The Ultimate Prey
Chapter 6
by
DreamWeaver and Hunter
DISCLAIMER: Everything belongs to Marvel except Kiefer, Jan, and the Disco.
FEEDBACK: Yes please. . . . katduza@yahoo.com or mainsmel@yahoo.com
HUNTER'S NOTES: Many thanks to Dream Weaver for all her amazing hard work to get this done before I left for Canada. It was a pleasure to work with you.
DREAMWEAVER'S NOTES: Kudos to KAT for setting out the whole idea! An amazing mindmeld as we sliced, diced, and spliced the story together over many a chat. Great fun!
AUTHORS' NOTES: The dialect of the two main baddies is of Southern African origin: South Africa (Kiefer) and next door Namibia (Jan). (boet--Afrikaans for 'brother', in slang-comrade or close friend)
How long it took to claw an opening from that crack Logan never knew. The tide had all but reached its peak before the rotted stone of a sudden broke away to leave a gaping hole. He pulled himself up and through, clung panting a moment to the rock not believing his good fortune that he had escaped drowning. Then, seeing what awaited him, he grimaced. The sadistic little god had particularly nasty end in mind, for Logan found himself confronted by a labyrinth.
All along the coastline of the Pacific Northwest rise mountains, hills, islands of glacial rubble, gigantic boulders left behind in tumbled heaps when the retreating ice lost its hold. This island was just such a moraine of rock and stone and dirt. On its upper surface there was life, both plant and animal. But beneath, the sterile, broken bones of the island revealed its prehistoric origin.
Logan squirmed, clambered, crawled among slabs of rock jumbled one against the other. It was a rat's maze of crevices and gaps, a torturous, twisting route over, under, between. And now that the dim illumination of the water was left far behind, he must pick his way though it by feel. He could stumble blindly through this puzzle, suffer thirst, go yammering, slavering mad, until he finally met his death--were it not for the smell of roses. He followed that sweet thread of fragrance, backtracking countless times to pick it up again. His hands were his eyes, his nose the guide.
The roses led him up, around, through, and up and up again until at last he squeezed between two rocks and found himself in a natural crevice, a narrower version of the tunnel which backed the animal cages. Like that other passageway, the muted sound of beating surf told Logan this shaft also had a opening to the sea, but here Hank's distinctive perfume permeated the tiny cave.
His underground route must have circled him back around to the house, he realized. Part of the rock here had been hacked away, roughly shaped and widened to serve as a storeroom. Light filtering through an air vent set high in a steel door revealed a built-in freezer as well as racks holding canned foods and crates of supplies.
Logan snatched a couple of cans from the shelf, slit off the tops with a claw and downed the contents without really tasting what he swallowed. He had to look at the labels afterwards to see what he'd eaten. Green peas. Chicken noodle soup. The liquid eased his thirst but didn't satisfy his hunger. The rabbit had been many hours ago and his stomach proclaimed it was well after suppertime. The roses said Hank was on the other side of that door, but if he was going to be of any help to Beast he needed food. With more deliberation Logan chose a large can of stew and a few minutes later gently pushed down the handle of the door. It opened with a soft click and he slipped inside.
His back against the door and hidden on the left by a storage cabinet, he explored the room with his senses. No odor other than Hank's and a pervasive medicinal stink. No sound but the ticking of a wall clock--2 a.m. It was much later than he had thought. He must have been unconscious two, three hours after he was washed into the cave. When he was weak or badly injured--or both--healing put him out like a light. And then who knows how long he'd been wandering through the twists and turns of that 'rock garden' from hell? He peered around the cabinet. No movement. Just a mound on a steel table.
Why he went to that table he couldn't say. Some instinct must have known what the sheet concealed. He lifted the cloth and for a few blissful moments did not understand the significance of that lump of raw meat. Bled and gutted it looked like prime beef with little fat. No . . . Not beef, the shape was wrong. He frowned, puzzled, suddenly felt eyes on him and glanced up. Hank was staring at him. Hank's head was staring at him!
Logan choked back a cry of horror. Hank--skinned, decapitated. A sweep of the room revealed chaos, insanity. The head in a jar of liquid, beside it a molded likeness. Propped in a corner a plaster cast of the body. The soft blue fur floating in a vat. On a table an array of glass eyes . . . It was the night terrors come to haunt him! Cutting, torture-- He recoiled, slipped and fell on the floor.
Oddly, it was the calm sanity of Hank's steady gaze which touched off the berserker madness in Logan. His first befuddled but rational thought--although dead, Beast had saved Logan's life, his unique scent of roses drawing him up away from the tiny sea cave filling with water. His next thought, more a lance of fire through his skull--Someone must pay! He sprang to his feet, wrath and rage held tightly coiled by a hair trigger, ready to be unleashed at the first pretext. The taxidermist now entering the room with a steaming cup of coffee never knew what hit him.
Wolverine hurtled through the lower levels leaving two guards slashed to ribbons dying in his wake. He hardly saw who or what confronted him, simply dealt out death to any who would hinder him as one would swat a fly. Burning in his brain was the image of the jagter, the hunter. Kiefer. That was his prey, all else was impediment. He came to a row of cages. Feral mind spoke to feral mind and claws ripped through bars as he ran. Beyond, two figures, also held prisoner. Wolverine freed them as well with lightening snikts. Anything held captive must be released. As he was now released to kill and kill and kill!
Shouts, screams, beat dimly at his ears. Louder but no more important were the roars and snarls of his brothers as they fed. Something bit him in the arm. A stinging, buzzing bee. Claws swept through the metal rod that sent it, chopped in half the creature who would stop him. He went up and up, came to an open place, scuttled hunched, sniffing for that single scent among the maze of others. Found it fresh, the stink of fear not fully cloaking the jagter's stench of blood and ordure. With a cry of vicious joy Wolverine bounded up the stairs.
Room after room he sped through, the darkness no barrier to his sight, his sense of smell, then-- Shock jerked him to a stop like a noose about the neck. The eyes . . . Everywhere eyes! The eyes of beasts--mute, demanding. Heads hanging from walls. Vengeance, they whispered. Vengeance! He raised a fist of claws in salute. A promise. A vow. And ran on.
The next room-- Armed men awaiting him, standing, crouching, preparing to leap! Almost he set himself to attack then understood. They were frozen so in death. Vengeance. The lifeless eyes glittered with madness. His own eyes likewise glittered, again he raised a fist of claws. Vengeance! he vowed, and ran ahead.
Through the next door--horror of horrors! A wax works of freaks. Men. Women. Children. Wings, scales, fangs, tentacles--the abnormalities were infinite, repulsive, beautiful. A little girl with emerald/amethyst eyes--only that to mark her different, mutant, prey. Vengeance, she begged. VENGEANCE!
Wolverine heard the soft sweep of hand across metal, sensed the squeeze of trigger. He dropped to the floor the instant before the rifle spat thunder and lightening, splintering the wall. In one smooth motion he rolled upright, already launching himself in attack.
The hunter was quick and clever. The barrel of the rifle struck Wolverine's head while a knife drew a line of red across his chest. Claws shot out, severing the knife hand, and the fist fell, the weapon still in its grip. The hunter shrieked, dropped the rifle to seize his pulsing wrist as he ran for the far door. Wolverine's laugh was more a baying as he chased behind. He loped at his ease, casually bent down between one stride and the next, reached out, swiped off a lagging foot. The man fell, man no longer, now helpless prey. He wept, screamed, writhing on the floor, the carpet drinking his blood.
The jagter pleaded for mercy. Wolverine rendered justice. Vengeance dinned in his ears. The lifelike dead, desecrated beings, vulgar trophies--beasts, men, mutants--all hovered around him as with a surgeon's fastidious skill adamantium claws first cut out the bothersome, screeching tongue, then dismembered the living prey. The jerking legs in four quick cuts, the thrashing arms in four sharp slashes. Now only the twisting, mewling head remained.
The claws slid home and Wolverine grabbed a handful of golden hair, sticky with sweat and blood, dragged the twitching, bleeding carcass to a certain spot. The prey's clamor had been reduced to raspy, bubbling croaks. Maddened by pain and shock it was some minutes before the creature saw what Wolverine held, understood what he would do. The yellow eyes flickered, focused on the steel shaft just before it was driven into his heart.
The predator lopped off the head with a final flourish, held it spiked upon his claws and pranced, danced to the window, howling his victory to the full moon. The pitiful torso remained nailed to the floor, a sacrifice at the feet of the child with emerald/amethyst eyes. In his cry of savage exultation Wolverine did not hear the intruder nor the explosion of the shot, only the crash of glass as he was propelled through the window.
The moon shattered in a thousand shards.
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