Logan had been alone for some time when he finally came back to himself. He could tell, because the room was filthy with his waste, and his body felt dessicated, like the cheap trucker's jerky sold at the most remote stops in the Northern Wilds. Thirst couldn't kill him, but oh how he wished he were dead. He also knew he was suffering the mother of all hangovers from withdrawing from the cocktail of drugs they had used to keep him stupefied and docile. The dark cell stank of waste, and death. So much death that it oozed from the walls and permeated even the atoms that formed the underground complex. Even with his senses dulled by dehydration, starvation, and having woken up in the funk Logan gagged painfully. The slow crawl to the door was one of the longest journeys of his life, and he had no idea how many times he passed out on the way. The familiar pain of extending one of his claws felt like it should have ended him. The metal dragged and ripped through every dry centimeter of his flesh, and the screams dragged and ripped from his throat in equal measures of pain. He didn't even bleed when it finally emerged - none left to spare.
After Logan managed to slice the lock on the door he made a slow arduous trek to the tiny cafeteria. The sink didn't work, but the fridge had been well stocked with water bottles. He punctured the first one (he hadn't been able to force himself to retract it yet) and let it dribble into his mouth, and then passed out. Logan repeated the cycle of wake, drink, sleep, three more times when he felt the call of nature, which was a good sign. The fact that he answered that call on the decaying corpse of what had been one of his 'caretakers' was probably poetic justice. He was starting to feel a little more himself on the next cycle, even a little bit hungry. That was saying something, since the the stench grew noticeably worse each waking cycle. The protein bars were pretty much all that was left, on this level at least. They'd do. They gave him just enough energy to sponge himself off with some of the remaining water and dress himself in some dead fool's spare clothes.
All in all it took him probably a week to find his way out of the facility once he had awoken that first time. Everyone there was dead, either by the virus or from neglect afterword. The generators powering the red tinged backup lighting had failed the day before he made it out, but by that time he could rely on his other senses. One thing Logan would never forget was the first shock of light and that first sweep of fresh clean air that hit him when he got the last door open. It was night, but it was the clear bright night of summer in the unspoiled mountain ranges. He'd wept then. Joyfully, sorrowfully, hysterically, and then later calmly. But all unashamedly. They were the cleansing tears of a man redeemed. A man saved, who had stopped hoping so long ago that he wasn't even sure what freedom was any more.
Logan had never been happier in his life. Nothing, not the nightmares, not the huge chunks of missing history, not the absence of any people - human or mutant. Nothing could extinguish this fierce inner glow nestled deep inside of him.
When he found the first settlement he made a choice. Logan wasn't ready to see any living people. So he didn't, instead he turned around and headed back into the mountains, and found a secluded area many weeks from human touch of any kind, and he built himself a life there. Occasional scavenging trips gave him the tools and raw materials he couldn't make himself, and the few vices he allowed himself like whiskey and cigars. It was a good life. The house was complete well before the first winter set in and he'd even managed to accumulate some reserves. Logan was content. At least, that's what he thought.