CHAPTER ELEVEN
Fuckin' joke's on me!
The dog's a shape shifter?
Fuck! Make that MY dog is a shape shifter. And I thought Mystique was good.
He's so busy spilling his guts, he's got no clue I'm here.
"'Ey, I know my opinion means piss all but like I told ya before, the Wolverine's bitch is well up the duff."
Jesus H. Christ! It's bad enough he's outed me but this blabbing personal stuff about my wife, Wendy, Matt; makes my blood run cold.
A car roars past; its headlights casting a broken beam through the trees before disappearing into the night. He clams up, goes small, glances nervously. "No worries; just a car….Right….Snatch the li'l buggers?...Piss off, Ruchinsky! …..Get yourself another barmy tosser to pull off a stunt like that."
Oh god! Those fuckers! Those mother-fucking bastards!
Rage twists my gut. Cold realizations turns to molten hate. The bloodlust's so potent it takes all my power to control it.
In the seconds he takes to stow the phone in a hollowed out tree, I'm right behind him. "You're gonna die, shithead!" I growl, my claws pressed into the small of his back
He doesn't twitch; not a breath. Just makes like a statue. "No, I'm not. I've got info you want." Sounds cocky but stinks of scared.
"Uh huh. But you're still dead." To prove my point, I poke him deep enough to bleed—to hurt. "Only thing ya gotta choose is ya gonna tell me quick and die quick or do I carve it outta ya piece by piece."
His pulse shoots through the roof and cold night or not, he's sweatin' buckets, "Generous choices, mate."
"Yeah, they tell me I'm all heart."
I smell gun oil and warn, "Don't even think about it, bub!" Not keen to get flipped on my ass reaching for the piece, I order, "Move right, slow and easy."
He shuffles sideways. A fresh adrenalin dump says he priming for action but his options are limited.
"Grraaarrhh!" declares his choice.
I jab for his spine but he's fast and flexible; dodging instant paralysis in a forward, twisting motion as he morphs into a hundred fifty pounds of claws, fangs and fur— A big mother of a mountain lion--explodes into a fireball of rage and makes a kamikaze dive toward my claws
No way. You don't die 'til I say.
Snackt! Back goes the hardware.
Goddamn! The fur ball sails clear over my head!
He played me. My Hail-Mary tackle is way too late and I plow snow.
He hits the ground, hauling ass straight for dense underbrush. Fine with me. Close enough on his six, I deploy the claws and hack a path easy as mowing grass. From the stress hormones he's throwing off it won't take long for him to run outta gas. Unless he's got a juiced up endocrine system like me?
Ain't a problem either way 'cuz the bugger cuts a noisy trail through the brush a blind man could follow. Fatigued and wheezing, his breath steams around his head. Closing in, I almost snag his tail and he knows it.
Can't say I ain't feeling it m'self. A searing tightness in my legs and chest remind me that friggin' explosion took more of a toll than I care to admit.
Push through, ya dumb Canuck!
Sonufabitch! Smart bugger's headed for the water. My luck he morphs into a big ass shark. Peachy! Wrestlin' match with Jaws himself.
Fuck that!
I lunge but he veers left, the scent of raw panic trails like a fart.
"Grraagghh!" I bellow coming up clutching a handful of nothing.
The terrain clears and slopes downhill. I regain the distance lost with the failed lunge. But the cat takes a steep berm in one leap. Scrabbling desperately for a foothold, I eat dirt in his wake. Cresting the mound, muscles tensed for another tackle, I spring and….
Something registers in the ass end of my brain. A beam of light bounces off the roadbed below. A vaguely familiar mechanical purr interrupted by gears shifting. An indistinct sense of motion at the farthest reach of my peripheral vision.
"Whoa!"
Forward momentum of three hundred pounds of muscle and adamantium is bitch to stop. Arching backwards, fighting for balance I manage it—barely. Loose rock and dirt rain on the road below.
He doesn't
"Shit!"
Leaping, he executes a spectacular arc. I watch him twist, desperate to avoid a couple tons of motorized metal. Shrieking brakes and skidding tires doesn't dilute his agonized howl or the meaty thud of him kissing the car's hood.
The car swerves….
Over corrects….
Think I know the car. It's going too goddamn fast!
Ahh gawd!
Sparks flying like confetti, it tips on its side.
Please…..
Metal screeches and grinds, chewed up by asphalt and rock.
Don't be….
Exploding glass resonates like gunfire.
I 'm down the embankment faster 'n a ball bearing in a pinball chute.
Lying in a twisted, mangled heap, the shape shifter's beyond help. He don't know it but he got off lucky compared to what I was gonna do.
A flickering tail light casting a red glow on a cockeyed and crumpled license plate confirms my fears. Two paces closer give me a dim view of the inside of the car. Shattered glass and warped steel forms a treacherous bed on which the driver lay motionless.
"Oh Jesus!" I howl to the sky. I'm a rocket closing the distance between me and the car. My senses shift into overdrive, frantically parsing scents.
The stench of pain and shock are like acid injected into the olfactory portions of my brain.
Shards of glass sparkle in tangled honey blond hair. Blood freckles her beautiful face.
"Oh God! Susie!"
With no airbags and retrofitted seat belt she got tossed around like a ragdoll.
And the twins?
My heart constricts inside my chest as the unthinkable thrusts its hooks into my mind.
Goddamn you fate! Don't ya fuckin' dare. I …..need her.
Get a grip. Trust yer senses.
She's breathing. I see the gentle rise and fall of her chest.
Panic driven instinct tells me to drag her outta there fast. Common sense lays on the breaks.
The car's on its side. There's no easy way to get her out. Move her wrong and she's a paraplegic or worse; makes flipping the car back on its wheels is out of the question.
Emergency techs got jaws of life. I got something better. Popping the claws and about to plunge in, I freeze. Sparks and gasoline are a bad mix. I smell it but not strong. Ok. Think I'm good. Slow and easy I peel back the roof.
It makes an awful screech and Susie stirs. Her groan lances into my soul true as a samurai sword through the belly.
"Easy does it, darlin'. Don't move."
Dropping to my knees, I reach inside, pressing my finger to her throat. It's fast; too fast. Don't know why I know but I do: Racing pulse ain't a good sign.
I smell blood; lots of it. Too much for the cuts on her face. I smell something else. Can't identify it. Sorta sweet and musty at the same time.
I palm her belly. Feels weird. Hard as a rock. Dunno what that means.
I brush bits of glass from her hair but I don't dare move her, "Susie!"
She mutters, "Hmm."
"Whoa!" I move fast, immobilizing her head with my hands. "Stay still." Stupid me. Should've known she'd try turning in the direction of my voice.
Her eyelids flutter as a soft moan squeezes from between her lips.
"Susan, listen to me. Ya been in a wreck. I'm gonna get help but you gotta keep still. Ya hear me, darlin'?"
"Huh. . . Oh!" She goes rigid gasping, "It hurts."
Dammit woman! Don't move. I wanna say it but it's faster, more effective keeping her head and neck stable in my hands. "What baby? What hurts?"
"Oh my god!" Her voice is shrill, the words trip over themselves. "Something's wrong! Logan! The twins!"
"Sshh!" Ain't giving in to that possibility. "Everthing's gonna be ok."
Please, please. If there's anything benevolent out there gimme; no, give her the good mojo.
"No, no! I'm wet." She reaches between her thighs, "Down here."
My heart skips a beat seeing what she can't in the darkness. Her hand is covered in blood.
A rolling boil of panic becomes a pressure cooker buster. "Oh my god! I hit…" Her face is screwed up with the same shock and pain I smell oozing out of her.
"I hit something." Tears mix with the blood on her face, "You?"
"Sshh. No, no. I'm okay."
"I hit something." She strains, tries twisting, to get a better look at me, "What?"
I pat down my chest to prove I'm in one piece. She can't see me glance over the wreckage to the body lying on the side of the road. Now's not the time to tell her what the deal is. Maybe never is. "Whatever it was, it's long gone."
Convinced, she whispers, "Oh."
"I gotta take my hands away to call Hank. Okay?"
"Don't leave me." Her voice is fragile and shaking with shock.
"I'm right here. Promise. Just need to punch the button is all." Glad my voice don't betray how much my innards are quaking.
Pressing Hanks preset number, he picks up in two. "What do you need Logan?" Caller ID tells displays my number on his comm unit.
"Blood?" Susie gasps overhearing what I describe to Hank. "Oh god. Oh no," she babbles hysterically over and over again.
"Understood," he replies after I finish spelling out the details. "I'll be on scene forthwith via the fastest method possible. In the interim you must contact nine-one-one."
"What the hell for?"
Hanks voice snaps with authority "My med lab hasn't the equipment to properly treat an obstetrical emergency."
Fuckin' hell! Never thought I'd hear an admission that the hallowed med lab can't cut it. But goddamn it, nine-one-one is a complication I do not need. Can't ever be just a rescue crew. Nope. Cops gotta come along. Cops plus mutants; make that a dead mutant and one with a rap sheet, if they care to check, equals BOHICA-ville.
"Uhhh-Ohhh! Logan!" Susie goes fetal around the steering wheel pressed to her belly. Her wail and the reek of absolute agony laced with fresh blood puts the lid on my aversion to public assistance.
Kneeling next to her head, I brush a strand of hair from her face, "I'm right here."
I'm told I come across ice cool under duress. Inside I ain't. 'Least not when it comes to someone I love. Yeah, I can compartmentalize, suck it up; do the job with the best of 'em. Don't know whether it's instinct or programming. Prob'ly shouldn't give a shit as long as it gets me through; gets my darlin' through.
Fucking emergency operator puts me on hold! Takes her two minutes to come back on the line. "Please state the nature of your emergency."
I'll give her a goddamn emergency right up her stupid, fat ass.
By the time I'm through I wonder if I'm speaking Swahili or something. Yeah, it's a back road but for crying out loud, it's on state managed property! A freakin' watershed supplying all of New York City! Bet if I say there's a mutant terrorist about to dump poison she'd know exactly where I am and how many acorns I squashed getting here. Rollover car wreck involving a pregnant woman? Nah, that ain't important.
"Fuck!" I growl. The urge to punch something's strong.
xXx
I smell it before I hear it. Bamf!
From out of nowhere, Kurt materializes. Hank's with him and stumbles, nearly planting it on his ass acclimating to solid form.
In the nick of time, too because I hear the wail of sirens echoing through the reservoir. They're prob'ly ten minutes out at best.
"My stars and garters!" ol' Blue exclaims surveying the scene. He doesn't waste a second setting to work. I stay out of his way except to cut the steering column so he can do what he's needs to do.
I tag Kurt. "Elf," I motion him beyond the wreck. Finger to my lips signifying silence then pointing, his yellow eyes go wide.
"He is dead, ja?"
No pal, he digs moon tans on asphalt. I nod, "This is…was our sector breach. Chased the sonofabitch this far and he dove off there," I point to the berm, hardly visible in the darkness. "He's a shape shifter. Susie thinks she hit some wild animal. Cops are on the way so I need ya to bamf this thing someplace safe."
"You vould haf me tamper with evidence disposing his body?"
"I ain't askin' your opinion, Wagner and I sure as hell don't take what I'm askin' ya to do lightly."
"D'ere is much you do not say, ja?"
"Yeah."
"Vhere shall I take him? Surely, not back to campus."
"Know the caves north of the pond."
"Ja but…."
"Much as I'd like to dump him over there in the drink, I can't risk the body being discovered. Those caves are safest for the short run."
"Professor Xavier vill not be pleased. Vhe could all be dismissed over d'is."
We should be so lucky. "Don't worry about Charles. He'll get it after he's briefed."
I leave Elf to do his thing but before I make it across the road to Sue, I hear a string of German invectives. "He is alive."
I growl, "Shit," in German.
Activating my comm., I got no use for foreplay, "Charles, I got another casualty. Have Scott meet Kurt in detention two."
"Nien!" Kurt butts in. "I cannot teleport into a detention cell. D'ey are, how you say, bamffen proof."
I feel something like a roto-tiller plowing through my mind and as much as I hate psi intrusion, it's a time saver par excellence. Charles understands my aversion. Without missing a beat, he switches to verbal communication, "Understood. Rest assured our guest will be well and properly cared for."
Genteel words, ruthless tone! C'mon Chuck, just say it: Things 're fucked up and you're mad as hell.
He shifts gears closing with, "Susan and the twins are in our prayers. Shalom aleichem." It don't take enhanced senses to recognize his compassion is genuine.
"Appreciate it." That sentiment's just as real.
xXx
I ain't the cool-my-jets-in-a-waiting room-type of guy even in the best of times. So, I pace. I crack my knuckles. I scratch, roll my shoulders, pop my neck. I'd pick my nose but even I got limits. There's a greasy imprint where I stuck my nose and forehead against a plate glass window. I scuff my boot on the floor leaving an obnoxious black streak. Then I park it and thumb through a years-old copy of Road and Track. I've swilled four cups of tepid vending machine coffee and made the requisite two trips to empty out. So how come there ain't beer machines?
Fuckin' thing! My cell phone vibrates against my backside. It' Matt.
"Hey kid."
"Mom okay?"
"Dunno know yet. Still in surgery."
There's a long silence before a verbal explosion draws the entire waiting room's attention, " That's BS! How long does this shi….stuff take?"
"Easy son. I promised ya I'd call the minute I know something."
"Logan, I want to be there. I got a right. She's my mom, ya know?"
Christ. I don't need this right now. He's right on point but the lockdown's an ironclad reality that ain't going away soon. "Matt, as soon as I can swing it, I'll get ya here. I swear it."
"I called Travis. He wants to know if he should put in for leave?"
Aw, what the fuck ya do that for? Stupid Canuck. They're brothers. It's what brothers do.
"Uh," I'm stalling. Just don't tell me ya called your ol' man. "Gimme Travis' number."
Don't know what I'm gonna do with it. Handling the boys is Susie's territory and that goes double for dealing with Travis.
"Ok son. I'm thinking for now your mom would say don't everybody hit the panic button. Soon as I know something you and Travis'll know. Ya cool with that?"
He sighs, finally replying, "Yessir."
I close with, "Hey, it's gonna be okay."
Who am I trying to convince?
Summers is here. So is Vic and Storm. They brought my truck. Parked it nice and safe in Susie's reserved spot. And to think I gave her shit about slapping on that doctors parking sticker. They're all making nice; reasonable nice cuz they know me well enough.
Don't want conversation. Don't need the stink of their anxiety stoking my own barely contained emotions. Don't want anybody fawning over me. They could go on home and I'd be fine and dandy.
Shit.
Truth is, part of me is grateful they're sticking by me and Sue. But the other part; the loner, the animal, wants to be left the fuck alone. Don't they know I can't share the depths of my anguish. I can't tell 'em I'm coming apart at the seams. Gotta beat down any show of weakness.
Be real, bub. I'm scared shitless. Susie's in surgery. Emergency cesarean, for Christ sake! .
Seems the wreck tore the twins hook up to Susie. What'd the ER doc say? Separated the placenta from something.
Unlike that little picnic in Canada three weeks ago, the scene checking her in was like an inquisition on speed. We're both freaking' over the twins. She's half out of it and obsessing over Charles' car and letting some patient down. Who gives a shit?
There's people coming at us from every hole in the wall. Sign this. Do we understand this? Do we consent to a double bugfuckectomy? Might as well be that 'cuz I sure as shit didn't understand half of it.
They spelled out the bottom line. Bold as brass: I could lose 'em all.
That reality combined with fear and rage is high octane to the animal inside. It's a razor's edge between reason and chaos that if I don't keep a handle on it there's a real potential to escalate into a body count. The trick to harness my rage. Let it build to critical mass and when the time's right, unleash an unstoppable chain reaction that'll make Chernobyl seem like a wiener roast.
The shape shifter's as good a place to start as any. Seems he didn't suffer anything too serious and I'm told Hank and Electra are patching him up.
Good. Do it so I can rip him apart piece by bloody piece for putting Susie, my kids in harm's way.
For past, present and future sins, Ruchinsky and Diebel are next. They ain't got names for most of the shit they did to me. Any thing their warped minds could conceive, they did it to me.
How's the cliché go? What don't kill ya makes ya stronger.
More to the point; watch out what ya wish for.
It was they who forged me into a walking weapon of mass destruction. Their punishment fueled the Wolverine's fury; made it stronger, exultant, deadly.
I feel it coil deep in my gut; an all-consuming lust for revenge. No pity. No mercy. No escape. I AM the Wolverine. I WILL butcher every last one of 'em and I am going to enjoy every prolonged, bloody minute.
"Logan, are you. . ."
Lost in private inner mayhem, uninvited physical contact, meant as comfort or not, registers as a threat. I whip around, fists poised for destruction.
"Geezus, woman!" Couldn't slide a scrap of paper between 'Ro's forehead and my fist; it's that close.
Almost as fast, Scott and Vic spring into defense mode. "What the hell you doing, man?"
'Ro blinks, stands her ground and calmly finishes,. ". . . .Okay?"
Ashamed and embarrassed, I let my arms fall to my sides. She's a friend, an ally, once a lover and I could've killed her.
"You growled," she explains.
I did? I shake my head and turn away. "Sorry."
"I understand," she replies sidling along side. She keeps her mitts to herself this time.
A sodium vapor street lamp cast an ugly piss yellow glow to wind driven snowflakes zipping past the plate glass window. "No ya don't," I mumble, my breath fogging the glass.
I know I ain't scoring points but I can't help it. Right now I can't accept her empathy. She sighs and with grace and good will I don't deserve, abandons me to my self-imposed hell.
Clearing his throat, Vic tosses a dog-eared magazine onto a scuffed, coffee stained side table, "Any body want chow?"
I've pissed 'em all off with my charming personality and this is Vic's way of giving me space. They take their time shuffling out; giving me every chance to follow along. Hungry or not, I ain't leaving this spot for any reason. Not 'til I know if Susie and the twins are okay.
"Hey," I feel a sudden twinge of conscience. "The diner across the street's first rate." I oughtta know. It's where Susie 'n' me had our first date and where I still hook up with her often enough on nights she's on call.
Summers doubles back replying, "Right. Can I bring anything?"
"A beer."
Over Vic's restrained laughter and 'Ro's mocking exclamation, "Logan!", the Boy Scout cuts me a stern glare that breaks into a wry smirk, "Burger and fries with that?"
Humor; black, lame 'r otherwise acts like a pressure release valve and with a degree of control regained I point thumbs us and answer, "Rare, with the works."
Alone again, I pace the length of the room then flop down onto a dilapidated vinyl upholstered chair. All waiting rooms are the same; ugly and uncomfortable. I check my watch for the umpteenth time. How long is this gonna take? Chill bub, it's just been an hour since they took her to surgery. What'd Lance say? Expect a solid two hours. Feels like a century.
Lance is a good guy, pretty cool neighbor and I trust him as a doctor on par with Susie and Hank. We had a private moment before he started on Susie. He was eatin' himself up with guilt. Taking it on as his fault that she wrecked. It ain't and I told him so. Couldn't give him the why's so I don' t think he bought it. In his place I wouldn't either.
I hear the rumble and creak of a utility cart in the corridor. It's driver, a stout, dark complexioned woman crashes it through the double doors. She nods greeting before setting to work emptying waste baskets, gathering up discarded card board coffee cups and restacking scattered magazines. She petitions, "'Scuze me, sir," before snaking a dust mop underneath my seat.
She clicks her tongue and sighs polishing off the smudges I made on the window, "Sho' hope d' buses goin' ta run wi' dis snow."
I don't engage and she doesn't push. In less than fifteen minutes she's done and gone.
It's just me, the soft hissing of the hospital's heating system, distance muffled conversation from a nearby nurses' station and the occasional crunch of a cars' tires on the snow in the parking lot three floors down. Sighing, I slouch and stretch my legs displacing an ugly occasional table. "Ouch!" Smacking my head on the chair rail behind me smarts.
Half the double door swings open. It's the surgeon. Fresh from the OR, shoe covers and all, he didn't make a sound. I suck in a breath to cover up the fact he startled me.
Sucking air has the added benefit of getting past his often deployed surgeons poker face. He's smells of bone deep exhaustion, sour stress and time-induced sweat.
It's what I don't sense from him that releases the tightly wound coil of fear inside me.
He offers a solid handshake, "Susan's going to be fine. . .
Exhaling my relief, I vigorously pump his hand.
"Everything is intact," he continues.
Nice bonus but all I really care 'bout is she made it. If losing her baby factory had to be the price, I'd pay it. "Thanks. Can I see her?"
"She's in recovery but somebody'll take you to her as soon as she's roomed."
I nod. Not crazy 'bout that answer but I guess I'm stuck.
I've turned the possibility inside out and upside down; if I had to choose them over Susie, well. . .we could have more. But it's time for the fat lady to sing and the question forms a sticky lump in my throat, "My kids?"
Weinberg's anxiety level spikes as he eases into the seat next to mine. He yanks off and balls up a flimsy cap hiding sweat slick salt and pepper crew cut, "I can tell you this, Logan. . ." He pauses, his response slow in coming and precisely measured, "They're very premature."
Duh!
Fingers seize my arm in a firm grip, "But they were both alive when I handed them off to the neonatologist."
I nod. There's no deception in his scent so it's an answer that I hafta trust.
XXX
Disclaimer: The usual.
A/N. Thanks to Rhiannon UK for beta duty. Please review.