Author's Note: For animal lovers, there is a scene of slight violence. No real harm done. I just thought I would warn those who are sensitive to such things. Enjoy the longest chapter (I think) since the first one! The next one is probably going to be short.
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Scott listened to the banter of the police with as much concentration as he could spare from his driving. It was a strange road for him, and he had to keep repeating the directions he'd memorized in his mind for fear of forgetting them. The fatigue in his muscles and bones were really starting to catch up with him. His back was complaining and his side burned like there was a flaming sword stuck between his ribs.
He'd wadded his sweat pants into a ball and currently had them shoved under his arm, compressed against the open wound. The bullet had simply grazed the skin. The wound was probably only a quarter on an inch deep, but it extended several inches across his side. The largest amount of damage had been from the heat and gun powder imbedded into his skin. The area surrounding the wound was blistered and red. Put simply, Scott was in a bad way.
The police had found the rapist tied and unconscious on the floor and a hysterical woman locked in a bathroom stall a mere ten minutes after Scott left. It was another fifteen minutes before the stories were sorted out and some cars were sent in pursuit. There was a slight debate what they were chasing him over. After all, he clearly hadn't been kidnapped, and the car he'd "stolen" was registered in his name. Finally, it was agreed that he'd technically fled a crime scene.
Many of the voices that came over the radio seemed to recognize the name "Scott Summers." It was slightly odd. Scott had spent his entire life being better known as a codename.
From what he could tell, they didn't have any clue where'd he gone. He'd been off of the interstate for a couple of miles. Without any evidence to follow, the possibilities were endless. Accelerating from a stop sign, Scott made a sharp right turn and followed a street sign from the map. He was close. He could even see the lights ahead of him, glowing above the slight slopes of pasture fields.
Finally, he saw the sign that marked his destination: Hazleton Municipal Airport.
At the sight, Scott's foot unconsciously pressed harder on the accelerator and his jaw set with an uncertain conviction but desperate dedication. He was about to pass the "point of no return," and he wasn't entirely sure he was ready to take that step. The alternative, returning with the police and possibly falling back into the hands of Julia and whoever she was working for, was equally as upsetting as the flagrant illegal activity he had planned.
Who are you kidding, Scott? he asked himself. This isn't the first time you've broken the law.
Gravel flew as the wheels on Julia's Camry skidded to a stop near the fenced gate of the airfield. Scott quickly turned off the headlights and, squinting through the moonlight, tried to get a look inside. He didn't see anyone walking around or even watching the gate. As he'd guessed, it looked like a very small field, used primarily for private purposes. He dropped the car's transmission into reverse, turned the wheel, and started backing the Camry parallel to the fence down the slight slope, away from the road. Once under the canopy of a few trees and sufficiently out of sight from the road, Scott parked the car, threw his "compress" into the car's floor, grabbed the keys and his screwdriver, and exited the car. He shoved the keys and screwdriver in his pockets and eyed the fence. It wasn't too tall, but the top was covered with a twirling run of barbed wire and a straight wire that Scott recognized as electrified fencing.
Undeterred, he approached the fencing, centering his gaze on one of the posts, figuring that the fence would be sturdiest where attached to the metal pole, and thus his ascent and crossing-over would be simplest there. Without missing a beat, he dug his feet into the tiny metallic "rings" in the fence and, hand-over-hand, foot-over-foot, began climbing up the face of the large fence. When he reached the top, he took a quick look around, again looking for anybody who might spot him or a sign of security cameras. He didn't see anything, but he did spot his target: the hangars. As expected, they were fairly well-lit. He'd worry about that later.
Dangling precariously, Scott gripped the top of the post tightly. He felt blood flowing freely from his open wound, excited from his strenuous activity and increased heart rate. His arms shook and his legs began to cramp as his toes strained to stay in their tiny footholds. With his one free hand, Scott pulled the screwdriver from his pocket. Making sure his fingers were touching only the plastic handle, he touched the metal end to the strand of electric fencing. There was really no way to know whether the wire was "hot" or not. He just had to assume that it was. Carefully, he twisted the screwdriver, wrapping the wire tight around the base. Then, pulling sharply, he bent the wire. It was thick wiring, designed to carry a heavy shock. Tugging again and again, he finally broke the wire. Making sure the ends were a safe distance from anything metal, he went to work crossing over the barbed wire as quickly as possible. If the wire had been "hot," then there was almost certainly an alarm system attached to it. Security would be on their way almost immediately. Time was of the essence.
Summoning as much strength and guts as he could, Scott vaulted himself over the top, supporting his weight on his right arm, which was placed on the top of the post. His arm caught the barbed wire as he came over. Suddenly, he was glad he was wearing his jacket. The fabric took most of the abuse, leaving him with only some light scratches. The real abuse came when he hit the ground below. He bent his knees and tried rolling with the fall, but the impact still rattled his teeth, and he was stunned, on the ground, for a few seconds.
When he finally rolled over to his hands and knees, he raised his head only to see bristling white teeth and manic eyes staring at him. The low guttural growling of a German Shepherd guard dog filled the air. Scott tried to raise up in as non-aggressive fashion as he could, but the dog had been trained well. Without warning, he launched forward and caught Scott's outstretched arm firmly in his teeth. Scott stifled the shout of pain that threatened to erupt, and he fell roughly to the ground under the force of the dog's assault. The dog's growling only increased in volume, as Scott began trying to force the dog off in a panic. He felt the pressure of his teeth increase and dig deep into his arm. The more he struggled, the deeper the cuts seemed to go. Suddenly remembering his training, Scott punched the dog in its eye as hard as he could with his left hand. The dog's grip eased slightly, but he didn't release. Scott rained blows on the poor animal. It pained him to do it, but there was definitely a bigger picture here. He couldn't afford to be stopped now.
A metallic object nearby caught his eye. Straining, he reached his left hand and caught the edge of the screwdriver with his fingers. Grasping it tightly, Scott held it out, considering where to land his blow. "Sorry," he whispered. With gritted teeth, he dug the tip of the screwdriver deep into the thigh of the dog's front leg. The dog let out a pained yelp and leaped off of him. Scott held tight onto the screwdriver, now tipped with blood.
Scott tried to raise up, but fell backwards. He was losing blood fast, and he was growing weaker by the minute. I've come too far, he thought. Get up! he yelled internally. He rose unsteadily to his feet, still holding the screwdriver like a weapon in his hand. The guard dog stood nearby, still growling, but he didn't approach. Scott kept one eye on the animal as he hurried to the hangars. Time was quickly running out.
Walking through the brightly-lit hangars was scary to say the least, but Scott walked as tall as his side injury would allow him, as if he belonged there and was in a slight hurry. He approached one of the large doors, held down by a small padlock. He raised his foot high and started kicking the lock and its metallic ring over and over. After a few blows, the lock fell open. If you're going to own a plane, Scott thought, you might as well spring for an expensive padlock.
He tried not to think about what the owners' choice in lock might have meant for the quality in aircraft as he yanked the large hangar door open. The runners sounded loudly in the night, its only competition the sound of the dog barking in the distance. When the door finally reached its apex and the noise ceased, a new sound caught Scott's attention. In the far distance, he heard the wailing of police sirens. He turned but he couldn't see the lights. They were still too far away, hidden by the sloping hill. With increased urgency, Scott entered the hangar. His hand slapped the light switch, illuminating a small but clean aircraft. He immediately recognized the model, known for its fuel-efficiency and light weight.
Scott walked around the plane, giving it a quick visual check. He removed the re-fueling line and wheel chocks and tossed them clear. The visual check didn't set off any blaring alarms of danger, but Scott was incredibly uncomfortable that he didn't have more time to survey the plane's condition. As a pilot and a just all-around anal person, Scott was used to following the checklist extremely carefully before making any flight, even if he'd checked the plane the day before. Anything less was tantamount to suicide. Any pilot would tell you that.
Today, Scott was learning, was a day for breaking rules. He stepped up to the wing and opened the cockpit. He checked the ignition and, fortunately, the key was in it. Pilots were sometimes gracious that way. Bless you, he thought silently to the owner of the plane. I'll try to get it back to you without a scratch. Scott's lips drew into a wry grin as he turned the ignition and eased the throttle up. For both our sakes'.
As the plane lurched forward, three police officers lined up from the left with their guns raised. Scott couldn't hear what they were shouting over the roar of the propeller and, honestly, he didn't care. They all rolled and scrambled out of the way as he leapt forward from the hangar. Going slightly faster than it was safe to on the ground, Scott taxied himself towards the runway, attaching his safety harness as he drove. Unafraid of making noise, he groaned loudly as his side complained at the stretching of his torso.
As he approached the runway, the green lights illuminating the pavement went out, undoubtedly the work of the police. It was too late. Scott had a visual image, and he wouldn't need the entire length anyway. Pulling down the throttle, he flipped on the almost non-effective headlights, and watched the speedometer. He watched the needle and began feeling the tug of the wings, grabbing for the air. He pulled back slightly on the wheel and, as the elevators raised on the tail, the nose rose into the air and, with a slight and familiar lurch in his stomach, Scott was airborne.
Despite the fact he was fatigued, bleeding, and mere seconds away from police arrest, Scott raised both fists and shook them, shouting aloud in celebration. "Yeah!" he cried. He leveled off his ascent at an elevation lower than normal. He didn't want to risk hitting another aircraft. Setting an easterly course, Scott felt his excitement growing. It felt good, no, it felt right, sitting inside the cockpit of a plane. He was no policeman. His place was in the sky, in the stars. He was an X-Man, and the family waiting for him at his destination would prove it. Once and for all.