X-Men: Dark Mirror (24 page)

"No," Jean said to Rogue. "There's no way to hide, not unless we have some natural shielding. Kurt, when he teleports, is always hard to find. Gambit, too. His brain ... scrambles things. I doubt we're that lucky."

"So if the police do not stop us, then we risk having our minds destroyed." Kurt sighed. "Lovely."

"We don't have any options," Scott said. "We have to go home."

And what a shame it had to be under such terrifying circumstances. Jean knew the exact process of destroying an individual's mind. It was something she had contemplated quite often—not because she wished to harm anyone, but because she wished to know exactly what to do in order to avoid some accidental, and quite devastating, use of her telepathy.

To destroy a mind to rip from it the essence of person- hood, was the ultimate in tortures—and crimes. Jean did not want to consider it as the possible end for herself or her friends. She would rather face death than that, which was no better than being a zombie; a body, a shell, with nothing inside but the most rudimentary instincts.

Late that afternoon they passed into North Dakota, and it was there, caught within a parted sea of hot golden grasses, at least thirty miles from the nearest town, that their little car blew out its tire. The trunk did not have a spare.

"Pack it up," Scott said. "We re walking."

"We better find a way of getting off the road before some cop checks out this car. Minute they run anything on the plates, they're going to figure something's fishy. And if we're the only ones on the road ..." Logan's voice trailed away.

It was simply one more blow against them. Jean thought she should probably count her blessings that they had made it this far, but it was difficult to think about the positive when the sun began to set and the few cars on the road sped by with drivers and passengers who looked at them as though they were bogeymen, or the prime suspects of some horrible highway ax murder. Jean wanted to yell "Boo!" every time she saw their expressions.

"You can't really blame people," Rogue said, wiping sweat from her face. "I mean, there are a lot of crazies out in the world."

"Fear should not hinder compassion," Kurt said.

"That's easy enough for us to say," Logan countered.

"We re trained professionals. We fight space aliens with our bare hands, for Christ's sake."

"Does compassion mean less when you're a superhero, then?" Kurt wondered out loud. "Without that inherent risk, that choice of possible harm, does a kind act from one of us count as much as the kindness of a normal human being?"

"Kurt," Scott said. "Does it matter?"

"Ja." Kurt turned around, walking backward so he could look at them. "We are powerful people. Or at least, we were. But how often do we use that power to help those without? Our focus is always on mutants, and that is right and good, because there are also mutants who have nothing. But what else? What else have we done?"

"Saved the world," Logan said.

"Several worlds, actually," Scott added. "Maybe the universe?"

"Now you're exaggerating."

Kurt threw up his hands. "You see? We have saved the world, but did we actually do anything to make it a better place? We shelter mutants at the school, but do we teach them how to interact with humans? Do we encourage them to make friends with different kinds of children? If we isolate them, do we teach compassion or superiority?"

"Kurt," Rogue protested. "We're trying to create a world where mutants and humans can live together."

"Perhaps, but I am no longer convinced we are going about it in the right way."

Logan grunted. "We do what we can, Kurt. We do the best that we can, with what we've got"

Kurt began to respond, but instead narrowed his eyes, staring up the road. "I believe there is a car coming." There was no excitement in his voice. Just a dull announcement of yet another vehicle that would speed past and leave them to the mercies of the oncoming night. Jean wondered how cold it got out here.

Much to their surprise, though, the approaching truck stopped in the middle of the road. A man looked out at them. He had gray hair, blue eyes, and a nice mouth. A dog sat in the passenger seat. It had the same coloring.

"Was that your car that I saw broken down back there?"

"Yes," Scott said. "I don't suppose you could give us a lift into town?"

The man hesitated, studying them.

"I could," he said slowly. "What kind of people are you?"

"Excuse me?" Scott said. "I don't understand."

"Are you good people?"

It was a surreal question. Not many people ever asked Jean if she was "good," though she found it rather refreshing that the old man expected a straight answer.

"Usually," Logan said, looking him in the eye. "Depends how good the other side is."

"Fair enough," said the man, seemingly satisfied at the answer—or the reaction to it. "You can sit in the back of the truck."

"Thank you," Jean said. "Thank you very much."

The man shrugged. The dog watched them, careful.

"You see?" Kurt said, when they were moving and the wind blew long and hard against their bodies. "Compassion. One normal man, helping five strangers on an empty freeway."

"Let's not start this again," Logan said. "If it makes you happy, we'll send him a medal when we get home."

"I would prefer instead that we emulate his kindness."

"I thought you said that wouldn't mean as much because we're mutants," Rogue pointed out.

"It still means something," Kurt said. Jean felt sorry for him, but remained silent. Philosophical differences were always impossible to argue, and at the moment, she was content with merely watching the world go by, savoring the warmth of her husband, soft and small at her side.

And then, unexpectedly, she felt a strange tickling sensation in her brain. Like fingers, scraping the surface of her mind, looking for openings. Startling, to say the least The prelude to an invasion, maybe. For some reason, she did not feel afraid.

"We've got company again," she said, and tapped her forehead. The tickling stopped. Everyone, even Logan, looked at her in concern.

"Are we being tracked?" Scott asked.

"I wish I knew. It's impossible to tell. All it felt like was someone brushing past my brain. I don't think anything more was done."

"I hope not," Scott said. "We're dealing with a lot of unknowns here, not the least of which is whether we'll be able to make it home."

"We're moving in the right direction, aren't we?"

Logan said. "What more do you want? Just give it one step at a time."

One step. Easy enough. Jean knew how to be stubborn. It seemed to be a mutant power all its own, one shared by all the X-Men. It was a wonder Charles ever got them listening to anything at all, and probably explained the occasional soap opera atmosphere of the Mansion.

They drove in silence until they reached town. Or rather, the one lone gas station perched on the edge of the freeway. Sunset had come and gone, but the darkening sky, pricked with the first stars of evening, still bled prairie purple with a blush of gold.

Their driver pulled off the freeway and turned into the gas station. He parked beside one of the pumps and got out. So did they.

"Not much around here," said the man, unscrewing the gas cap.

"We'll make do," Scott said. "Thank you for taking us this far. We can help pay for the gas."

"Nah," he said, quiet. "Wasn't out of my way." He paused for a moment, and then added, "You all looking for work?"

The question surprised Jean. She did not know how to answer, and for a moment, the rest of the X-Men shared her confusion. They looked at each other.

"It's not a hard question," said the man. "And you certainly don't have to say yes."

"We're trying to get home," Scott said. "Back to New York. It's an emergency."

"You all have the same emergency?"

"We're family," Jean said, irritated by his subtle skepticism.

"Fair enough." He started pumping gas. "Even if you don't want work, you're all welcome to stay at my place tonight. Just me and the dog."

Scott said, "I think we might intrude."

"And I think you'll be spending a cold night on the prairie if you don't take me up. That's your choice, though. You might get a ride, but I doubt it."

"Is there a reason you're so keen on having us at your home?" Logan asked.

"Every man has a reason for the things he does," he said.

Scott looked at them, and Jean saw her own feelings mirrored on his face. Yes, they needed a place to stay- even better, a way to keep moving—but this was
just...
odd. Even Kurt, for all his talk about compassion, seemed reserved.

You're jaded.
Maybe, but for a good reason.

"Thank you for your offer," Scott said. "Really. What we need, though, is transportation."

The pump clicked. The man removed it and screwed the cap back on. His movements were careful, deliberate.

"I might be able to help you with that, too. That is, if you'll help me with something. Shouldn't take long. Just a couple of hours."

"It's not illegal, is it?" Rogue asked.

He smiled. "No. Just a little something that needs more hands than I got."

"That why you pulled over?" Logan asked.

"Maybe. What do you say?"

Scott hesitated, and then, slow, stuck out his hand. The man looked at it for a moment, smiled again, and shook.

"Okay," he said. "Let's go home."

He said his name was James and that his dog was called Dog, and that they had been alone for a week. The wife was dead, gone from a heart attack because there was no hospital close enough to help. In this part of the country, he said, you lived on your own and you died on your own, and that was the way of it, the price for solitude and minding your own business.

His house was very small and old and white, with real wood siding that had seen better days and some pots filled with red geraniums that desperately needed water. The house and the nearby barn were the only structures for miles, and so they had some warning, even in the waning light.

The yard was dusty. Jean sneezed twice and wiped her eyes. Her body ached as she uncurled from the hard seat of the truck cab.

"Come on in," said James. He walked right into the unlocked house, and Jean was the first to follow him. The interior was dark, but pleasantly decorated with an elegant spare hand that believed in the quality of old hardwood, white walls, and the occasional splash of color. Jean thought there might only be four rooms: the kitchen, the living room, a closed door that was probably a bedroom, and beyond that another closed door. A bathroom,

maybe. She hoped it was a bathroom. She needed one.

"Are you hungry?" James asked. "There's not much here, but you're welcome to it."

"That's all right," Scott said. "Perhaps you'd like to tell us about the work you need done?"

James nodded. "I suppose now is good. I've been . . . putting it off. From doing it myself, you see. Too difficult, even though it shouldn't be. You're all young, though. Younger than me. I appreciate this."

He walked to the first door on Jean's left and opened it. Inside, on the bed, she saw a body. Jean did not know what shocked her more: that the body was dead, a corpse, or that it was not quite human.

"Whoa," Logan breathed.

James e
ntered and sat on the edge of th
e bed. He touched a wrinkled limb, one of many, folded like thick ribbons on the still narrow chest.

"This is Milly," he said into the breathless quiet. "My wife."

Jean walked to the end of the bed, and felt her friends follow. Except for Logan's outburst, they all remained quiet, respectful of the reverence in the old man's face.

"Wasn't she beautiful?" he asked, and laid his hand on Dog, who nudged close between his legs.

Milly did have a lovely face; Jean thought she must have been a true beauty in her youth. The rest of her body, though, was nothing more than a series of tentacles attached to a slender torso that had no discernible arms or legs.

"She must have been resourceful," Jean said, gende, unsure exactly what to say, what was appropriate under such unusual circumstances.

"Oh, yes. She had to be." James smiled. "We were together almost forty years. Sweet baby."

He finally looked at them and his eyes were bright and wet "I don't want Milly at the local cemetery. They never understood her, anyway. She was just a sideshow. So I want her here, where she was happy. Where we can be together. That's the job I have for you. I need help digging the grave."

"Of course," Jean said, gazing down upon that still face, the deformed body. "Anything."

"I got some shovels in the barn. I'll show you the place. The ground is real hard, which is part of the reason I kept waiting."

He took them to the barn. Outside was dark and cool, the sky heavy with stars. There were no floodlights, nothing to see by, but James led them with an unerring sense of direction and the barn, thankfully, did have a light. It was clear that livestock had been kept there in the past, but now the floor and stalls were clean and dry, and held only the faintest scent of animal.

The shovels were by the door. Three of them, plus two pickaxes.

"The perfect number of people," James said. "I got lucky."

"There wasn't anyone you could ask for help?" Logan shouldered a pickax.

"None I wanted to ask," James said. "Milly and I were pretty much alone out here. She had no family, and mine gave me up when I married her. We never had children. Milly just wasn't built that way. It would have been nice, though."