The Ultimate Prey
Chapter 7
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)
Jan ran to the broken window but the thick foliage below hid the mutant's body. The baster! The BASTER! At last he turned and slowly approached what remained of Kiefer, his boet. He wept as with trembling hands he lifted the head from where it had fallen, gathered together the scattered parts of his friend, his salt tears mingling with the salty red blood.
How could this have happened? He'd witnessed with his own eyes the hunter's perfect shot with the crossbow, the dying mutant's plummet into the icy sea. At dinner Kiefer had been irate and discontent that the body had been lost. The claws, he said, his collection must have those claws! And Jan had privately promised himself that in the morning he would have the men search the shoreline, drag the waters. But then tonight--
The first alarm had come from the camera in the cage room, the animals loose and on the hunt. And the remaining two mutants free as well. Fire, blasted walls, floors slicked with ice, men frozen in place . . . From the security control room he'd struggled to organized the guards, have them contain the animals, put down the mutants, but screen after screen showed carnage, confusion. At last by remote he opened the outer doors, turned off the electric fence and had the gates slide apart. Let the beasts escape! They could not get far, this was an island after all. Let the mutants go as well. No escape for them either, for the boat and the helicopter would remain secure. And then the sudden, awful thought--where was the hunter during all this mayhem? Too late did he think to look at the screens of the upper levels.
"I failed you, boet. It is my fault. I am to blame." And Jan spoke true. Was it not he who had proposed they hunt mutants? And for more than a year they had been successful, Jan sniffing them out, tracking them down, Kiefer making the kill. 'Mutant serial killer' the newspapers called him. Kiefer had laughed, kept the clippings in his bedroom--more trophies.
For Jan had no difficulty seeking out the abnormal. He need only look within himself. An empath, he sensed feelings, emotions. But not of people, only of beasts and man/beasts--mutants. Did that not mean he was a monstrous freak as well?
Should Kiefer realize Jan was defective-- Nein, the man never knew. Kiefer wanted companionship, admiration, worship. Jan understood this, was eager to comply. Like a loyal dog, he had attached himself to the hunter. He was safe, hidden, while he played the follower, the tracker. But his beastly self he could never completely push aside. He must use his cursed wrongness to track down prey. With the hunter's every kill, Jan felt a bit of the noxious brute within himself die as well. And he rejoiced.
As to mutants Jan perceived their aberrations as well as their emotions. He had felt intuitively that the boy made ice and cold. However, he kept silent or Kiefer would ask how he knew. Of the joke maker, he sensed only that the mutant healed quickly. But to recover from the quarrel of a crossbow? Impossible! Yet lying here on the gory rug was proof of both the baster's survival and his revenge. And from what hell had come those vokken claws?
Jan rose and retrieved his rifle. The mutie heals, hey? If the gods of the hunt are with me, I shall kill him again and again and again! At the door he turned, addressed the pieced-together corpse. "I go to fetch your trophy, boet. I shall lay that baster at your feet."
Outside it was already growing light, the early pre-dawn glow of summer in the northwest. The moon looked like a huge blind eye in a pale face. Jan slipped among the bushes, rifle at the ready, and at last stood beneath the broken window. There was no body. Glass crunched and snapped under his boots as he searched for and finally found an erratic blood spoor leading away from the house.
He could have sworn his shot went true, but in the dark . . . No matter. By some miracle, the mutie had survived the bullet, the glass, the fall. The trail of blood was proof of that, but more so the throbbing agony that now besieged Jan's senses testified that the baster still drew breath. But he was hurt, hurt bad, hurt deep. Jan gritted his teeth in a savage grin as the lightening stabs of pain increased in strength and frequency the closer he came to the prey.
However, as he tracked the wounded beast through the forest, inexplicably the spots of blood, the waves of torment, grew less frequent. Twice must Jan halt and cast about, a compass needle that searched out suffering. Then he continued on in a new direction to be soon rewarded by a drop of red. But for some time now he had seen no sign, and when he quested with his senses the anguish had lessened to the point where it had become woven into the forest's web of life and death. He could pick up at least three mortal dramas nearby of hunter/hunted, predator/prey, ferocity and fear, fright and pain. But which was his prey? Too late he understood that he was now prey.
From the tree overhead dropped a creature no longer man, claws set to stab, teeth ready to rend. With a cry of surprise and rage Jan stumbled back, raised his rifle. A flashing claw sheared through his weapon, another slashed his arm. But the tracker's other hand had already launched a knife which lodged in the brute's shoulder. The mutant howled, pawing at the steel while the tracker fled.
The 'copter's back at the house! The boat is closer! Jan's thoughts raced faster than his feet as he swerved to plunge downhill among the trees, taking great bounding leaps at the risk of breaking an ankle, a leg. With Kiefer dead there was nothing, no one, to hold him here. Let the rest look out for themselves! Between the fronds of evergreen he saw the glint of water and gripping tight his wounded arm he pushed his pace.
*****
Logan opened his eyes to see sunlight glinting through the evergreens. With a groan he rolled over and got to his feet. The Bowie knife lay where he had dropped it after yanking it out of his flesh. Damn, after this little vacation he needed a vacation! He picked up the knife and slipped it through the belt loops of his jeans which had earlier carried the quarrel from the crossbow. His mind briefly touched what had become of that steel shaft, shied away in dread. Weighting him was the heavy, terrifying impression of being trapped in a red/black hell, doing things he didn't want to remember in the sane light of day. With almost physical effort he pushed the images away. For the time being, at least. They'd torment him later in his dreams, they always did.
He studied the ground, picked up the sign immediately and was off tracking the tracker. Once he realized Jan was heading downhill he sniffed for him. If he knew where the bastard was now he could make for him directly. The early morning breeze obligingly brought him the distinctive odor of sour milk and bloody meat. Logan instantly veered left in a straight diagonal that would bring him to the water.
Jan was filling the tank of a sleek motorboat when Logan burst out of the trees and pounded down the dock. The man spun around at the noise, swung the fuel can catching Logan on the side. Claws slashed out, cut the container in two. Stinging liquid splashed in Logan's eyes and he staggered, blinded, rubbing futilely at the burning. The next instant he felt the sheared metal edge of the can rip across his abdomen.
Logan roared and charged, his attack weakened by tearing eyes, his strength flagging from repeated shock and loss of blood. A blurred shape loomed before him. He caught Jan in his arms, trying to squeeze the life out of the man, even as he felt his own life draining away. They wrestled, crashed to the dock, Logan on top, his hands now clutching the other's throat even as Jan attempted to wrap a length of rope around Logan's neck. Still locked together they rolled and fell into the frigid water.
The icy jolt numbed Logan's pain, cleared his eyes enough to see a dark coil gracefully descending through the water. What the . . . ? Jan jerked on the drifting anchor rope. The heavy steel hook fell off the dock with a muted splash and sank past the combatants into the dark. Before Logan realized what was happening Jan had looped the trailing line again and again around his enemy's throat and body and pulled himself free to swim upward while Logan was inexorably drawn down by the anchor, arms pinned to his sides.
His efforts to loosen the cords entangled him all the more and the panic rising in Logan's breast threatened to empty his lungs of air in one last, futile scream. Somehow he must cut the ropes, but with his arms bound fast his claws and even the knife were useless. He had to make the restraints slack and the only way to do that was to swim towards the anchor.
It was the hardest thing he'd ever done, rolling over, legs and feet propelling him away from light and air. The cold was so intense the water seared his flesh. Within seconds he lost feeling in his legs and doubted they were still doing their job. But the adamantium made up for their lack, dragging him into the depths until his lungs burned. And all the while he sank he wrestled with his bindings. The coil around his neck abruptly loosened, floated off, then all the loops spread apart, drifted, and he writhed free, fighting the water and the weight of his bones to thrash and strain and struggle upwards.
Above he saw the motorboat's churning wake. The bastard was getting away! He kicked furiously, propelling himself forward, aiming for the dark shadow that was the keel. He'd thought to grab the rail, drag himself over the side. But he wasn't going to make it. As the boat moved off he stretched out a hand. Claws ripped open the fiberglass hull. The craft shuddered, listed, took on water and Logan clambered aboard. Retribution was quick, grim, bloody. Boat rent with slashes, tracker skewered with his own knife--both drifting down to join the anchor on the sea floor when Logan at last hauled himself up on the dock and collapsed.
Bobby found him there later. "You okay?"
Logan didn't open his eyes. "Yeah. Just sunbathing."
"Sun's not out. It's cloudy."
He squinted at the sky. The kid was right. It was broad graylight. Another misty day in the great pacific northwet. With a sigh he got to his feet. "What's happening up at the house?"
"Mr. Summers's got everybody jammed in one of the animal cages. Everybody that's still alive," he mumbled and looked down, away, unable to face Logan. "We f-found Dr. McCoy . . . Mr. Summers is with him now," he added in a rush. "He wants you call Professor Xavier, have him send out the Blackbird. He says the helicopter here would take too long to get us back and . . . and Dr. McCoy . . . "
"Yeah. Yeah, I understand. I'll take care of it. You go get yourself something to eat."
"I- I'm not hungry."
" . . . Yeah."
*****
Telephone receiver in one hand, with the other Logan snatched Ulrich up by the collar, shook him like a dog shakes a rat. "Where are we, you little fuck? What's the name of this damn place?"
"Canada. B-British Colombia," Ulrich mumbled around broken teeth and torn lips. "The Straits of Juan de Fuca."
"The place, shit for brains! What's the name of this flaming island?"
"W-wolverine. It's Wolverine Island."
Logan scowled at him with disbelief, threw him back on the floor.
*****
From the forest edge the panther watched the huge black bird speed across the sky, its hiss of wind growing fainter and fainter until once more all that could be heard was the sighing of trees and the clap of wave against rock. The big cat licked clean a paw and settled himself in a fitful patch of sun for a nap. Life was good. He had fed well.
*****
"What are these?" Rogue entered Logan's room with a load of clean towels.
He snagged one off the stack and started for the shower, in passing glanced at the objects in question carelessly tossed on the bed. One was a shock of silky, sun-bleached, yellow strands, the other a scrub brush of short, white-blond bristles. With a sniff he turned his back on the scalps, muttered over his shoulder, "Trophies."
All references to characters belonging to the X-Men Universe are (c) and TM the Marvel Comics Group, 20th Century Fox and all related entities. All rights reserved. Any reproduction, duplication or distribution of these materials in any form is expressly prohibited. No money is being made from this archive. All images are also (c) and TM the Marvel Comics Group, 20th Century Fox and all related entities; they are not mine. This website, its operators and any content used on this site relating to the X-Men are not authorized by Marvel, Fox, etc. I am not, nor do I claim to be affiliated with any of these entities in any way.