CHAPTER THREE
Bam! The speakers jump.
What the heck!
A roller coaster image of bridge, East River and patrol boat projects from the TV before a blob of white out explodes across the TV screen.
No!
Scratchy, stilted, epithetical exclamations crackle from the speakers.
Please no! My mind won't process the sounds and images.
Disheveled and distraught, Celina Cho's image returns. "There's been an explosion! It appears to have been generated from…"
Oh God!
"We've lost sight of the three…."
There's a rushing in my ears drowning the cries and groans around me.
"Wait!" The camera pans to the water. "There's two of them. One seems to be supporting the other."
The camera zooms in. Bobbing in the frigid East River is Vic.
Electra sucks in her breath. The grip she has on my hand tightens.
Perfectly buoyant, Vic's a human flotation device and he's got an arm clinch on some one massive as he.
My vision contracts to a pin hole. A suffocating sensation squeezes my throat and the floor falls away.
xXx
Pitch black.
No pain.
No sensation of any kind.
No.
I'm moving.
Floating.
Feels free.
Silence is numbing as the cold.
So this is death?
I was expecting fire 'n brimstone. Hell must o'froze over hearing I'm coming to town.
xXx
"Susan…. " The voice seems distant. "Susan." I feel something cool on my forehead. Light and color bleed back into my senses. So does realization. Struggling to sit upright I wail, "Logan!"
"No. No. Be still," Electra gently restrains me.
"He dead. I know he's dead. Nobody can survive…"
"Hush! Don't you dare..."
The television volume's been silenced but not closed captioning. The female member of the X-Men has been picked up by a Coast Guard patrol scrolls along as the picture shows a long distance shot of the patrol boat. Her condition is unknown at present.
The camera pans to another boat, obviously closer to the news crew by the picture clarity. It looks like a Coast Guard Rescue crew is dropping a body basket into the water. The scroll reads: One of the X-Men appears to be in very grave condition. Monitoring radio communications it appears a Medi-Vac chopper is waiting on shore…
Hysteria overcomes reason. I curl into a ball. Rocking back and forth my misery is actual physical pain.
"Miha, keep the faith. Charles is on Cerebro right now."
xXx
We're on the boat. The Coast Guard crew's speeding us to shore. They've put bandages on the few cuts I got from falling bridge chunks. Don't even think they'll rate a stitch but I'm sure Mamasita'll have something to say about it.
Logan's wrapped in a thermal blanket and they've got a medic holding a breathing mask to his face. Mi major amigo opens his eyes—eye. The back and left side of his body is nothing less than scorched, mangled shreds of flesh and muscle. Eye, ear, chunks of flesh, hair; nada, blown away! Makes me want to hurl. At least they had sense enough to cover it.
Glassy eyed with pain, he pleads, "Ro? Pete?" His voice, muffled by the mask, is frail, wheezy.
"Ok," I tell him, reinforced with a thumbs- up in his line of limited vision—I hope. I know she's alive but nothing more. Pete? Not sure. I only know he didn't get blown off the bridge.
He makes a noise in his throat, a bubbling groan. His body twitches and quakes. A sudden violent spasm of coughing fills the mask with blood and vomit.
"On his side…On his side." In one swift move, the medic reacts to prevent Logan from choking.
There's a gurgle and his chest stops moving.
The medic places a finger on the side of his neck. "C.A!" he shouts reaching for the portable defibrillator.
"No!" I warn. I'm not the doctor but I remember the near fiasco when he contracted the Mutant Flu.
They aren't listening and pull the thermal covering away from Logan's body.
"Bura! You remember the metal you saw in his legs and arm?"
The medic shoots a quizzical glance at me.
"It's not just there. It's his entire body."
"Well what the hell do I do?"
I don't waste time telling and slam my fist into Logan's armored sternum with everything in me. Mierda! That hurts. Shaking out screaming knuckles; now I'm going to need medical attention.
The medic pumps the bag respirator and searches for a pulse. "Got it," he declares then adds, "Weak and thready."
Good thing we're almost to the dock. There's a chopper ready for take off but even better Hank and the rest of the Team's standing by. To make it sweeter, I spot the Blackbird, lights ablaze and heat radiating from her tail in a clearing behind them.
xXx
"Susan!"
Charles is positioned directly in front of me. "Doctor Harris!" I hear him from without and within. He's alive. "Do you understand? Logan; all of them, are alive."
Raising my puffy, tear blotched face, what he says registers with agonizing slowness. "He—is?"
"Yes. But Ororo and Peter have been injured as well.…"
"Oh God!" I can't shop shaking. Why am I so overcome? This isn't like me. I've been trained for this. I've served in field and sea-going units in the Middle East. Stupid of me, I just never allowed myself to contemplate a horror like this in my own back yard.
"I need you Doctor Harris." Warm fingertips brush a lock of my hair out of my eyes and linger on my forehead.
A sense of calm takes hold. "Yes, I'll try." Slowly the mist of dread and despair shrouding my brain ebbs. "What did you just do?"
He smiles kindly and gently squeezes my hand. "Shall we proceed?"
"Let's get below," I sigh. "And prepare the trauma rooms." Activity is the prescription even if it seems I'm on autopilot and slogging through wet cement.
Electra's fairly territorial when it comes to 'her' trauma unit or at least setting up. Per strict protocol, it is a nurse job but we're so small that overlap is par for the course. Even so it's not second nature for me; set up that is and I'm glad to busy my mind with the task and grateful she's easy to work beside.
"This really sucks," I mutter interpreting vital statistics streaming on the Med-Net. Hypotensive, tachy heartrate, crap pulse ox numbers…
Electra peeks over my shoulder at the computer monitor. "¿Qué?" A light squeeze on my shoulder says she's with the program.
"Black Bird to base," Scott's voice broadcasts loud and clear.
Peeling myself off the ceiling I reply, "Roger, Black Bird."
"ETA ten minutes."
"Copy that. Scott, ask Hank to reset Logan's monitor."
My colleague's voice replies, "Negative on the reset, Sue. The numbers are accurate."
My heart sinks. "Can you increase his o-two levels?"
"Pushing everything I can. All signs point to—"
"Blast lung," I beat Blue to the diagnosis. "How many apnea episodes?"
It's a long pause before I receive the reply I suspect but don't want to hear. "He's not breathing on his own."
"Damn and double damn," I mutter while my anxiety level notches up yet again. Come on Bright Eyes, where's that healing factor?
"What is Blast lung exactly?" Electra queries.
"The pressure wave from the explosion basically rips lung alveoli to shreds; disrupts gaseous exchange between the respiratory and circulatory systems."
"That's why it makes no difference what Hank's doing?"
"You got it and for Normals the mortality rate is outrageous."
Charles meets us at the hangar and the second those jet engines silence we're through the door. Scott and Kurt, hauling Logan on a stretcher, practically fly down the ramp while Hank's operating a respirator clamped to Logan's face and shouting orders.
I should be but I'm not prepared for this. I've seen healthier looking cadavers! I feel completely incompetent and paralyzed. Through a mental fog I hear Hank's voice, "Doctor Harris, I've got Logan. Take Ororo and Peter." It registers; barely and all I can do is nod dumbly.
The rest of the Team emerges. Ororo, supported by Vic is clearly dazed. "Come on, let's get you into a wheel chair." Sick to her stomach, a side effect of head trauma, she nods and eases herself into it. "Take her to two," I tell Vic.
Bobby and Marie are trying to help Pete but he's pulling a silly macho man imitation. Weaving down the ramp he gets halfway, lands hard on his derriere and promptly throws up. Another head trauma. "Wheel chair for you too," I command.
"What did you say?" he shouts.
Ruptured ear drums. No surprise. I just shake my head and mouth, 'don't worry about it.'
Pete turns his attention to Charles and says, "Da. Wheel chair is good."
Sure wish telepathy was transferable. "Exam three," I direct.
"I'll work Peter up if you prefer," Charles offers.
"Thinking he'd prefer it."
As we're about to separate into exam rooms the elevator door slides open. "Looks like I made it just in time."
"Cecelia! I don't know how you knew to get here but amen sister."
"Charles phoned me. Now, where do you want me?"
"Right here," Charles responds first. "I'm needed in there." He's pointing to Exam One and catches my anxious look. "Logan's being Logan. I'm going to try and calm him down."
I'm taking that as a positive sign but lack the fortitude to say it. "I'll join you when we're through here."
xXx
Can't see.
No sound.
What the fuck? Where the hell am I?
Get a grip. Use the senses ya got.
In through the nose. Suck in that good ol' h-two-oh. C'mon you can do it.
Negative.
Wanna howl.
Chokin' on something?
Swallow.
Can't. Tube's shoved down my gullet.
Panic!
Fight it. Pull it out.
Autonomic response to pain. Shhhnickt! Shhhnickt! Slide those mothers out.
Can sense frantic movement all around me. A voice in my head pleads, Logan, we're here to help. Retract your claws
Who's we?
Henry, Electra and I; Charles.
No can do, cue ball.
You must.
He's right but survival instinct's got reason on the run.
Need help…. Inhibitors.
Yes, yes. Charles agrees. But you must first retract them.
Ain't working.
Understood.
There's more movement around me.
Lava sluices through my veins.
Drugs!
No! Don't want this kind o'help. Leave me alone. Lemme do it.
Not this time.
Bull shit. Been burned before; doused with napalm in 'Nam. Survived an up close and personal conversation with the business end of a flame thrower. So why's my healing factor giving me the royal fuck over now?
Have you ever been at ground zero of a bomb?
Head's getting fuzzy. Thoughts getting loose.
Ya da, ya, da…. Um? Good question. Not in recent memory, I reply in thought.
Feel weighted.
Feel buoyant.
Drug's working its voodoo!
Brain's gummed up with refrigerated molasses. I think, why? in slow motion.
The explosion has overwhelmed your healing factor. It's taking time.
Bomb?
Explosion?
Oh… Yeah.
Fuck yeah! I'm still here.
I am still here.
The scene reforms in my head. Doom adds to the pyre in my chest. Ro? Pete?
In Susan's care.
Right. My debt to Lady Luck's gonna take a millennium to pay down.
Warmth cocoons the pain.
Charles?
Yes.
Need …..Susie.
Muscles uncoil.
Snickt. Snickt.
The world goes away.
xXx
Ororo and Pete are finally resting comfortably, miserable symptoms alleviated. Time is the cure for them now. It's going to be several days, at least, until we know if they'll fully recover. The rules are different when in comes to this sort of closed head trauma.
Cecelia and I are scrubbing out in preparation to join Hank and the others in Exam One. A God-awful howl in the next room turns my blood to ice water. Drying off and gloving, I race like a mad woman toward the uproar.
Dear God! My knees buckle at the sight of him lying spread eagle on his stomach, head turned to the left. From boot tops to waist his flesh is a blackened, oozing slab of meat. Silvery adamantium tibial and fibial bones peek between striated dermis. Strips of his uniform seem fused with crusting body fluid. From mid trunk to scalp partial thickness burns have created a canvas of scarlet, swollen blisters. A flap of charred flesh hangs limp where his ear should be. A rigid, convex plastic disk barely covers the gaping depression that was once his left eye. It certainly doesn't conceal angry, black bruising.
Hank, perspiring and aggrieved by his wretched task, looks up. Gesturing with bloodied scalpel in his hands, "You shouldn't be here."
Charles, stationed at Logan's head, responds in kind. The creases in his face seem deepened and his grey blue eyes are dull and aged.
They may be right but wild horses aren't going to keep me out. "I can handle it." Even if I only sit beside him.
Hank sighs and nods and then readies to separate another section of leather and synthetic uniform lining melted into Logan's flesh.
He's semi-conscious and the moment Hank slices his body goes taut, fingers claw and clutch the mattress. His agonized groan is nothing short of heart stopping.
The blood drains and pools in my feet. There's no way on Gods green earth I can just stand around and watch this. It's pass out, engage in the procedure or get away. Last thing anyone needs is another patient and I'm not going away. I shake my head and take a steadying breath. "What's his status?"
Electra, who's assisting Hank with debridement replies, "BP eighty over sixty. Pulse, one fifty and variable. Respiration sixty. Saturation, ninety and variable. LOC, eight on the GCS. Central and peripheral lines in place. Infusing Ringer's lactate, normal saline, glucose in water and colloids per Parkland Formula. Urinary output approximately point five milliliters per minute with moderate…"
"Hematuria," I finish clearly able to view the collection receptacle. "Do you need a break?"
"I'm ok," she replies and swabs fresh blood from where Hank has excised. The tears threatening to spill from her eyelids tell me she's fibbing.
I take a minute to study his scans. Despite the distortion caused by his skeleton, it's easy to see shadowing around internal organs. Fluid, most likely blood, around his kidneys and spleen. No surprise at the Butterfly pattern spread across lungs. If we could do an MRI, no doubt there's much more.
It's plain as rain Logan's healing factor's struggling but if it weren't for it…let's not go there. God, to do more for him. At least ease his pain. "Hank, this is insane! There must be something."
My good friend and colleague stares at me. It's abundantly clear he despises what he's being forced to do.
I hang my head, "Never mind." My voice cracks and my eyes water, "I know."
Years of training, time spent in near combat zones tells me we should be doing more. But we can't and Hank's as deeply aware as I.
It's such a cruel paradox. Logan's healing factor is a force that should only be chalked up to a divine miracle. And yet the same miraculous gift makes him immune to pain relieving drugs and treats most invasive interventions like the enemy. With the scope and severity of his condition, do any more and we'd simply be causing more harm than good.
xXx
Conscious but not.
Drifting.
Lungs on fire. Throat's feels like it's been sand papered. Chest's in a vice grip. Every breath's excruciating effort.
Explosion rattled my brain but good. Feels like my head's a watermelon rotting in the desert sun.
Ear drum's trying to mend. No real sound; just the frenetic pounding of my own heart. Maddening whine becomes eerie sibilance playing itself over and over. Pops and crackles ricochet inside my head.
Vision's almost non-existent; meteor showers on an obsidian sky. Somebody scraped my eyeballs with rusty fish hooks and tossed in ground glass for good measure.
Aware of the labors around me. Desperate though ultimately futile efforts to alleviate my suffering; control the uncontrollable.
Aware of the voice in my head. It's telling me Susie's here.
"No!"
Vocal cords ain't ready and I choke on my voice.
Get her away. Don't want her to see me like this.
The taste of salty copper clots in my throat; clogs my pipes.
Can't breathe!
Panic wraps it's tentacles around my mind.
React! Move.
Somebody?
Do something!
Somebody does; snakes a tube down my throat. Seconds later I'm hackin' and kackin' but the air's flowing.
Easy does it. I'm here Bright Eyes, registers in my mind; Charles relays the words I still can't hear.
Her scent's close and she's an exhausted, emotional wreck. Love you darlin' now get thehell away. Don't say that Charles.
Guess he didn't. Gentle fingers touch my head. You're gonna be fine. Love you too. Her thoughts soothe but touch is too much and I groan.
Olfactory sense kickin' in strong. Powerful emotions; anxiety, empathy, exhaustion; mix with clinical funk.
Antiseptic. Dry, filtered fake air. Salt water.
Sweat. Urine. Blood
Something else: Cloying, stick to yer throat, sickening sweet.
Goddamn! Goddamn that smell.
The stench wrenches free a vicious memory of flames and heat. Helpless cries from a tiny child. Crawling, dragging my crushed body through mud and brambles. Reach into the pit of hell for him—Tad, my baby son with Mariko. Gladly sear the flesh off my own arms to free him. And he dies—in my arms—burned to death.
Head spins, gut roils.
Goddamn my weakness.
Cold sweat
Gag.
Swallow.
Nope.
Can't control it. Like lye splashed onto an open wound, stomach acid sears my esophagus.
Gentle hands lift my head; repositioning a clean towel beneath my cheek.
Grateful for the clean up but it; nothing'll never sanitize the guilt that pollutes my soul from the knowledge that my firstborn's death was ultimately my fault.
Logan, Hank's gotta cut again.
"No." I rasp against the voice in my head. It's hers channeled through Charles.
"I'm so sorry," she thinks and speaks. I can sense the pain she feels for me.
"We don't have an option. Your healing factor is causing the flesh to over grow the debris burned into it."
She's barely hanging on and it scares the shit outta me. I want her strength; need it but not if there's risk to her or the twins.
Raising up on crisped, blistered forearms and craning my neck, "Hank, hold on…" Throats so dry the words seem to stick on my tongue. Retching and coughing saps my strength and I flop flat on my face.
Ok, Plan B. Breathe. Relax.
There ya go; a miniscule measure of control.
I reach with my relatively good right hand, "Darlin' ya gotta get away from here."
She laces her chilled fingers gently with mine, bends in close and answers, "That would be a not so much." Her voice sounds like somebody talking under water.
"Sue, please! I'll never…"
Breathless again, "…. For….give m'self …if…"
"If what? There's no debate, Logan. I'm not leaving your side 'til you're on the mend."
Ain't got any more juice to argue with her. "Just… do ….it," comes out as a defeated, breathless groan.
"Grrrraaarrgghh!" White hot steel dissects another strip of leather from the barbecued meat that was my thigh.
Curse my weakness; can't staunch the tears and I dissolve into pyroclastic clouds of vocal agony.
Again, Hank cuts and peels…irrigates…and cuts some more.
"Nuuhhhh—gaahhhd!"
Can't take it anymore. Pain's too much.
Receptors overloaded.
Fragging tenuous control.
Must…keep it together. Give in, loose the animal clawing to escape and people get hurt or die.
Pain's transient. Won't remember tomorrow.
Uh-huh.
Fuck that illusion! It's there twenty four seven in one form or another. Don't remember where I left my keys half the time but I always remember--feel pain.
Healing factor's in overdrive.
I'm thrown into a centrifuge. Vibrating from the inside out; freezing, roasting all at once.
Fever's climbing.
Brain's baking.
Senses go dull.
The few I got functional fade. Susie's scent. Charles' mind connection, even the white noise in my head becomes deafening silence.
Mind drifts
Time slows, bends, stands still
Formless sylphs undulate; cavorting obscenely before vanishing in tongues of flame
Demonic faces dart out the darkness forming a ring of hellfire around me. Taunting, their indecipherable voices mix, separate, roll around and bounce off my skull. Morphing into torsions of light they split, coalescing into amoebic monstrosities before exploding in pyrotechnic pus.
Rising from the conflagration with ulcerated, scabrous flesh, flame spewing from its blackened mouth, it's my own personal Deus Infernum.
Razor talons laced with sulfuric acid slash and rip the flesh from my bones. Gorging on the lifeblood spilling from my body, it howls with victorious delight.
Self control aborted, I scream. Spinning, tumbling, whipped to and fro; I'm slingshot through a black, silent void of nothingness.
XXX
Glossary of Medical Terms
LOC Level of Consciousness
GCS Glasgow Coma Scale
Parkland Formula IV 'cocktail' based on varying lab values presented in the patient.
Hematuria Blood in the urine.
BP Blood pressure
Saturation Amount of hemoglobin oxygen carrying cells in the blood.
Apnea Temporary cessation of breathing.
Author's Note: How much worse can things get for our hero? You must continue following the story to discover the answer. Trust me, it's gonna be a roller coaster. So many back issues to deal with. So many new challenges for Logan and family.Yes the 'family' is about to make their debut . Bear with me and I doubt you'll be disappointed. Hey, all y'all do me a favor and review/comment. I know by the hit count somebody's checking me out. I'd like to know what you think be it positive or critical. I care deeply. I'd be remiss in not raising a glass to my best beta, RhiannonUK: Salut and thanks. MLC