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Chapters
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
 
 
 

Follow Me Until the End of the World: The Weapon - REVIEW THIS STORY

Written by Sandman
Last updated: 01/02/2007 02:01:11 AM

Chapter 10

It was one of those times that you knew it was a dream, but couldn’t do a damn thing to change it. You sat back like some idle observer, watching as snapshots taken from your memory parade by in black and white. Starving, emaciated figures that slept in dank and rusted cars that would never run again. The people that Death forgot to take would stare into the sky all day, miserable in their own existence. Adaptation to the sterile land meant finding water in radioactive pools that made one sterile and cancerous. All the human institutions thought instinct are revived- cannibalism, slavery, and the apathetic response to the suffering of gross injustice. Disease passed freely among them. Sun inflicting heat upon heat. The wasteland predators, both human and otherwise, picking them off for food and pleasure.

They reached out their empty hands to the Southern Cross for food, but were filled with empty promises of protection. Lies.

They all wilted like flowers in the sun, drying into mummies. A wind blew. It disintegrated them all. They became dust that was swallowed by the earth.

The starless sky glowed a dull obsidian hue. Sam felt the enormity of the earth around him, giving him the meek and humble sensation of being nothing more than a cog in a great system. The lights that were life were still many thousands, diminished from the vast millions that shone years before. Every light was dimming at an increasing pace. The world would be at eternal peace soon from the looks of things.

Sam walked about in a cold, blue darkness, feeling the desert sand fill the spaces between his toes. The footprints that he left behind were erased from the landscape with a sweeping breeze.

It was about then when he became aware of the hand that appeared in the sky. Red starlight trailed from its fingertips, spilling down upon the earth, no longer blue. It was not starlight though, but fire that spread uncontrollably. Spires erupted from the ground. Great temples were formed from nothing, calling the lost children to pray before the Mad God. His bony, gnarled hand began to close around the world , and Sam understood that the end of the world would not bring peace, but eternal life. It was not Heaven. It was not Purgatory. And it was not Hell. It was this world born into a new age.

He tried to shield himself from looking upon the horrendous presence, as others around him either trembled or fell into a deep crevice that quickly became a pool of flame.

Divine Intervention would not be forthcoming. People screamed out the name of God for mercy, but soon found themselves kneeling before a new lord. Those they were proud, who stood defiantly were massacred instantly.

Off in the distance, a single light shone upon a hilltop. With all the power left in his body, Sam ran towards it. The ground was no longer covered in dust and sand, but green grass that stretched high. Its blades whipped against Sam’s bare chest, painting him with fresh dew. He found life-someplace that this dark Overlord could not touch, and Sam began laughing wildly. The light, like that which glowed from the face of stars, beamed around him so brightly that he could barely see. Sam could no longer refrain from his joy. He laughed to the sky and to the earth, until he came upon the top of the hill.

A stone mound rested against it. A man lay on top of the mound. It was the source of all light. Caught in an attitude of prayer, Sam walked toward it, reaching out to the man who must be the savior from the world’s unholy rebirth. He must be the ONE-a messiah that would finally bring the world out of the darkness and into the eternal peace and brotherhood. It was a dream that he had waited for. Sam reached out to the man, praying for the Miracle.

Sam recoiled in horror when he recognized the man.

It was Kurt Wagner.

He fell the dead man’s hand and held it tightly. His stomach was still torn open and his intestines peaked out of his body. Kurt’s face was a pale white, though he still wore a smile. The terrible realization occurred to Sam that Kurt was never meant to die, but to save them all from this existence. They were robbed of the one saving grace that was true hope.

The light that was meant to draw forth all humanity together dimmed. The hand reached until it claimed its prize.

It was one of those times when you realized that your dream was really something more (a vision?), but couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

Sam leapt from the bed, panting with anxious fervor. His hand flew to the lamp next, fumbling until finally knocking it over. It awoke and scared Betsey, who lay beside him.

“Bloody hell, Sam! What’s the matter with you!” she shouted.

He breathed heavily, burying his head into his hands.

“Was it another dream?” Betsey asked in a gentle voice as she rubbed his sweat-covered palm with her hand.

Sam responded with a nod. She rose and wrapped her arms his chest, trying to comfort him. “It’s alright, now. Just relax. I’ll take care of you,” she whispered soothingly into his ear.

He stood and retreated to the corner of the room where his clothes were located. Clumsily, he pulled them on.

Anger overcame Betsey. “What? What are you doing? Why won’t you let me help you?”

“No, Betsey, its not that…I can’t explain it right now to you.”

Perking her chin up and raising her eyebrows, she responded “oh, but you can talk to Ororo, is that it? Maybe you should be fucking her then if you feel so bloomin’ comfortable around her!”

Sam cast a stunned look to her. The wind shook the blinds, causing the broken beams of moonlight to dance across her face. It made her even more beautiful. He wanted to reach out to Betsey, caress her silk skin, tell her that he loved her and that everything would be alright. She deserved that. But he had to protect her from the demons brewing inside him-Sam was afraid of unleashing the things that he feared residing in the furthest reaches of his soul-those things that were born from the knowledge of the world’s fate.

“I can’t deal with this right now,” he said, making his way to the door.

“Fine. Just leave for all the hell that I care!” Betsey screamed into the night, fighting back tears just long enough for him not to hear her. That would give him too much satisfaction, knowing that he could hurt her so powerfully. She knew enough about men to hold on to that one truth like gospel.

Betsey took an afghan and pulled it around her naked body as she sat on the porch of her bungalow. She rocked herself back and forth, allowing the sobbing to begin. It was an unfair world. She should have accepted that by now.

Maybe she should become like Logan, unloving and callous, yet invulnerable. Keeping everyone at arms length. Give respect only when given respect. That would prevent selfish bastards like Sam from tramping over her love that he offered him.

It would be as easy as that, she thought, but went on sobbing anyway.

The ocean was cold tonight. Ororo walked along the shoreline of the beach, kicking wet sand up with each step. Waves crept up and washed off the sand that collected on her toes every few feet. Salt water collected in pockets that were the remains of toppled sand castles. She stepped upon shells with calloused, firm feet, that had taken years of barefoot travel to mold. The line of bungalows across the beach were all at rest, with their inhabitants deep in slumber. The beach belonged to her for the night, and for that, Ororo was grateful. The starlit night inspired melancholy in her.

Yes, it was one of those tranquil nights that was perfect for moods like this one.

She dropped her towel and walked nude into the surf, allowing the wash to flow against her body. With her hands out to her sides, she pushed further into the water until it touched her chin. The chilling water made her feel alive, a blessed victim of the unbearable lightness of the awareness of her own being. The ancient ocean gave her peace, proclaiming her as tiny creature of this earth. The waves rolled towards the shore and stretched back, carrying her back and forth. Storm surrendered control and simply allowed herself to flow with the water.

Offshore, a lighthouse shone a concentrated beam of light out to sea, searching for wayward travelers. She wondered what it would like to be completely lost in an ocean, surrounded by its vastness. Perhaps this was how she felt now.

It was still her life. She had spent the last six years standing by every man and woman who struggled to be free from the tyranny that spawned from the metropolitan centers that survived the Great Fire and the anarchy that oozed from the cracks of the wastelands. Her acclaim reached every small village and township, no matter how small. A vigilante hero that could fight, and even defeat, the predators and the soldiers was immortalized in gossip and in legends. Folk songs were written of her exploits. She had danced to them at victory celebrations-great festivals thrown in the honor of both she and the fighters that followed her. There were always great feasts. Local shaman with feathered heads would bless them with his or her mana. They would dance bare-footed in the plowed dirt around a grand bonfire with such fervor into the night that many would fall out from exhaustion. Sparking embers would crack and startle the children as masked village elders relayed traditional renditions of the mythos and of hero tales, many of which were about the great Weather Goddess that brought forth the life-source that was rain. By morning, each town went to bed knowing that they had a hero-icon that could shield them from doom.

Those were her favorite times, though she was never comfortable with being announced as a goddess. She could not help that people followed her in war. It was a natural gift that was more like a burden at times. Like now.

Things weren’t happening at all like she predicted. Her place was among her people in the wastelands, but she was now in a buccaneer’s den along the coast of western Mexico. Her traveling companions boasted of their grand intentions to topple the Tower where the wicked puppeteers pulled the strings of the mindless legions that were now spread across the lands. Since leaving Seattle, they were nothing more than lost children. It was all because of the death of one of them.

He was destined to become their leader, and perhaps even more than that. He was a man of golden words and a pure heart. When he talked, those who listened would follow her anywhere. It reminded Ororo of times when the wasteland dwellers looked upon her as their savior. There was a stark difference between them, though. Storm was a warlord for the weak and the near-defeated. Without words, she could bring fill their hearts with the cries of the ancestors, driving them on with that irresistible urge to survive at all costs-striking down the enemies that would see their misery and their end and standing tall and painted in your own blood at the end of the day, but STILL holding the staff of your own banner. .

But Kurt had a vision that could bring everyone together, and she did not. He was the philosopher that knew the secrets of unlocking the ideological structure he preached. Perhaps it was even the one set of understandings that would settle into the collective mind of humanity and would end all human bickering once and for all. That was a possible scenario when Kurt was alive.

Now there was only room for violence-that final and absolute resort when all else failed. It was her time, though she did not recognize it before tonight.

Storm sank underneath the water again, and began swimming towards the shore upon reemerging. The moon was dancing off the water, as if lighting the path back. The jagged slivers of water that caught the moonlight was her bridge of destiny. Still, the shore seemed a very long way. She was amazed that the waves had carried her so far out to sea, but thought little of the effort it would take to make it back to shore.

There had been much talk of going to California over the past week, especially from Bishop. It seemed that was where their path would lead.

Upon reaching the shore, she walked to the towel and began drying herself. She sat and watched as the moon disappeared from sight as the sun peaked from beyond the horizon. It radiated a golden hue across that sky. It was a beautiful sight to behold-one of nature’s perfections that can never be replicated with words or artistic effort.

After the sunrise, she rose from the sand and walked back towards her bungalow. It wore heavily on her mind and she even admitted to herself that she was more scared than she had ever been in her life. The stakes were so much higher now than they had ever been. But she would not relent. Never.

There was a realization that she carried the finest Weapon in her friends that was aimed straight at the source of all darkness. That battle would be coming too soon.

He had seen the searchlight of the lighthouse several nautical miles ago. It was a good thing, too. Normal navigation would have led them straight into a rock cropping. The bulky size of the vessel Logan and Jean procured in northern California promised to be disastrous if they got too close to rocky area.

A smallish township with massive docks was not far ahead. The docks housed dozens of yacht-sized ships, many of which were old Coast Guard style with machine gun turrets and tremendous engines. It had to be the one that Frank Castle spoke of-the one directly west of Mexico City along the shoreline. At last, this journey would be at its end.

Jean stood on the deck, leaning against the rails and watching the sunrise. The sight from the ocean was not one she would soon grow tired of, even if she longed for the land.

She cast a glance back at Logan that questioned if this was their destination. He nodded, and she smiled, feeling the almost-forgotten sensation of coming home.

 

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