Wolverine: Weapon X

by Marc Cerasini

  “Cripes, okay.” Lynch pulled the plastic flex-cuffs from his belt and fit the bracelet over one forearm, then brought it back and snapped it to the other wrist. Logan didn’t resist, but Cutler still would’ve liked to look Logan in the eyes, which were totally obscured by the heavy adamantium helmet.

  The handcuffs seemed to have done the trick, however, for Logan remained docile on the ride down the elevator. At the door to Lab Two, Cutler was greeted by Anderson, who was waiting for him and dressed in full body armor.

  “What are you dressed for, the winter ball?”

  “Major’s orders, Cut. Deavers wants you in his office, pronto.”

  “Can’t the boss wait until I get Logan locked down for the night?”

  “Sorry, Cut. Major says now, and hop to it. The Professor just laid some big experiment in our laps. Deavers says it’ll take all night to get things prepped for tomorrow.”

  Cutler cursed and thrust the electroprod into Anderson’s hand. “Watch him closely. Logan is acting funny tonight.”

  “You mean funny like in the lab the day they made him walk? Rice showed me the tape—hilarious.”

  “Just watch him, Anderson. And don’t get sloppy.”

  As he headed for the elevator, Cutler ripped off his helmet and ran his hand through his sweaty hair. Without shedding his armor, he rode the elevator to Level One, lost in thought.

  Another goddamn experiment. I wonder what that crazy egghead Professor has in store for Logan—and for us now.

  * * * * *

  The men in the chopper saw Logan as soon as he broke from cover. The aircraft immediately swerved to intercept the exposed figure that raced across the clearing.

  Logan zigzagged to avoid the shot he had learned would come, his spine tingling in anticipation. He had learned from hard experience that you never hear the shot that gets you, so when the supersonic blast shocked his ear, he knew before the tree stump exploded in front of him that the sniper had missed.

  As the chopper rolled over him, Logan tumbled across the ground and slammed into the shattered stump. At the speed the helicopter was traveling, he knew the sniper would only get one shot on the first pass. But Logan also knew that the pilot would not make that mistake again. His second run would be low and slow, giving his partner time to aim.

  While the chopper made a circle in the sky and came back at him, Logan extended the M9 with both hands and waited for the approach. His breath came in ragged gasps as he fought back panic, especially at the moment when he had to close his eyes against the searchlight’s glare or risk losing his night vision.

  As the MD-500 leveled off, the searchlight dipped, and Logan opened his eyes to see the sniper lean out of the canopy. He quickly calculated the range, then adjusted the handgun and fired three shots in quick succession—all of them directed at the pilot.

  A spark erupted as the first shot glanced off the bulletproof canopy; then another flash followed as the glass cracked. The third shot dinged off one of the blades as the pilot swerved to avoid Logan’s fusillade. His maneuver was so abrupt and unexpected that it jolted the sniper out of his seat.

  As the helicopter spun away, Logan watched the sniper air-swim all the way to the ground. He heard a loud crack, like a branch breaking under ice, as the sniper shattered his spine on a tree stump. The rifle landed next to its owner, and Logan took off across the clearing to retrieve it.

  The helicopter pilot must have summoned help, for Logan heard the sound of another engine approaching the area—still out of sight, but coming on fast. Meanwhile, the pilot of the first helicopter regained control of his aircraft and was scanning the ground with the searchlight, looking for his fallen comrade. As Logan watched the copter’s approach, his foot caught something and he went down.

  He spit dirt and stared into the face of the dying sniper, now draped like a broken doll over the stump. The man’s eyes moved from side to side. He made a gurgling sound, but with a shattered spine he wasn’t getting up. So Logan didn’t waste time finishing him off. Instead; he fumbled on the ground until he found what he’d tripped over—the sniper rifle, its scope shattered, the barrel bent. Logan cursed and tossed the useless weapon aside.

  He ducked behind the dying man as the helicopter flew overhead. But this time, the searchlight played across the tree line at the edge of the forest—the pilot had obviously lost track of him. After the chopper raced by, Logan went through the sniper’s belt. He found a Chinese-made pistol and a high-explosive grenade.

  Logan tucked his M9 into its holster and leveled the more powerful Chinese handgun at the returning helicopter. The chopper bore down on him. Its searchlight reached out to pin Logan in its dazzling brilliance. The beacon made a nice target, even with his eyes half-closed, and Logan aimed for the light. He emptied the magazine with quick, successive shots. In an eruption of sparks and broken glass, the light went dim.

  The helicopter still approached, moving under forty kilometers per hour and less than fifteen meters off the ground. Logan discarded the empty handgun and pulled the pin on the grenade. As the helicopter roared over his hiding place, Logan tossed the explosive through the sniper’s open hatch.

  The pilot saw the lobbed weapon bounce into his cabin. Losing control of his aircraft, he struggled to find the explosive before it detonated. The aircraft veered wildly as the man seized the bomb and tossed it out. The grenade blew up just inches from the landing skid, its explosion jolting the aircraft.

  Unfortunately for the pilot, the helicopter’s wild trajectory had carried him into the path of the power lines. The whirling blades cut through the electrical cables and the fuselage slammed directly into the tower.

  In a magnesium white flash of crackling power, the MD-500 disintegrated, showering burning debris down onto the barren field. The explosion washed over Logan, heat scorching his flesh and setting his hair afire. He rolled to extinguish the flames, then jumped to his feet as a second helicopter dived low over the trees and raced toward him.

  The familiar chatter of an AK-47 greeted Logan. Bullets rained on him from above. He would not be able to avoid automatic weapon fire for long. As the chopper rushed to cut him off Logan ran back into the forest, even though the sound of the dogs was nearly as loud as the helicopter overhead.

  At the trees, Logan was suddenly pinpointed by a huge column of light—a third helicopter had arrived. Logan zigzagged out of the brilliance even as he heard the crack of a rifle. He threw himself to the ground as the searchlight beam passed over him, illuminating two infantrymen with rifles aimed in his direction. Logan drew his Beretta and squeezed off two quick shots. Both men went down in sprays of blood.

  Logan jumped to his feet and literally dived into the woods. As he hit the ground between two thick tree trunks, the butt of a rifle slammed against his head and the tip of a bayonet pierced his guts. He howled as the man holding the bayonet stepped out of hiding to drive the blade deeper into his belly. With the knife pinning him to the ground, more soldiers, like a wave, rushed to his side and pummeled Logan with their rifles.

  Someone barked an angry command and the soldiers drew back. An officer leaned close to Logan’s face, screaming threats in Korean. Feigning unconsciousness, Logan reached down with a bloody hand and slipped his fighting knife from its sheath.

  One more kill and I won’t go to hell alone…

  Logan lashed out, and rammed the four-and-a-half—inch blade into the man’s throat. The knife just stuck in his Adam’s apple. A quick slash and the officer’s arteries parted. Hot blood spattered all over Logan as the Korean fell away.

  The pummeling resumed, more savage than before, until Logan mercifully slipped into darkness.

  * * * * *

  “Come on, Anderson, let’s get the Professor’s zombie strapped down. The cafeteria closes in ten minutes and I want a hot meal. They’re serving steak and fries tonight.”

  Using the prod, Anderson guided Logan into the diagnostic chair. Without bothering to restrain the subject’s anus, as
required by security protocol, Anderson started to detach the cybernetic helmet. Lynch watched him curiously.

  “Prof says to remove the dome but keep him wired on the points,” said Anderson.

  “So we should leave the batteries on, then?”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Anderson replied as he detached the visor and reached for the helmet. “And set the in-line alarm, right?”

  “Guess so,” said Lynch. “Okay, alarm set.”

  As the helmet was lifted, there was an explosion of awareness inside of Logan’s benumbed brain. One thought flickered through his semiconscious mind.

  One more kill and I won’t go to hell alone…

  * * * * *

  “I don’t know about this, Ms. Hines.”

  Cornelius stood in the center of the lab, shoulders hunched. “First I’m told we’re creating a kind of supersoldier with Experiment X. Then it turns out he’s some sort of mutant animal thing, so the adamantium bonding and the agony he endured in the process sends him cuckoo…”

  Working beside Carol Hines at the REM terminal, a brain specialist from Dr. MacKenzie’s staff paused to listen.

  Cornelius, oblivious, continued his diatribe.

  “Now the Professor’s talking about the ‘perfect killing machine’ and all that most dangerous game crap, as if this poor guy is some kind of assassin or something. It’s like, what is this weapon going to protect us from, the Commies?”

  Cornelius frowned. “I never intended to build weapons. I got virtually blackmailed into this whole affair, you know. No … I guess you don’t.”

  Carol Hines turned to the specialist. “Why don’t you take your coffee break now, John?”

  “But I’m on duty until—”

  “Take a break, John.”

  The man nodded, then departed in a rush. When he was gone, Carol Hines swiveled in her chair to face Cornelius.

  “I’m not too big on soul-searching,” he told her. “But I’ve got some responsibility to humanity … and I don’t have murder inside me, Ms. Hines … No matter what you may have heard. I’m not a killer. I’m not like the Professor.

  Carol Hines remained silent for a long time. When at last she spoke, her voice was soft but determined.

  “If you need me, Doctor. I will support you. In anything you decide to do.”

  Cornelius opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by shrill and sudden wail.

  “The alarm!” he cried. “On source, Ms. Hines.”

  The woman swung around and hit the source button. On the gigantic monitor, the interior of Lab Two—Subject X’s cell appeared. Logan was standing, helmet gone, claws extended. His left arm was poised to strike, and from the steel claws on his upraised right arm a dead wrangler dangled limply, leaking gore like a fresh side of beef on a meat hook.

  15

  Weapon X

  “The alarm is coming from Lab Two. It’s Mr. Logan. He’s loose.”

  Carol Hines had managed to keep the fear out of her voice but not her eyes. She gawked at the security monitor, watching as Logan drove his left fist into a second guard—impaling the body, his gleaming claw points springing through the victim’s back, rendering the man as inert as a rag doll thrown on a pitchfork.

  Cornelius lunged for the intercom, punched the button. “Professor! Professor!”

  “What is it, Cornelius?” The Professor’s tone was saturated with the annoyance of a superior unexpectedly disturbed by an inferior.

  “You maniac!” Cornelius roared. “The ‘most dangerous game,’ you said. Now you’re using our own security personnel as guinea pigs? How could you? You’re insane.”

  “What?” The Professor turned to face his own monitor. On the screen, Logan was pummeling the exit door. “This is not my doing, Cornelius. I am not in control!”

  The alarm became a blaring Klaxon, filling the complex with its shrill, urgent wail.

  Cornelius adjusted the intercom, sent his voice over every channel, shouted the warning to every level. “All security to Zone Two. Weapon X has escaped.”

  Cutler was just approaching the door to Deavers’s office when the storm began. He turned and tore back to the armory; expecting to meet at least fifty guards on site—SOP for a call like this one.

  “Professor,” said Cornelius over the direct link. “My emergency shutdown is not functioning. Use your command center monitor controls to shut off the power.”

  “I’m trying, Cornelius. The cutoff is not working. I think Logan’s batteries are still engaged.”

  “What happened to your fail-safe, Professor?”

  “It isn’t working, I tell you. Logan’s helmet is off, but some fool left the power packs in place. He’s moving at will, out of control, and he’s not receiving our signals.”

  On the Professor’s monitor, Logan tore up the security door with the ease of a jaguar shredding human flesh, his adamantium claws passing through stout steel. Stepping through the debris and into the corridor, he confronted a young technician moving equipment from one lab to another. A single elegant slash and the man went down in a widening crimson pool.

  Two guards armed with tranquilizer guns rushed through the corridor. Their radios crackled; “We got three men down and two active. Request permission to shoot.”

  “Of course, man, shoot!” The Professor’s superior tone had disappeared, replaced with a voice near panic.

  A ceiling-mounted security camera relayed the action that played on-screen for Cornelius, Carol Hines, and the Professor. Two guards in the foreground fired continuous bursts of sedative darts into Subject X. Logan treated them like school yard spitballs. He brushed away the bothersome projectiles and continued traveling.

  All of the guards backed away, slowly at first, then faster. “Security… We need live amino down here. Repeat. We need—”

  In one fluid movement Logan speared the first guard, the unbreakable claws penetrating Kevlar, fabric, tendon, and bone. Effortlessly, he tossed the pierced carcass over his shoulder. The second guard’s gun he knocked aside as claws slit open the man’s heart and lungs. Over the loudspeakers, gurgling screams horrified listeners throughout the research complex.

  In the main lab, where Cornelius foolishly assured himself that the darts were enough to stop the subject, scientific bewilderment supplanted near-hysteria.

  “Sir, how could this have happened?” he asked the Professor, his voice relaxing into a respectful, dispassionate tone. “Logan was harnessed up, how could he—”

  “It’s not over,” Carol Hines interrupted. “The tranquilizers appear to be noneffective.”

  She glanced up from the REM console. Cornelius met her eyes: Fear had seeped back into them, along with something else—something resembling excitement.

  Hines had discovered that although Subject X could not be controlled by the scientists, he could still be monitored by them. Constant data streamed into Hines’s REM machine, giving her a clear readout of Logan’s actions and his present capabilities. One thing was more than apparent to her—his brain activity which was supposed to be suppressed, began running at full throttle. Logan became sentient. Fully aware, his mind morphed into a smart bomb fully engaged.

  Cornelius slammed his console. “This is crazy, Professor. Can’t you do something?”

  “My system is down. I’ve no control over Weapon X whatsoever,” repeated the Professor.

  “Then who does?” Cornelius demanded.

  “Yes…” the Professor murmured. “Who does, indeed?”

  Behind the Professor’s frightened gaze came a mysterious realization. Whatever it was, he didn’t voice it to Cornelius.

  “This is an emergency,” Major Deavers interrupted over the intercom, his voice anxious, reaching. “I’m losing men in Zone Two. I need an advisory on this—”

  * * * * *

  In the armory, thirty-three guards had assembled. Cutler found them not suiting up, but gaping at the security monitor.

  Friggin’ amateurs.

  “Who’s down?�
� he barked.

  “Anderson and Lynch in Lab Two,” said Erdman. His face was a pale round surface cratered with worry lines. “Pollock and Gage in the corridor.”

  Cutler watched the playback. “Who’s the other corpse?”

  “Some technician. Poor son of a bitch got in the way of that psycho lab rat,” Erdman told him.

  Cutler turned to the rest. “Gear up. I’ll break out the live ammo—”

  “Deavers is still waiting for the Professor’s authorization on that,” said Erdman.

  Cutler sneered. “Screw that shit! I’m authorizing live ammo—I’m taking no chances.”

  As the men strapped on Kevlar body armor, Cutler punched in a multi-number code on the wall-mounted keypad and yanked open the door to the weapons bay. The guards clustered around him while he passed out the serious muscle—Heckler & Koch UMP .45 caliber submachine guns with 25-round magazines.

  * * * * *

  On his monitor, Cornelius watched Logan cleave through an airtight hatch in less than a minute. The door was made of two-inch carbonized steel. It failed to matter.

  “Professor,” called Cornelius through the intercom, “can you seal the corridor from your remote location?”

  “Seal?”

  On the smaller monitor, Cornelius saw the pinched face of the Professor blanch a pale, pasty color.

  “Yes. Contain Logan inside of Zone Two?”

  The Professor sputtered. “I… I. . Nothing is functioning here. And you … you saw what he did to that hatch…”

  “Please,” Major Deavers bawled over the intercom. “Will one of you give me a directive here? Professor? Dr. Cornelius? Dr. Hendry? We got a world of trouble coming down. Over.”

  “Can you close any part of Zone Two from your command center, Professor?” Cornelius repeated, trying to break through the Professor’s stunned paralysis.

  “Sir,” Carol Hines interrupted. “Logan is moving away from Lab Two. Approaching Zone Three and DBlock.”

  Cornelius and Hines shared a look and the very same thought—

  Dr. Hendry and his staff are in D-Block.