Shoot First, Ask Questions Later
Chapter 3
by
Barbara Metzger



What his eyes told him, did not match watch his instincts said. His eyes followed long black lines. Abstract. Geometric. Useless. His instincts told him this place was inexplicably tied to him. Something happened here. Logan could feel apprehension heavy in his chest like a stone tied to his heart. There was something in the depths of his jumbled, patchwork of memories that kept pushing to the surface. Wanted to come to the surface. He laid his hands on the cold gray.

None of the Picasso markings made the impact of those earlier in the museum. After all of these years, he still harbored hope with each lead. Didn't understand how he could dredge it up with the thousands of dead-ends he'd come across. His mouth was set in a grim line, as he slid to the ground against the rock. The only bit of good luck was the fact the rock tilted at such an angle as to offer a dry, albeit cold, spot to sulk. Sulking made his mind wander. When his mind wandered, it always came to a screeching halt at the void, which existed like a hole in the wall, where his past should be.

Maybe someday he could fill his head with memories of his choosing. He thought of the woman who was able to intrigue him so completely today.

Elma.

He could piece together enough tidbits of happiness in his life to recognize a shot at it with her, if he had stayed. He was always the first to leave. He always found a reason. He added her to his list of wants. Rogue, tempting but he'd feel like he was taking advantage of her innocence. Jean, taken. Well, nothing that couldn't be dealt with. Elma. He couldn't think of a reason, but knew if he thought long enough...

He was good at deprivation in all of its forms.

The thought of a shot of cheap scotch and a fat, stinking cigar came to him like an old friend. Cheap scotch had a burn. He needed it to burn good tonight. Friends don't let friends drink and deprive. He sarcastically laughed to himself.

He thought of his little show in the museum. It was a rare thing to take leave of his senses long enough to not hear someone come up behind him. His lips formed the word 'careless' as he remembered Elma's story of the young wolverine that didn't pay attention to his surroundings.

He didn't like how the flashbacks, the last few months since he entered this area of the Canadian wilderness, have been causing unpredictable behavior, he prayed for something more controllable. He stood one last time to embrace the rock. The skin of his palms grew chill as Logan made long contact with the gray wall. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Ears tuned in to his surroundings. He slowly walked along the stone giant feeling every crevice, bump, and depression. He thought if only the snow wasn't on the ground, he would be able to draw more from this place. Snow blanketed old smells with false freshness.

He tracked more footprints another 15 feet around an area of the wall that took a sharp turn inwards. He glanced at his sloppy footwork. What did he care, he'd be gone before Elma would get there to speculate about the unknown intruder. He smiled at imagined curses.

He closed his eyes again, playing with his various senses. This side of the rock seemed more receptive to his attempts at unraveling the story. His smell and touch gave way to gut feeling. He moved his hand to the right and felt a break in the smooth stone. He furrowed his brow in concentration. With his fingers he traced a small crater below smaller holes. A hairline crack formed at opposite ends of the crater and traveled as far in each north/south direction as his hand could move. At the level of his mid torso, he pulled his right arm back and punched the wall. He could almost hear the echo of metal ringing in his head. Just as he suspected. The old hole cradled his knuckles as if he had punched clay. He opened his eyes afraid to see the physical picture match the one in his mind. He let loose his razor sharp claws. They popped perfectly into the tapering, narrow rock channels.

There was no joy, no sense of discovery; none of the elation that he thought would come to him if he found something relating to the Wolverine Canyon rockart. All Logan felt was a strange numbness as if all power of intelligent thought had vanished. He held his breath as he felt the onslaught of memories rush through his brain. Clouds in the eastern sky were beginning to gather when he staggered away from the wall, arm outstretched, claws retracted.

He narrowed and focused his eyes a faction of an inch to the right. If he had hackles, they would have been standing at full attention. He shot them out once again.

Logan's small open wounds between the knuckles had barely had time to heal. His senses were so integrated into the surrounding area that he could hear a hibernating mouse's deep, steady breaths a few feet behind him underground.

There. A flash of brown.

Looked to be about 70 meters north. The smell registered before his sight picked up anything. Normally he wouldn't have been so on guard knowing it was probably Elma, but the smell didn't make sense. He felt a little anxious. He wasn't getting an accurate picture.

Dammit.

He took a deep breath.

The neurons and synaptic pathways raced to process the confusion with the added fuel of adrenaline. The mixture presented itself like a Molotov cocktail lobbed in the center of his brain. His reflexes sped up like an SS dropped down a gear. Everything was sharp and cutting clear.

He scanned his surroundings, keeping track of movements. Logan sucked in breaths of pure air while getting his bearings. He broke in the air 2 meters to his right over a large boulder and hit the rim of another monolithic giant with the fervor of a possessed demon.

W- Whatever was out there wasn't on to him.

At least not yet.

He heard light footsteps. Pinpointed it to 15 feet-20 feet and SW just beyond his hidden lookout. Right where he had been 3 seconds ago.

He scanned the scene in quadrants. Compartmentalized the placement of every object. Processed, filed away, and rejected all objects as possible weapons, or useless background noise. He was best at forming strategy on the fly.

'Let's see if I can't find you first.', he made his way towards his prey and his eyes fairly sparkled with anticipation.

Sabertooth stood silently. He looked slowly and scanned for movement. He smelled Logan just over a rock, directly in front of him, about 15 feet away and closing. His pupils reflected nothing. They were black, violent, and poisonous.

His thin lips parted in a smile that revealed rows of clean, white teeth, naturally chiseled into lethal points. Air rushed past the steamy breath of the giant as Sabertooth approached the steady heartbeat, now 6 feet away and still hidden. Still closing. This was gonna be fun.



CHAPTERS:   1   2   3   4




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