadows, under the dartboard, Logan spied three men with long coats and sunglasses, hats pulled down over their faces, drinks untouched in front of them. They sat at the edge of darkness. Waiting. Watching.

  Time to go…

  Logan rose, tossed a wad of bills on the bar, and headed for the door. The shadow men ignored him… or seemed to. Their inaction gave Logan hope, but not much.

  Outside, his heavy boots crunched the icy snow.

  Boots. Like a soldier’s. Like mine. I was a soldier once. No, twice. I fought in two wars. Both of them a long time ago.

  Logan looked down to find his boots gone, his feet no longer clad in hard leather, but swathed in soft moccasins. There was still snow. Everywhere. But this covering was pristine and virgin white. The reflective snow of his youth. It coated trees and blanketed rocks. It shimmered with frost under a pale winter sun.

  The tavern, the parking lot, the shadow men had disappeared. Logan padded alone through a silent mountain forest.

  Home? Could I be home already?

  Hoarfrost crunched under the balls of his feet. The chill seeped bone-deep into Logan’s wiry, teenaged frame. But despite the frigid air, the darkening sky, the deepening snow, Logan slogged ahead.

  It was the burning rage that pushed him, maddened him—an unreasoning need for vengeance that drove Logan farther and farther into the wilderness.

  Through calf-deep snow, Logan followed the spoor, moving quickly in a painful effort to catch up to his elusive quarry. Numb fingers clutched his father’s long knife, ready to strike, ready to stab, to rend.

  Eager to kill.

  At a rocky precipice cleared of snow by the relentless wind, the footprints Logan had tracked ended abruptly. Frustrated, Logan scanned the forest, then sniffed the air hoping to locate his prey by scent alone.

  Harsh winds stung Logan’s face—a face raw from the bitter cold and bruised from the beating he’d received at the hands of Victor Creed, the bully known to the local settlers of this region by his Blackfoot Indian name, Sabretooth.

  I know Creed hates me. But I don’t know why. More secrets, deeper and darker than the forest around me.

  Sabretooth had turned up at the door of Logan’s log cabin hours—or was it days?—before, just as he had every year around this same time. There was neither rhyme nor reason to Creed’s visits—only that they always occurred when Logan was alone.

  Logan had walked beyond the boundaries of his father’s homestead, inside the tree line where he gathered firewood for the cold days and nights ahead. He was alone again. His father had been gone for weeks, fur-trapping up north.

  To guard his son, his meager possessions, and the precious furs he’d gathered during trapping season, the elder Logan had left behind his hunting knife and a fierce husky named Razor.

  Returning with a heavy bundle of dry timber, Logan had heard Razor’s frenzied barks and angry howls, muffled by distance, by snow and by trees. He’d tossed the firewood aside and hurried back to the cabin as fast as he could run.

  He found Razor’s blood and brains staining the snow, and the Blackfoot helping himself to the pelts Logan’s father had left to dry under the winter sun.

  Through tears of rage, Logan stared down at the murdered animal while Creed’s taunts battered his ears. Then, with the savage cry of an enraged beast, Logan hurled himself at his tormentor, to land on the man’s back. Logan clawed at Creed’s face and tore at his throat with his teeth.

  With a fierce growl of his own, Sabretooth dashed Logan to the frozen ground.

  Stunned, he sprawled in the snow next to his dog’s stiffening corpse. As he fought
for consciousness, Logan saw the Indian loom over him. Heard the man’s stinging laughter ringing in his ears. Felt the torrent of kicks and blows that rained down on him.

  Finally; the blackness rose and swallowed him up.

  Much later, Logan bolted upright, his body numb from the cold. The sun had crossed the sky; the day fading. Logan’s memory returned, and with it a murderous rage.

  Racing to the cabin, Logan snatched the hunting knife from its place over the mantle. Without regard for the elements or the waning daylight, Logan set off, determined to hunt down Sabretooth and end his enemy’s existence once and for all.

  Within the first hour, Logan lost Creed’s trail, then picked it up again. Now the Blackfoot’s spoor was mixed with another’s. A bear’s. A large one, by the size of the prints. Like Creed, the animal was moving up a crude mountain trail toward higher ground.

  Minutes later, as Logan nearly crested a hill, a dark figure rose up from behind a boulder. The grizzly roared a challenge, and Logan reared back in surprise.

  Lumbering forward on its short hind legs, the mammoth grizzly towered over him. The animal weighed at least four hundred pounds. When it roared again, hot spittle splashed Logan’s cheek. The creature’s steaming breath rolled over him.

  For a moment, Logan felt paralyzed. Then he raised his knife and let loose with a howl of his own. Moving forward, the blade slashing back and forth, Logan prepared to face the creature’s massive onslaught.

  The bold, unexpected move startled the bear. The beast halted, eyes wide, ears twitching—just out of the blade’s reach.

  Legs braced, Logan prepared to charge. His rage clawed his heart and he longed to slash and stab this creature—any creature. Nothing could threaten him.

  Time seemed suspended as man and beast eyeballed each other very cautiously and carefully.

  Then, from somewhere behind the grizzly, Logan heard a snort, followed by a terrified bleat. In the back of the looming grizzly, Logan spied four black eyes peering at him from under a tangle of low, snow-laden pine branches.

  Black fur rippling, brown snouts wet and steaming, the frightened cubs emerged from cover, only to cower behind their mother.

  Seeing the helpless pups, Logan lowered his blade. With wary eyes locked on the angry grizzly, he took a single step back, then another.

  The bear snorted, her fur bristling, as Logan continued his careful retreat. Even in his harsh world, Logan believed that not everything that was a threat should be destroyed.

  “Go in peace. You are not my enemy and I am not yours,” Logan whispered softly as he continued to walk backward, down the trail.

  The bear sensed Logan’s intent. She dropped on all fours, then turned her quivering back on the human.

  Slapping the cubs with her front paws to move them along, the grizzly plunged between the snow-covered trees.

  Logan watched the creature retreat, her hide dusted with snow, two cubs scurrying at her feet. When the bear had moved out of sight, Logan closed his eyes and leaned against a tree, heart racing from the aftershock of the unexpected encounter.

  When he opened them again, Logan found himself outside the tavern, in the middle of the snow-covered parking lot.

  The night had grown much colder—unseasonably cold, unless Logan had lost weeks or months since his time at the Prophecy, instead of mere hours.

  But he had no time to worry about that now. Not with the shadow men so close…

  With a stab of relief, Logan spied his Lotus-Seven. The top was down—absurd in this weather, even for someone who did not feel heat or cold like everyone else.

  Logan found his keys and slid behind the wheel.

  The throbbing roar of the engine reassured him. But before Logan could throw the vehicle into gear, figures emerged from the darkness. Then a man spoke.

  “Mr. Logan?”

  Logan looked up just as something hard, cold, and sharp struck his shoulder, stabbed through muscle and ribs, and pierced his lung.

  A hot gorge closed his throat. Wheezing, Logan struggled to rise, as toxins surged through his body, sapping his strength, bringing his mind to a standstill.

  Helpless as a dishrag, Logan was dragged from the car. He lashed out—only to be pummeled to the cold ground by vicious, unseen fists. With the last of his waning strength, Logan fought back. But as the powerful tranquilizer took effect, the dark and the pain devoured him.

  Just before consciousness slipped away. Logan felt an odd sense of relief. There was nothing more he could do now. Days of running and nights of hiding were over. Escape was no longer possible.

  The apocalypse has begun.

  2

  The Hive

  Behind angular eyeglasses that gleamed in the dim light, the Professor watched the medical team labor over their patient.

  A dozen physicians and specialists crowded around a naked figure cocooned behind the thick walls of a translucent tank. Inside the Plexiglas coffin, “Subject X” floated in a greenish chemical soup comprised of interferon-laced plasma, molecular proteins, and cellular nutrients, along with a kind of synthetic embryonic fluid of the Professor’s own devise.

  A few ounces of that murky liquid were more valuable than those technicians could ever imagine. Worth more than the average North American skyscraper—and far more to the elite few who actually understood its purpose.

  The Professor’s thought was interrupted by a flashing light on his console. The team leader was informing him that the delicate preparatory process was nearing completion.

  Like Subject X’s airtight coffin, the Professor’s own chamber was hermetically sealed—an electronic realm of steel and glass, fiberglass cables and silicon chips. Inside this chamber, computers purred and processors hummed. Polished adamantium steel walls dully reflected scrolling streams of data on flickering monitors and banks of high-definition TV screens.

  The Professor’s rail-thin body sat erect and motionless on his ergonomic throne, his pale flesh stretched taut over prominent cheekbones. Coolly, he appraised the medical procedures as they played in real time on a large central monitor.

  A rare smile curled his lips as he observed the team’s progress. Despite wearing somewhat restrictive environmental hazard suits, cumbersome helmets, and bulky air-scrubbers, the medical staff performed their assigned duties quickly and efficiently—so efficiently that Subject X would be ready for the first experiment tomorrow, well ahead of the original schedule.

  The preliminary work had gone splendidly, the Professor decided, and his staff had performed with exemplary efficiency.

  And why not? Had he not trained them himself, demanded the highest degree of professionalism, commitment, and self-sacrifice from every last one of them?

  The Professor touched a button. On a different level of the compound, a blinking light alerted a second medical team that their skills would soon be needed. He manipulated everything that went on inside the immense research facility from this command-and-control center. Via constant digital recordings, the Professor knew of every action, every sound that transpired within its walls.

  Billions of bits of data traveled to the Professor through hundreds of miles of fiberoptic cables—an information network that snaked its way through every room, every vent, every wall.

  Poised like a spider in a technological web, the Professor surveyed his domain from the center of the vast complex. From behind sealed doors and coded locks, he could access any accumulated data, observe any experiment, and issue commands with the flick of a switch or the utterance of a spoken order.

  What interested him now, of course, was Subject X.

  Through the monitor, the Professor viewed the arrival of the second medical team. With a hiss, a pressurized door opened, and the group moved in to replace the preparatory staff The members of this new team were clad in the same bulky environmental suits, not to protect them, but to shield Subject X from the threat of contamination—a necessary precaution.

  The task of this second team was to fit Subje
ct X with a variety of biological probes designed to monitor bodily functions, along with hollow injection tubes sheathed in Teflon. These tubes were crucial to the success of the adamantium bonding process.

  The Professor’s long-fingered hands—the hands of an aesthete, he liked to think—played lightly across a custom-made ergonomic keyboard only he could decipher. Abruptly, the ubiquitous whir of air-scrubbers and the constant hiss of the climate-control systems were drowned out by snatches of conversation and ambient sounds transmitted from the medical lab.

  Scrolling data vanished from the supplemental view screens, to be replaced by images of men in protective suits crowding around the simmering, transparent coffin.

  Dr. Hendry, the team leader—his environmental hazard suit marked with a broad green stripe to signify his status—studied Subject X through the opaque fluid.

  “Who shaved the patient?”

  At Hendry’s side, a man raised his hand. “I did.”

  “What did you use, poultry shears?”

  “What?”

  “Look at the man.” He pointed to the lone figure in the clear, rectangular tank.

  Behind his faceplate, the other man seemed perplexed. “That’s really weird. I shaved him twenty minutes ago, and he was as smooth as a billiard ball…”

  “Could have used a haircut, too,” observed another member of the team.

  The physicians and specialists took their positions around the Plexiglas, gazing mutely at the figure inside.

  The pale pink male form was swathed in bubbles. His raven black hair drifted around his head like a storm cloud.

  A flexible steel breathing tube looped down from a wheezing respirator to a mask that completely covered the subject’s nose and mouth. This technological umbilical cord also contained various sensors, tubes that supplied nutrients, and needles to administer drugs, if necessary.

  The silence was broken at last by a trundling medical cart pushed by a nurse clad in the same bulky gear worn by the others. On the cart’s antiseptic surface sat an array of surgical probes resembling medieval torture devices more than any modem medical implement. Each gleaming probe was comprised of a hollow, razor-sharp stainless steel spike—some as long as six inches, others as short as an inch. A long, flexible tube was attached to each spike’s base, along with wires to channel biological information to various monitoring devices.