Corruption, part 2

Two days out.  Logan deliberately let Kurt set the pace, allowing him to take whatever turns he liked, even if they led up a rocky cliff.  All of them were beginning to feel more comfortable with the idea of talking as they walked, having grown more used to the silence.  Kurt was surprisingly open about his past.  He talked so much more easily than any of the students at the school.  Part of it could have been his age; he was a grown man, more comfortable with his image and abilities.  Part of it was his past, which seemed devoid of the bitterness and neglect that characterized so many others.  Right then he was helping Ororo up an incline so steep it was more like a cliff.  Somehow the subject had gotten onto his skin color.

"You know, I'm not the only one with this coloring," he said as he pulled her onto the next level spot.  "I've seen pictures of otherwise normal people with it."

Logan lifted an eyebrow as he climbed up alongside.  "You're serious?  You've seen other people with skin that blue besides Mystique?"

"Well...it's hard to explain.  When I was five, my parents took me to a doctor who showed me pictures of other blue people," Kurt told him.  "Most of them were a lighter blue, but one was as dark as me.  Other than that, they were just like everyone else.  It's a genetic condition.  I suppose it's a mutation, but nothing like what we're used to."

"I think I've heard of that," Ororo said.  "Something about a blood deficiency?"

They reached the top of the short cliff and found their path again.  As he walked, Kurt took a deep breath and looked skyward, his tone changing to that of a college instructor giving a lecture.  His German accent dropped considerably, as if repeating a speech by rote.

"Methemoglobinemia, caused by an absence of the enzyme diaphorase from red blood cells.  Treated by methylene blue."

"You sound like an expert on the subject," Logan commented.  "Damned if I'd be able to remember all that."

"If you hear it enough, it gets drilled into your memory."  His accent was back by then  "The man gave me an injection of methylene blue, which should have worked in a few minutes."

"I take it it didn't work?"

Kurt shook his head.  "He even tried a second shot, just to make sure.  Still nothing.  Of course, it had the 'other' effect."

Ororo tittered and looked away.  Kurt noticed this and grinned.

"Ah, I see you're familiar with it," he said.

"Well I ain't," Logan said.  "What does it do?"

"It turns your urine blue."

Both Logan and Ororo found it impossible to keep a straight face.

"And you just five years old," she said.  "You must have been so scared."  She tittered again and turned away.  "I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't be laughing about this."

"Oh, you don't understand little boys!  This was a badge of honor!" He raised a finger for emphasis.  Then he shoved his hands in his pockets with a theatrical sigh.  "I was so disappointed when it wore off the next day."

"So I guess you didn't have metho-whatsis?" Logan asked.

Kurt shrugged.  "No, but it was worth a shot."

Ororo scooped up a handful of snow and flung it at Kurt, catching him in the face by surprise.  "Bad punster!  Bad!"

Kurt ducked her next shot easily and looked to Logan for support.  "Logan, a little help?"

Logan crossed his arms and watched Ororo chase him around the trees.  "Sorry, bub, you're own your own.  You deserve it for that wisecrack."

As Logan stood there, the breeze shifted.  Now his two companions were downwind and another scent caught his attention.  The hackles on the back of his neck raised as he slowly turned around.  He'd smelled death too many times to mistake it for anything else.  He swore softly and took off into the woods.  The other two called after him, all horseplay forgotten.

"Get ready to call the police, Storm," Logan called as he ran.  "I just smelled a body."

He found the corpse tossed under a tree.  Tossed, not fallen.  The poor bastard hadn't just crawled out there, bound his arms and legs, and frozen to death by accident.  Male, mid-to-late twenties, medium build.  Flannel shirt and flannel-lined jeans, so either local or here on snow holiday.  The cold had turned his skin a charcoal black, but the features said he was from the Middle-to-Far East.  Anywhere from Egypt to India.  He still had his hands and feet securely bound with duck tape, though the cold had rendered it so brittle that it would likely snap under pressure.  Logan carefully squatted down by the body and looked it over without touching.  Laceration on throat, plenty of blood staining on the shirt.  Considering the low temperatures overnight, he might have died as recently as two days ago.

Which would match the time we saw the helicopter fly by, Logan thought.

Ororo and Kurt stopped a few feet further back to give Logan room to work.  She had the satellite-phone out and was already speaking with the authorities, giving them GPS coordinates and landmarks.  They were in a federal nature reserve, which meant the feds were going to be involved in the case.  That, in turn, meant Kurt should be elsewhere when they arrived, just to be safe.  Logan looked back at Kurt.  The slightly-built man had leaned his pack to a tree, face turned away, eyes closed with an expression somewhere between a grimace and a frown.  Was it the body that disturbed him, or another memory?  Logan's eyes went to Kurt's tail, which had a habit of betraying his emotions.  Once again the spade had curled inwards at the sides, then the whole tail started twisting in on itself as if cramped.

For Kurt, this vision wasn't as disorienting as the first.  He managed to hold onto the idea that this was the past, that he was outside in the forest, not in a tiled room underground.  But the memory itself was worse than disturbing. 

He was staring down at a man he had just killed, the bloody knife still in his hand.  The dead man was dressed in a dark suit.  A pistol laid on the floor near his lifeless, outstretched hand.  It was cold enough in the room that wisps of steam rose from the hot blood as it ran onto the floor.  Inside Kurt was panicking.  He wanted to throw the knife away, to run, anything, even if it meant teleporting blind.  Instead he was rooted to the ground, the blood-slick knife firmly in his grasp.

"Christ, that's no good," Stryker's voice drawled behind him.  "He looks just like the goddamn Manchurian candidate.  I've seen fence posts with more emotion."

To Kurt's unmitigated horror, the sound of Stryker's voice made his body snap to attention like a soldier.  Or a trained dog.

"We got him to kill," another, unfamiliar voice offered.  "I mean, the craven little shit wouldn't even pick up the knife a few days ago.  Damn near peed himself when we aimed a gun at him the first time."

"Yeah, yeah, but this is for show," Stryker said.  Kurt could almost hear Stryker shake his head with those words.  "I want him fierce.  I want him brutal.  I want him to look like he's getting off on it.  At least get him up to Yuriko's response level."

"Yuriko's been here for months, and freak-boy here's at full disconnect already.  You want to program fake stimuli responses?  You know as well as I do that takes extra time."

"Let it take time, then.  Let it take a few months.  I want to do this right."

"O.K., then.  Let's make ourselves a demon."

Kurt shook his head quickly.  He snapped out of the flashback faster than the first time, but he was still looking down at a body with a slit throat.  By reflex, he glanced down at his hands.  No knife, thank God.

Ororo closed her satellite-phone with an audible snap.  "They're coming.  I don't like this.  It's almost like they expected my call.  Kurt, you should probably make yourself scarce."

Kurt looked down at the body.  "How much time until they get here?" he asked softly.

"About fifteen minutes."

Kurt nodded and forced himself to take a few deep breaths.  His tail was indeed cramping.  He snapped it back and forth like a bullwhip to free up the muscles.  He crouched down by the body, his knees just above the snow, and slowly withdrew his rosary from his shirt pocket.

"Then I have enough time for this," he whispered.

                *              *              *              *              *                             

Within ten minutes, the trio heard the helicopter coming around the mountain.  Kurt didn't bother disguising himself behind bulky clothing.  He teleported up into the thick trees, hidden by the combination of needles and snow.  Logan mentally cringed at the whiff of sulfur left behind, even though it dissipated quickly.  Too bad they couldn't do anything about it.  The smell was gone in a few seconds anyway, and even if it stayed around, the landing helicopter would have done the job. 

Four people hopped out of the helicopter with cameras and other evidence-gathering gear.  Three were local police, likely sheriffs and/or deputies.  The fourth screamed "fed" with every step he took.  Logan shifted his unlit cigar around to the other side of his mouth and Ororo folded her arms.  They may have to deal with the federal government, but that didn't mean they enjoyed it.  The looks on the faces of these men made Ororo, Kurt, and Logan even more edgy.  Every frown and worry line said "dear God, not another one".

The sheriff approached Logan and Ororo while the rest of the group started with pictures and measurements.  He looked like the archetypical mountain man, full, bushy beard and mustache, close-trimmed hair, heavy sheepskin jacket with badge.

"Name's Wilson," he said, shaking both their hands in turn.  "I'm real sorry to have your trip ruined like this."

"Afternoon, Sheriff Wilson," Logan said.  "Looks like this has happened before?"

Wilson nodded grimly.  "Third one this week.  Surprised you didn't know.  The radio's been buzzing about it all over West Virginia.  When it works."

" 'When it works'?" Ororo asked.

"Yeah, we've been having atmospheric troubles.  Cell-phones and shortwave's been cutting out on us.  That and a batch of bad batteries, I guess.  Or maybe gremlins.  Makes coordinating this manhunt absolute hell.  It's just luck we got your call."

"We came in from out of town," Logan said.  "And I try to avoid the news.  Too depressing."

Wilson gave both of them an odd look.  "That explains why you're brave enough to camp out here.  All the bodies have been within ten miles of the North edge of the park."

Ororo hugged her arms a bit closer.  No wonder there was so little competition. 

"Serial killer?" she asked quietly.

The federal agent stepped up to the trio.

"I don't think so," he said.  "Not in the classic sense, anyway.  Riley Barnes, FBI."  He shook their hands.  "Serial killers tend to stick to one race.  So far the bodies we've found include one Asian, one African-American, and now one East Indian."

Ororo rubbed her forehead.  "Hate crimes."

Agent Riley nodded.  "It's sure starting to look that way.  The perps are bold enough to leave all the ID on their victims."  He gave Ororo and Logan the same look as Wilson had.  "You two should be careful out here.  There's some old Klansmen whack-jobs living in these hills.  I don't think they'd take kindly to a mixed couple such as yourselves, no matter your relationship."

"The things maps don't tell you," Logan grumbled, lighting his cigar.

Riley pulled out a pad and pen, all business.  "When did you say you came into the park?"

Kurt could hear everything they said down below.  The interview went on for a good half-hour.  The FBI agent was polite, but lacked the warmth of Sheriff Wilson.  Of course, Kurt's presence was never mentioned, and Logan and Ororo gave false names and addresses.  Other than that, they were completely truthful.  The authorities were keeping the identity of the dead man quiet, but they acted as if they knew it already.  Perhaps he had been missing for a while.  A couple of times the officers looked Kurt's way.  One even seemed to look straight at him.  Kurt stayed where he was, motionless, and the policeman's gaze swept by.  Even in the circus, his own friends couldn't see him in the shadows.  Why should here be any different?

Finally, Logan and Ororo shouldered their packs.  They shook hands with Sheriff Wilson and Agent Barnes, and were thanked for their assistance.  His friends moved off, right by Kurt's spot, and strode farther into the woods.  Kurt took his sighting and teleported a few hundred yards ahead of them, then waited behind a tree as they approached.

"Are we leaving, or are we finding the fiends responsible for this?" he asked as they drew near.

"I've got their scents," Logan growled.  "They were all over that poor guy.  I'm all for finding them."

"As am I," Ororo added, her tone as harsh as the winter wind itself.

Kurt veered North, splitting off from the other two.

"Kurt?  Where are you going?" Ororo asked.

Kurt stopped and turned around.  "The closest edge of the park is this way, and that is where the bodies have been found.  I thought it would be a good place to start.  Am I wrong?"

Logan took a long draw off of his cigar before replying.  "Nope.  It makes as much sense to start there as anywhere else."

                *              *              *              *              *                             

The evening of the next day, Ororo took a few minutes to call the back to the mansion as Logan and Kurt made camp.  She stood a ways off, behind one of the omnipresent trees for privacy.  She did not use the satellite-phone.  It was too easy to intercept.  This was one of their special radios.

The professor answered this time.  "Hello?"

"Hello, Professor, it's me," she said.  "Just checking in."

"Storm!  It's good to hear from you."  He was cheerful, but a bit wary.  "Have you been keeping up with the news?"

"About the bodies dropping here like flies?" she asked back.  "We found one ourselves yesterday.  Logan got some good scents off of the body, and we're hoping to pick up a trail sometime tomorrow."

"Then you know to be cautious.  Cerebro hasn't found any other mutants in the surrounding area, but that's hardly reassuring.  I don't want you falling to a sniper rifle."

"Professor, I hate to change the subject, but how is Scott doing?  Has he been having flashbacks over the last week?"

Xavier hesitated, but only for an instant.  "He's had one.  What about Kurt?"

"Logan says five, but I've only seen four.  He also seems to be getting distant, but that could just be from these murders."

She looked back around the tree as she spoke.  Kurt was in one of the trees, tying most of their food up to deter nocturnal visitors.  Logan made quick work of pitching their pup tents, which opened up so quickly he called them "mushrooms".

"I see," Xavier replied.  "How much stress do these flashbacks seem to be putting him under?"

"Hard to tell.  The memories seem to be getting more intense, but he's using prayer as a kind of meditation."

"Does there seem to be any...hidden programming from Stryker's manipulations?  He was held at Alkali Lake for quite some time."

"No, I don't think so.  I think he's just on edge from these murders.  I know I am."

Logan put their small white gas stove on the ground as he lit it.  They were about to make dinner.  He looked Ororo's way and whistled through his teeth.

"That must be Logan," Xavier commented.

She smiled a bit.  "My turn to rehydrate dinner tonight."

"Keep Kurt in your sights, Storm.  If one of those memories comes at a bad time, he could hurt himself in your current environment."

She eyed the surrounding cliffs, which Kurt seemed very fond of climbing.  "I understand, Professor.  I'll talk with you later."

She closed up the radio and strode back to the men.  The food packs were waiting near the tiny stove, and Logan had just put a small pot of snow over the flame to melt.  Ororo looked around for Kurt and almost didn't see him, still up in the tree.  They had half an hour before sunset, and Kurt was nearly impossible to find in the evening shadows.  He wasn't looking their way.  Instead, he looked down the hill, at the path they would be taking tomorrow.  A path that lead down their hill, up another, and would eventually take them out of the park.  He didn't sit on the branch like a "normal" man, letting his legs dangle over the side.  He crouched on it, perfectly balanced, toes curling over the edge like talons, hands clasped loosely across his knees.  Ororo felt a few sympathy pains as she watched his posture.  That would have her aching in under a minute, but he seemed perfectly comfortable.

"Dinner in fifteen," she called to him.

Kurt did not reply.  He knew it must have seemed rude of him to do so, but for once, he just didn't feel like talking.  Something was bothering him beyond the unease of trailing a butcher, or set of butchers.  Something beyond the visions that had finally wound their way out of his subconscious.  He felt edgy, nervous, too alert.  His tail swished back and forth with agitation. 

Logan caught Kurt's abrupt scent shift.  Suddenly he radiated rage coupled with the adrenalin of a barely-suppressed fight-or-flight reflex, far worse than any previous flashback.  As Logan sprang up and called Kurt's name, the blue-skinned acrobat suddenly launched himself from the branch like a leaping wildcat and tore off down the hill, galloping on all fours.

Logan took off after him.  Ororo had to take the time to clamber to her feet and immediately fell behind.

Can't fly, here, she reminded herself.  Too many FBI men.  Can't fly here.  Got to keep to the ground.  Logan can get him.  Just keep to the ground.

Logan almost caught up with Kurt.  He was just out of reach of that tail, which was sticking out and up as a rudder.  But then Kurt leapt on a downed tree and sprang off.  Logan swore loudly and shouted for Kurt to stop.  The one thing in his favor was that Kurt seemed to have forgotten he could teleport.

As Ororo got halfway down the hill, Kurt was already halfway up the next, springing from boulder to tree to boulder again, keeping the focused look of that wildcat on a chase.  Damn it!  Forget the FBI; she had to be able to catch Kurt before the sun fell completely.  She leapt into the air as a strong wind whipped around her.

The pressure shift and sudden gust behind him told Logan Storm was airborne.  A risky move, considering the government presence, but it looked like it would be a necessary one.  Kurt was too fast for her to catch otherwise.  What the hell set him off?  Was it all the white around here?  Too much like the White House, perhaps?  Or maybe it was the body yesterday?  As Logan neared the crest of the hill, he made a jump to catch Kurt before he launched himself over the uncertain edge. 

Just his luck: Kurt took that time to teleport.  As Storm flew above them, Logan got a faceful of brimstone, but no Kurt.  Then Logan looked over the crest of the hill.

Time froze.  Several hundred feet down below stood a cluster of men, facing inwards.  Some had shotguns, one used a cane.  Logan couldn't tell what they were around.  Further behind them was very tall male, unarmed, and not even remotely dressed for the weather.  He stood there, a graceful, Nordic man in the prime of life, dressed in a simple white robe, long blond tresses swaying gently in the breeze.  Full facial hair, close cut with a glossy sheen.  A face so gentle, almost feminine despite the beard, it took Logan's breath away.

The tall man looked up at Logan, transfixed him with his beautiful blue eyes, and suddenly found Nightcrawler in his face.

With a puff of blue smoke and a terrible, fearsome howl, Nightcrawler slammed into the stranger full force.  Explosion of snow.  Startled cries from the other men. Mixed in the obscenities someone said "devil". Rifles raised.  Time unfroze.  Logan's lips peeled back in a snarl and his claws snapped out.  Now he caught the scents.  Now he knew who the rest of them were.  He raced down the hill.

Storm couldn't believe her eyes.  This wasn't the same gentle, self-effacing Kurt she had grown to know over the months.  This was a violent demon, right down to the snarling, bared fangs.  She suddenly understood how President McKenna must have felt.  The sheer, brutal ferocity of Nightcrawler's attack left her speechless.  She was so shocked that she almost didn't see one of the men down below aim his shotgun up at her.  However, she head the word "nigger" clearly enough.  She snapped her focus down at the same time she spun to the right, and felt a load of buckshot stream by her.

The man below her spat curses as he pumped round after round into the air.  "Goddamn... fucking... nigger... mutie...."

The other men pumped rounds into Logan's chest.  A few shells ripped holes in his clothing.  None did anything to seriously slow him down.

The tall man stood up, livid and holding Nightcrawler by his jacket.  With an implosion of air, Nightcrawler teleported out of the jacket and onto his back.  The tall man spun and hit with blinding speed, backhanding Nightcrawler in the face and sending him to the ground.  As the tall one made contact, Logan caught of flash of white fangs. 

Jesus! he thought.  Kurt actually bit him!

The tall one cried out in pain.  Storm thought she was disturbed by Kurt's animalistic howl.  The sound that issued from the tall one's lips defied all description.  It echoed from every tree, shaking hills and stones.  It was a sound of fear and pain and malice.  The tall one's face twisted with such rage that his beautiful facade turned into a hideous mask of loathing.  In one smooth motion, he grabbed the front of Nightcrawler's shirt and slammed him down with both arms.  Too late Storm realized they were standing over a frozen river.  Ice shattered underneath and water went everywhere.  The last thing she saw of Kurt was the spade of his tail, flying up with the force of the blow, then disappearing under the crushed, floating white.  The tall one was kneeling, holding Kurt down under the water, his arms in the freezing slush to his elbows, a sadistic grin on his lips.

Logan had reached one of the armed men.  With one swipe of his claws, he eliminated the rifle.  With another, he sliced open his target's chest.  In terror, the others forgot about shooting.  They held their weapons up in a warding action, as if to parry Logan's claws.

"Lord, save us!" one shouted.

The tall man snarled down at the river, momentarily surprised, then looked back.  Logan sliced another rifle in half.  An electric blue pulse radiated out from the tall one, so fast it was almost missed.  Then Logan was alone on the ground, along with the chaotic footprints, metal bits, and a wide fan of blood.  That, and one more thing.  The men had been clustered around another duck-taped victim.  This one was still alive.

Logan didn't care.  All he had eyes for was the broken, slushy ice cover of the hidden river.  Nightcrawler had not resurfaced.

"KURT!" Logan screamed as he dove headlong into the water.

The water was so cold it hit Logan like semi.  For the first few seconds, he couldn't have closed his eyes even if he wanted to.  Anyone else would have lost most, if not all, of his air the second he hit the water.  The flow of the river pulled him downstream at a slower rate than he would have suspected, but still plenty fast enough to leave the safety of the opening far behind.  He ignored both pain and shocking cold as he swam with the current, hoping to catch up with his friend.  That assumed he hadn't disappeared along with the rest of the men.  He couldn't be sure the tall one didn't take Kurt with him.

Storm landed by the remaining victim as Logan dove under the ice.  She checked the man's vital signs.  He was beaten, perhaps had a concussion, but his pulse was steady.  As she freed the man's limbs, she watched the snow for Logan's re-entry.  Maybe Kurt had managed to teleport out of his enemy's grasp.  Maybe he was in the trees somewhere, shivering.  And maybe he was so deep in shock that he lost all sense of direction and teleported into the ground instead.

Don't think that, she thought.  He's got to be down there.  Logan will get him, or he'll pop up a few feet over the riverbed.  Or he's been captured.  He hasn't drowned.

Interminable seconds ticked by.  Storm wrapped her jacket around the unconscious man and withdrew her X-men radio from her pocket.  All she felt was the breeze through the pines.  No pressure changes.  No Logan.  No Kurt.  Then, ten or fifteen yards farther upstream, Logan's distinctive metal claws slashed up through the thick, snow-camouflaged ice.  Logan burst out an instant later with a shocked gasp and cry.  Storm ran up beside him and realized that he was standing up in the river, shivering.

"H-he ain't there," Logan said.  He clenched his teeth to stop the chattering.  "Didn't drown.  Water's too shallow.  Woulda hung up here.  Woulda seen 'im."

"Was he taken along with the rest of the men?" she asked.

Logan shook his head.  "Don't think so.  Tasted sulfur.  He teleported on his own.  Had to."

He staggered out of the water, then fell to his knees in the snow, arms wrapped tightly around his chest.  Suddenly he ripped off his shirt and jacket.

"Dammit!" he shouted.  "I can't track him when he t-ports!"

Ororo activated her radio.  The Professor had tracked Kurt before.  He could do it again.  Unfortunately, the radio was silent as death itself.  She hit it against her palm twice.  Nothing.  Didn't the tall man let of some kind of blue pulse before he disappeared?  A localized EMP?  She recalled Sheriff Wilson's offhanded comment.

We've been having atmospheric troubles.  Cell-phones and shortwave's been cutting out on us.  That and a batch of bad batteries, I guess.  Or maybe gremlins.

"Please tell me they're out of range," she murmured.

She flew back to camp and tore through their tents, pulling out radios and satellite-phones.  Every piece of electronics she found was dead.  She flew back with all three of their packs.  By then Logan had stripped completely out of his sopping clothes and was checking their new "friend" over.  Despite the fact Logan was still wet, he wasn't shivering so badly anymore.  His healing factor must have kicked in.  He looked up as Ororo landed.

"Everything electronic is dead, right down to the digital watch," she told him.  "It's not atmospheric.  Whoever this is, he's been giving off heavy electromagnetic pulses when he teleports.  That's what's been messing up the airwaves."

Logan pulled his spare set of clothes and shoes from his pack with reckless abandon.  As he dressed, Ororo picked up the first aid kit from what he flung out of the pack and unrolled one of the foil blankets.  She laid it on the ground and put their new responsibility on it.  He was a relatively short man, mid-to-late twenties, Asian.  His muscle tone said he was in good shape, probably worked out regularly.  She searched for a wallet and found one.  Toshiro Hidoshi, age twenty-seven.  Driver's license said West Virginia, and it was printed in this county.  He was a local, not some poor tourist in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Logan finished dressing and looked over her shoulder at the identification in her hand.

"Three guesses as to who these rednecks were, and the first two don't count," he snarled.

"We found the killers, didn't we?" she asked.

"Yup.  Found 'em in mid-kill."  He looked down to Toshiro.  "He can't live that far from here.  There's a lot of homes in these hills.  If the EMP didn't spread too far, we should be able to use one of their phones to call the professor, and he can use Cerebro to find Kurt."

"Kurt could be dead by then!" she objected.  "Maybe you can handle that kind of cold, but he can't!  He could be going into shock by now!  He won't survive the night without shelter!"

"You got a better idea, babe?" he snapped.  "His teleport range is measured in miles!  That gives us a good twenty miles of ground to cover, it's almost sundown, and we don't know which way he went!"

"If I take to the air, I can cover the distance in minutes!"

"And how're you going to fly through dense forest?"  He stopped and forced himself to calm down.  He wrapped Toshiro in the blanket.  "All right.  You take to the air, and I'll find this guy's house.  I find anything, I'll shoot off a flare.  You find Kurt--"

"You'll know it if I do," she interrupted.  "I'm not feeling subtle today."

She lifted into the air in a vortex of fine powder, a backpack in each hand, her eyes as white as the surrounding snow.  Logan watched her go, then hunted through his pack for the map.

"I hope you don't live too far away, bub," he mumbled.  "Or else this is going to be one hell of a march."

TBC….