Burn the pictures break the records
Run far away to a northern town
Sell your fear and leave me standing here
With no souvenirs
No shirts, no shoes
No jackets, no blues
You car's for sale
You forward your mail
You're growing your hair
You don't want to know where
I'm calling you from
Or how come
But if you want me you can call me
In the night you know where I'll be
Broken lover you can touch me
In the dark the innocent can't see
No Souvenirs - Melissa Ethridge
It may have been the end of the world, but Logan had to admit he was feeling pretty fine. Or as fine as one could be at the end of the world. He had given in to the irony that the world was ending approximately one week before his 18th birthday when he could legally walk away from his abusive father, taking his inheritance from his long-dead mother with him. But now, there was the knowledge that he would be dead soon anyway and the thought that his mother, Lynn, would be waiting on the other side for him gave him comfort to a certain degree. His other thought that he would see his dead ex-girlfriend, Lilly, as well, filled him with mixed emotions as he often wondered if she was in heaven or hell.
He picked up the heavy glass bottle of Mitchter's Whiskey from his side table and walked to his bedroom window, taking a long swig of the harsh liquor and cringing. He could see the black smoke rising from somewhere in Neptune from the riots. Why were people rioting? There was no need. We were all going to die. What was the point of making it harder than it would be? The meteorite was to hit earth in approximately 18 hours from now, and really, why riot when you could just lay back and enjoy the existential beauty of the moment? While drunk. And stoned if Coney even made it over with the shit he ordered.
"Live fast, die young, leave a good-looking corpse," he murmured and took another swig.
Lilly's corpse was beautiful. They really did a good job covering where Abel Koontz smashed her skull in. He never saw his mother's corpse - washed away by the ocean she jumped into - but he had enough nightmares about it to give him the shivers to think about it now. Since both of their deaths, Logan readily admitted to himself he hadn't really lived. Instead, he just floated, from woman to woman, drink to drink. His days punctuated by surfing with Dick on the beach and tormenting Veronica at school.
Dear Veronica. Sweet Veronica. Who lost everything already too. Duncan left her for Meg and their baby - disappearing to parts unknown. Her mother up and left when her father was recalled as the county Sherriff - forced to scrape together a living as two-bit P.I. after he botched Lilly's murder investigation. There was the thrill he got from sparring with Veronica every day at school - watching those claws come out as she verbally lunged at him. She was always so angry and he fed off of her hate. At least he gave her an outlet for that anger. If he looked at it that way, he was a goddamn saint for it. Watching her twist from the good, sweet girl he once knew to a vengeful, hateful woman was almost erotic. But he was sure she'd cut his balls off if he tried anything with her.
"Guess we'll never know…"
Caressing the sheer fabric of his curtains, he vaguely wondered what Veronica was doing, now at the end. Dick was planning on doing so many drugs he would be right fucked up at the end. Same with his brother, Cassidy. Madison had plans to fuck her way to the great beyond with Dick, but Logan figured they would both be dead from an O.D. before then. Which could be for the best. If the earth did survive the meteorite's impact, they weren't sure what humans would have to survive.
The front door slammed, and Logan's attention shifted. Hesitating, he listened for the voices of a potentially angry mob of looters. He rationalized that they would probably smash through the patio glass doors before waltzing in a front door. The voices never came. Instead, he heard the distinctive hinge screech of his father's office door opening before it slammed.
"Angry mobs would have been better." He took another swig before reaching into his pocket to take out the top and shoved it back in the mouth of the bottle.
Staggering through his bedroom, Logan continued down the long staircase towards the office. The sound of Aaron cursing floated through the open door, mingled with the resounding thud of books and objects hitting the ground. The alcohol had softened the twist of pain memory in his body Logan always felt when approaching the room, and the knowledge of his impending death took away the fear.
Aaron's back was turned to him, utterly oblivious to his son and Logan leaned against the entrance to the office, watching his father pull a book off the shelf, shake it, curse, and then drop it on the ground. Aaron's suitcase lay open on top of the large desk, his fully packed suitcases next to a chair.
"This isn't the time for a vacation," Logan stated, smirking as his father whipped around in shock.
"Logan! I wasn't sure you'd be home…." Aaron stuttered, forcing a Hollywood grin across his lips.
"What can I say? I wanted to be comfortable for the end of days." He raised his bottle to his father in a mock toast. "Where have you been? Or better yet...where are you going?"
"The yacht." Aaron ran his hand through his hair, and Logan noticed the tiny beads of sweat on his brow.
"And where will you be going?" Logan reiterated slowly, peeling himself from the doorframe and sauntered up to the suitcases, resting his bottle on top of the tallest one.
Aaron's eyes met Logan's, and they narrowed as his smile morphed into something more sinister as his hand swept through the air like a plane, ending up pointing to the ceiling.
"Where am I going? Far, far away from here, my boy."
"What? What are you talking about?"
Aaron slowly paced around his desk, chuckling, and a cold sweat broke across Logan's skin. Rolling up his sleeve, Aaron stopped, presenting a barcode tattoo on the inside of his forearm.
"See this? This is my ticket out of here. I managed to negotiate my way on a transport ship, so when that meteorite hits, I'll be safely on my way to another planet."
"What? How is that possible?" Logan spat. "If there were a transport ship, we would have known. It would have been in the news or…"
Aaron's deep, sardonic laugh interrupted, and Logan clenched the bottleneck harder.
"God, Logan. You really are stupid, aren't you? Do you think they would make something like that public? It would be anarchy if they did!" Rolling down his sleeve again, he buttoned his cuff, looking away from his only son. "In six hours, one thousand ships around the world will leave earth's atmosphere, carrying 500 people each. We will be the last of our kind, left to inhabit a new world found several galaxies away. I just came back for a few things and the key to my safety deposit box to get my gold bars. I'm sure they'll be good for bartering with whatever alien life forms we encounter." Shaking his head, Aaron turned back to the bookshelf and sighed. "Now, if only I can remember which book I hid it in."
Logan's body began to vibrate, and his mouth turned dry as his brain tried desperately to catch up to what Aaron was saying. There was a way. A way out.
"Didn't happen to negotiate a ticket for your son, did you?" he muttered, and Aaron just laughed.
"Are you kidding? I was lucky to get this one for myself." Reaching for another book, Aaron shook his head. "I'm sorry, Logan, but it's every man for himself now."
Every man for himself.
Rage surged through Logan's body, knocking out every sense of inebriation he may have felt, and he gripped the bottle so tight he thought it might break in his hand.
"You know what, Dad... you're right," he murmured, stepping quickly around the desk.
The heavy bottom of the bottle made contact with the back of Aaron's skull with a sickening crunch before he ricocheted off the bookshelf and fell to the ground. Logan's chest heaved, and his pulse in his ears rendered him nearly deaf as he looked down at his bloodied father, sprawled across the carpet, his eyes closed, his mouth still open in shock.
"Every man for himself."
Dropping the bottle, he knelt near the body. Reaching for his father's hand, he pressed his two fingers to Aaron's wrist. His pulse was faint, but it was there.
"Fuck."
Rolling Aaron's body onto his back, Logan's eyes zeroed in on his belt. He knew that belt. It was a particular favourite of Aaron's - the sturdy brown leather an excellent match for khakis or beatings - and Logan's back stung at the thought of the last time he had seen it. He reached for the buckle and loosened it, pulling it through the rungs with a grunt before wrapping it back around Aaron's waist, tucking one arm into it before pulling it tight and securing it, letting his one free arm lay on the ground.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out his thick utility knife, and opened it, smirking at the perfect blade. When he bought it, he thought it would be added protection, should Weevil ever make good on any of his threats, and kept it in his pocket at all times. He never thought it would be suitable for something like this.
Quickly slicing open the arm of Aaron's shirt, the barcode tattoo was revealed again, and Logan frowned in thought at the best way to go about the procedure of removing it. Looking over his options, he decided that sitting on Aaron would help keep him immobilized, should he regain consciousness, and give him the angle he needed. Logan sat across Aaron's thighs with a sharp breath to steady him, pulled Aaron's arm up by his hand. For a split second, Logan remembered a time when he would crawl on Aaron's lap, and those big hands would stroke Logan's hair. But that was a long time ago before those hands became weapons. Glancing at Aaron's face, Logan positioned the knife on Aaron's arm, several inches from the tattoo.
"This is going to hurt me, more than it will hurt you." Logan quoted Aaron's abusive words back to him, part of him wishing on some level that he was conscious enough to know what was happening.
Pressing firmly on the knife, Aaron's blood shot from the first cut and Logan bit back the bile that rose in his throat from the coppery smell of that much blood as he continued to carve away the skin.
He remembered when Aaron was shooting a film in the Canadian Rockies and took Logan on a hunting retreat for the weekend. "It will make a man out of you, son." The words drifted through his thoughts. Logan was ten, and the words conjured the memory of how he watched with horror as the guide skinned a Jackrabbit for their meal that night, hiding his tears in the darkness so Aaron wouldn't see. Now, he called on that faded memory to help him.
Aaron didn't move, other than the twitching of muscles and the pumping of blood and when it was all over, Logan lay his father's skin across his arm, marvelling at the match. He needed to be cunning about how he did this. The right shirt. Maybe some leather cuffs on his wrist to cover the space between his hand and the new skin.
Standing, he looked down with icy detachment as Aaron lay bleeding out on the Persian rug. Grabbing the briefcase, Logan quickly made his way out of the room. There was still a lot to do. And he had a ship to catch.