AfterLife

Chapter 13

The air crackled with a palpable tension, a strange mix of excitement and anxiety that hung heavy in the dam's corridors. Logan gathered his men, their faces a reflection of his own inner turmoil, a blend of anticipation and apprehension. Gear was checked, weapons were readied, and final preparations were made. Today, the remnants of The Nautilus would arrive, a reunion that held both the promise of hope and the sting of loss.

Logan's heart pounded in his chest, a frantic rhythm that echoed the urgency of the moment. He ran a hand over his worn equipment, the familiar weight a comfort in the face of the unknown. The journey to the pod landing site was short, but every step felt like an eternity. The landscape outside the dam was a stark reminder of the world they had returned to, a world scarred and transformed, yet still holding onto a fragile beauty.

As they approached the landing zone, Logan's eyes scanned the horizon, searching for the telltale signs of the arriving pods. The first sight he saw was his father, standing alongside the elders, their faces etched with a mixture of relief and awe as they took in the scenery. It was a poignant moment, a reunion of leaders in a world drastically different from the one they had left.

Then, he saw her. Angel.

A wave of emotion washed over him, a surge of longing and relief that propelled him forward. He broke away from his men, running towards her, his footsteps pounding against the scorched earth. He reached her, pulling her into a tight embrace, a desperate attempt to recapture the warmth and familiarity he had longed for.

She hugged him back, but there was something different about her embrace, a subtle shift in the way she held him, a distance that chilled him to the bone. He pulled back slightly, searching her eyes, but found only a veiled sadness. He leaned in, kissing her, but even that felt different, a forced intimacy that left a hollow ache in his chest.

Logan and his men led the weary survivors back to the dam, their footsteps echoing through the corridors, a somber procession of hope and loss. The old wing, now cleaned and prepped, became their temporary home, a refuge from the harsh realities of the outside world.

Later, Logan walked Angel into one of the newly prepared rooms, a space that was meant to be a sanctuary, but now felt like a battleground. He closed the door behind them, the silence amplifying the unspoken tension. He studied her, noticing the subtle changes he had missed in the initial rush of their reunion. Her eyes were shadowed, her movements hesitant, and her smile, when she offered one, was strained and forced.

"Angel, what's wrong?" he asked, his voice soft but laced with concern.

She hesitated, her gaze dropping to the floor, her fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of her dress. "Logan," she began, her voice barely a whisper, "there's something I need to tell you."

He waited, his heart pounding in his chest, a sense of dread creeping into his soul.

"I'm… I'm pregnant," she said, her voice trembling.

A wave of joy washed over him, a surge of pure, unadulterated happiness. He reached out, pulling her into another embrace, his mind filled with visions of their future, a future he had almost given up on.

"That's… that's wonderful, Angel," he stammered, his voice thick with emotion.

"I'm… I'm four and a half weeks along," she continued, her voice barely audible.

The joy drained from his face, replaced by a chilling realization. He did the math in his head, the numbers swirling in his mind, refusing to align. The timeline didn't match. It couldn't be his.

His stomach dropped, a sickening lurch that sent a wave of nausea through him. He pulled away, his eyes searching hers, desperate for a denial, a glimmer of hope.

"It's… it's not mine, is it?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Tears swelled in her eyes, glistening like shattered diamonds. She slowly shook her head, the silent denial echoing through the room, shattering the fragile remnants of their love.

A coldness spread through him, a numbness that threatened to consume him. He ran a hand down his face, his fingers tracing the lines of exhaustion and betrayal.

"Who?" he asked, his voice hollow.

She didn't answer, her gaze fixed on the floor, her body trembling.

"Who was it, Angel?" he yelled, his voice breaking, tears threatening to spill. "Who was it?"

She jumped, her body flinching at the sound of his voice. Then, in a whisper, she said, "Chris."

The name hit him like a physical blow, a crushing weight that stole his breath. Chris, his best friend, the man he had trusted, the man who had sworn to protect her.

His knees weakened, and he stumbled back, his mind reeling, unable to comprehend the depth of the betrayal. He ran a hand down his face, his fingers digging into his skin, a desperate attempt to anchor himself to reality.

"We… we thought you were dead," Angel stammered, her voice filled with a desperate plea for understanding. "When the shuttle blew…"

He chuckled darkly, a hollow, bitter sound that echoed through the room. "So, you honor my death by f*****g my best friend," he said, his voice laced with sarcasm.

He couldn't look at her, the sight of her a searing reminder of his shattered trust. He turned, storming out of the room, his footsteps pounding against the floor, a desperate attempt to outrun the pain.

He didn't know where he was going, but he needed to escape, to find a place where he could process the devastation that had just ripped his world apart. He made his way to the gym, the familiar scent of sweat and leather a grim comfort. He found a punching bag, its worn surface a silent witness to countless hours of frustration and pain.

He stood before it, his fists clenched, his body trembling with a mixture of rage and grief. He began to punch, each blow a release of the pent-up anger and sorrow that threatened to consume him. He punched and punched, the rhythmic thud of his fists against the bag a cathartic release, a desperate attempt to exorcise the demons that haunted his soul.

The rhythm of his blows was a primal scream, a desperate attempt to drown out the echo of Angel's words. He felt the sting of his knuckles, the ache in his muscles, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the agony that tore at his heart. He was lost in a haze of fury and despair, each punch a declaration of his shattered trust.

He didn't notice Connor enter the gym, his footsteps muffled by the rhythmic thud of the punching bag. Connor stood at the doorway, his eyes widening as he took in the scene. Logan's body was a blur of motion, his fists a relentless storm against the worn leather.

"Logan?" Connor called out, his voice hesitant, laced with concern.

Logan didn't respond, his blows continuing with a savage intensity.

Connor slowly approached, his footsteps echoing in the vast space. He stopped a few feet away, his gaze fixed on Logan's tormented face.

"Logan, what's wrong?" he asked, his voice soft but firm.

Logan finally stopped, his chest heaving, his body slick with sweat. He turned to Connor, his eyes filled with a raw, primal grief.

"She's pregnant," he said, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper. "Four and a half weeks."

Connor's eyes widened, his face etched with confusion. "But… that doesn't make sense," he stammered.

"It's Chris's," Logan said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "She said they thought I was dead."

A wave of understanding washed over Connor's face, followed by a surge of sympathy. He stepped forward, placing a hand on Logan's shoulder.

"Logan, I'm so sorry," he said, his voice filled with genuine compassion.

Logan shrugged off his hand, his gaze fixed on the floor. "I don't understand," he whispered, his voice broken. "How could she? How could he?"

Connor didn't have an answer, but he knew that words were inadequate in the face of such devastation. He pulled Logan into a hug, holding him close as the tears finally began to fall, a torrent of grief that washed over them both.

They stood there for a long time, the silence broken only by the sound of Logan's sobs. Connor held him tight, offering silent support, a friend's unwavering presence in the midst of a storm. He knew that Logan would need time to heal, to process the betrayal that had shattered his world. But he also knew that Logan was strong, that he would find a way to rebuild, to rise from the ashes of his broken heart.