Don’t Look Back
He pulls the truck out of the garage and guns it down the long gravel driveway.
He doesn’t look back.
---
When he finally regains consciousness, minutes, maybe hours later there is nothing but an eerie silence to greet him.
The Prof. is slumped over in his chair, a bruise forming on his temple, mottled and purple where Logan hit him, hard enough to knock him out. He scrambles to his feet, dizzy and wretched, and only breathes a sigh of relief when he manages to find a pulse.
And then he looks around the room, and proceeds to vomit all over the hard oak floors.
He goes to them, one by one by one, calling their names, shaking them, shouting, but there’s nothing. There’s nothing.
He finds more of them outside, in other rooms, all on their way to Charles, to help him, to make it stop.
None of them make it, save for Logan.
Grief wracks him for long moments, until his lungs hurt and he can’t breathe from the agonizing pain. He screams, and it only echoes harmlessly through the house, bouncing from room to room to empty room. He’s paralyzed by anger, the anguish holding him hostage, until the chiming of the grandfather clock jolts him back to this strange new reality. There’s no time to waste he thinks, as he scrambles to his feet; this was too big, too long, too powerful, too MUCH. They’ll be coming for Charles, and this time there’s no one to help cover it up; wipe it clean and make it go away.
There’s no one left, but Logan.
And there’s no rest for the Damned, even in a Hell of his own making.
He lurches down to the lab, and grabs all the medication he can find, sweeping them into a duffel bag he finds buried under a pile of old equipment. The rest of it – their clothes, the fake IDs and the cash he’s stashed away for months now – is ready to go in his closet, along with the bundle of blankets and sleeping bags. He ignores everything else around him as he works, the bodies on the ground, the guilt over what he’s about to do, and the rage barely simmering under the surface; that they all did this, let it get too far, thinking they could fix it, help him, keep him safe.
They had time, he'd said. Just give it some more time.
He tosses the bags into the trunk next to the extra chair and slams the lid shut, before turning back inside. Charles is still out cold, still in his chair, oblivious to the devastation around him as Logan lifts him carefully, carrying him down the familiar hallways and into the garage. He sets him gently in the back seat of the truck and wraps him in a blanket, and hopes that he’ll wake up on his own eventually.
Hopes that he’ll wake up at all. And that he won’t remember what happened.
----
He finds two canisters of gasoline by one of the antique cars – long forgotten, from the days when there were people around to drive them, and care for them – and takes them back inside.
He dumps the contents in Charles’ room, on the bed, and on the curtains.
But not on the floor.
He lights a match.
----
“Come in.”
When he opens the door, Charles is already awake, and has managed to prop himself up into a seated position on the bed. He looks wan and tired, and Logan doesn’t have to ask to know that it’s going to be a bad day.
“Brought you a cup of tea,” he says, and sets the cup and saucer down on the nightstand. Charles doesn’t react, doesn’t acknowledge it or thank him, though he does turn his listless gaze on Logan.
“I miss her.”
“Yeah? Who’s that?”
Charles frowns, and shakes his head. “I don’t…I don’t know,” he whispers, “I should know. But I can’t…why don’t I know?”
“It’s okay. Charles, you--”
“No it’s not bloody okay, Logan! There’s something wrong with me! Something’s wrong with my brain, I can’t remember anything! And I can’t control my powers; I’m a danger to everyone around me! The people I love! Just yesterday I--”
“It was an accident. Everyone’s fine.”
“No!” Charles snaps, lunging forward and grabbing the front of Logan’s shirt, yanking him down onto the bed. “Don’t lie to me, you never have, so don’t start now. I need you to promise me…promise you’ll do what’s right. You won’t let me hurt anyone. You’ll stop me if you have to, can you do that, Logan? Can you?”
The surge of energy seems to dissipate in an instant, and Charles falls back against the pillows with a soft whimper. Logan hands him the cup, holding it along with Charles’ shaking hand, and gently guides it to his lips, watching as Charles takes a long, ragged sip.
“Don’t worry, Charles,” he says, “nothing bad’s gonna happen.”
Charles snorts. “Famous last words.”
----
The room bursts into flames.
----
He doesn’t look back.