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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 6

Smoke stacks rose like rancid, gaseous pillars reaching into the heavens. They were visible three miles outside of Seattle, where the shantytowns had formed. The city itself had no residents, permanent or otherwise, since the Juggernaut razed it to the ground, leaving not a single building standing. Dark clouds of dust still lingered above the ground there. There was not a single cleared spot-rubble literally covered the entire city. Bodies were buried deep beneath the rubble. Occasionally, a wanderer could find a corpse reaching for the surface.

This entire ordeal happened not as retribution for civil disobedience towards the Southern Cross. Seattle thrived as a metropolitan center untouched by the war. Its location next to the Union’s capital in California made it an ideal trading partner. Then it was reported that a telepath was being harbored there. Not only a telepath, but perhaps the second most powerful telepath in all the world.

After a brief five years as a commercial center, Southern Cross forces occupied the city and conducted thorough house-to-house searches. When that failed to produce the girl, they enacted a state of martial law. When that failed, they tightened their grips and brought in a cadre of Hunters. When that failed, they threatened the populace, arbitrarily sending them to forced labor camps, believing the terror-tactics would cause them to surrender Ms. Grey, had they been harboring her (how else could she have evaded them this long?). When that failed, the city was given a warning. The next day, the Juggernaut came. Two and a half weeks later, the job was done, and the girl was still nowhere to be found.

A bounty of unheard of size was offered, bringing in every raider contingent, bounty hunter, and Hunter in the region, and many outside of it. Shantytowns were born in the outskirts-merchants, water-sellers, prostitutes, weapon dealers, camp administrators, and of course, the neighborhood “chemists” all flocked fueled the underground economy that supported the mass of humanity that had funneled into the ruined city from the wastelands. Open warfare broke out between different factions as the vied for the prize. It had gone three steps beyond a warzone-rotting bodies now covered the ground as well as rested below it. Every day, fresh blood replaced the unfortunate.

Rumors were constantly rampant that the girl was either dead or had already escaped, though no one could guess to venture where. To the north and east were the impossible wastelands, and to the South, the very center of the Union. Yet, the Hunters remained in Seattle, searching through the rubble like possessed hounds. Everyone that knew better took this as an indication that if the bounty would be earned, it would be earned here. Three months of this took place, and the girl was still nowhere to be found, and the prize went unclaimed.

Yet, Jean Grey had been found.

A Hunter named Slive had been walking alone in a warehouse district one night and found a female that fit the telepath’s description. After tracking her for a mile or so, he engaged, and fired a watch-band (used to negate mutant’s powers), catching her on the right calf. While eagerly running towards his prize, he was nearly oblivious to his surroundings. In the moment that he realized that this was, indeed, Jean Grey, the telepath that was so desperately sought, he realized that he was also dead. Looking up, he heard the sound of a safety being disengaged-the safety one of big fucking machinegun.

A second later, the Hunter’s armor, and then flesh, was vaporized into a fine red and metallic-blue mist. Blood covered Jean, who instinctively stood up to run for her life.

A man’s deep, but calm, voice rang out, “stay where you are”.

Jean obeyed, forcing herself to keep calm. The device that the Hunter used had made the use of her power impossible. If she could find that key that opened its lock…

When the man came into view, the first thing that she noticed was the misshapen skull emblem on his black t-shirt. He was built like a brick shithouse, though somewhat shorter than she had expected from the tone of his voice. His graying black hair was kept short and unkempt and was full of ashes. The cold stare in his eyes and the nearly all-inclusive arsenal on his person gave her the impression that this guy was a professional-not one of the raider morons that ran around so hopped up on drugs that they existed in a state of total mindwipe.

“Keep away from the body I know what you’re after.”

A surge of frustration and rage erupted through her. Two years of hiding and it ends like this…all that sacrifice, the nights of misery, days of starvation... being alone, having no one to cry to, no one to tell me to keep my head up, that everything is going to be alright.., all in vain…Jean spiritually cried up into the heavens and told God, or whatever higher power that existed, to go fuck himself for dragging her all this way for nothing.

When they reached the southwestern shantytown on the Seattle border (designated Haven), steady traffic had slowed the pace of the makeshift group of freedom fighters. Sitting in the front next to Sam (who was driving) Kurt watched the streets. It was at least a couple hours past midnight. People huddled around trashcan fires for warmth. Water-sellers sported their wares (no doubt infected with toxic levels of fallout) while giving their best sales pitch. The veterans were easily enough spotted. Their hair was either completely gone or remained only in patches. Toothless grins and sore-infested lips called out to every raider or bounty hunter party to partake in nature’s only real source of refreshment. Ragged hookers, disgusting with disease, offered their own goods to passer- bys. Eager for customers, they offered previews to everyone, flashing their tits. Some raiders who were taken with sexual hunger fell for their trap, and a week later, found themselves with a burning sensation when pissing. It only got worse after the painful pissing.

For the most part, there homeless derelicts that Bishop called, the living dead (yeah, that might still be breathing, but they’re really dead…) watched them with muted hatred. Kurt felt like they were entering the heart of darkness-he knew that they were reachable with the powers of the gospel. He pictured leading them through to the light and bringing hope into their otherwise meaningless lives, but Sam just drove on.

They stopped at one of the tent camps for the night. Raiders danced around a giant bonfire like some pagan ritual, calling out to the animistic spirits of nature to join them in their drunken merriment. The freedom fighters all seemed to accept that whatever rest they could find here would be far from comfortable.

After a meal of tasteless c-rations, Logan mumbled in disgust and abruptly threw his garbage on the ground, before leaving to take a walk. Kurt looked up and was about to offer to keep him company, simply because there were literally hundreds of roaming drunkards just itching for a fight, but thought better of it. Instead, he pulled out a book that he had been working on since they had passed Idaho. Next to him sat Sam, who was disassembling and cleaning the two assault rifles. Wisely choosing a spot further away from the camp fire, Bishop worked on constructing Molotov cocktails from the supplies that were taken from the abandoned helicopter (and bottles of cheap liquor were easily enough obtained through street vendors). He industriously punched the wicks through the bottle caps with a knife that looked more like a saw blade. Storm studied a road map of Seattle that was years old (forty-three, to be exact), hoping to detect some place that would attract the fugitive telepath.

Only Betsy sat doing nothing. Wrapped in a heavy, if dusty, wool blanket, she watched the rest of her group, wondering how they continued to function. Their tasks were obviously meant to distract them from any meaningful interaction with one another. The group had been thrown together in the most haphazard way and shared only a common bond in their status as mutants. And now, they were also all wanted criminals now. It seemed to her that their desire not to be caught would be what drove them, but she sensed that it was something entirely different. After all, why would they be in Seattle of all places, where Hunters swarmed like angry hornets?

Betsy realized that the group desperately need some leadership-some sort of inspiring individual to step up to the podium and enchant them with some grand vision full of optimistic hope and altruistic intentions. But every last one of them, with the possible exception of Kurt Wagner, had a shady past. Even she had blood on her hands, having learned to defend herself since her exodus from Florida. Live and let die, Betsy, Live and let die, was a mantra that she forced herself to internalize. It was never anything personal. In fact, she hated violence, and abhorred killing. But at the same time, she didn’t really hesitate to kill when it came down to it, either.

Her eyes locked on Storm, the former raider commander, and reasoned that she was the most likely choice to lead the group. Shining with intelligence and raw aggression, she no doubt had both the killer instinct and the experience needed for the job. By her own admission, Ororo had led several tribes to rise up in resistance and had even led them into battle. Betsy wondered who long it would take for her, or someone else to take the reigns, and pull this group together.

Ironically enough, her question would be answered this very night.

When she finally grew bored enough with watching Sam and Bishop preparing for war, her attention shifted to Kurt, who was buried in his reading. Tilting her head, she attempted to read the title of the thick text. Noticing her, Kurt smiled and put the book facedown.

“Its called Standing on the Shoulders of Giants, it’s a book about the epistemological history of humanity.”

Sam looked up with a moderately confused look on his face. “Episte-what?”

“It means the source of all knowledge, Sam.”

Bishop actually began laughing then. Stunned, everyone turned his way, both shocked and intrigued.

“What is so funny?” Kurt asked, unable to say it without smiling himself.

“Why in the hell would you bother reading that shit? I mean, the source of all knowledge, give a break.”

Casting him a stern glance, Ororo said, “explain yourself, Bishop.”

“I don’t want to argue.”

“No, really, you won’t offend me, at least,” Kurt said, coaxing him.

“Well, it always has seemed to me that it was because of the assholes that talked about the kind of thing that led of here to begin with-I mean, the war was fought over ideas, for God’s sakes-ideas about the world used to be and how it should be, each side believing that its side was more righteous then the other. Look where it ended up-the earth scorched all to hell and more people dead than I care to think about. By reading that garbage, you’re falling into the same old trap.”

At this point, it became clear that a debate had begun between Kurt and Bishop and that the rest were passive spectators. It was actually becoming quite entertaining, though they all silently prayed that Bishop would not lose his temper.

“What trap?” Kurt asked, losing his smile.

“Okay. We can all agree that the Western concept of civilization led to the creation of the world order shortly after World War I. After that, all the morals and principles that guided peace, development, and all that other good shit fell into place and were developed into international laws and values. Of course, there were a few interruptions, but it more or less continued progressing, with people all the while assuming that the course of history was leading to the correct way of living that progression was actually positive and was leading to the final stage where I suppose everyone thought that they’d reach utopia. Standing on the Shoulder’s of Giants-that’s a load of horseshit. Yeah, they might have been, but they were so high from the ground they couldn’t see their base-do you follow me? So easy to topple right on over, and that’s exactly what happened, and the dumb bastards destroyed the world.”

Bishop’s tirade lasted continuously for several minutes, blowing everyone’s impression of the man straight to hell. Noticeably both impressed and shocked, Kurt cleared his throat and retook the field.

“So what are you saying? Go the way of Farenheit 451 and burn every book? I never said that I agree with the historical path that you’re addressing. I’ll be the first to admit, Western control of the world order was rife with evil institutions-slavery, colonialism, neo-colonialism-and believe me, I can go on. But you’re wrong, Bishop. The world is not destroyed. True, it is fundamentally changed for the worse, but it is not without hope.”

Interrupting, Bishop exclaimed, “oh right, here is where you tell us that God is really just testing us all right now.”

“No. I believe that we control our own fates, Bishop, not that some unseen force guides us. But if we have any hope of surviving this, we need to learn from our past. It is the only way to avoid it.”

Becoming livid, Bishop stood. Sam almost stood himself, planning to break up a fistfight if necessary.

“Listen, Kurt. Hate to rain on your parade, but there isn’t anything worth saving. There is no concept of good and evil anymore. Its only about survival-that’s all that anybody knows anymore.”

“Why are you here Bishop?

“What? I don’t know what the hell you’re asking. Why have I remained with the group? Simple. To get to California to go before the Hellfire Council to request the release of my son and wife from whatever forced labor camp they were sent.”

“Please don’t interrupt me now. You said that there isn’t anything worth saving, but I disagree with you. In fact, I think that people know deep down that there is a struggle between good and evil occurring that will decide whether or not the world survives, but their sense of being has been so warped by the hell that’s going on around them that they’ve become numb to it. And you’re right-all they know is survival-I saw it in the eyes of everyone staring at us on the way into Seattle. They need to be awakened- shown that there is hope. That word, hope means more to you than you know, Bishop. You hope to find your family, and you hope to protect them. But eventually, you’ll realize that without some real change, they’ll always be in danger. So then, you’ll also realize that what you really want is to change the world to make it safe for them-and everyone else in the same boat as you.”

The words felt like a sermon of truth blasting through his very soul. The fact that Kurt had just buried him in the debate was immaterial. The man had showed him the way. The man had inspired him. The man had given him hope.

“So answer me this, Bishop, and then I’ll be through talking. I will continue to fight until I either die, or I find victory. Will you be content in finding your family and hiding for the rest of your lives?”

The former Hunter was quiet for a very long time. Everyone stared directly at him, though he didn’t notice. His eyes were locked, staring straight into the fire. Finally, he looked at Kurt, walked to him, and then embraced him. It had been a night of many surprises from Bishop, but this one was indeed the most unbelievable. Though stunned at first, Kurt reciprocated.

“To answer your question, I will follow you until the end of the world.”

Several hours after the heated debate, Kurt sat alone at the fire, fueling it occasionally. The others had all retreated into their tents into the night (though he had seen Betsy and Sam pull off to the side to talk alone, which made him feel the slightest bit jealous).

The mood of the night had shifted drastically before their retirement. Everyone had felt it. A new bond had developed-though unspoken and unseen, it connected them closer than family.

Kurt pondered over the night’s events while basking in the moonlight. Then the pungent smell of cigar smoke announced Logan.

“You’re up pretty late, Socrates.”

Without turning, Kurt said “you heard us?”

“Yep. Entire thing,” Logan said, sitting down next to Kurt. Holding a half-empty bottle of whiskey up to him, Logan offered him a drink. Ah what the hell…

He took it and drank deeply.

Logan chuckled. “I would have figured you to be a lightweight.”

“Guess it must be that German in me-we’re reputed to hold your drink well.”

They passed the bottle a few more times before emptying it.

With his inhibitions numbing, Kurt turned to the seasoned warrior and asked “tell me something. Why in the hell are you always on my case?”

Logan gave him a look that said, what? You don’t know? He grimaced, and then chucked the bottle away. “You really want to know? Alright, I ride your ass because you need to learn how things work out here. I knew at the beginning that you had a fuck load of potential. After tonight, I know believe it more than ever. If anyone has a chance of leading this bunch of shifty assholes to the promised land, its you. Only thing is, we have to go through the heart of darkness to get there, if you follow me. You got to have tough skin to make it Kurt. You have to rely on your wit and your strength alike. When I met you, I found you as a wide-eyed bastard with a hard-on to change the world. You still are-but know you’ve got the balls to carry it through. I’m done being hard on you, pal. You’ve won their hearts tonight.”

Kurt quizzically at Logan. “What about you?”

“Don’t fish to hard for a compliment. You’re liable to find your legs broken that way.”

The comment confused Kurt, who didn’t know if it was a joke or a threat. Then, Logan began laughing, and then Kurt did as well. Then Logan abruptly stopped laughing, and gave him a stern look, which made Kurt wonder…

Sam and Betsy had stolen away from the group shortly after the debate. Their desire for such excursions were increasing. Tonight was the first time since their inception of the group that they actually felt together.

The Englishwoman pushed the poor countryboy against the tent’s pole and kissed him, pushing her tongue far into his mouth. She giggled while sensing his mixed excitement and surprise. Sam reached up and caressed her face, pulling several strands of her honey-blond hair behind her ears. The lady smelled like a fresh morning, and she made him drunk with her scent. Hiding his feelings for her from the others was going to be quite difficult, indeed…

Many miles away, Jean Grey and her captor had taken rest for the night. He provided her with food and water and had even cared enough to ask if she was hurt. The show of compassion had given her an idea.

While he was trying to hail somebody over a radio, which cackled only white-noise, she sat next to him, or practically on top of him. Desperation had pushed her to use the only option left to her.

“You know, there might be something I could give you, if only you looked the other way while I ran.”

Frank Castle, or the Punisher to his shipmates, was called that because of his callous, cynical nature. That, and his never-hesitating nature to settle any conflict with a bullet. After enlisting with a group of sea raiders (or more often, pirates) called the Corsairs, whose haunts consisted of the coasts of South America, he fell into the role of being a mercenary. Soon enough, he had taken a commanding position. Respect for the man had become immeasurable among the crew. Perhaps no man was more noted and feared in the group besides his partner, who went by Deadpool.

Castle had been fighting himself for the last three hours regarding the girl. She reminded him of his daughter, who would have been around Jean’s age now, had she lived. Definitely not her appearance, but something about her reminded him of his daughter, Marissa. The half- starved, filthy girl before him had a fighting spirit, though. She had lived for years by herself out here. Frank wasn’t sure he would have been able to survive under the same conditions.

Her appalling attempt at seduction had caused him to snap.

“What the fuck are you doing? Get the hell away from me!” he bellowed, nearly jumping away from her. Visibly shaken, he picked up a bent metal rod and flung it into the air. “Look, this isn’t working.”

“What isn’t working? You’re not making sense.”

The brutish man began pacing. “Look, this isn’t right. I’m going to help you get out of here. I have a boat-several boats, waiting out on the docks. I can get you to South America in a week or so. You’ll be safe there.”

God, what I said earlier, well, I take it back…

“Are you serious?”

“Yeahhhh, I guess. But it works like this. I’m going to take that thing off you, but you can’t mind wipe me. I know that you’re capable of it, and that you’re probably hard enough to do it without so much as thinking twice. Just remember that I’m offering you a ride out of here, but you have to agree to trust me, and to stay out of my mind. In return, I guaranty your safety.”

“I can live with that, easy,” she replied. Her body was shaking because of her excitement. Adrenaline was pumping relentlessly through her system.

“In that case, you can call me Frank Castle. I know your handle is Jean Grey.”

“Well, Frank, maybe we should get going. Its usually best to travel at night.”

The Punisher nodded, pondering over the hell his crew would give him for not turning the girl in. She would have given them a political token to bargain with the Hellfire Council-giving them free license to operate in South America with assurance of non-interference by the Southern Cross. But occasionally, unexpected things have a tendency of occurring, changing the course of things, sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse. All Frank knew is that he couldn’t take her in and live with himself. They might not be happy, but they’d damn sure better learn to be happy, Frank thought.

 

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