Weapon X

Chapter One: Prophecy Rain. Gouging thin canals through soiled windowpanes. Night. Bending from black to phosphorescent green. A sickening hue, like alien pus. Liquid all around me. But not drowning. Neon hummed beyond the glass. Twisted tubes. Huge letters spelling out a single word etched in blue-white light: prophecy. The word seemed apocalyptic. No. That isn't right. It was part of the apocalypse. Some drunken bum down the hall had clued him in. "The apocalypse is coming" -- that's what the geezer said. "When all the secrets will be exposed." No more secrets, no more running. "Hell is comin'..." That's what he said. He spit when he said it, too. Then the old guy just stopped breathing. Air. No air here. But breathing still. It happened a lot at the Prophecy. Old guys. And not so old. Keeling over. Dropping dead. Trapped inside. Like floating in a coffin. But not dead. Not yet... The water from the sky was as old as the earth. Logan watched it fall. The same water. Billions of years. Over and over. Fish crawled out of it. Man crawled out of it, too. Then I crawled out. Trapped inside. Liquid all aroud. A vile chemical. But not water... Dinosaurs fed on plants, drank from lakes. This rain was part of those lakes. The wells of villages. Warriors, barbarians, samurai. The water they drank went up and came down. The same water. Trapped in a cycle. Everything, even the earth, has its limits. A shock of lightning scratched the night. Logan's eyes shined through the glass -- feral-sharp, scanning streets lit by shards of bone-white brilliance. Another strike, a tree split. The energy sundered it. Like a warning of things to come. "Storm's comin', and it's a big one. The big one. The one I've been looking out for." The road. He remembered the road. The cold steered the wheel. Black woods at night. The far north. Endless wilderness. Soon he'd be back. Soon he'd be home. Beyond the glass now: wet concrete, rusty Dumpsters, graffiti-scarred alleys, haunting tenements, emptiness. They haven't found me. Not yet. Logan turned from the window, crossed the stained brown carpet. The room was as small as a cage, empty bottles like stalagmites spiking the floor, spiking his brain. A week-old newspaper ripped under his booted foot, meaningless events. Day after day. He collapsed on a couch, spring-cushioned by a tabloid spread over it. His massive fist tightened, crumpling the newsprint, hurling the ink-black words at the blank TV. Useless headlines. Day after day after day. Nearby, a Seagram's bottle, shimmering with many promises. Half-empty. No. Half-full. He poured a healthy swallow into a glass, always grateful. Ripples of electricity scratched the night. Searing bolts stab his brain. Logan winced in shock, retching as a salty trickle rolled down his throat. Then the pain vanished, leaving only the coppery taste of blood -- a familiar tang. He touched his throbbing temple, but found no stain. Only beads of salty sweat moistened his fingertips. He swallowed again, and the metallic sting was gone, too. Were his senses off? Or was the alcohol awakening demons of past mayhem, forgotten violence? Forgotten... "The apocalypse is here. Time to write home, to make peace with somebody -- " Peace? With whom? He remembered the saloon, a dozen milling bodies. The usual fog of burning tar. The air had felt frozen. But his muscles, beneath the flannel, had been warm enough. He'd lined up the bottles on the bar in front of him, green pickets. Glass pillars. His fortress. Time to write home. "Dear Ma -- ya goat-headed, misshapen, walleyed witch.Cerasini, Marc is the author of 'Weapon X ', published 2005 under ISBN 9781416521648 and ISBN 141652164X.