Carol turned and started to run, but the man was still quick enough to lash out with the injured foot, catching her just below the right knee with the steel toe of his boot. She cried out in agony and crashed to the ground.
The pain was blinding; multicolored spots of light danced before her eyes, making it difficult to focus on the guard as he hobbled toward her. Teeth bared, the lower half of his face smeared with blood and snot, he reached down and grabbed a handful of her hair and savagely yanked her to her knees.
“Forget about gettin’ to know each other better, baby,” he hissed. “I’m just gonna kill you.” His free hand dropped to the wide, brown utility belt around his waist. Moonlight glinted along the serrated edge of a foot-long knife as it was pulled from its leather sheath.
Carol closed her eyes. She knew that, even if one of the other guards, or even another prisoner, should happen to stumble upon this scene, no one would try to help her. That’s just how things were done here: every person for themselves. Trembling, she waited for the end.
But, surprisingly, the killing stroke never came.
And then a new sound reached her ears: a noise not unlike that caused by a sword being drawn from a scabbard—that sharp, clear snikt! of metal on metal.
The guard moaned, and warm blood spattered Carol’s face like a gentle rain. She started, not knowing what to make of this, yet afraid to look to find out. Curiosity, however, soon got the best of her; slowly, she opened her eyes.
Her attacker was still in front of her, but his head was now tilted back, as though he were looking at the night sky instead of his intended victim. He also seemed to standing off-balance, like he was about to collapse.
Carol didn’t know what to make of it.
But then she saw the reason for his unusual posture, and shivered, despite the warm temperature of this June night.
Three sharp, metal spikes were protruding from the guard’s chest, their pointed tips coated with blood. Not only had they skewered the man, but they also seemed to be the only things holding him up, for it was plain to see that the man was dead.
Suddenly, the spikes retracted—back through his chest—and the guard collapsed, face first, onto the muddy field. His eyes, eternally frozen in surprise, stared blankly at Carol.
“You okay, darlin’?” a gruff voice asked.
Carol’s gaze shifted from the corpse to another man, who had been standing behind the guard; his killer, obviously. He was short and hairy, and dressed in the kind of colorful costume she might have ordinarily expected to see in a circus. To her surprise, there was no trace of whatever weapon he had used to dispose of the human trash now lying beside her.
“Who—” she began to say.
“Mein Gott, Wolverine,” interjected a voice from the darkness. “Was killing that man really necessary?”
The man called “Wolverine” turned to someone she couldn’t see and frowned.
“Yeah,” he said simply.
His companion stepped from the shadows, then, and Carol had to fight the overwhelming urge to run and hide—he looked like some kind of blue-skinned demon!
“W-who are you people?” she whispered.
Wolverine turned to face her, and tilted his head in a quizzical fashion. “What’re you talkin’ about?” he asked.
Carol started; she hadn’t been expecting that kind of reaction. From his tone of voice, and the way he was staring at her in total confusion, it seemed evident that the man had expected her to recognize him. How that might be so, she hadn’t the faintest idea, but if she could just talk her way out of this situation .. .
She glanced toward the women’s barracks; its door was so tantalizingly close. If she somehow managed to get a good head start on running for it, and if her stomach would hold off from making any serious efforts to double her over with an unexpected wave of cramps as she made her escape, there was a chance these two lunatics would leave her alone once she got inside—a slim chance, granted, but one she was willing to accept. Slowly, she rose to her feet, trying to avoid making any sudden moves that might upset these newcomers—and considering the dangers she had often faced during her time in the camp, it wouldn’t come as any surprise to find herself going from a bad situation to an even worse one.
“What’s the matter, Ace?” Wolverine asked, flashing what appeared to be his idea of a friendly smile. “I ain’t been gone all that long fer ya t’go fergettin’ me.”
“I. .. wish I could help you,” Carol said slowly, doing her best to keep her rescuers calm. “It’s just that I don’t remember meeting any . . . umm. . . circus performers since I was a little girl.” She tried to smile politely—an ultimately futile effort, since it came out looking more like a sickly grimace—while keeping her hands away from her body to show she posed no threat. “Not that, you know, there’s anything wrong with being in the circus,” she added quickly.
“We mean you no harm, fraulein, ” the demon said.
“I’m sure you don’t,” Carol replied in a gentle, soothing tone of voice—the kind one would normally use when speaking to a child . . . or a dangerous criminal. “Look, it’s not that I’m ungrateful for what you’ve done for me—” she nodded toward the dead guard “—but it’s not gonna be too long before one of the other guards stumbles across him, and I really don’t want to be standing right next to a corpse when it hap—”
Wolverine took a step forward; Carol immediately moved backward. He looked surprised by her behavior.
“Carol, it’s me,” he said, hands held palms up to show he meant no harm.
“Me who?” Carol replied. “Look, friend, a lot of things have happened to me in my life—especially more than my fair share of bad stuff ever since the day I got thrown into this pit—but I don’t ever recall meeting you—” she pointed to his companion “—or your running buddy over there, either in this dump, or in the real world. Trust me— I’d remember.”
Wolverine and his blue-skinned companion looked at one another for a moment. The demon frowned.
“First, the school disappears,” he said. “Now, an old friend doesn’t recognize us . . .” His voice trailed off, and the two men stood silently, as though they were listening to a conversation that only they could hear.
Carol slowly began to step back, preparing to make a dash for the bunkhouse. If these two clowns could just stay zoned-out for a few more seconds...
“Ahh, this is nuts, ” Wolverine finally said. Carol froze as he pulled back his mask. “Look, Ace, it’s Logan. Yer old drinkin’ buddy? The guy who used t’work with you in Intelligence, back when I was workin’ outta Department H in Canada? The guy who’s saved yer bacon more’n once? Now do you remember me?”
Carol shook her head. “I’m sorry. I really am.”
His sidekick sighed. “Well, this is bad,” he commented.
Wolverine sniffed the air, his body suddenly tensing. He slipped his mask back on as he stared at the center of the camp. “It’s about t’get a whole flamin’ lot worse . . .”
Following the direction of Wolverine’s steely gaze, Carol looked over her shoulder, in time to see a pair of armed guards—one male, one female, both with rifles slung over their shoulders—turning the comer of the bunkhouse. The duo came to an abrupt halt, startled by the unexpected appearance of a prisoner breaking curfew, a blue-skinned demon, and a circus midget.
“DON’T MOVE!” the male guard ordered. The female guard quickly unslung her weapon, bringing it to bear on them.
Carol turned back to the costumed men, to see what they were going to do about this problem, and her jaw dropped in shock as she saw a half-dozen foot-long spikes come shooting out of the backs of Wolverine’s hands.
Now, at last, she knew how he’d killed the guard.
The realization that such weapons had to be sheathed within the skin of his bare arms, however, only made her stomach problems resurface.
In the woods on the far side of Graymalkin Drive, Phoenix turned to Cyclops, her face full of worry.
“Trouble,” she said simply.
“Pull them back,” Cyclops ordered. “Tell them to grab Carol and get out of there right now!”
Phoenix nodded, and her brow knitted as she telepathically conveyed the message. She knew, though, that it was too late for their teammates to escape without a fight.
* * *
“No!” Nightcrawler said. “No more killing, Wolverine!”
With that, he disappeared in a puff of smoke, to reappear an instant later beside the male guard, who looked more than a little surprised. A three-fingered, white-gloved fist lashed out, catching the man across the left temple. Knocked senseless, the guard stumbled back, into his partner. Out of reflex, the woman’s finger tightened on the trigger of her rifle; the gun barked three times, the shots ricocheting off the lavatory’s outer walls.
The reaction to the gunfire was immediate.
Around the camp, an ear-piercing alarm began to wail. Searchlights that had originally been sweeping the camp as part of their computerized programming now started swiveling in the direction of the altercation. Before Carol and the costumed men could seek cover, they found themselves awash in beams of the purest, whitest light.
“Oh, great, ” Carol muttered sarcastically. “That’s just. . . great. . .”
6
DAMN IT . .Cyclops murmured.
Pinching his lower lip between thumb and forefinger, he
_ watched as the camp came to life—dogs began barking, armored
soldiers poured from barracks, and every light in the compound snapped on, illuminating the camp with the intensity of daylight.
Once, Cyclops thought. Just once I’d like something to go without a hitch . . .
He turned to his team. “All right, people,” he said somberly. “It’s a little ahead of schedule, but we have a camp to liberate—the quicker, the better.”
Nightcrawler quickly knocked out the female guard before she could make any more trouble, and tossed her rifle onto the roof of the bunkhouse. Carol and Wolverine raced to join him.
“Nice work, elf,” Wolverine said sarcastically.
“Er . . . yes,” Nightcrawler conceded. “That could have gone better.”
“What now?” Carol asked.
“First order of business is t’get you outta here,” Wolverine replied. He pushed her into Nightcrawler’s arms.
“But, what about you?” Carol asked.
“I’ll wait for the next bus,” Logan said. He looked at Nightcrawler. “Go. ”
The blue-skinned X-Man nodded. “I’ll be right back.”
A burst of smoke, and he and Carol were gone.
“Take yer time, bub,” Wolverine muttered, as the sound of heavy boots striking the ground reached his ears. “I got other things t’occupy my time till ya get back ...”
Logan smiled grimly and raised his foot-long, adamantium-sheathed claws as a half-dozen armored soldiers came charging at him from across the main yard.
“Step right up, boys an’ girls!” Wolverine called out. “I got plenty o’ hurtin’ fer everybody!”
And with a roar like a wild beast, he ran to meet them.
Nightcrawler and Carol reappeared on the edge of Graymalkin Drive. Taking the point, Cyclops led the other X-Men across the road to meet them. The blue-skinned X-Man was bent forward, hands resting on his knees as he sucked in lungfuls of air. Standing beside him, Carol looked slightly confused—not just by the growing number of costumed characters suddenly appearing in her life, but by the fact that she was actually outside the camp.
“Wolverine . . .” Kurt gasped between breaths. “I had to . . .”
“I know,” Cyclops said, reaching his side.
“Give me another minute . . .’’ Kurt wheezed.
The night air suddenly filled with the sounds of gunfire bursts, the clash of metal on metal, and the pitiful screams of the dying and injured.
“We don’t have a minute,” Cyclops said. He turned to his teammates. “Rogue, Gambit—get in there. Take out the guard towers first—I want their high-ground advantages eliminated. Kill the spotlights and the radio transmitter, too.”
“What about Wolverine?” Gambit asked.
“Logan can take care of himself for the moment,” Cyclops replied. “Now, go!”
“You got it, Cyke!” Rogue said. Grabbing Gambit around the chest from behind, she shot into the air and zoomed toward the camp.
Cyclops turned back to Phoenix. “Jean, you’re with me.” He looked to Nightcrawler. “Kurt?”
“Ready to go, Scott,” the blue-skinned mutant replied. He was standing erect again, having finally caught his breath.
“Go back and give Logan a hand,” Cyclops ordered. “Try to keep him from getting out of control.”
Nightcrawler nodded. “Easier said than done, but I’ll do my best.” He teleported away.
Cyclops looked to Jean. “Let’s go.”
“Hey, what about me?” Carol asked.
Cyclops stared at her for a moment, as though he had just focused on the fact that she was standing there.
“You stay here,” he said, and gestured toward her emaciated frame. “You’re in no shape to help out.”
“The hell I am. You think that, just because I don’t have a flashy costume, I’m gonna miss out on the opportunity to pay those animals back for everything they’ve done to me?” Carol asked, cheeks glowing red with anger. “Not a chance, pal.”
Cyclops considered his possible choices—they weren’t many: he could have Qirol join them and help in some limited capacity in liberating the camp, and try to keep her out of harm’s way; or he could leave her behind, which more than likely meant that she’d go back to the camp on her own anyway and run the risk of getting killed.
“All right,” he said. “But stay close.”
Carol nodded in agreement. Cyclops looked to Phoenix, who flashed a brief, warm smile.
“‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends,’she murmured. “ ‘Once more • . .’ ”
And with that, the trio began heading toward the battlefield.
High above the camp, Rogue made a quick circuit of the facility, holding tightly to Gambit as she zigged and zagged through the air, evading the gunfire that was now being directed at them from the towers.
“You plan on doin’ something soon, Remy?” Rogue asked. “Or should I just throw you at them an’ see what happens?”
“Don’ you worry, chere, ” Gambit said casually. “I got de situation under control.”
Reaching into one of the voluminous pockets of his duster, Gambit pulled out a deck of ordinary playing cards and fanned it out as though he were about to perform a magic trick. Selecting two cards at random, he concentrated for a moment, and the pieces of wax-coated white paper suddenly turned a pinkish-red, glowing brighter with each passing moment as a haze of crackling energy formed around them. Gambit had just brought his unusual mutant ability into play: the power to charge any inanimate object with kinetic energy—in other words, he could turn just about anything into a bomb. Being a thief and gambler, he naturally opted to use playing cards as his means of delivering an explosive payload.
“De man wan’ de high ground taken away,” Gambit said, a sinister smile playing at his lips. “Den dat’s exactly what he gon’ get.” Ahd with that, he flung the cards at the nearest tower.
The results were staggering: as the cards struck the metal walkway, they exploded with all the force of a howitzer shell, disintegrating the tower and flinging its occupants high into the air. Small bits of twisted metal rained down on the camp.
“Nice goin’, sugah,” Rogue commented, watching the guards turn-ble to the ground. Though the impact produced some broken bones, and a lot of pain and suffering, she was still glad to see that none of them had been killed by either the explosion or the fall. “You ready for another one?” she asked her teammate.
“Let’s get to it, Rogue,” Gambit said. He fanned the cards out again. “I still got most’a a full dec
k.”
“That’s your opinion . . .” the Southern Belle said dryly.
Before Gambit could think of a witty comeback, she headed for their next target.
The first impression that Nightcrawler had upon his return to the camp was that he had just stepped into the middle of some updated version of a Conan the Barbarian movie.
Amid the sounds of adamantium claws clashing against—and then slicing through—rifle barrels and body armor, Wolverine was standing on a mound of bodies ten or twelve feet high, the upper half of his costume tom to shreds, exposing his hirsute—and blood-spattered— chest. He was bleeding from a dozen or more entry wounds—high caliber bullets, judging from the look of the holes in his body, as well as knife thrusts—but his mutant healing factor allowed him to continue fighting without missing a beat. His mask was gone, making it easy to see the wild, chilling look of bloodlust in his eyes. Lips pulled back in a feral snarl, he was more animal than man now—a shark revelling in the throes of a feeding frenzy. Below him, a quintet of guards, their rifles sliced in half by Logan’s far deadlier weapons, tried to get at him with bayonets, but the thin steel of the blades was no match against claws fashioned from the strongest metal on Earth—or their owner.
“Mein Gott, ” Nightcrawler whispered, eyes widened in shock. “All the blood ...”
From the corner of his eye, Logan spotted his teammate standing off to the side. “Jump right in, elf!” he called. “Wouldn’t want ya t’miss out on all the fun!”
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