STORM

In the six years since the death of the cities Gant had built his personal kingdom at Crazy Horse.

Stripping the Thinker itself for raw materials, he’d constructed a miniature city beneath the mountain. Logan saw only parts of it as they marched him down hallways, past labs and crew quarters, through a courtyard, past food-storage lockers…but he was impressed.

Yet he did not ask questions. His curiosity about Gant was canceled by his consuming desire to see Jessica, to hold her again…She’s here, he told himself, here in one of these buildings… Escape, at this point, was a useless hope. In addition to the chokechain and tapewire, the four Sandmen who walked with him (one leading, one to either side, another following) all carried Guns in their hands.

He would do as they instructed. If Gant had not been lying, he’d be allowed to see Jess after whatever torture the man had set up for him to endure. And Logan had endured much in his life. He would endure this—and hope.

Jess, Jess…I love you!

“Stop here,” said the lead Sandman.

They had reached a wide duralloy door, set flush into the corridor’s end. The door was solid metal, and smelled of oil. One of the Sandmen unlocked it, swung it back. “Inside,” he said.

Logan entered—and the heavy door crashed shut behind him.

Soft laughter in the corridor, and the Sandmen were gone.

Logan was alone.

The chamber was large, perhaps twenty by twenty feet, of bolted metal, totally bare. Not a single item of any kind—just metal walls, ceiling, floor. And, as Logan tested the surface, cool to the touch.

There were round holes of varying size punched into the ceiling, scores of them. And as many in the floor. The walls were vented, top to bottom.

Am I to be gassed in here? Is that Gant’s plan? Ironic. Saved in New York from the same fate I’ll suffer here…Will Gant really allow me to see Jess? Will I leave this room alive?

Logan raised his head, tensing his body; he swung around abruptly.

Someone was touching him!

No, not someone. Something: a slight draft of currented air, touching at his face, his hair…emanating

from the vents. Fresh. Not gas. Fresh air.

But subtly increasing, gradually becoming stronger.

A soft, pattering sound—and Logan felt wetness against his skin. Slow drops of water, dripping down on him from a multitude of ceiling holes.

A muted rumble from the room, a faint, far-distant sound, like the throb of giant drums.

The current of air had become a breeze, blowing chill against Logan’s rapidly-dampening uniform.

The patter of drops from the ceiling intensified, became a steady downfall, soaking Logan’s hair and clothing.

The breeze soon mounted to a wind, whipping at Logan in cold gusts from the wallvents surrounding him.

The downpour increased to a fierce curtain of iced sleet, and the muted drum-rumble boomed into full thunder, assaulting Logan’s eardrums.

He staggered back, dazed, helpless—as the wind punished him, building in force by the second.

Now another frightening element manifested itself in the chamber: firebolts of lightning danced and crackled around him, first at one wall, then at the next.

Logan clapped both hands to his ears to muffle the thunder’s brutal roar, his mouth gaping in shocked agony.

A solid gust of wind slapped him to the floor. He rose to his knees, fighting for balance on the rainslick metal, crawled toward a corner to lessen the storm’s impact—but a sizzle of heat-lightning forced him back to the room’s center.

The wind was a demon’s shriek, the thunderclaps now impossibly loud in the metal chamber. Something began cutting at Logan’s skin, drawing blood along his cheek. Hailstones—sharp-edged pellets of cold ice which pounded and slashed at his unprotected head and shoulders.

Now the wind suddenly reversed direction, taking Logan by surprise; under its gale force, he was toppled and slammed into the wall. Again the hurricane blast abruptly reversed direction, and Logan was hurled across the slippery floor into the opposite wall, striking the metal with bonecrushing impact.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Viciously pelted and buffeted, Logan lay gasping on his back, blood running from a dozen wounds, the hail and rain drumming his flesh.

He opened his mouth and cried out, but his voice was swallowed up in the cruel, unending din, as the storm raged.