Diary of the Second Holocaust 8/14
by eponine119
eponine119@att.net

	xxx		xxx		xxx

	I feel like Snow White. Someday my prince will come, but until then
I've got a couple of little boys who are depending on me.  I'm sure no
one has characterized Alex Krycek as a little boy in a very long time,
but he should watch his behavior in the future unless he wants it to
stick.  He's been playing in the dirt, I can smell it on him as he lies
next to me, sleeping hard and sweating.  The jeans would be
uncomfortable, but I can't imagine sleeping with a prosthetic arm.  I
couldn't even sleep with my retainer in when I was fifteen.
	Mulder whispered into my ear that he loved my teeth.  
	I don't want to think about having a prosthetic arm.  We've all given
too much to this.  I wish I knew where Mulder is.
	Krycek can't keep his hands to himself and he talks in his sleep,
snuffling and snorting half in Russian.  I'd rather sleep with Spender,
who never seems to change position in his chair and never complains of
cricks or aches.  I sit up and watch him for awhile as Krycek begins to
slobber on my hip, his hot arm snaking around my back.  I need air, I
need water, and I think I need some more M&Ms.
	I just need Mulder.
	I've been in this room long enough to maneuver perfectly in the
darkness, slipping the cellophane cover from the thin plastic cup and
filling it with water from the tap. I never would have drunk tap water
before this. It really must be the end of the world.  It's not cold
enough and I let it run, gulping down glass after glass until my stomach
threatens to burst.
	I slip outside and a mist of fog settles against my skin.  My watch
tells me it's 2 in the morning.  This is our last night here.  The cool
air feels like the water sliding down my throat - refreshing, but not
satisfying.  It's quiet.
	"Are you okay?"  Company. I turn and see a tired-eyed Spender blinking
at me.  He's got a massive bruise where Krycek hit him.
	I nod. "Fine."  He nods and silence settles. Blessed silence.  I search
for something to say, but the words aren't there.  It's nice to have
someone who is comfortable with the quiet.  It was like that between
Mulder and me sometimes. 
	"I just wanted to make sure you were okay," he says, either inviting me
to say more or making an excuse to go back inside and go back to sleep. 
I look at him and can't decide which.  I nod again and realize he's
shivering.  It is actually cold out here in the darkness.  
	"You can go back in," I tell him. He makes no move for the door.  He's
waiting for me, to make certain I come inside safely.  It's sweet and
annoying at the same time.  I come  up with some change from my pocket
and go to the vending machine, aware that his eyes follow me the entire
way.  The packet of M&Ms is open before I return to his side.  It's
later than I thought - the first pink and yellow rays of sunshine are
starting to streak the sky.
	Spender starts when I grab his hand and I realize I've been too rough. 
Gentler, I turn his fingers over in my hand and open his palm, studying
the square fingers.  I pour half of the M&Ms over the lines and creases
and he closes his hand involuntarily, almost finding a smile for me. 
It's like feeding a baby bird.  He pops the candy into his mouth.  It's
like a goddamn commercial, the way we bond over chocolate and the
sunrise.
	The door makes a noise when it opens.  "What the hell are you doing out
here?" Krycek demands, his voice high with irritation.
	I turn, all emotion masked behind my monotonous tone.  "It's time to
go," I say and walk back into the motel before either of the men.

	xxx		xxx		xxx

The Shovel and the Shallow Grave

	She jumps when she sees the puddle of blood staining the wood floor of
the cabin and Krycek is right there to comfort her.  I seethe with a
quiet anger the way I have for the days it took us to drive up to
Quebec, sitting in the back seat like a child while meaningful
discussion took place over my head.  I couldn't even make the attempt;
the front seat was his.  Scully drove.  Even when she slept and I took
over,  Krycek remained in the passenger seat like a warning to me.
	Krycek doesn't know as much as he pretends to.  I hope she sees through
his glib talk and excuses.
	She turns and looks from the stain to me, as though I am responsible
for what happened to Rita.  I hold her eyes, my only protestation of
innocence.  I held her when she sobbed and I did as she asked me when
she screamed.  I'm not the one who killed her.  Krycek puts a shovel
into my hands and I rip my eyes away from Scully.  The pain is sharp and
sudden.  He wants me to dig her up.  "I'll show you where," he says and
I follow him from the cabin, taking one last look at Scully and
wondering where Krycek hid the gun when he cleaned up.
	He points and stands back.  Spring was quick to claim the land back and
flowers have already begun to sprout on the dark, upturned earth.  He
didn't put her very deep and the stench is terrible, but not as bad as
the decay.   I've never seen an old, dead body before and the coffee I
drank at six o'clock that morning rushes up the back of my throat.  I
drop the shovel and turn away, wanting to run.
	Scully is there.  Her face is hard, a ceramic mask.  She kneels next to
Rita and examines her like she was never a person, like she never
breathed and felt and fought.  "I don't think there's anything we can
do," she says.  Krycek nods.  Scully's produced a ziploc bag and slips
some tissue inside in spite of her words.  As she gets to her feet, she
places a hand on my arm, almost comfortingly, and walks back to the
cabin.  Krycek follows her, leaving me with the shovel and the shallow
grave.  
	When I turn around and look, he has his hands on her.  Why does she let
him do that? I wonder, realizing that she  must like it.  Like him.  I
must be wrong about Scully.  I begin to put the dirt back over Rita's
ravaged body.  The muscles burn but I move until I'm drenched in sweat
and she is no longer exposed to the elements and prying eyes and larger
predators.  Only the bugs and the bacteria will have her now.
	I walk slowly back to the cabin, measuring my footsteps, uncertain what
I will find when I arrive.  Krycek has a way about him that has nothing
to do with his green eyes and his eyelashes and his little turned up
nose or even his damnably tight black jeans.  It's a relaxation I'll
never know, a comfortableness and ease.  They've been waiting for me and
I'm glad I walked slowly.  "What next?" I ask.
	"I need access to a lab," Scully says, looking at Krycek.  He can
arrange anything.  I'm just along for the ride.
	"Tonight," says Krycek, paging through a novel from the built-in
shelves.
	Oh god. Scully's diary.  It's here.  If she finds it...shame floods me
at having read it, for being privy to her most closely held, painful
thoughts.  Of course as I panic she rises and walks to the shelves.  But
she doesn't search.  Her small, capable hands go straight to the Yahtzee
game, and her eyes turn to me.  An invitation.
	I played with Rita and now she's dead.  
	I sit down on the floor anyway.

	xxx		xxx		xxx

	"You call this access?" I scoff, knowing Krycek hates it when I
complain.  We are in the midst of breaking into an office complex on the
outskirts of Quebec.  I wonder if the alarm will sound French when it
goes off.
	"Better than nothing," he whispers tensely and jerks his arm.  The door
opens and he shoves me inside, following so closely I can feel the heat
of his body on my back.  Spender's bringing up the rear.  Krycek wanted
to leave him  back at the cabin, but I couldn't.  I don't want to be
alone with Krycek, who seems so angry but his eyes didn't change at the
sight of the dead woman back there in the woods.  I remember when an
autopsy in progress made him convulse and gag.  The way Spender did
today.  I want to tell him not to turn out like Krycek, but he probably
won't even have the chance.
	Besides, I couldn't imagine Krycek washing out test tubes and helping
in the lab.  
	The skin sample is useless when I get it under the microscope.  I want
to toss it to the floor and hear the slide shatter.  Instead, I turn
calmly and fold my arms, catching Krycek's eyes.  "I need answers if
this is going to work," I tell him.
	"Anything you need to know, sweetheart."  He's doing this purposely to
make me uncomfortable, he must be.  I allow him to toy with the strand
of hair that's escaped my ponytail.
	"The bees are carrying the alien virus.  The black oil," I say and he
nods, his fingers still moving over the strand of hair.  It pulls lights
at my scalp, prickling.  Like most women, I do have a soft center and
right now it's focused on that feeling and the fantasy that next he will
take my head in his hands and kiss me.  I don't want to kiss him and I
keep my voice firm.  "It makes humans the host to the monster that rips
out of them."  He nods again.  "The aliens are going to turn us into
artificial wombs."
	"Something like that."  He drops my hair.  I wonder what Spender thinks
of all this, how much he knows, but if I glance away from Krycek, my
power will be lost.
	"We need a vaccine.  To prevent the spread of infection.  Or a cure,
like the one that was used on me."  Krycek is staring back, so I must be
correct.  "I'm not an immunologist."
	"You're all we've got."  The fabric of his jeans whispers as he shifts
position.  His gaze focused on me is intense.  "You received the only
dose of the weak vaccine and it saved you."
	The only dose?  And they chose me.  I'm not touched, really, I have to
wonder why me.  As I've wondered so often in the dead of night for the
last four years since my abduction, why me.  Krycek doesn't know I
remember him.  Now I turn my head.  "Spender, I need a hand here."  He
approaches instantly, a good Igor doing the mad scientist's bidding.  I
put the length of rubber tubing into his hands and he looks at it like
he doesn't understand. Maybe it would have been easier to tie around my
own arm, using my teeth like drug addicts in the movies.  I hold out my
arm and he ties it gently, as though he's afraid he'll hurt me. 
"Tighter," I urge and Krycek snickers.  I glare at him and Spender yanks
the tubing.
	I look down.  For someone as pale as I am, I have terrible veins.  One
finally appears and I spear it, sucking out my own blood and watching it
fill a tube.  The only sound in the room is my breathing, much louder
than the buzzing of the fluorescent lights overhead.  At least we're not
doing this by flashlight.  The tube fills and I pull the needle out,
watching the blood well up in the crook of my elbow.  I'm just going to
leave it, but Spender stops me, unknotting the tubing and wiping my
blood away with his bare fingers.  No doctor I know would take such a
risk and I stare at him.
	"Scully?" Krycek's voice reminds me why I'm here.  
	I whirl around and look at him, staring openly at his prosthetic.  I
know why he lost his arm, Mulder told me about what happened in Russia. 
I suspect Mulder is immune to the alien virus and at least I know he's
safe that way. If only I knew where he was.  But there are larger issues
here than my poor broken heart.  "You're next."
	"Uh-uh," he protests, sounding all of seven years old.
	"You were vaccinated in Russia. Like Mulder," I say.  He looks
impressed, but still walks away when I approach him with the needle. 
"Damn it, hold still," I cry and Spender grabs Krycek from behind,
trying to hold him for me.  Krycek turns on him and knocks Spender to
the floor  "Are you hurt?" I ask, not taking my eyes off Krycek who is
behaving like a cornered animal.  Spender mutters but he's not hurt. 
"Krycek," I say softly. "It's just a little  blood.  It won't hurt at
all."  He's afraid.  "I won't hurt you."
	Because I've implied that he's afraid, he thrusts his arm out, so
forcefully he almost punches me in the stomach.  I draw the blood as
quickly as I can and he turns away disgustedly, glaring at Spender
before slipping into the hallway to stand guard.
	"How can I help?" Spender asks.
	"Just stay out of my way," I advise and he does so, immediately, moving
back to watch me work.  The should be a similar element in my blood as
Krycek's.  That will  be the antibody to the black oil.  But Krycek's
blood is different.  It looks like Mulder's after he'd  been exposed to
the toxin in the green alien blood.  It's slightly thicker, filled with
coagulants.  I've never seen anything like it.
	Then I see the same elements in my blood, thousands of times smaller. 
It looks like the black oil.  It looks like the stuff that almost killed
Skinner.  "Krycek!" I holler, but he's out in the hallway.  Spender's
jumped at the sound of my scream.  "Go get him."
	He goes wordlessly and I stare at my discovery.  Are these nanites,
living inside of us?  I can't figure out what the hell they are. 
"What?" Krycek is angry and his look is dark.
	"Come take a look at this."
	"It won't mean anything to me."  He sounds so lazy.
	"Look at it," I order and he ambles over to the microscope where I've
inserted his slide.  "That's your blood."
	"Is that what blood's supposed to look like?" he asks.
	"No," I answer and he raises his head.  "Do you know anything about
nanotechnology?"
	"That's not nanotechnology," he informs me.
	"Guess you do," I say, keeping the ball in the air.  "What is it?"
	"You're the doctor, you tell me."
	I really want to punch him.  "It must be the immunity," I say, turning
back to the microscope, my mind full of theories I'm not going to be
able to prove.  The foremost one in my mind involves blocked receptors,
possibly on the cell DNA itself.  I'm not going to be able to do this
alone.
	"Good," says Krycek.  But I'm working, and I pretend not to have heard
him.  I work and work and when he says, "It's almost six," I wave my
hand, wanting just a few more minutes even though my feet and back are
aching and my knees are about to give out.  "We have to go. Now."  His
voice is insistent. When I look up, the room swims before it pulls into
focus.  The sun has risen.  "Pack your stuff and let's go."
	I store the slides and samples, taking the supplies from this company.
I'm stealing.  I wish I could steal a microscope, too.  The cooler seems
impossibly heavy at the end of my arm and Spender takes it from me.  We
get into the car and pull out just as the first employee enters the
other end of the parking lot.  It feels so good to sit down in the
passenger seat and I let my head fall against the window.  The next
thing I know, Krycek is trying to pull me out of the car.  "What?"
	"We're here," he says. "I was trying not to wake you."
	"You failed."  I put my feet on the ground and push away from him.
	"You need some rest."  He's playing with my hair again.
	"Probably," I agree.  "Don't we need to be moving on?"
	"We can wait a few  hours. Until rush hour is over," he allows.
	"Where are we going?" I ask him. He is the one who knows what's in the
cards.
	"I'll tell you later.  Get some sleep," he orders.  I walk into the
cabin and Spender's found the chair, just like in the motel room.  He
already looks like he's asleep.  The quilt on the bed smells musty but I
wrap it around my body anyway.  It occurs to me then that this is where
Marita slept and my eyes refuse to close.  Krycek has locked the door
and taken a seat and pulled out a handheld computer.
	"That's cool," I say.
	He looks at me. "I thought I told you to sleep."
	"I don't always do what I'm told.  Where'd you get it?"  I drag the
quilt across the floor with me to look over his shoulder.  It's the
smallest computer I've ever seen.  It looks like a toy.
	"Japanese prototype," he says. "I used to have connections."
	"Can I look at it when you're finished?" I ask and for a second I think
he's going to close it up and slip it back into his jacket pocket.  I
guess the answer is no.  "What're you doing?"
	"Checking the news reports."  Using the stylus, he scrolls quickly
through screen after screen and I try to figure out how something so
tiny can be connected to the internet.  It's thinner even than the
cellular phone that never left my side.  "Damn it."
	"What?"
	"Bees."
	"Where?"
	"California."  He put the computer back in his pocket and crosses the
room, kicking at Spender's legs as though he were a dog.  "Get up, we
have to leave.  We're going to have to fly."
	"They'll want identification," I say.  At least one of us is supposed
to be dead, and Krycek and I are both fugitives.
	"I know," Krycek snarls.  "We'll have to hurry."

	xxx		xxx		xxx

	They said it never rained in Southern California, but we spent the
afternoon watching the storm from the plate glass window of our motel
room, facing the parking lot, the pool that hadn't been cleaned since a
distant fall, and the motel office.  The girl behind the motel counter
never wavered from her window.  She never turned to computer in front of
her, never picked up a fashion magazine.  She watched the weather and so
did we.  I watched her, but she didn't seem to notice us.
	Krycek was so still he didn't seem to be alive and yet I knew if I
moved, he'd be faster.  Scully's not here to protect me now.  She's
consulting with an old friend, an expert in immunology.  I have no doubt
they have their heads together over their microscopes, comparing notes. 
Anyone else would take advantage of the freedom and have some fun. 
Anyone else visiting a male friend from her college days might be
tempted to make conversation, whip up some spark of flirting.  Scully
never did.
	I have no idea how I came to be obsessed with her.  I never thought it
possible to be obsessed with a woman I spend every waking hour with, but
I haven't solved even half of her mysteries.  I don't like this feeling,
I don't like the way my eyes are drawn to her whenever she's in the
room, even to the point where I can't sleep with her lying in the bed
across the darkened room at night.  It isn't right.
	The clouds are still dark overhead, providing a stark contrast with the
sun trying to emerge from behind them.  The rain is still falling, but
it's gentler now, illuminated by sunlight.  Krycek is watching me.  Is
this how Scully feels under our constant gaze?  I wish he wouldn't look
at me and all I can do is ignore him.  The air is hot with tension,
roiling like the clash of cool and hot air in the clouds above us. 
Thunder booms, impossibly loud, and I fight the urge to cringe.  The
power flickers off and it's dark in the motel room without the
orange-shaded bulb.
	I look at him and his eyes are as dark as the clouds.  When I was a
boy, people told me that when the sky and the air turns green in a
thunderstorm, it means a tornado is coming.  I saw it once, not the
tornado, but the sky as it was happening.  Somewhere unseen, the
whirlwind created a roaring in my ears and I vaguely remember my mother
screaming something about it being a sign.  Even then, I knew it was
just weather.  Krycek's eyes look like that now and I want to back away
from him, but I can't show my fear.
	"Are you afraid of the dark, Jeffrey?" he asks, that voice gliding out,
sliding through my ears and into me, into my stomach which begins to
burn.  If I so much as blink, he'll win, so I don't respond.  He doesn't
move for a long time, like a snake out waiting its prey.  But I can sit
as still as he can when it means avoiding danger or punishment.  I wish
I knew how he did it, drew all the light in the room to him like some
kind of shining messiah.  Even Scully can't look away from him when he
wants to draw her into his spell.
	His hand reaches out to me, following the same trail his voice took,
across my cheek and brushing my ear to grasp the back of my neck like a
lover.  "Don't touch me."
	"What would you do?" he asks me, tightening the grip on my neck.  It's
a warning.  He could kill me, snap my spine in a second, and in my fear
I've let him gain the upper hand.  "Hm?"  Krycek raises an eyebrow to
match the rising tone of his voice, a question that's answerless and
taunting.  If I had a knife, I'd stab him.  I'm going to get a knife and
this isn't going to happen again.
	"I said, don't touch me."  We've been drawn into a mesmerizing dance
and all I can do is raise my voice threateningly.
	With a snap flash of lightning, he drops his hand and it's like the
moment never was.  His eyes are transfixed on the window again as though
something called him to look there.  I frown at him and touch my neck in
a stupid gesture, like I'm proving to myself that it's still there.
	And then I look out the window.
	It's dark with the dancing bodies of the bees.  As they dart this way
and that way, I can sense something angry in them.  Bees can't be
blatantly, hostile, or so I believed until this moment.  I'm out of my
chair and so is Krycek.  His mouth is open and he's staring transfixed
at the motel clerk.  She has streaming brown hair, down to her waist,
now that she's stepped from behind the counter and I can see her.  The
look on her face is horrified as she watches the bees swarm just a glass
window's thickness from her.  She puts both hands on the glass and the
bees seem drawn to her, converging.
	She moves toward the door.  It had a bell on it, I think, when we
checked in. A little bell so she would know to look up from her studying
and no one could sneak up on her.  She doesn't look old enough to be out
of high school.  "Shit, no!" I scream, pounding on the window myself,
but it's as though I don't exist.  The girl moves slowly toward certain
doom, the headband she wears in her hair slipping backwards as the door
closes ominously behind her.
	She's on the ground in ten seconds.  It's the most horrifying thing
I've ever seen in my life.
	He's touching me again, his hand on my wrist the only thing keeping me
from running out the door myself, to try to help her.  I look at him. 
Doesn't he understand?  She's dead.
	He lets go of my wrist.  "I'll let you go, Jeff.  If you want to die,"
he says.
	"We have to do something."  But going outside is clearly not an
option.  The bees continue to swarm.  She must be dead by now.  I hope. 
I feel like a coward.
	Krycek tosses his cell phone at me and I grab it against my stomach,
almost dropping it. My hands are shaking.  I hadn't noticed.  I've got
my finger on the 9 when he says, "Get Scully here now."  He stands by
the window, watching, and I stare at him for a second.  Not 911?  Right,
the bees, the alien virus, did she leave the number?  I tear through the
papers on the bedside table, aware that her pen between her fingers have
littered most of them.  Scully never seemed the type to doodle.  I find
the number and dial it and tell her to get here, now.  The terror in my
voice precludes any questions.  She'll be here.
	When I turn around again, the sun is out.  The rain is gone, the clouds
are gone, and the bees are gone.  They're gone, all of them, like they
never were.  Except for the dead body on the pavement.  My eyes burn and
I look at Krycek.  He's still again.  Waiting for Scully.

end of part eight.
Comments to: eponine119@att.net

Diary of the Second Holocaust 9/14
by eponine119
eponine119@att.net

	xxx		xxx		xxx

	Spender trails me like a goddamn puppy who's wanted to go outside all
afternoon.  I had him going good before.  He looked half hopeful and
half terrified.  I'd almost made myself believe I wanted to kill him. 
As a rule, I don't play with my victims.  I don't even think of them as
victims.  I'm an assassin, I kill people who deserve to be killed, and I
go about my business.  Kinda like John Cusack in that stupid movie, only
I'm not going to the prom with Minnie Driver.  I'll admit I'm still a
little upset about Marita.  But Spender's easier to control when he's
afraid - I learned that from his father.  He almost wet his pants when
the bees came.  I didn't expect him to try to go after the girl.
	It's good that he saw.
	I'm glad Scully missed it, I realize as her car speeds up, screeching
to a halt just short of banging into the wall of the motel.  She can't
drive worth a damn.  It's more annoying than cute.  She jumps out of the
car and I head out of the motel with Spender dogging my heels.  He's so
into Scully, half the time I can barely keep from laughing.  If I burst
out laughing for no reason, though, Scully would think I'm nuts and she
already knows I can't be trusted.  Observant girl.
	Spender doesn't rush to the object of his affection and jump on her,
licking her face and sniffing her crotch.  He's the picture of restraint
as he barely glances at Scully and races to the dead woman.  The stings
have welled up and her face is misshapen.  Scully runs after him, her
feet confident in her high heels on the wet pavement.  I amble after
them.  Nothing I can do. She's already dead, and that's the only
specialty I have.  Knew I should have finished high school.
	"Be careful," Scully barks out just as Spender's about to touch the
woman.  His hands hover mid-air and he looks at her.  "There could be
bees trapped in her clothing or, ugh, her hair."  She moves handfuls of
the stuff out of the way to put two fingers to the dead girl's neck,
checking for a pulse.
	"I think she's dead," I say, bitingly sarcastic. My best Mulder
imitation.  She gives me that unamused look she seems to have reserved
for him.
	"What the hell happened here, Krycek?"  I love it when she says my name
like that.  It crunches in her mouth.  She's so damned angry.
	"I guess they're still using bees after all."  I jam my hands into my
pockets and look at her.  "Unless fire ants can fly?"  It's an actual
question and she shakes her head.  "What'd your friend tell you?"
	"I had to leave before we could draw any conclusions.  He said he'd
keep working on it."
	"He didn't think it was weird?"  I ask her.
	"He's met Mulder."  Her mouth almost manages the shadow of a smile. 
Thinking of Mulder. How dreary.  "We have to get this girl to a
hospital," Scully orders and Spender sighs as though to say, finally. 
He'll be surprised by Scully's next words.  "We have to get her on ice
and I'd like to do an autopsy." Scully looks at me and I know exactly
what she's telling me with that glance.  I get the girl's feet in
flowered Doc Martens and Scully hauls her shoulders.  As promised, dead
bees fall to the pavement.  I wish I had my sunglasses; that sun is
really something.
	"Autopsy?" Spender screeches.  "Um, she's dead. Don't you think a
doctor should look at her?"  I look at Scully and she's about to explain
that she is a doctor, albeit a doctor of the dead.  She's come to a halt
while Spender raves, and the kid we're holding wasn't exactly a
lightweight.  "Shouldn't we tell someone?"
	"That's the fun of being in a secret war to save the world, Jeff," I
point out.  "We can't tell anybody."   He stares at me like I was
speaking Russian. Which I wasn't.  Scully rolls her eyes and I prefer to
believe it's a comment about Spender and we toss the girl into the trunk
of the car.  Scully's eyes darken when I slam the lid.  Yeah, she was in
a trunk like that once. But she wasn't dead and that was the difference.
	"Stop!" she screams, and by the time I've recovered my hearing, she's
across the parking lot again, holding both of Spender's arms at the
wrists.  He's crouched where the girl died and his look is confused.  He
hasn't died and gone to heaven...yet.  By the time I walk on over,
Scully's gone into full lecture mode and I fear for the health of her
brain cells because she doesn't seem to have breathed in the whole time
she was talking. She's a long winded one, that's for sure.  "I don't
think you understand the gravity of this situation," she explains.  "I
appreciate your wanting to gather samples for me, but what this woman
died of is not bee venom, it's a virus, the alien virus that's going to
take over the world in about a week if we don't do something and I'm
pretty sure there's nothing we can do. I'm immune and Krycek's immune
but you're not immune which is why I want you to get as far away from
these fucking bees as possible and stay away from them, do I make myself
clear?"
	Spender looks stunned by the force of her sheer being.  His mouth is
hanging open and he looks whipped.  "Yeah," he says, unable to stop
staring at Scully.
	She nods at me. "Krycek, get some of the bees," she suggests, knowing
that I have a plastic arm that's immune to poison.  I grab a handful and
shove them into the plastic bag she's holding open.  I look her over,
wondering where she keeps those at the ready the way my grandma had
tissues when I was toddling.
	"Are you okay?" she puts her hand on Spender's arm and looks earnestly
into his eyes.  I turn away, thinking it's mean of her to be encouraging
him, but she doesn't know what she's encouraging.  Scully's blindness to
her own charms is, indeed, one of her charms.  I throw the bees into the
glove compartment and settle into the passenger seat, preparing myself
for another go at Agent Scully's Wild Ride. Maybe in between the bees
and the fire ants and trying to save the world, we could stop by
Disneyland.
	Nah, better save that for after we save the world.
	I glance in the rearview mirror and watch Scully and Spender have what
appears to be a heart to heart.  She's doing all the talking, of
course.  I sigh and take a welcome moment to relax.  It's not easy
keeping the bitter, cynical walls up all the time.

	xxx		xxx		xxx

	I sent Spender to get some ice, knowing these things crave heat.  I
don't want the alien to hatch and jump out and slice us all to ribbons. 
I don't want the alien to hatch at all.  How many bees were there?  How
many got away?  Krycek is watching me menacingly and I want to
interrogate him about the crime scene: what were the bees wearing?  How
tall were they?
	"I'm going to make the Y incision," I say.  He probably thinks I'm
talking to myself.  Maybe I am; I often narrate the autopsies as I
perform them.  Sometimes I'm talking into a tape, making notes, but even
when I'm not, I talk.  But maybe I just want to warn Krycek so he can
look away.  I remember him tossing his cookies when Mulder introduced me
to him in the morgue.  Or maybe it was an already accomplished killer
putting on a darn good act.  With Krycek, you never know.
	I glance at him.  He's looking back, his eyes lazy with boredom.  Those
eyes look like a cat's, after it's had its cream.  Then I look down to
cut into the body.  It's already gone kind of mushy and I can't help
thinking about how many crimes we're committing.  This girl is going to
become another missing child, a runaway teen.  She looks barely old
enough to be out of high school.  God, how many other missing children
aren't missing at all but taken by the conspiracy for experiments? 
Suddenly my hands are shaking.
	The alien is clinging between her stomach and her heart, encased in
some sort of an amniotic sac.  Spender dashes in and plunks down the
bags of ice, spreading the cubes around the body with hands that are
sort of helpless because his face is turned the other way.  I wonder if
there's time to send him for a camera.
	Finally, I have become an alien autopsy doctor.  Mulder would be so
proud.
	"There ought to be a camera in the cabinet over there," I say to either
of the men, but neither of them respond.  I raise my head and meet
Spender's brown gaze.  "Could you bring it to me, please?"  He nods and
ambles over to the metal-finish cabinets underneath the sink.  I
half-watch as he pulls out an ancient camera and a roll of film.  He
juggles the camera against his body as he loads the film and starts back
to me.
	Krycek jostles him like a playground bully and the camera crashes to
the tile over cement floor.  To make sure it's good and truly broken,
Krycek smashes it under his foot, putting all of his weight into it
while making the move look effortless.  Spender looks shocked.  "No
pictures," Krycek snarls, directing the words at me.  "No evidence."
	"We might need to know about this later," I tell him, but his
expression is hard, impassive.  He doesn't care, I think.
	"There will be more," he says, holding my eyes threateningly.  I stare
back for a  long moment.
	Ultimately it is Spender who breaks our childish staring contest.  He
groans and I look at him, seeing how pale his skin has gotten.  "I don't
feel very well," he says and my heart speeds up with worry.
	"You can lie down here," Krycek offers, pulling out one of the lower
morgue slabs which is mercifully empty.  Spender shakes his head and
lumbers into the bathroom.  We listen as he empties the contents of his
stomach.  "Guess it's too much excitement for him."
	I glare at  Krycek, thinking he's a real asshole sometimes.  I begin to
snap off my gloves to go and see how Spender is, if he's really sick or
if he just has a problem with dead bodies.  Most people aren't terribly
fond of the dead.  It's an affront to their own concepts of
immortality.  It's really very healthy.  "Where are you going?" Krycek
demands.
	"Someone has to see if he's okay," I snap, implying he's not about to
do it.
	"Jeff, you okay?" Krycek calls.
	"Mm," Spender says back.  "I think I'm going to stay in here a while."
	"He's fine.  Finish," Krycek orders.  He has his gun loaded and out,
his hand resting against it casually, almost caressing the shining
metal.  I thought it was so he could shoot any unruly aliens.  Maybe I
was wrong.
	The alien fetus has grown since I walked away.  "Will this thing die if
I cut it open?" I ask, not wanting to get a surprise.  I know about the
pointy tool that goes into the back of the neck.  I've held it in my
hands and even used it on one of them, unsuccessfully.  I'm lucky he
didn't kill me.  I've always wondered why he didn't.
	"It should." Krycek's helpful advice is drown out by the scream of the
monster as I stab it with the scalpel.  I realize I should have cut its
ties with the body system of its host first.  A liquid shoots into the
air from its body and I step back quickly, so it misses me.  It seems to
sizzle against the tiles on the floor.  At least it doesn't burn through
like the acidic alien goo in "Alien."  I really don't want to end up
battling this thing in my panties.  I wouldn't look half as good as
Sigourney Weaver.  Honestly.
	"What the fuck was that?" I ask Krycek and he shrugs.  I'm the doctor
here.  I get to work severing the fetus from its support system and
watch for several very long moments as it shudders, weeps, and finally
dies.  I glance at Krycek, finding my mouth incredibly dry.  I may have
a future as an abortion doctor after all.  I pull the alien out and plop
it on the table, then try to decide.  Will it be more useful to autopsy
the alien or to autopsy the girl and see what it did to her in its
efforts to take over?
	Hell, we have all day.  It is saving the world we're talking about.
		
	By the time Spender's crawled out of the bathroom, careful to shield
his eyes so he won't get a glimpse of what I'm doing, the alien is in
several pieces at the bottom of the medical wastes container.  I
memorized everything I could so I can draw it later. My skills as an
artist are severely lacking, but I'm the only one working here. 
"Scully's Anatomy - a guide to the other worlds."  Maybe it has a ring
to it.  I wonder if it will find its home in the New Age or the Science
section of Barnes and Noble.  
	A week from now, there might not be any Barnes and Noble or anything
else.
	I haven't learned much from the girl.  The alien acted much as any
other parasite, cancer, or even a naturally occurring gestational
organism.  It set up feeder lines and spun a web of its own blood
vessels, drawing heat and nutrients from its breakdown of the
decomposing body.  It was really very efficient, and I had no idea of
how to stop it.
	This thing had once taken root inside of me and I was saved only by the
weak vaccine Mulder injected when he found me.  I push off from the
table and pull off my gloves, not wanting to deal with the clean-up
issues yet.  I face Krycek, who is inspecting his neatly trimmed and
buffed fingernails.  No blood under them.  "I need some answers," I say
and he looks up.
	"How did the vaccine work?"  He doesn't respond.  "I'm thinking it had
to inhibit the process the parasite takes, preventing it from setting up
shop.  Sort of like the new developments in cancer drugs, which prevent
the cancer from growing by preventing the formation of new blood vessels
to feed it."  He's looking at me like I'm speaking in tongues.  "Hello?"
	"I have no idea," Krycek answers.
	"Were you there when they did the experiments on whatshername?" I
demand.  The blond.  Mulder's friend. Informant.
	"Rita," Spender says sadly, eyes trained on the floor.
	"Did she tell you anything?" I can't help it, my voice softens when I
address him.  He doesn't seem able to take it the way I know Krycek
can.  It's often difficult to believe this is the same man who lorded
over the X Files for half a year, trying to get Mulder and me tossed
into the brig every other week.	
	He shakes his head.  "They drove it out through her eyes.  That's all I
know."
	I'm thinking about the black oil that came up from the bottom of the
ocean.  "That's how it exits when it can't take hold," I say.  I swear
Krycek shivers at the words and I frown at him.
	"How did it kill her?" Spender asks.
	"Anaphylactic shock stopped her heart almost instantly."  But she
wasn't allergic to the bee stings, not really.  The virus, wanting to
spin itself into a complete organism, is a powerful toxin.  The virus is
different than the black oil in that respect, I realize.  The black oil
is already a complete organism, wishing to use the human body to
reproduce itself.  The virus was engineered to use humans to replicate,
just like any other virus needs willing cells to replicate itself.
	Humans have never found a cure for viruses.  And if this one mutates,
as I suspect it does...
	"We're toast," I say, kicking one of the legs of the autopsy table,
sending it crashing away from me, careening to a stop when it smacks
into the cabinets.  Krycek averts his eyes and I notice he's put his gun
away.
	Spender looks afraid, but it is he who comes over to me, pulling the
stained white lab coat from my shoulders and tugging it down my arms. 
He folds it once, inside out so his hands won't get dirty, and sets it
on the counter.  I am drenched with sweat, I realize, and suddenly feel
like a rung out dishrag.  My knees are weak from bearing my weight and I
see that the clock on the wall reads 11 p.m.  I'm tired, and with good
reason.  Autopsies are slow work, but absorbing.  "You'll think more
clearly when you've had something to eat and some rest," he promises,
leading me away.
	I glance at Krycek as though to get permission.  He nods once, curtly,
and I wonder when he became the one to crack the whip over my head.  I
used to crack my own whip, and I still want to.  I feel close to
something, but like a name I've forgotten, it can't break through the
haze in my brain to make its presence felt.  "But -" I protest, looking
back at all the stuff we're leaving in the morgue.  The authorities are
going to be all over this.
	Krycek catches my eye and almost smiles as he tapes a sign to the
door.  "QUARANTINE" it says.  There is a roll of red tape in his hand
and he seals the cracks around the door.  I stare at the biohazard
symbol until he pulls me away.  "We can't go back to the motel," he
says, taking command.  He puts his hand in my pocket to find the car
keys and I let him, even though I don't think it was necessary for him
to grope me as he did so.  I let it slide because I get to sit in the
car with my head against the window and rest as he drives around,
looking for a place suitably sleazy.
	"Don't you have credit cards in your false identities?" I ask, making
him look at me.  I hate the way he steps on the brake every time he
takes his eyes off the road. Krycek's a shitty driver and it has nothing
to do with only having one arm. He seems unwilling to take even the
smallest chance, quite unlike his personality the rest of the time. 
Maybe he has thought of better ways to die than in a smash up due to a
risky left turn in front of traffic.  
	The guy I had a crush on in high school once told me the way you drive
a car is the same as the way you make love.  It sent my sixteen year old
mind whirling.  It makes me raise an eyebrow now.
	"Can't we stay somewhere nice?"  I'm dangerously close to whining
here.  I want to take off my shoes and put my feet up. I have several
thousand pages of notes to write and no hope of a nice laptop computer
to help me organize them.  I will figure this thing out, it's just a
matter of putting the pieces together in the right order and finding out
how they lock, like assembling a jigsaw puzzle painted black on both
sides.
	Krycek signals and turns into a Howard Johnson's.  He checks us in and
I turn around to look at Spender.  "You okay?" I ask.
	He nods. "I don't like death," he says.  His color looks better.
	"No one does," I reply.  "You didn't get stung?"  He would be dead if
he'd been stung, wouldn't he?  But I didn't die instantly.
	He shakes his head and Krycek returns, gauging the interaction between
us.  I feel like I've been caught doing something bad, like I'm a child
disobeying her nanny.  Krycek and Mary Poppins, what a pair. I try to
picture him with a flowered hat, carpet bag and big old umbrella and
fail.  I always get punchy when I'm tired.
	Howard Johnson's all have the same pattern on the bedspread and the
same smell in all the rooms.  It smells almost sweet, like a perverted
cleaning fluid flavored ozone mixed with dry cleaning solution to mask
the smell of secretly smoked cigarettes.  I inhale deeply and sit down
on  one of the beds, opening the nighttable drawer to look for a pad of
paper.  There is one, with a pen that say Howard Johnson on it in
turquoise letters.  I let my mind work for a moment. I need to write
down my findings and my theories.  I need to sketch the alien's systems
and figure out what exactly they do.  I really wish I had snapshots to
help me document.  I need to take a shower, because my shirt feels damp
under my arms and I have the distinct feeling that I smell.
	But I'm tired, so I decide to do all of these things when I wake up,
lowering my head to the pillow and closing my eyes for some instant
sleep.
	I think I hear Krycek say, "That's amazing," but I'm not sure.

	xxx		xxx		xxx

	It was a quiet night.  Scully roused for a few minutes when Krycek sent
me to get some greasy burgers from the diner before it closed.  She
downed a hamburger enthusiastically and used the bathroom and managed to
actually get under the covers when she got back into bed.  She must be
exhausted.  We all are, I think.
	Krycek lay down in the bed next to her.  This motel room has two beds
so I don't have to sleep in the chair.  I'm glad I don't have to sleep
with him, but I don't want him to sleep next to her.  My face burns with
something more like shame than anger in the darkness.  It's probably
been hours since he turned out the light, but I'm not going to sleep. 
Every time I close my eyes, I see the girl being stung by bees and
there's nothing I can do about them as they swirl, agitated, dancing in
every direction.  I can hear their hum even though I couldn't hear it
then.  I have to sit up to make certain it's not coming from somewhere
in the motel room.  Bees like to hide in walls.  It's all too easy to
imagine them swarming, covering one wall, waiting for me to turn on the
light to attack.
	I've seen one too many Fox specials.  It's easy to let your imagination
terrify you in the dark.  Even more so if you know that the terrors are
real.
	I sit up, to make sure the bees humming is only in my mind.  There
isn't a sound.  Scully's sleeping on her side, with one arm up over her
head, facing me.  It doesn't matter what motel we're in, she always
takes the bed farthest from the door, and sleeps on the inside, next to
the nightstand.  Probably so she can be close to the phone and the
light.   Probably the same reason I like to sleep next to the
nightstand, too.
	I lay back down, imagining that I can hear her breathing.  I can hear
my heart beating.  And then I hear another sound, the bedsprings on the
other bed creaking.  The shifting of the covers.  Rhythmically.  Anger
washes over me.  I know exactly what he's doing, lying in that bed next
to her as she sleeps so innocently and I want to break his neck.
	I can hear him breathing now, in rough, short gasps and I close my
eyes, wanting to shut it out, even as I'm getting hard lying there
listening to him.  I can hear his hand moving against his flesh, the
rasp of his hair.  I can't believe he's doing that.  He must be
compulsive or something.  It's making me sick and angry but I can't stop
listening, wonder what sort of sound he will make when he finishes.  I
have to make sure he doesn't do anything to Scully.
	He's grunting now and my skin is growing tight and hot.  I close my
eyes and think of something else, because I'm not going to do what he's
doing, even as my hand wanders downward.  His grunts grow more urgent
and suddenly Scully sighs.  An awake sigh.  She tosses back the covers
and walks into the bathroom without turning on the light until after she
closes the door.
	Krycek doesn't make another sound and the springs stop creaking.  I
yawn, wishing for sleep, but stop mid-stretch.  Maybe Scully won't want
to go back to sleeping next to him after that.  Maybe she'll come over
here.  The toilet flushes in the bathroom and light goes off.  The door
handle rattles.
	I never get to find out.
	Suddenly, there is a serious of loud thuds against the door of the
motel room.  I sit up, my heart pounding as though I've been woken from
a dream.  The door flies open, banging against the opposite wall.  The
men in the doorway have a huge, bright flashlight, not to mention the
light of the hall silhouetting them, blinding me.  "Get up."
	"No," Scully is standing just outside the bathroom door and the man
turns the light on her, illuminating her white skin and mussed-up hair. 
Her thighs look smooth and vulnerably exposed beneath the shorts she's
wearing.
	"Get up and get dressed.  This area is being evacuated."
	"Evacuated?" Scully asks in that I-can't-believe-this tone she has.
	"You've got ten minutes."  The door bangs closed and I hear the
purveyor of doom move on to the next room.  I fumble for the light,
wondering if Krycek's managed to get his pants back up.  I squint
against its brightness.  Krycek's lounging on his pillow, his eyes open,
the blankets covering his lap.
	"What the hell is this about?" Scully demands.
	"Are we going to go with them?" I ask.
	"It's begun," Krycek says, throwing back the covers and getting out of
bed.  He leans down and begins lacing his boots, having been sleeping in
his t-shirt and jeans.  They never leave his body.
	"What?" Scully and I demand at the same time.
	"This is how it begins," he says, finishing with his boots and standing
up.  "You'd better prepare yourselves."  He walks past Scully, close
enough to brush her chest with his body and locks himself in the
bathroom.  Scully stands there, staring at me, but I have no answers for
her.  I wish I did.

end of part nine.
comments to: eponine119@att.net

Diary of the Second Holocaust 10/14
by eponine119
eponine119@att.net

	xxx		xxx		xxx

	This isn't how the world is supposed to end, you know.  A few hundred
fearful people gathered into a high school gym, the doors and windows
barred and taped.  Row after row of cots, made up into beds.  These cots
are our homes now, provided for us by FEMA and the Red Cross.  These
centers are spreading across the United States, and for all we know, the
world.  They tell us we'll be safe here, that the bees can't reach us
and infect us with their virus.  As long as we stay here, nothing will
happen to us.
	I'm positive we're waiting for death.
	At least I have my own cot.  I'm trying to keep a record, so that
someone may know what happened to us and that we tried to stop it.  We
just didn't have enough information and we didn't have enough time.  The
invasion began on the Thursday afternoon before the Memorial Day
weekend.  Memorial Day is on Monday, so a lot of people were making it a
four day weekend.  The highways were packed by the midnight that saw
Friday begin.  People were already going on their holidays.  The girl at
the motel was the first victim.  I think they found her in the hospital
morgue.  We don't get much news here.  They shout it through a megaphone
at us, like all of their other instructions.  It's impossible to
understand with the terrible acoustics in this gymnasium, and all of the
other people.  They seem to talk all the time and my ears ring with it.
	My implant seems to be active again.  It's burning, just under the
skin, and I think I can feel waves radiating from it to interfere with
my brain.  It's gotten so bad I want to cut it out with the dull
children's' scissors they allow us here.  It's telling them where I am,
I'm certain.  So they can come and get me, like they wanted to before. 
They'll kill all of the other people here too.  
	Not kill, infect.
	I look at Krycek, knowing he's immune.  He can't sit still, tapping his
feet, his fingers.   One knee is bouncing right now as he stares into
the sea of people.  It stops and his foot begins to twitch.  He wants to
get out of here.  I look where he's looking - at the sealed doors.  He's
trying to figure out a plan of escape.
	If I ask him, he would take me with him.
	Spender is slowly turning cards over  in a game of solitaire, one hand
pressed against his head as though it's causing him pain.  "Are you
okay?" I ask him and he raises his head to look at me, his hand falling
away from his skin to rest in his lap.
	"Fine," he says.  Then he breaks down and goes for the truth.  "I've
got a headache."
	Krycek makes an irritated sound as though he wants Spender to find the
medic, take two Tylenol, and shut the hell up until morning.  I look at
him and say, "So do I."  Spender's eyes change.  He looks almost
surprised by my admission.  I turn back to Krycek.  "Where's his
implant?"
	"What?"  Krycek sputters and every part of his body stops moving.  He
holds himself in absolute stillness so I know I'm right.
	"They took him like they took me and now they're tracking both of us. 
And you too, probably."  That's why he's so nervous.
	"Come on, Scully.  You've been awake since midnight yesterday. We're in
a high school gym that smells like old bread and sneakers with five
hundred other displaced people trying not to let any bees in.  I'm sure
a lot of people here have headaches," Krycek says, but there's something
else in his eyes.  I know Krycek too well to call it fear, but that's
what it looks like.
	"When will they get here?" I ask him.
	"Who?"  Krycek is wonderfully blank.   What a liar.
	"The faceless men with their hands full of fire.  They're coming,
aren't they?  To save us from the fate that's worse than death, the
infection.  How soon will they be here?"
	"You can't hide from them forever, Dana," Krycek tells me gently.
	I stare at him, my body tense.  "Did you know this was going to
happen?"  He doesn't say anything, doesn't look away.  "Did you  plan
this? Did you?" I demand, digging through my big black bag, looking for
my army knife.  It's worn now, the red paint chipped and faded.  I got
it in sixth grade when my dad took me on a camping trip.  In my family,
we didn't get presents if it wasn't our  birthday.  It seems small in my
hand now, so many years later, even though my hands are the same size
they were then.  "They're not going to take me again," I vow, tugging
out the knife and wondering if I have the courage to do this.  Without
the implant, I'll die anyway.  Probably before I get to see Mulder again
and I really want to see him again.
	"Scully, don't," Spender says.  "You don't want to do this."  He sounds
like he's talking a jumper down off a building.   "Trust me.  I watched
her die and it was terrible."
	My stomach tightens. He's talking about Marita - Rita, whatever her
name is.  "Where does it hurt?" I ask him.  He raises one hand and
places the tip of his index finger behind his ear.  Mulder had pictures
of L-shaped scars behind the ears of abduction victims.  I get up and
cross the twelve inches of space between our cots, standing in front of
him and pulling his head forward and down, into my stomach.  He lets
me.  I gently press his ear forward and rub my finger over the spot. 
There's something in there.  My shoulders sag and I want to cry,  but I
slip one arm around Spender's shoulders and turn to Krycek. "Where's
yours?"
	He looks impassive.  His attitude is beginning to piss me off.  "Where
the hell is it, Krycek?" I snarl and he opens his one arm wide, inviting
me to find it.  I hurl myself at his body, my hands moving over him,
angrily, not caring that I'm straddling his lap on the narrow cot.  I
shove his head this way and that, looking for it, clawing through his
hair, digging for the implant.
	"Stop, Dana," he says, catching my hands.  He grabs them both in his
fist.  We're both breathing hard.  "You're not going to find it that
way."  And he tilts his head backward until I'm looking straight up his
nose.  It takes me a second to realize that's his intention.  "Same
place as Mulder's."
	"Mulder -?"  His name is a cry from me.  Of course he would have one. 
"Oh god."  I'm shaking and crying and Krycek releases my hands to pet my
hair.  I jerk away from him and return to my own cot, sitting down on it
cross-legged and burying my face in my hands so no one will see me cry,
even though I'm sobbing so loudly there can be no question.  I've just
realized I'm never going to see him again and I can't fight any more.  I
unfold my legs and push myself facedown on the cot.  I'll lay here until
they come.  They can burn me alive.  I don't care any more.  We've lost.
	Neither man says anything to me.  There's nothing they can say to make
this better any more.

	xxx		xxx		xxx

	Watching Scully cry breaks my heart.  She really, really loves Mulder. 
I wonder why I didn't see that  before.  I knew there was something
between them, but I didn't know he went all the way to her soul.  They
shut down the lights about half an hour later, but they're still glowing
faintly overhead.  The sodium kind that buzz faintly and turn everything
red an odd shade of orange-brown.  I had a red watch band when I was in
first grade and I didn't understand then why it would change colors in
the gym.  
	I'm not that small, sickly kid who got picked last anymore.
	"Hey," I whisper.  We're not supposed to talk once the lights are out.
I don't know what the punishment is for talking but I know the
punishment of listening to Scully cry.  "Hey."  Her shoulders stop
shaking, but she doesn't raise her head.  "It's okay."  She shakes her
head, sniffling miserably.  Scully isn't like this.  This is bad.  I
cross the inches to sit on her cot next to her.
	Without a word, she wraps both arms around me, squeezing like a boa
constrictor.  I can't breathe, shocked.  It only takes a few minutes of
petting her hair before she stops crying and drops her grip.  "I know,"
I tell her, but the rest of the sentence drops away, the words
disappearing inside me.  I don't know where they go. I know what it's
like to love someone and have them desert you.  I don't want to let her
go.  "I know," I say again.
	She looks up at me, those eyes red and full of tears.  With one finger,
she pulls a thin gold chain out of the neckline of her shirt and holds
it out for me to see.  Hanging at the apex of the chain, the weight of
it pulling at it, is a cross and a tiny ring.  It doesn't even look like
it would fit on Scully's smallest finger and I realize it isn't her
ring.  It's a little girl's ring, with a chip of yellow-brown stone.  A
birthday ring for a little girl born in November.
	I look at her, not understanding.  Mulder's sister's birthday is in
November.  Did Mulder give her that ring?
	She closes her hand around it.  "He left me," she sobs angrily.
	"You're making me sick," Krycek comments dryly from his nearby cot. 
Scully's head snaps in his direction.  
	The lights are getting brighter.  It isn't morning yet.  The child
who's been crying for the last two days is crying again.  "Something's
happening," I say, looking around.
	"You, come on."  A man in uniform grabs Scully's arm roughly, hauling
her to her feet and pulling her along. Krycek's eyes meet mine and we
both run after her.  We're caught up in a wave of people.  This center
is being evacuated.  Parked outside the gym is a line of yellow school
busses.  Scully turns back and holds out her hands. Krycek grabs one,
but I can't reach.
	"What's going on?" Scully asks, her voice strident and carrying of the
din of confused people.  No one answers her. She turns back and looks at
me.  We're being moved.  She stumbles up the school bus stairs, as steep
today as they were in the distant years of youth.  I follow her,
rounding the corner and stopping for a second because the bus is already
packed with people, adults and children, white faced and afraid.  I sit
down next to Scully.  Her eyes are wide with fear.  So are mine, I'm
certain.
	Krycek is holding up the line.  His arms are braced on either side of
the bus doorway and he refuses to enter.  "Get on the goddamned bus,"
one of the officials orders and a bayonet smacks Krycek in the back.  He
falls to his knees and Scully scrambles across my lap to reach him. He's
lying bleeding in the stairwell as the driver cranks the door closed and
the bus lurches forward.
	At least we haven't become separated.

	xxx		xxx		xxx	

	I was going to get away tonight. If Spender and Scully had gone to
sleep instead of snivelling, I would have been well on my way sneaking
out of that hellhole high school gym before they decided to load up the
busses and ship us out of there.  I wonder where we're headed. It looks
like they're driving us into the desert.  I know all that's in the
desert is death.  If I could look up, the vultures might already be
circling.
	Instead,  I've got a hell of a pain in my back, courtesy of one of
FEMA's goons.  Who uses bayonets anymore?  Whatever happened to guns and
knives?  They must want us alive.
	That's something I don't think Scully's figured out yet, and she's got
Spender beat in the brains department by a mile and a half.  The
colonists aren't going to kill all of us.  We're their gestational
hosts.  If they use us all up, there won't be any baby razor nailed
aliens, so cute and hotly black blooded.  It wouldn't be smart.  Which
is where the colony comes in.  A colony of breeders.
	If we're lucky, they're taking us to our deaths.
	But I'm already lucky. My head is in Scully's lap and she's stroking
the sides of my face with her strong little hands.  She must not realize
it was mostly a flesh wound.  She must not realize the phenomenal view
I've got from down here.  God, I love her thighs. She could use some Oil
of Olay on that throat, though. Those lines are gonna be ugly in another
fifteen years.
	God, I should live that long.  No one really worried about moisturizing
in Auschwitz, did they?  It may sound sacreligious to make that
comparison.  But I know what they have planned for us.
	Every time she breathes, those firm, soft breasts get that much closer
to me and I can smell her.  Scully smells good, like dirt and sweat and
life.  She smells like a woman.  I could close my eyes and lay here
happily forever.  Forget the world beyond the jouncing bus tires. 
Forget the horror that's due us.
	Them.  Not me.  As soon as Scully glances down and sees me grinning
like that Cheshire cat that eat the tweety bird, this ruse is gonna be
up.  I wonder if she'll hit me.  But it's definitely worth it.  Then
first chance I get, it's gonna be goodbye.  She'll fend okay.  Better if
she ditches that sop Spender.  I liked him better before he started
shooting me jealous glares and fearing me.
	Speak of the devil.  He leans over to whisper in Scully's ear.  They
must think I'm asleep down here.  Scully's toes are wiggling and it
shimmies up her leg.  Her breathing's become a bit more shallow, the
softness of her belly touching me more frequently.  Spender's lips are
practically touching her ear and he looks hungry.  "We've got to do
something," he whispers to her, "We've got to get off this bus."
	I wonder what he's proposing.
	Her body shakes with the force of her nodding head.  "They're going to
kill us," she murmurs back.
	Not you, my darling.  Not you.  
	I bend my arm and dig my fingers into her knee, almost triggering it's
reflex.  I push myself up to a sitting position.  My back wrenches in
agony.  Hurts like hell.  I shove Spender away and he stumbles into the
aisle, his footing uncertain on the moving bus.  If he cracks his head,
Scully's probably hold him the rest of the way.
	"What do you know about this?" she snaps.  Her eyes are flashing.  I've
been caught faking.  Her lips are moist and her cheeks are rosy.  What
would she do if I buried my fingers in her hair and kissed her until she
couldn't breathe?  It's an intriguing prospect, but it'll have to wait
for later.
	"Nothing," I tell her innocently.  It's true. I don't know anything
about this, specifically.  I could tell her things she didn't know about
herself.
	"How do we get them to stop the bus?" she demands in a low voice.
	As though commanded, the bus grinds to a halt.  I grin.  It makes her
look at me like I made it happen.  Does she believe I could make it
happen?  She really thinks I'm that powerful?  Man, that feels good. 
"Time to go," I tell her, swinging out of my seat and dashing down the
aisle.
	I stop when I see the bus driver is missing the better portion of his
head.  The woman splattered with his blood is too stunned to scream. 
The doors open under duress and I recognize the faces of the men
boarding the bus.  Scully's come up behind me, pressing me forward, and
I shove her back with my bad hand, shielding her body with mine.
	"Get off the bus NOW!"
	She doesn't have to be told twice.  I push her to the back of the bus,
where she throws open the emergency escape window and crawls through. 
The stench of burning human flesh makes my eyes water and my throat
burn.  No one else is moving, caught in the strobe of macabre horror. 
With my back and my fucking hand it's harder than hell getting through
the window but someone's pushing me.  I guess little Jeff is good for
something.  Note to self: be nicer to the kid.
	I hit the ground running, something my knees tell me I've done once or
twice too often.  Is that my scream of pain mingling with the death
yells of the people still trapped on the bus?  Stupid aliens must not
know anything about gasoline and combustion engines...
	There's something about an explosion that makes you stop in your tracks
and look.  Which isn't a very good idea, as the white hot fire sears
your eyes and the blast wave knocks your feet out from under you.  The
smoke is acrid, burning, and I can't manage to sneeze.  Or see anything
but a huge purple blot swimming in front of my eyes.
	Hands pick me up as I'm crawling and lead me away.  Not Scully's.  The
hands of the man that let Marita suffer and left her alone to shoot
herself in the head.

	xxx		xxx		xxx

	Scully's gone and I'm here alone with Krycek. How could Scully
disappear so fast?  She must have taken off running before the bus
blew.  I yell her name, but on this flat, desolate land, I would be able
to see her.  I feel alone, possibly more alone than I ever have, even
when I was an ignored child or when I was hiding in the cabin from the
men who would steal my life.  Because Krycek's hand is hot and moist in
mine and his eyes are streaming tears.  He's blinded himself.  Hopefully
not for long.
	"What do we do?" I ask him, feeling weak for even having to ask.
	"Either we walk, or we run. Where are the colonists?"
	"The fire guys?"  I crane my neck around, looking for them.  "They must
have gone up with the bus."
	Krycek nods, rubbing at his eyes with his plastic hand.  "They're
instructed to give their lives for the cause, if they must.  Do they
have a car?"
	I look around again, wondering how the faceless men with their lighter
wands got here.  There's nothing but the black acrid smoke from the
burning hulk of the bus. "No," I say, refusing to look up into the sky. 
It's even more frightening to think they may have materialized here from
thin air, or some kind of psychotic transporter beam run by a faceless
Scotty.
	"I guess we walk then," Krycek says, and allows himself to be lead by
me.
	"Scully's disappeared."
	"She made it off the bus," Krycek tells me.  He doesn't tell me she's
going to be all right.  The silence where I wanted those words to be
rings in the air.  I don't know why I need this man's reassurances, but
I do.
	"They didn't," this is going to sound so idiotic, "you know, beam her
up, or anything?"
	He laughs.  It's a kindly, avuncular laugh.  If I wasn't holding his
hand, he probably would have patted me on the head.  But he doesn't say
anything for a long time.  Then he asks me, "Did we pass anything on the
road back there when we were on the bus?"
	I have to think about this.  "I think there might have been something,"
I admit.
	"You're not sure?"
	I shake my head.  Krycek's still rubbing his eyes, keeping them
closed.  "No," I voice.
	"It's probably still our best bet," he decides, and I lead him down the
highway in the direction opposite the smoking bus.  Back the way we've
come.  There is nothing in the desert and I'm already thirsty and
tired.  It's advantageous that it's the middle of the night, or the sun
would kill us quickly, like in the old cartoons with the propectors
whispering "agua," as they crawl toward a mirage and end up drinking
handfuls of sand.
	"Are you okay?" I ask him and he sort of snorts.  I don't know how to
take that, but it was his answer, so  I leave it there.  When he can see
again - and I refuse to make that if - I'm sure he'll drop my hand and
probably take charge of everything.  I sort of like him this way, docile
as a broken horse.
	"Do you have one of those pointy things?" I ask him a few miles down
the road.  There aren't any stars in the sky.  It's dark but my eyes
have adjusted.  I sweep the road and the land with them, searching for
any sign of the faceless men.  I don't think I would falter at killing
them now.  There must have been a hundred people on that bus, and we are
the only ones left.  It might be a metaphor for the larger world.
	I don't want to be the only one left, here on this deserted road with
Krycek.
	"So, C3PO or R2D2?" he asks me.
	It takes me almost a minute to get the reference.  "Star Wars," I say,
explaining it to myself.  "The two droids blast out of the Death Star in
a shuttlepod and land on Luke Skywalker's home planet and walk along in
the sand."
	"So, are you C3PO or R2D2?" he asks me again.  I look at him like he's
lost his mind and he breaks a smile.  "You're C3PO," he tells me.
	This is insane, I think.  Teenage boys talk about Star Wars, not us. 
"You're Luke," I tell him, playing his game. It's conversation.  It's
not like I can talk to Krycek about books.
	"You're Luke," he shoots back at me, irony twisting his voice.  I wince
with the thought of my father. He's laughing somewhere, I know.  Krycek
squeezes my hand reassuringly and I watch the pavement move  under my
feet.
	"I know you want to be Han Solo, but you're Luke," I tell him. "You
lost your hand."
	"Ever notice how many people in that trilogy suffered the same fate?"
Krycek asks me, more irony in his tone.  He's probably smirking, not
really amused, but I don't look at him.  I can't.  "Arms were flying
everywhere."  Silence.  "Mulder's Han Solo," Krycek tells me.  I nod my
agreement.  And Scully, I think, is Princess Leia.  The only girl in the
story, so everyone wants her.  Full of fire and spunk.  Thank god she
doesn't have bread rolls on her head.  I almost lose it to hysterical
laughter at that thought, but the thought of death sobers me instantly. 
Death hovers all around us here.  We're walking more slowly, keeping
pace with each other.  It won't be long before exhaustion sets in and
the vultures come for us, leaving nothing but bleached bones and the
wires from Krycek's bionics for the world to remember us by.
	Who the hell am I, I wonder.  In the Star Wars continuum, where do I
fit in?  I'm not the hero in this tale.  I'm a second rate turncoat. 
Not even Boba Fett, who all my friends thought was cool back in the days
when we saw Empire Strikes Back fifteen times in one weekend.  Maybe I'm
Anakin Skywalker, I think, since I did a turn for the dark side,
following my father.
	But now I know better.
	"That's what really pisses me off," Krycek's voice cuts through the
stillness of the night.  "That new Star Wars movie opened what, a week
ago? And we've been so busy fighting and getting nowhere, I didn't get
to see it.  George Lucas finally breaks down and makes another fucking
Star Wars movie and the world goes to hell before I can see it."
	I suddenly have visions of Krycek's abode, where I'd never pictured it
before.  I'm imagining action figures and theater lobby standees and
merchandised sheets.  "A fan?" I ask.
	"That movie came out when I was fifteen years old.  It changed my whole
damn life.  Honest to god."  Krycek stops talking, presumably sunk deep
into some old memory.  We must be about the same age.  I saw it once.  A
girl I had a crush on wanted to see it. She let me take her to the
movies.  Because no one else would.  Even then, I let other people use
me.  I wonder what Krycek's story is, but he's not telling.
	"There it is," he says.  
	I blink and a gas station swims into focus about a mile up the road,
all lit up and gleaming.  Then I look at Krycek.  His vision seems to
have recovered just fine.  "You can see," I say, feeling mildly
betrayed.
	"Mm," he agrees.  "I just had big purple spots for the longest time. 
Looks like we're saved."  Casually, he drops my hand and strides in
front of me, finally taking charge.  I follow, feeling puppyish because
my feet won't let me keep up with him.  My palm is tingling, almost
burning with the residual heat of his hand.  He was holding my hand.  I
don't know what that means.  And his skin was soft and warm and it felt
good.  I don't know what that means either.
	Krycek lets out a whoop when he pushes open the door to the gas station
but it's a moment before he shifts away from blocking my view. 
"Scully!"  I cry, relief filling my chest so that I can't breathe. 
She's sitting up on the counter next to the Slurpee machine, her legs
drawn up underneath her.  She's got a full calorie Pepsi in one hand and
a bag of M&Ms in the other.   And she's grinning.  No one has ever
looked so beautiful to me. Ever.
	"You guys finally got here," she says.  "You look beat.  Get some
carbohydrates and some water," she orders.
	"How'd you get here so fast?" I ask, after downing a bottle of water
big enough to fill my hands.  Krycek's throat moves as he works his way
through a 32 ouncer of red Gatorade without stopping.
	"I ran like hell," Scully replies honestly.  "I hate those guys."  Her
face is gravely serious.  Krycek's nodding.  Me, too. I hate those guys
too.  "You should know there are bodies out back," she continues. 
"We're going to have an infestation by morning."
	Neither of us ask what sort of infestation.  I don't believe in aliens,
but I'm not going to ask.
	"But there's showers and an old beat up couch and a TV in the back,"
Scully continues.  "I guess this was a mini-haven for truck drivers. 
And there's all the food you could want," she finishes, looking from me
to Krycek and back again.  I wonder how long she's been rehearsing those
words in her mind. Ever since she finished casing the joint, I guess. 
"Maybe the couch folds out. If we're lucky.  You guys can check it out
while I have a shower." She jumps down from the counter with the agility
of a teenager and begins to gather supplies from the "Travel Center"
behind the counter.  Into her hands she collects a tiny bottle of
shampoo, soap, body lotion, a toothbrush, even dental floss, all in
single use packaging and affixed to little white cards.  As an
afterthought, she grabs a couple of the T-shirts from the rack.  Paper
towels would be too rough for her skin.
	"Guess it's you and me."  It doesn't even masquerade as a joke. Krycek
must be more exhausted than I thought.  The couch is dismal and he flops
down on it, sending up dust.  The springs scream under his weight.  The
TV has a turn dial and no stations come in.  After I've tried them all,
I look back at Krycek.  His head is tipped against the back of the
couch.  His mouth is open and his eyes are closed.  He's asleep.  I'm
envious, but someone has to stay awake and guard Scully while she's in
the shower.

end of part ten.
Comments to: eponine119@att.net

Diary of the Second Holocaust 11/14
by eponine119
eponine119@att.net

	xxx		xxx		xxx

	Hot water is the best thing on earth.  I'm so filthy that the very
privilege of shampooing my hair is almost enough to make me orgasmic.  I
scrub and scrub until the soap breaks into two pieces in my hands and my
skin is red from the attention and the heat of the water and even then I
stand under the spray with my eyes closed, trying to convince myself
this is all a terrible dream.
	It's not.  The stall is still stained and dirty when I open my eyes and
I wonder about foot fungus.  I guess I really have better things to
worry about.  The ring on the chain around my neck is leaving green
streaks between my breasts, but I don't think about taking it off.  It's
Samantha's birthstone ring. I had one like it when I was a little girl. 
Mulder gave Samantha's ring to me, before I went into hiding.  In my
mind, it's a wedding ring, binding me to him the way my cross holds me
to God.
	I don't know where Mulder is or if he's still alive.
	I have my doubts about God, too.
	But we got off the bus.  Alive. All of us.  Not the other people, not
the driver, not even the faceless men, but the three of us.  That's as
big as my world is now. I can't even mourn for the other, lost people. 
Not now. Later, in my nightmares, I will cry for them, suffer their pain
and their horror all over again.  
	I sigh and use one of the shirts to towel off with and smooth the baby
lotion into my skin, rubbing down my thighs and my calves and my hands.
I've lost weight.  It doesn't even matter any more.  Finally I have bony
knees and thin thighs and there's no one to appreciate them.  My breasts
don't even fill my hands when I cup them in front of the mirror.  Like
when I had cancer.  I turn away from my image, disgusted.  Thin thighs
aren't worth it.
	The T-shirt comes down to my knees and I know I'm tempting fate but I
can't bear to put on my filthy clothes again when my body is clean.  I
scrub my underwear in the sink and try not to think of the two men on
the other side of the door as I hang it  up.  I scrub my teeth and look
at my tangled hair. Conditioner is a luxury beyond the means of this gas
station.
	Krycek's asleep, I note, as I dash out to grab a comb.  Spender looks
like he's asleep with his eyes open.  "I saved you some hot water," I
tell him, sitting down on the couch between him and Krycek and tugging
at my hair with the comb. I can hear strands snapping and the snarls are
painful.
	"Here."  I can feel the rasp in his voice as his hands ease the comb
from mine.  He begins at the back of my head, so gently I don't think
he'll get even one of the knots out.  He shifts slightly against me, and
turns my body slightly with his hands on my shoulders so he can better
reach my hair.  He's being too careful, I think again, remembering my
mother's whiplash-inducing brushings when I was a girl.  Melissa gave
herself a boy's haircut when she was seven to escape them.  I close my
eyes for what I intend to be the barest second.
	"You're all set."  Spender's words rouse me and I hear him set the comb
down as my eyes open. I'm disoriented, sitting nestled between his
legs.  I was asleep.  My hands rise to my hair, which is smooth and
straight.  I scramble away from him and the look on my face must be
amazed.  Spender's hands are self-conscious, almost, as they go to his
own hair and his lips almost form a smile.  His hair is curly.  Did I
ever notice that before?
	"Thanks," I say.  "I guess you didn't see if the couch folds out?"
	"I'm pretty sure it doesn't," he says.  Krycek, at the other end, is
reaching the point of his sleep where he's snuffling and murmuring in
Russian.
	"Are you going to catch a shower?" I ask Spender, feeling weird. 
Relaxed and lightheaded.  Must be from the catnap, I tell myself, but I
have the feeling I'm lying when a dagger of excitement flashes through
me as I catch Spender's eyes lingering on my legs beneath the hem of the
t-shirt.
	He shakes his head and rests one arm on the back of the couch. 
Something in me recognizes that as an invitation and I cautiously sit
down again, the wood in the edge of the couch at the crease of my thighs
as I remain on the edge of the seat.  Spender swallows back a yawn and
pulls me against his chest.  His hand against my back and his evenly
rising and falling chest makes me feel safe and I sleep.

	xxx		xxx		xxx

	They make me sick.  Sleeping together like kittens curled at their
mother's breast.  I move down the couch until I'm sitting next to
Scully.  Her mouth is open and she's sleeping hard, her brows furrowed
slightly.  Her t-shirt has ridden up her thighs.  She's not wearing any
underwear.
	I'm leaving in a few minutes and it won't pay to wake her up.  I lean
over her, putting my hand high up on her thigh, my fingers just inches
from the soft heat there.  Her lips are parted and she makes a tiny
sound as I knead the skin inside her thigh.  I lean closer and brush her
lips with mine before she can murmur Mulder's name, betraying her
dreams.
	I don't mean for my mouth to catch hers.  I don't mean to kiss her,
really, I don't, but once I'm here, I can't help myself.  She awakens as
I push my tongue into her sweet mouth, grabbing her hair and pulling her
head back just at the point of causing her pain.  I kiss Scully for what
seems like a long time and she doesn't move, doesn't struggle.  As I'm
releasing her, I drag my knuckle against the part of her I most want to
touch.  Her body jerks when I make contact, but my hand is just as
quickly gone.  I step back, off the couch, half expecting her to come
after me and claw my eyes out with her hands.
	Instead she lies down on the other end of the couch, away from
Spender's body.  She curls up tightly and closes her eyes like she's
gone back to sleep.  But she's shaking.
	I let her pretend to sleep and make sure the door doesn't bang behind
me as I walk out of the filling station, feeling disgusted with myself. 
I feel like I've done something wrong, something angry and bad.  The
kind of thing that never used to bother me before.

	xxx		xxx		xxx

	"You'd better get up.  Krycek's gone."
	I open my eyes when I hear Spender's voice.  I wasn't asleep, and I
already knew he was gone.  I've been tasting his tongue for the last
several hours, wondering why he did what he did.  He could have raped
me, and he didn't. Was that the message he was sending?
	"I'm going to take a shower," Spender says and disappears into the
bathroom.  I sit up slowly, digging my hands through my hair.  There's a
sore spot on the back of my head where Krycek's plastic hand pulled my
hair.  What the hell was he doing? I ask myself again, looking around. 
Where did he go and why is the more important question.  He must have
left some clue, I think, but there is none.  He left no sign that he was
even here. I suspect Krycek likes things that way.
	The water's running and I know Spender's in the shower, but after last
night, I really want my underwear.  It doesn't matter, I tell myself, I
won't look.  I push open the door and grab my panties, pulling them up
and reaching for the bra also dangling from the hook.  I stop when I see
the long, lean line of Spender's body under the water so hot it releases
steam when it hits his skin.  He could be Mulder's brother and I stare
at the muscles in his back and his flanks and his thighs.
	He is leaning against the opposite wall of the shower and when I take a
step toward the door, I see why he is bent over and pressing his eyes
into his forearm, braced against the stall.  He's touching himself.  His
penis grows thicker and longer even as I watch his fist move over it.  I
watch until  I feel my face growing hot and my breath getting quicker. 
Then I turn away, feeling shame for having looked, and dress in the
other room.
	The sets of car keys I gathered from the dead bodies out back are one
fewer and I look out the window from behind the cash register.  Krycek
took the best car, a late model cream colored Ford.  It was in the best
shape and had the most gas.  He's got to be hundreds of miles away by
now, leaving me to figure out what to do next.
	There's a letter stationary pad among the small convenience store's
inventory and I open it, taking the black  ballpoint pen from behind the
counter and clicking it.  I had notes to make, days ago before this
began, and now I make them as quickly as I can, the words flooding my
brain faster than my hand can move over the page.  The information is
coming back to me and if I don't record it, it will be gone.  I sketch
the alien's systems and the way it attached to grow inside the motel
clerk's body.  I make notes and brainstorm. The drawings are neater,
cleaner than the ones I made back in school.  Unused skills come back
stronger, I guess.
	I wish I knew where Mulder is.
	"Hey," Spender says, lurking in the doorway like he's reluctant to
disturb me.  The pages came loose from the pad when I turned them over
and I have quite a collection of them in front of me.  I straighten them
into a neater pile and he picks one of the souvenir T-shirts from the
rack and pulls the shirt he's wearing off in favor of the clean one.  He
has a mole right in the middle of his back.  I want to look at it more
closely, but I don't move.  "What're you doing?"  He comes closer.
	"Making notes on the autopsy of the motel clerk," I reply.  "I was just
about done."
	"What're we going to do now?" he asks, looking to me like I'm his
savior.
	I look back. I could tell him what we're going to do, since I've
already decided.  But looking into his dark brown eyes, I realize
there's something going on inside his head. there must be. He's been to
college and through the academy. He's an FBI agent, trained in logic and
clues as I have been.  "What do you think we should do?" I ask him.
	He shrugs like he'll do anything I tell him to. I wait, determined to
hear him answer.  "Maybe we should try to find the camp.  Wherever they
were taking us on that bus. Maybe we could liberate the people there." 
He shrugs again like he thinks it's a dumb idea.
	It is a dumb idea. We don't have guns or knives or bombs.    There are
only two of us and we don't really know what we're up against.  But he's
right.  We should try to help the other people.  The people who would be
us.  I nod.
	"Do you think they're looking for us?" he asks me.
	I shake my head.  "If they were looking for us, they'd find us."
	"Because of the implants," he says, guessing or asking. He hasn't lived
with this for six years as I have, the facts of it becoming more
familiar than the things in normal life like grocery shopping and movies
on Friday nights.  "What do they do?"
	I shake my head again. I don't really know.  "We think they transmit. 
Information, data, locations, I don't know.  And they seem to aid
immunosuppression of the cancers that abduction subjects us to."  But
not suppression of the alien beings.  Do they aid the growth of the
alien host?  Does that prime our bodies for their possession?  "There
are so many groups and I don't know which one uses the implants."
	"Krycek knew."
	I nod.  "He knew."  Krycek knows everything, and tells nothing.
	"He was there during your abduction."
	I frown. Spender's not asking me.  How he hell would he know?  Did that
cigarette smoking asshole he used to work for talk about me?  I feel
anger rising dangerously quick inside me, my blood pressure surging. 
"What do you know about that?" My voice is instantly shrill.
	"Lucky guess."
	He's lying.
	"So, what are we going to do?" he asks me.
	"We have our choice of three cars," I tell him.  "I want to go home." 
He just looks back at me and I close my hand around the keys for the
next best car.  God only knows what'll be waiting for us when we get
there.  Spender follows me, so silent I wonder what he's thinking.  But
I like silence.  I jam the car in gear and leave the gas station behind
us before he can even fasten his seatbelt.  And I feel powerful.
	Until the cream colored Ford appears by the side of the road about an
hour later.  I brake and my seatbelt locks as the wheels of the car skid
to a stop.  The door to the Ford is thrown open and there's no sign of
Krycek. No sign that he was ever here.  I wander a few steps out into
the desert, and when I look back, mine are the only footprints.  "They
took him," I say.  Spender looks grim and disbelieving.  It makes me
feel like I'm Mulder and he's me, back years ago when life wasn't
normal, but still seemed to make some sense.
	"I just want to go home," I say, and when I approach the car, I walk to
the passenger side.  The keys are still in the ignition and Spender
takes the hint, getting in on the driver's side and moving the seat
back.  He shuts the door and turns up the air conditioner.  It feels
like it's 40 degrees blowing on me, but I just turn my head and watch
the scenery fly by.  He must want to go home, too.
	The other times I've been separated from Mulder, he's contacted me in
my dreams.  It doesn't make sense, I know, but there isn't any other way
to describe it.  He sent me a message, conscious or not, and I was
receptive while I was in the mysterious stages of sleep.  When I woke, I
knew he was all right and I could feel his presence like he was in the
room, like he'd been that close to me before I broke through into
consciousness.  It's a feeling I've also had with the dead.
	This time, from Mulder, I've gotten nothing.
	I'm going to have to get used to the idea, sooner or later, that he's
dead.
	I'm not sure if this life will be worth living when I make myself
believe that.
	"Are you okay?" Spender asks, glancing at me, as though he senses my
thoughts.  
	I don't turn my head and look at him.  "Fine," I reply, and we drive
on.

	xxx		xxx		xxx

	There's no motel clerk when we get to the motel twenty hours later,
both of us too exhausted to drive any more.  Scully takes a key to one
of the rooms overlooking the parking lot, which is empty.  When she
opens the door, I can see why.  It's not much of a motel, but there are
two beds beneath the waterstained ceiling, and a scratched-up TV.  She
turns it on immediately, but no stations come in.  She flops down on the
bed and lies there like she's dead.  It's clear she has no intention of
moving.
	She raises her head slightly when I go to the door, heading out to find
the vending machine.  We need something to eat, something to keep us
going.  Her especially.  Krycek's choice to leave us affected her, and I
think the empty car on the road scared her.  It scared me.  It screamed
"abduction" and Alex always seemed safe from that.  From them.  Above
it, somehow.  I guess that wasn't possible.
	There's nothing even bordering on nutritious in the candy machine and I
wish we'd taken some pretzels or Met-Rx bars from the convenience
store.  I buy Scully two bags of her favorite M&Ms, hoping they'll cheer
her up.  She's turned on her side when I walk back into the motel room,
her back to the door.  She doesn't look up, not even when I nudge her.
	"Okay," I say.  "I'll just leave these here."  I rustle the bags as I
set them on her side of the nightstand.  She doesn't care.  She hasn't
said anything to me since she said she was fine after we found Krycek's
car.  I didn't believe her then and I really don't believe her now.
	It's the helplessness that I can't stand. I never knew what to do to
help my mother.  She would have days like this, when I was a boy. 
Months, sometimes.  I learned to be self sufficient and I learned to
stay away but I never learned anything to say or do to help her.  And I
never showed her my fear, sensing that would only make it worse. I shut
off the static on the TV and climb into the other bed.  We only stopped
to sleep, anyway, and unwind our limbs from the cramped interiour of the
car.
	She let me hold her last night and it feels like a thousand decades
ago.

	xxx		xxx		xxx

	There's water.  Where Mulder is, there's water. I can feel it.  I can
hear it, rushing just out of my earshot.  I can taste it when I open my
mouth and inhale, the briny-dirty smell of the California sea.  We've
been driving home to Washington, DC.  We can't have been going the wrong
way.
	"Mulder," I say, but my voice is thick and filled with bubbles.  I
realize then that I am already in the water. It's closed over my head
and in moments I will be drowning.  I thrash and look around, but I
don't see him.  I'm alone and there are rocks.  I'm trying to swim but
I've forgotten how. My arms and legs won't move, won't work. "Mulder!" I
scream, but the only sound is "glub!" as the water burns down my throat
and into my nose. It's saltwater, from the sea.  And it's cold.  So
cold.
	I sit up in the dark motel room and listen.  My breathing is harsh and
fast.  As it slows, I hear the water in the toilet tank running as
though it's been flushed recently, but it doesn't stop running after a
few seconds.  It doesn't sound like it will ever stop.
	I lay back with my eyes open, thinking of the dream and of Mulder.  It
was about him, about my yearning to see him, even in my dreams, but he
wasn't there.  I'm scared more now than ever that it means he's dead and
gone, like everyone else, and that I'll never see him again.  Tears fill
my eyes as I stare at the ceiling and I'm powerless to stop them. 
Crying releases toxins in the bloodstream.  It's a biological necessity
to cleanse the system of stress.  I hate it, as I lie there, wiping my
eyes and my nose with my fingers when they become too moist and drippy
to bear.  I don't want to get up. I don't want anyone to know.
	I turn over to make sure Spender's asleep.  He seems to be. There's a
box of tissues on the nightstand and I sniffle until there's a wad of
used tissues littering the floor.  There are two packets of M&Ms that he
must have brought for me.  I can't stomach the thought of them right
now.  I want something saltier than my tears, something to fill the hole
inside me.
	I want Mulder.
	I get up and wash my face. I'm not going to do this anymore, not going
to cry.  I'm not going to let myself think of Mulder.  There are things
we have to do now, important things.  When those things are done, then I
can try to find him.  He must be doing something, I think, something to
help the cause we've fought for, for so many years.  
	Knowing Mulder, something dangerous that'll make him dead.
	Enough of that.
	I pick up the phone when I return from washing  up and sit cross-legged
on the bed.  I listen to the dial tone for several long seconds, its hum
reassuring in my ear.  I can't decide who to call.  Then I punch in
Skinner's home number, looking around for a clock. There isn't one.  I
don't even know what time zone we're in.
	"Yeah."  He sounds gruff and asleep.  But he's alive.
	"Assistant Director Skinner?"  He's not my boss anymore.  But what am I
supposed to call him, Wally?  Hey Wally, where'd the Beav go?  We fucked
and he ditched me and now I'm stuck with Lumpy and Eddie Haskell...
	"Scully?"  His voice is more alert now and I hear rustling as he sits
up and throws back the covers.  "Where are you?"
	"I, um, I'm not really sure.  But we're on our way back."
	"Mulder?"
	Damn it.  "Spender."
	Skinner doesn't say anything.
	"You know what's happening, out west?" I ask.  
	Skinner waits a long time before he sighs,  "Yeah.  Look, Scully,
there's some things you should know."
	"Sir, I don't know how much time there is.  We've come halfway across
the country, from California where the invasion started.  We haven't
seen another person since we...um..." Do I really want to explain it all
to him?
	"They're already rounding people up here, Scully," Skinner tells me. 
"The President's dead."
	"What?"  Spender sits up when I shriek.  Sorry, buddy, I know you
needed the sleep.
	"They couldn't do this with him in power.  You know that."
	"What about you?  Are you safe?"  I ask, twining the phone cord between
my fingers.
	"Yes," he replies.
	"Because you're working with them," I realize.  He is silent,
confirming this.  "I know it's the only way," I tell him.  "Should I
have not called you?"
	He doesn't answer for a long time.  We had our doubts about Skinner,
Mulder and I did, we doubted him for the longest time, until he seemed
to support us and what we were doing.  He's suffered consequences just
as the rest of us have.  "I'm glad you called me, Scully," Skinner
answers.  "I just don't know if you should come in to the city.  They'll
know you're an abductee and your life will be worth less than the actual
humans they're rounding into busses."
	I nod.  I don't know what to say.  "We'll see you soon, sir," I reply
finally and press down the hook switch with my fingers.  When I raise my
eyes, Spender is watching me.  "Skinner," I tell him.  "They're rounding
people up in DC.  I guess the bees aren't there yet."  I reach up and
turn on the light.  "He doesn't think we should go back there."
	"Did he say where we should go?"
	I shake my head, looking at Spender.  "You worked for them."
	He looks like I've accused him.  "They never told me anything.  They
used me, Scully."
	"You know where their headquarters were?"
	"In New York, on 46th street.  But they cleared out of there before
I..."  One hand rubs his chest.  I don't think he's aware that he's even
doing it.  He looks afraid and almost sad and I know he must be caught
up in remembering.  They tried to kill him and he almost died.  You
don't get over something like that.
	There is a light scratching noise at the door and we both jump, staring
at it.  It sounds like there's a cat outside, trying to get in.  Then
the door shatters, sending splinters flying everywhere and a creature
stalks inside.  It has claws like Freddie Kreuger's and it smells like
the intestines of a dead man.  Which is where it was born, as far as I
can tell.  It's one of the aliens.  Spender's frozen.  The alien is
looking at me.
	This isn't good.  I run into the bathroom and pull the towel rack off
the wall.  We don't have a stiletto, we don't have anything even vaguely
like a stiletto.  The alien follows me like it thinks I'm its mother. 
It isn't slashing with its claws.  I really don't fucking understand but
I don't care either.  I grunt as I slam the towel bar through the back
of its neck with all the force I have.  It comes through the front of
its throat like a badly performed tracheotomy, assuming aliens have
tracheas.  Its scream becomes a death gasp.  Green stuff oozes out and I
cover my mouth and nose with my hand, stepping around its body,
remembering the alien I stabbed before.  The one that pulled the blade
out of its neck and choked me.  That alien let me go.  I may not be so
lucky this time.
	"Get out of here!" I yell to Spender, who is staring at the alien.  I
grab his hand and pull him out of the motel room.  We get in the car and
sit there, breathing hard, feeling safe in our metal capsule.  Once I
get over the jolt,  my mind starts working.  The alien hasn't emerged
from our motel room, so I'm thinking it's dead.  I could do an autopsy. 
This is just the opportunity we need.  I unlock the door and throw it
open.
	"Where are you going?" Spender demands.  He has to get out of the car
to talk to me.
	"I'm gonna do an autopsy on that thing," I explain.
	"No way," he says.  I don't move and neither does he.  "Get in the
car."
	I don't.
	"There's got to be more where that one came from."  He's practically
begging with me now.  "Stop being so stubborn."  His shoulders fall.  He
wants to give up.  "Please."
	They used to call me stubborn when I was a little girl.  He reminds me
of my mother, begging me to behave.  I was never bad, but I was
uncooperative.  I wanted to do what I wanted to do.  I still do.  Even
though I know he's right.
	"Let me drive," I acquiesce and he rounds the car to the other side,
climbing in to the passenger seat and closing his eyes.  I start the car
and stomp on the gas.  At 100 miles an hour, it would only take ten
hours to cross 1,000 miles.  Right?
	We're going to find out.

end of part eleven.
comments to: eponine119@att.net

Diary of the Second Holocaust 12/14
by  eponine119
eponine119@att.net

	xxx		xxx		xxx

	The city streets are quiet and there is no one about.  For the first
time, I don't feel afraid in downtown DC.  Which is stupid because I
have more to fear now than I ever did before.  The drug wars and the
ignorance of youth may have been slowly leaching the life out of
America, but the invasion is a quick, silent war.  Skinner is waiting
for us at the motel, standing in a dark spot outside with his arms
folded.  "You can't stay here," he tells us without moving, his voice
cutting through the night.
	"Why not?" Scully demands.
	"They're looking for you.  I couldn't keep them from finding out you're
alive.  I'm sorry."  He's speaking directly to Scully.
	"Who?" she asks.  There are so many 'they's to choose from.  The
aliens.  The colonists.  Whatever might be left of the consortium.
	"The men I work for," Skinner says with a flinch of shame.  Scully's
eyes are cool, studying him.  "They promised me safety - immunity," he
tries to explain.  "I thought I could do more good alive than dead," he
finishes.
	"Where should we go?" Scully asks and Skinner doesn't answer.  "I need
something to drink," she announces and we walk around the corner of the
building all in a group to the soda machine.  Her hands are shaking so
badly from all the other Cokes she's drunk that I have to count the
change for her.  Skinner observes, and he looks at me as though I'm not
taking good enough care of her.
	I didn't take good enough care of my mother, either.   She fell in with
the wrong people and she died.  Like Marita.  Suddenly I want to get as
far away from Scully as possible.  She drains the can and looks like
she's going to be sick.  "The men you work for," she says to Skinner. 
"Can I meet them?"

	xxx		xxx		xxx

	She looks like Joan of Arc in the rearview mirror, her head up and her
profile noble.  Doesn't she realize I'm taking her to her death?  Scully
is too easy, too trusting, and I want to stop the car and tell her to
run.  Spender squirms in the passenger seat next to me. He's been in
these big, dark sedans before.  They're like mafia limousines.  We don't
make conversation and we don't listen to the radio.
	She thinks less of me for going with them, for crossing to the wrong
side to save myself.  I meant what I told her, my intention to fight
them from inside their ranks. Never mind that it's failed in the past. 
I got the cure for her cancer.  I had to kill for it, but I saved her
and let Mulder think it was his triumph.
	I make no move to get out of the car when we arrive.  Scully gets out
and shuts the door softly.  Spender looks at me, but I'm not going.  He
gets out to join her.  He'll be facing his father again, I hope he
realizes that.  And his father will be angry with him.
	I don't think she's ever dealt with the cancerman before.  I don't
think she'll enjoy it. 

	xxx		xxx		xxx

	The old man smells bad.  He is sitting, lounging in a leather easy
chair the way he used to in Skinner's office back when things were
normal and there was an FBI.  He's been waiting for us.  My stomach
clenches at the thought of Skinner telling him as soon as I called. 
This was all planned.  I feel Spender at my back and I want to step into
him for protection.  But no one can protect me now.  I don't even have a
gun.
	The old man's face changes when he sees his son behind me.  The
wrinkles lengthen and deepen and I wonder how old he is.  He looks like
the devil, but he can't be much more than sixty.  He is just a man, who
once had a wife and a son.  He was not always the epitome of evil.
	"Get him out of here," he orders, thrusting one finger toward the
door.  He looks almost panicked to see Spender.  I want to see Spender's
face, but I won't turn to look at him.  He doesn't move from my side. 
The cancerman appeals to me, "I'll talk to you, but I won't deal with
him."  Spender still doesn't move.  As though realizing he's lost this
round, the cancerman relaxes back into his chair, pretending he doesn't
care.
	It's good to have won the first round.  
	"You wanted to see me?" he asks, the words flat like a statement.  He
strokes the length of his cigarette before placing it between his lips
and lighting it.  I get the feeling he's flirting with me or trying to
unnerve me, or both.
	"Yes,"  I reply.  There is another chair and I sit in it.  It creaks as
though it's never been sat in before.  I scuff it forward, across the
wooden floor and lean in toward the smoking man, even though the smoke
from his cigarette is foul.  Spender remains behind me throughout,
standing behind my chair like a consigliere.  I am the godmother, I
think, I am the mob.  Is this what actors do to give themselves presence
and power on the stage?  "I want some answers, Mr. Spender."
	He smiles when I call him that name. I'm aware it's an alias, but I'm
playing nice.  Mulder and I spent an evening trying to figure out what
"C.G.B." stood for.  The answers got sillier the more we drank.  "What
have you to trade?" he asks as though interested.  
	"I'm not here to make a deal," I inform him.  "I want to know how you
think you can win this war."
	He makes a bridge with his fingers and I find it patronizing.  "It's
not a war to be won, my dear," he says like a kindly grandfather.  "It's
a matter of survival."
	"What kind of a deal did you make with them?" I ask.
	"I don't make deals," he informs me.  "Is that why you've come here?  
To try to get me to give you information you should have figured out for
yourself?  I picked you because you're a bright young lady.  Don't
disappoint me now, Dana."
	His words succeed in raising goosebumps along my arms.  I remember him,
from the meeting at the FBI where I was assigned to be Mulder's
watchdog.  I realize he was behind my placement on the X Files.  But I
am the reason I lasted there.  I cross my arms and lean back.  "What
should we do now?" I ask him.
	"You should get out of here and run like hell before my men find you,"
the smoking man replies honestly.  "You're not a part of our plan, and
the colonists will like a remaining abductee even less."
	I noticed.  I get to my feet and shove the chair back.  I look at
Spender for the first time and find his face a mirror of the mask I'm
wearing - expressionless and hard.
	"It's good to see you again, Jeff," the smoking man says cuttingly.  "I
trust you've fully recovered."
	"No thanks to you."  His voice is full of venom and I put my hand on
his arm to restrain him.
	"I'm surprised at the company you're keeping, son," he continues. 
"Doesn't she remind you that you're no comparision to Fox Mulder?  Or
has she finally lowered her standards?"
	I turn on him and for a second I'm surprised when lightning doesn't
flash from my eyes and strike him dead.  "Your son has honor and
nobility and courage, which is more than I can say for you, you little
cockroach. You may be standing when the last of the bombs fall, but
there'll always be a thousand more of you, scavenging and living in the
darkness inside the walls.  You don't deserve to speak to him.  You
don't deserve to speak Fox Mulder's name.  We're going to bring you
down, you bastard, and when we do, so help me god, you'll wish that you
had courage to get you through the type of torture you so enjoyed
inflicting on me and a thousand other women, starting with your ex-wife
and your daughter!"  My voice hasn't risen and the ice dripping from it
frightens even me. My anger is sometimes like an out-of-body
experience.  I lean in closer to him, so close I can smell the tar  on
his putrefying breath.  "And I'm going to be the one who attaches the
electrical wires and when you're screaming and crying for relief, like
the dickless coward you are, I'm gonna shove the implant so far up your
ass it'll hit your brain."  It strikes me as a junior high school sort
of insult when I've said it, but he's sunk in his chair. I've made the
fearmaker afraid of me.
	"Now," I ask, "Do you know where Mulder is?"
	He laughs and I punch him.  His head slings to one side and his eyes
close.  I turn to Spender and he takes my arm, steadying me.  We walk
out together.
	"Do you think he was serious?" Spender asks me.
	"I was," I say and he chuckles until I give him a dirty look.
	"Do we need to run?" Spender asks, to clarify his earlier question.
	I wish I knew.  "I'm going to the FBI building," I tell him.  I want to
look at Mulder's files.  I think there's some things he never told me. 
I don't want to believe it, but I'm just as certain that it's true.

	xxx		xxx		xxx

	The FBI building has been looted.  The glass is all smashed in and it
looks like someone held a bonfire in the lobby, right over the "Fidelty
- Bravery - Integrity" emblem.  I caused a fair amount of destruction
when I worked here, I think as I follow her through the halls like a
ghost on Ms. PacMan's trail.  The shredder used to make me cough and
sneeze when I leaned over it to put the pages through.  And damage was
done to me.  I wonder if she ever noticed the blood staining the floor
in their office.
	The door to Mulder's office is still locked when we reach the basement,
but it's off its hinges and bent in the middle.  Somebody wanted
inside.  The file cabinets are tipped over, but the drawers are still
full, seemingly untouched.  I stand back as Scully shoves one of them
back into place against the wall.  She has muscles in her upper arms
that define themselves as she works.  I find myself looking for the
place where I thought I was dead.  The cleaning crew must have done an
excellent job because there's not even the faintest smear of blood.
	"Did you mean what you said back there?" I ask her.  She looks like she
could use a stepstool to reach the top drawer of the file cabinet.
	"I may have exaggerated slightly," she says with a mildly embarrassed
smile.
	"I meant about me...being courageous."  I'm afraid to ask, because I'm
afraid she'll take it back, say that she only meant it to hurt my
father.  I'm afraid she'll think less of me for asking.
	She stops rifling through the drawers and looks at me.  "Of course I
meant it," she says, taking several steps toward me. I fight the urge to
back away.  Her eyes have gone soft and I don't  know what that means. 
"Did your father compare you to Mulder often, when you worked for him,
to try to hurt you?" she asks in a quiet voice.
	"Only once," I reply, remembering his slaps that knocked me back in my
chair and back into my place.
	"What is your father's relationship to Mulder?" she asks me.
	"I wish you wouldn't call him that."
	"Your father?"  Her eyebrows go up.  I nod.  "I wouldn't want to be
reminded, either," she admits understandingly.
	"I don't know....about him and Mulder.  I think he respected
Mulder...or something," I tell her.  She nods and goes back to the
file.  "You said he abducted his daughter...but I don't  have a sister,"
I say.
	"Mulder thought..."  Scully pauses and looks at me.  "Mulder had reason
to believe that your father was involved in his sister's abduction.  He
believed that the cigarette smoking man had a close relationship with
his mother.  So close that Samantha may have been your sister."  She
looks sorry to be telling me this.  "Samantha's abduction date
corresponds with the date of your  mother's first abduction."
	I don't know what to say, and after a second, Scully goes back to the
files. I wonder what she's looking for.  "What are we going to do now?"
I ask her.
	"We're going to find out about the implants and we're going to find
Mulder.  And Krycek."  She doesn't express any doubt that they're still
alive.
	"How are we going to do that?" I ask her.
	"They're monitoring us from somewhere," she says, closing the folder
with a flourish and heading out of the office, leaving me to follow her
once again.
	
	xxx		xxx		xxx

	There were things in the files Mulder never told me of, just as I'd
suspected.  Rooms at the Pentagon where women lay on tables in rows with
lights projected onto their swollen stomachs. He'd gone raiding with the
identity card of the man he shot in his apartment, who had been spying
on him for god knows how long.  Mulder let the world think that man was
him for as long as the ruse lasted.  Not long.  I was busy dying of
cancer at the time, so I understand why he wouldn't have wanted to
bother me with the details.
	He found the implant there, in their rows of catalogued boxes and
files.  The implant that was put back into my neck, that is sustaining
me today.  It's got to be where their monitoring equipment is, deep in
the bowels of the Department of Defense of my own beloved government. 
It makes me angry.
	That there is no one at the Pentagon comes as a slight surprise to me. 
There are no doors from the subway, which is still running.  The
Pentagon was open twenty four hours a day, guarded at all times, and
planned with dry cleaners and pharmacy and shopping so its employees
wouldn't lose time and productivity on their lunch hours that they could
lose in other ways, such as wandering the ringed halls forever in
confusion.
	Spender is close on my heels.  I like that he follows me and doesn't
ask questions.   Mulder wasn't much for directions, but I pick up the
trail he must have followed, down to the lowest level of the basement. 
I'm sensing a pattern here with the basements and everything.  We come
to a door with an electronic lock.  
	"I've been here before," Spender says.  I stop and let him walk past
me, up to the lock.  I watch as he keys in the code numbers and the
light turns green.  He glances at me and pushes through the door.
	"What did you do here?" I ask, my voice hushed in the dark hallway.
There shouldn't be anyone to hear us.  
	"I was meeting him.  And Diana."
	Ah, the fowl one.  I haven't heard her name since she disappeared about
the same time Spender did.  Funny how I didn't miss her at all.  And now
that I'm thinking about her again, I'm wondering if she's alive and
knows where Mulder is. Maybe he's with her.  Maybe he ran off to be with
her.  My insides turn queasy and I vow not to think about it.  At least
not until later, when I'm due my nightly crying jag and breakdown.  I'm
starting to really hate myself for that.
	I peek through the windows.  All of them have chickenwire enforcing
them, and when I see one that's interesting, I try the door.  It opens
easily in my hand. So much for security.  Spender follows and we walk
through an aisle with a long card catalogue, tiny file drawers.  They're
meticulously typewriter labeled with letters of the alphabet and it
isn't difficult to find where "Scully" will fall.  I yank the drawer so
hard I almost dump the cards onto the floor and Spender steadies it for
me.  "Thanks," I murmur with a glance at him.  He holds the drawer while
I paw through it, looking for my own name. There are a lot of Scully's,
I guess it's a more common Irish name than I thought.  I'd only ever
heard of Vin Scully before, the Dodgers announcer.  My dad used to joke
that he was an uncle and he'd introduce us to the team.  Then my dad
went off on a ship and my brothers, my sister and I would manage to
forget the empty promises every time.
	Vin Scully doesn't have a card in the drawer, in case you're
interested.
	I do.  It has an identifying number on it.  Beyond that, the card is
blank.  About half of the cards are blank.  I wonder what that denotes. 
Suddenly I feel like I'm in a big library with a complete collection and
I want to look up everything.  I take my card and hold it in my hand.
Lots and lots of files, I think, taking two steps to my left and finding
Spender's drawer.  He looks horrified, but Krycek told him that he had
an implant. Krycek. Another person to look up. Maybe by cross
referencing the cards, I can figure out what's going on here. Maybe if I
ask nice, Spender will go out and get me a sleeping bag and a six pack
of Pepsi and I can move in.
	Spender's card is also blank.  He takes it from my hands and looks at
it.  His eyes almost seem to cross when he focuses in concentration.  I
hadn't noticed that before.  It's sort of cute, I think, and wonder what
the hell is going on in my brain.  It probably means he needs glasses, I
tell myself. "Do you know what any of this means?" I ask him, studying
his face.
	He shakes his head and gives his card back to me.  I look at
Cassandra's card, which is not blank.  It also shows some sign of a
human hand.  A little star has been drawn in the upper left corner in
light green ink.  I compare her card to her son's, looking at the
number, trying to see if they have any sort of generational bearing.  It
doesn't seem to.  I put Cassandra's card back.  There is no "C.G.B."
card.  I 'm not terribly surprised.
	I look up Penny Northern.  Her card is blank.  I put it back.
	I take Mulder's card.  It isn't blank.  I take Samantha's card.  It is
blank.  I push the file drawer closed and then pull it open again,
having a thought, looking for cards on his parents.  There is no William
Mulder card.  There is one for Mulder, Rebecca Kristeen.  It isn't
blank.  There's a pattern here somewhere, if only I can find it.
	Krycek's card isn't blank either.  There are no other Kryceks in the
drawer.
	I look at the array of cards in my hand.  Who am I forgetting?  Spender
puts a card into my hand.  Covarrubias, Mary Margarita.  It's blank. 
Blank means dead.  Someone's been keeping the card file up to date.  I
look at him and he's looking at the floor.  For the hell of it, I visit
Skinner's card.  Not blank.  
	"Okay," I say.  "Know anything about the filing system?"  Spender
shakes his head.  Across from the card file is row after row of metal
shelves with grey cardboard boxes.  The boxes are labeled with numbers
with the same form as the identifying numbers on the cards.  I shuffle
the cards until Mulder's is looking up at me and set off to find his
box, wondering what I will find inside.  A horror movie vision of heads
in boxes haunts me until I realize these boxes are much too small.
Besides, Mulder's card isn't blank.
	They don't think he's dead.
	Of course, my card is blank and so is Spender's, so we fooled them.  Or
they know something we don't.
	Mulder's box has two vials and a blue Stratego piece shaped like a
castle.  One vials seems to have blood in it.  The other looks like
semen.  This place is seriously starting to give me the creeps.  The
contents of other boxes that I check are similar, except Spender's
doesn't have the blood sample and mine, obviously doesn't have any semen
in it. That would be quite a discovery.
	"Find Marita's box," Spender tells me.  I look at him, but he doesn't
elaborate.  I do as he says anyway.  I open it and it's empty.  "Damn
it!" he cries.
	I cross my arms.  "What's going on?"
	"Rita was the only person ever successfully treated with the antidote
for the alien blood," he says. "Not the weak vaccine, the cure.  I
thought...hoped..."
	"It would be in here," I finish for him, looking in the box again. 
It's empty.  It occurs to me that none of the other boxes were empty. 
"Someone got here before us," I determine.
	"Who?" Spender asks.
	The hair on the back of my neck is rising and I suddenly feel like I'm 
being watched. I hope it is merely paranoia.  "Krycek, I hope," I tell
Spender in a low voice.  He looks around, sensitive to my uneasiness. 
We are the only two here. "I think we'd better go."
	He agrees, and we don't start running until we hit the stairwell.

	xxx		xxx		xxx

	"Are you sure we'll be safe here?" I ask her, looking around as though
expecting bullets to come flying through the walls of the motel room at
any time.  I don't feel safe here.  I don't feel safe anywhere now that
we've seen my father and he knows I'm alive.  Scully is pacing up and
down in the shallow walkway between the bed and the television, which is
on and turned to news.  She's chewing on her thumbnail, something I've
never seen her do before.  I've never seen her pace this frenetically,
either.
	"We're safe," she removes her finger from her mouth to tell me.  "For
now.  They're watching us because they're curious what we know and what
we're going to do."  She stops and looks at my expression of disbelief
that we hold this much power.  "He's not the all-powerful Oz, Spender,"
she tells me, "He's just a little man  behind the curtain pulling the
strings."
	"Nice analogy."  I wish she would sit down.  "What do we know?"  She
just paces.  I try not to look because it's driving me crazy.  "What are
we going to do now?"
	"We're going to find a cure or a vaccine for the alien virus and begin
an immunization program," she says like she believes it.
	"How are we going to do that?"
	She looks at me, startled, like no one's ever questioned her authority
before.  If she could get a good look at herself, she could see why.
	"I'm serious,  Scully.  You're exhausted.  If you keep this up, you're
going to collapse."  She doesn't stop moving and I'm starting to get
angry. I'm supposed to  be taking care of her.  I get up from the bed
and put my hands on her shoulders, making her stand still.  She does
stand there for a moment, looking up at me defiantly.  Her muscles are
quivering under my hand like electrical current is flowing through her
body.  Then she breaks away to pace some more.  "God damn it, Scully!" I
yell and don't even recognize the sound of my own voice.  "Don't make me
pick you up and put you in the bed."
	"What are you going to do once you've got me there?" she asks quietly. 
The dark rings around her eyes make her look like she's afraid of me. 
Me.  That's almost hilarious.
	I change my approach.  "You're going to go to sleep and when you get
up, your head will be clear so you can figure out the vaccine."
	"What're you gonna do?" she asks, but I've won.  She's moving toward
the bed and she even looks sleepy, now that she's allowed herself to
stop being so keyed-up.  It's a good question, I realize as she
stretches out and pulls the covers over herself.  I turn out the light
and sit there in the dark, asking myself.
	What am I going to do to save the world from alien invasion?
	No answers come to me.

end of part twelve.
comments to: eponine119@att.net

Diary of the Second Holocaust 13/14
by eponine119
eponine119@att.net

	xxx		xxx		xxx

	I'm having a dream about Mulder and when I feel the hand on my back, I
know it has to be him. "Mulder?"  My voice is tenuous and confused as I
lift my cheek from the cool, smooth formica countertop.  My feet are
still hooked around the rungs of the stool.  I turn around and there's
no one there.  I blink, to make certain I'm awake, and there is no one
in the lab with me.  I've been here for days, slaving to make progress
that I honestly don't know enough to make.  I'm a forensic pathologist,
not Edward Jenner.
	My arm is still lying on the counter, numb from having slept with the
weight of my head on it.  It's starting to tingle sharply and I realize
there is a glass vial in the palm of my hand.  It wasn't there when I
fell asleep.  I sit up, excited and scared.  There really was a hand on
my back, someone waking me so I would see what they gave me.
	It's the vaccine.  I don't know how I know, but I do.
	My feet find the floor and I don't set the vial down as I walk into the
hallway.  It hasn't been but a few moments; whoever was here can't have
gone far.  I open the door and look down the long, dark hallway of the
abandoned university.  School was already out when the first signs of
national emergency came.  There's no one there.
	My eyes adjust from the brightness of the lab and I notice something
shiny on the floor.  I step out from the doorway and crouch.  It's
blood.  Fresh blood.  Someone is here.  Someone who's hurt.  If it's
Mulder, why would he sneak away?  "It's okay," I call, taking more
cautious steps, looking for the messenger.  I follow the trail of blood,
hoping it's not leading me to someone who's been chewed and sliced by
one of the alien hatchlings.
	I  push the door to the stairway open carefully and find Krycek lying
there, bruised and bleeding.  "Oh god," I whisper and he opens his eyes.
	"It's not as bad as it looks," he says and manages a rakish smile.  I
don't believe him.  His eyes are filled with pain.  I put the vaccine
vial into the pocket of the long white lab coat I'm wearing and help him
up to his feet.  His sweater is soaked with blood.  I don't ask him
where he's been or what's happened to him.  I help him back into the lab
where I've been working and call Spender at the motel and ask him to
bring the car.
	Then I turn back to Krycek and look at him.  He's slid down the wall
into a heap at the juncture of the wall and the floor.  His swarthy
complexion is pale, bluish.  I start to push his sweater up over his
chest and he chuckles.  He pays for that laugh in pain.  I hold his eyes
for several second and then push the sweater up.
	Four sharp, deep scratches across his chest.  They all need stitches
and look infected.  They're crusted with blood but not closing
properly.  I frown at him.  "How old are these wounds?"
	He doesn't reply.  I get up and walk to the cabinet, filling a syringe
with penicillin from the refrigerator.  "You're not allergic?" I ask and
he barely has time to grunt as I pull him into my arms so his butt isn't
touching the floor.  I jam the needle in through the fabric of his jeans
and he howls.
	"Now," I say as he settles back on his stung ass, "How old are these
wounds?"
	"A day," he whispers.
	"They're from one of the alien hatchlings," I say and he nods
confirmation.  "Why didn't you seek treatment sooner?"
	"I had to get the vaccine to you."
	"Does it hurt to breathe?" I ask, touching his chest lightly and
watching him wince.
	"You can make more, can't you?" he asks desperately.
	"Yes," I tell him soothingly.  "We can make enough for everyone."  I
hope this is possible, but I'm not certain. But he's agitated and his
color doesn't look good.
	"They'll try to stop it.  They'll try to kill us," Krycek tells me.
	"Looks like they already gave it their best shot."  I get a clean cloth
to apply pressure to his bleeding stomach and the door to the lab
opens.  
	I look and see Spender.  "Jesus."  The word slips through his teeth.
	"Good to see you too," Krycek says to him.
	"What's wrong with him?" Spender asks me.
	"He needs stitches.  I think we need to get him back to the motel," I
say and move away to gather the equipment I'll need.  Silk thread and a
needle, a big bottle of alcohol.  I lucked out with them having
penicillin in the refrigerator - there isn't much else.  No novocain or
topical anesthetics.  This is going to get pretty ugly.  I look at
Spender picking Krycek up and realize it already is pretty ugly.
	"You got him?" I ask and Spender nods, his face dark and intense.  He
turns away and walks out through the door.  I follow, locking up behind
us and turning  out the lights.  "Put him in the back," I suggest and
Spender does, dropping Krycek heavily onto the back seat.
	"There's something you should know," Spender tells me gravely as he
gets in on the driver's side and starts the engine. I wait as he pulls
out sedately and then he looks at me before putting the car into drive
from reverse.  He looks at me.  "The bees are here."  He stomps the gas
uncharacteristically and Krycek lets out an involuntary sound of pain
from the back seat.  My hand is on the vial in my pocket.  I just nod at
Spender's grim pronouncement and look out the window at the passing
scenery, wondering where the other cars are.  The roads are practically
empty.
	Then I hear the announcement on the radio and understand why.  "For
your safety, you are implored to report to a refugee center.  We will
transport you and your families to a safe, insect free environment. 
Rest assured that we are taking every precaution and spraying will begin
almost immediately.  We are doing everything in our power to get you
back to your homes as soon as possible."  I could only wonder who "we"
was supposed to represent.  Those who were in power due to their
collaboration with the aliens, who would convey people to their deaths.
	Spender pulled into the space in front of the motel room and made quick
work of getting Krycek inside.  There was blood on the back seat of the
car where he'd been laying.  I began to unpack my supplies, wishing we
had a way to sterilize the equipment further.  As Krycek groaned, I
noticed Spender laying towels into the cracks around the door and the
window.  "What're you doing?"
	"They are going to spray like they said on the radio. But it won't be
to kill the bees.  It's their way of getting the people who don't
report.  It's the same chemical cocktail that was responsible for Gulf
War syndrome.  Only stronger."
	I don't ask how he knows this.  I believe him.  "How much time do we
have?"
	"They're beginning at sundown."
	My eyes shoot to the clock.  We have perhaps an hour.  I have to attend
to Krycek.  "What about the hospitals?" 
	Spender shakes his head.  "I imagine they're there now.  Shooting the
people whose bodies are too weak to gestate one of the hatchlings."
	This is too much, and we should have been prepared for it.  "Damn it,"
I whisper and snip Krycek's sweater off, too hurried to bother with
undressing him.  "This is going to hurt," I whisper to him
apologetically and he flashes me with his teeth before he passes out. 
Better this way, I tell myself, working quickly.  My handiwork is
terrible; I'm used to sewing up the dead.  It should do.  I douse the
whole thing with alcohol and look at the clock again.
	Time is passing.  I snatch up the phone and dial Skinner's number.  To
my surprise he answers.  "This is Scully," I say, speaking quickly.  "I
have the vaccine.  I need to be put into contact with people who can
stop the carnage and get the vaccine put into production quickly."
	"Scully," Skinner sighs.  "You shouldn't be telling me this."
	Translation: his line is bugged.  "What should we do?" I ask him
plainly.  The line goes dead in my ear a second later.
	"What did he say?"  
	"He hung up on me," I say, still mildly angry with Skinner.
	"I know what to do," Krycek whispers.  He tries to put his hand against
his chest, but when he does he winces and removes his hand quickly.  His
eyes are red but his color's better.  "We tell them it's a new, better
infection process.  They'll take care of the rest."
	"Wait a minute," Spender says, "Won't they be able to tell the
difference?"
	I cross my arms and wait.  I'd really like to hear this, too.  These
men have been running experiments for at least twenty-five years. 
They've got to be smart enough not to fall for a trick like that.
	"Don't you get it," Krycek says, turning on his side to look at me. 
"They don't know what the hell they're doing.  I got the vaccine from
the Russians.  They're under heavy attack, but they've been researching
the black oil since the meteorite hit Tunguska in the early part of the
century.  Their inroads have only come in the last few years and the men
who ran those tests are now dead."
	"I assume you know someone in the organization you can pass this to?" I
ask him.
	"They won't trust me any more," he says.  "I turned on them too many
times."
	I look at Spender and quickly dismiss him as a possibility.  My hands
are starting to sweat.  We're close to blowing this wide open. The only
thing more perfect would be if he told me the vaccine also killed the
baby aliens running around.
	"I think they might believe this coming from you," Krycek says to me in
a soft, persuasive voice.
	"Me?" I jump and look at him.  "Why would they want to take anything
from me?"
	"You're determined and you're smart.  You know more about their plans
than anyone else alive on earth," Krycek tells me.  It makes me worry
for Mulder.  If Krycek knew where Mulder was, he would tell
me...wouldn't he?
	I shake my head, recalling my meeting with the cigarette smoking man. 
"Skinner," I say, even though he hung up on me less than five minutes
ago.
	"His phone's tapped, isn't it?  He's working for them." Spender is
frowning.  He doesn't like this plan.
	"But Krycek says they'll believe I could come up with it. If I give it
to Skinner..."  Spender's still shaking his head.  I look at Krycek to
see what he thinks.
	"It could work," he concedes.
	I pull the vial out of my pocket and look at it, holding it up to the
light.  It looks like a lighter, thinner version of the black oil.  "How
much do they need?" I ask Krycek.  He looks puzzled. "I'm not giving
them everything we have.  Just in case.  And Spender needs to be
inoculated."
	"Scully, no," Spender says, his eyes bright with shock.  "Don't blow
this on my account."
	"Yes," I insist, crossing the room to the supplies that I brought.  An
extra syringe, which I half-fill with the solution from the vial.  I
pour a bit more into a test tube, sealing it carefully.  This leaves
approximately one quarter of the vaccine left to hand over in our lie.
	"Don't do this," Spender says as I approach him with the needle.  "I'm
not...I don't..."
	I grab his chin with my other hand and make him look at me.  He stops
his babbling and his protestations.  "You are a valuable person.  You do
deserve this. You deserve the chance to live, Jeff."  It's weird for me
to call him by his first name, but I am making a personal appeal to him
here.  If he doesn't believe in himself, he is wasting all of our time. 
There's no room for self esteem problems when you're trying to save the
world.  Which may be why Mulder took off.  I push back a sudden anger
with my former partner.  "I want you here with us."  He looks touched
and I squeeze his knee.  "Now drop your pants."
	Krycek burst out laughing.  I can't bite back my smile, either, at how
it sounded, but I shoot Krycek a warning look as Spender unbuckles his
belt and pulls down the khaki pants he's wearing.  He leaves his
midnight  blue silk boxers in place and I have to reach up under them to
inject him.
	"He's going to be sick as a dog," Krycek tells me as soon as I've
emptied the syringe into Spender's bloodstream.
	"I don't feel too good," Spender concurs and already his body has begun
to tremble.  I frown and look at Krycek.  He nods, as though this is
normal and I drop the syringe into the trash, sitting on the bed next to
the two injured men to call Skinner.  I want to get the material to him
as soon as possible.
	"Skinner," he says gruffly.
	"This is Scully," I say.  He waits silently.  "I - I've come across
something I think you should know about. It's a substance that speeds up
the process of infection.  It could replace the bees.  I...don't know
what to do about it."  I don't have to insert the hesitations into my
voice.  I'm scared.  This could backfire badly, and I'm looking at the
ragged stitches on Krycek's stomach and the way Spender's curled into a
fetal position.  I need to take care of them both.  I can't go this
alone.
	"I need to make some calls," Skinner tells me and rings off.
	"Well?" Krycek asks.
	"He's going to make some calls," I relay and Krycek nods.
	"He'll get back to you in less than an hour.  I guarantee it," Krycek
promises.  "Relax."  He tries to cross his arms over his stomach and
winces.  "Wish I had another shirt since you ruined this one."
	"Ingrate," I retort, but I don't have another shirt to provide.
	"Maybe you could sew this one up for me," Krycek invites, holding out
the jagged edges of cloth that I cut away.  It's crusted with blood and
he probably shouldn't be wearing it.  I should go and get some
supplies.  He's staring at his stomach.  "It's going to leave a scar,"
he says sadly.
	"I'm not a plastic surgeon," I say, feeling inadequate.  "But I did
what I had to, to save your life.  You were bleeding quite heavily."
	He nods.  "The clotting factors in my blood are a little off."
	"Off how?" I ask, leaning toward him, interested.
	"My mom always said we came from Russian royalty," he says and shrugs. 
"Maybe she was right."
	"Are you telling me you're a hemophiliac?" I ask, my tone more shrill
than I intended.
	"Maybe a slight tendency," he says.
	"You can't have a slight tendency to hemophilia," I inform him, aware
that I sound sort of hysterical.  "It's a chromosomal disorder, you
either have it or you don't.  Do you bruise easily?  Do you have joint
pain?"
	He shakes his head, amused by my worry.  "No, Scully, stop worrying."
	"I want to know what you meant," I insist.
	"I had a run-in with the black oil.  That's how I built an immunity to
it," Krycek explains.  "And ever since then, my blood's been a
little...off."
	I don't understand.  "Is this going to affect Mulder, or me?  And the
people who are vaccinated?"  I look at Spender.  He looks like he might
have gone to sleep.  When I'm finished arguing with Krycek, I'll check
on him.
	"It's not a side effect of the vaccine," Krycek tells me seriously.  "I
had the black oil inside me.  It took control and used me as a vessel to
get what it wanted.  As far as I know, that hasn't happened to any other
people."
	"The diver and the diver's wife," I say, remembering the case.  The oil
was brought up by the diver, who found it in the cabin of a B-52 bomber
plane that crashed into the ocean during World War II.  I wonder where
they are now.
	"What?" Krycek asks.
	 I shake my head, reaching over to touch Spender.  His skin is hot and
he's sweating.  His eyes are tightly closed and his face is contracted
like he's in pain or a nightmare.  "Is he going to be okay?" I ask
Krycek.
	"The fever should break in several hours and he'll be fine. He won't
remember anything," Krycek tells me.  "He'll be weak, but fine."  Krycek
watches me as I stroke Spender's forehead and rub his back, wishing I
could make him more comfortable or make the nightmares go away.
	The phone rings and I jump.  It's Skinner, already. Krycek smiles and
me and nods and I pick up the receiver.

	xxx		xxx		xxx

	"Where did you get this?"  The night is cold and windy and fog has
rolled in.  The planes that were supposed to spray the city with poison
were grounded due to the fog.  Lucky for us.  Scully keeps tucking the
same strand of hair behind her ear, but it's no match for the wind.
	She shakes her head and hands me a glass container.  "It doesn't
matter."
	"It'll matter to the men I work for."
	"You don't like working for them, do you?" she asks me and I can't
answer honestly.  I hate working for them. But they own me. There is
technology in my blood. If I disobey them, all that's due  me is pain
and death.  I've seen first hand what the bees can do but I want to
survive.
	I will find a way to fight them.
	"They're watching us now, aren't they?" she asks, looking back over her
shoulder.  "Are they going to follow me back?"
	"No," I tell her. "I'll call them off."
	"And they listen to you," she says, and I nod again.  "Use this," she
tells me and wraps her hand around mine, lowering her voice.  "Get them
to use it on everyone.  It will further the cause."
	She means our cause.  Hers and mine. She's giving me a message as her
blue eyes bore into mine.  She hasn't stopped fighting and now I've been
given the opportunity to do the right thing.  She still trusts me when
I've done nothing to deserve it.
	I nod and pocket the glass tube.  I'll make sure it gets into the right
hands.  "I don't have any information for you...about Mulder," I tell
her in a low voice.  "I'm sorry."
	She sets her mouth and shakes her head, but I see the tears in her eyes
even as that strand of hair whips across her face again.  "It doesn't
matter," she says.  "Use that," she tells me.
	She always was a good liar.  I'm just glad I can help.

	xxx		xxx		xxx

	"It's over," she says when she walks into the motel room and I start.
Something went wrong.  Goddamn it all to hell if she or that bald idiot
blew it after I went to hell and back...  She sees what must be a
terrifying look on my face and smiles.  "I made the drop.  Skinner'll
make sure it's distributed and that no one looks or questions too
closely."
	"Are you sure you can trust him?" I ask her, to see what her reaction
is.
	"Absolutely," she replies and I believe her.  She walks around the bed
to check on Spender again and I feel jealous. She isn't coming over to
check on me and I'm the one she doctored on.  I've got a fever myself,
but Spender's is just hitting its highest spike.  It's been about two
hours since the inoculation and it'll be about two hours more before
he's back to normal. "God," she whispers when she feels his forehead.  I
can feel the heat of his body from where I'm sprawled next to him and
the sheets are soaked with sweat.  She was reluctant to leave us here,
like a mom with two sick little boys.
	I don't want her to act like my mom and I'm pretty sure Spender doesn't
either.
	Finally, she turns to me.  "This doesn't look good," she tells me,
leaning in close to inspect the stitches she's made.  She places her
hand against my forehead and it feels cool.  "You've got a fever, too. 
I think your infection's getting worse.  You're lucky the alien didn't
kill you."
	Tell me about it.  That thing had claws like Freddie Kreuger.  It
didn't seem all that interested in killing me.  I was lucky.  I'm not
above admitting that.  My luck is what keeps me alive.  I was called the
cat with nine lives before I was even ten years old and my nana had no
idea the trouble I would get into once I was a big, grown up boy.
	I must be sick if I'm thinking about nana and my boyhood.
	"I don't have any more penicillin," Scully says and raises my head with
one hand while feeding me aspirin tablets.  I crunch them between my
teeth and cringe at their bitter taste as she gets me some water.
"You're not supposed to chew them," she tells me gently.
	"Can't help it," I tell her.  "I can't swallow pills."
	"And you're what, thirty five years old?  And you never learned how?"
she asks me, rubbing her fingers through my hair.  God, that feels
good.  If she's not careful, she's gonna make me think she likes me.
	I shake my head.  "Just say no," I joke and let my eyes slide closed.
	"Get some rest," she suggests and I open my eyes again to watch her
moving away, to make a bed for herself in the chair.  I get to sleep
with Spender tonight.  Too bad neither of us are in any condition to
enjoy it.

end of part thirteen.
comments to eponine119@att.net

Diary of the Second Holocaust 14/14
by eponine119
eponine119@att.net

	xxx		xxx		xxx

	I can't sleep with them and the future of the world to worry about.  I
turned off the light so Krycek would go to sleep.  I'm hoping he'll
sleep off the fever and the infection. I need to know more about his
little brush with clotting problems, though.  It's not just an
interesting medical puzzle.  It could mean his life.  I try to tell
myself he's come this far and made it okay.  He lost his arm and he's
survived.  I'm not sure I could do that.
	He's mumbling in Russian now, sleeping soundly.  Spender's not faring
as well.  He's thrashing now, restless in his sleep, trapped inside
feverish dreams.  He was crying about an hour ago.  I went through a
different process and I didn't suffer after I was vaccinated.  It was
being infected with the alien gestational virus that was painful.
	"Mommy," Spender says and his voice sounds high.  I cringe but I have
to go to him.  I whisper that it's going to be all right and hold him
against me.  The ice in the bucket already melted and I've been too
hesitant to leave them and get more.  Spender's body is cooler, almost
normal.  That's good.  He opens his eyes and looks up at me.  "Scully?"
	"Yeah," I say.  "You're going to be okay. Just go back to sleep."  He
must trust me because he closes his eyes again.  I remain sitting there,
enjoying the weight of his body in my arms. It's Mulder that I miss, and
no one else is much of a substitute.  I have to get used to the fact
that he's probably dead.  Some day, when I tell myself that, I won't
cry. But tonight is not that night.

	xxx		xxx		xxx

	I wake, and it's like waking from the sleep of the dead.  Scully is
sitting up with her back against the head of the bed, like she was
watching over me while I slept.  Krycek is gone again, having
disappeared into the darkness of the night.  He swooped down with the
thing that saved everyone.  It's still dark and I get up to find my
knees trembling.  I need to take a shower, but I'm drawn to the window. 
I pull back the heavy, plastic lined drapes to an amazing sight.
	It looks like a thousand shooting stars, all of them pointed up into
the sky.  "My god,  Scully, come look at this," I say.
	"Wha?"  She wakes with a jerk and I beckon her with my hand.  She
pushes her hair back into place and walks over to where I'm standing.  I
make a place for her in front of the window and hear it when the sight
takes her breath away.  I put my hands on her shoulders and hold her
against me.  Something in me knows that this is over and things aren't
going to be the same again.  "It's beautiful," she says.
	"They're leaving," I tell her and we watch for what feels like hours in
silence.  The rockets silently moving up into the sky grow fewer.  When
I was a very small boy, my father told me that if I made a wish on a
shooting star, it would come true.  I used to believe in wishes and the
things that my father told me.
	"Krycek's gone?" she asks, not moving even as the sun begins to rise.
	"Yeah."
	"I hope he's okay."
	She has such a big heart.  Krycek's not a good guy - he's done terrible
things and a lot of them were directed at her - but she's worried about
him.  
	"You did it, Scully," I tell her.  "You did this."
	She shakes her head.  "Krycek -"
	"None of this would have happened without you," I tell her and she
drops her head slightly, the way she does when she's embarrassed.
	"I guess it'll all go back to normal now," she says.  "That's all I
ever wanted but somehow..."  Words fail her and she just goes back to
looking out the window.
	This time has been special to her.  I understand because I feel the
same way.  I never felt as alive or as important as I have in the months
since my "death."  She starts to pull away, to clean herself and dress
to start a new day, but I hold her.  Scully looks at me, her eyes cloudy
with confusion.  "I want to say something to you," I tell her and her
look changes, as though to tell me not to do this, not to say these
words.  "I have to."  She stills to listen.  "I admire you, for
everything you've survived and the way you never let it mark you.  You
are so strong and so lovely and you just work so hard and drive like
such a maniac -"  She laughs at that, a quick laugh that exposes her
teeth.  "I hope that when this is good and truly over, we can still be
friends."  God, did I just say that?  How many girls and women have
given me the friends speech and I just told Scully I wanted to be her
friend?  "What I mean is -"
	"I know what you mean," she says.  "And there's nothing to admire. 
Just flesh and blood. Just a woman."  She picks up my hand and places it
against her upper chest as though to prove this to me. I can feel her
heart beating solidly beneath my palm.  I close my eyes and lean down to
press my lips against hers and she lets me.  It's a sweet kiss, not a
passionate one.  She smiled at me and stroked my hair before she turned
and walked away from me.  I stood at the window feeling sad, knowing it
could never be.

	xxx		xxx		xxx

	I got my apartment back and pulled my things out of storage, but I
can't have my old life back.  Officially, I'm on a leave of absence from
the FBI, but there are more important things to do now.  More than two
billion people died and no one did anything to stop it.  Abductees were
burned just like witches as neighbors turned against each other.  People
who we'd placed our trust in sold us out like nothing more than goods. 
Our whole race became nothing more than food.
	I am now an advocate of science.  We need to develop our space program
and our technology and quickly.  When the aliens left us, where did they
go?  I'm certain they did not run home with their tails between their
legs.  Humans have been immunized against their plague and our planet is
no good to them.  We need to go to the next planet they will strike and
help them to help themselves.  I believe this is what the rebel aliens
were trying to do.  But we won't go with blowtorches.  We will go with
science.
	I don't feel comfortable around people any more.  It's only been a week
or two since life got back to normal, but I can't trust anyone.  Some
days, it's so bad I can barely leave my house.  This crisis has done
nothing to change the ways in which we relate to ourselves and the world
around us.  We are still abusing the environment and each other.  Guns
are still sold in pawnshops and drugs are still sold in playgrounds. 
Faraway dictators went right back to killing all the people they
dislike.
	I hate that nothing's changed.  I want the fabled world government. I
want the happy utopia.
	I want Mulder.  I turn off the black and white science fiction movie
and lay my head back against the arm of the couch, thinking ahead to the
speech I will be giving in the morning.  I'm not going to be able to
sleep, so I get up from the couch and grab my running shoes, which are
never very far.  I think I've logged fifty miles in two weeks.  Let's
make it fifty-five, I tell myself, jogging out the door, hoping to
exhaust myself and clear my mind, or at least so saturate my brain cells
with endorphins that I'll have no choice but to sleep.
	I return an hour later, drenched with sweat and pleasantly aching.  My
brain is happily numb.  I freeze when I push open the door to my
apartment.  I overdid it.  I'm probably having a heart attack and that's
why I'm hallucinating.  But the hallucination breaks into a wide, white
grin in the darkness of my living room, and the chair with the pink
stripes that I hate creaks as he raises himself from it to wrap both his
arms around me.
	"Oh my god, it's really you, oh my god," I'm babbling like a woman who
just won a car on a game show.  I can't believe this.  He's saying my
name into my neck and it's just beginning to soak in that Mulder is
really here, in my arms, alive and safe and whole.  I pull back from him
and demand, "Where the hell have you been?"
	"I was trying to save the world," he says.
	"What the hell happened?" I ask.  
	"You saved the world first," Mulder says, trying to wrap himself around
me again.  I hold myself still and stiff.  I'm going to have to hear
more than that to convince me.  He walked out on me and let me think he
was dead.  He left me so dreadfully alone to fight the worst fight of my
life.  "What?" he pulls back to look at me and when I look up into those
golden hazel eyes, I lose the battle.
	I pull his mouth down to his and kiss him, hard.  He kisses me back
just as hard, hugging me so tight he can pick me up with just his arms
and put me down on the couch, just where he wants me.  Our clothes are
off in seconds and I scream as he thrusts into me.  He stops like he
didn't know where that scream was coming from and he waits until I stop
panting and focus on his face, his eyes and relax.  We draw breath
together, like one being, and he begins to move inside me.  "So sweet,
so good, it's been so long," he mumbles into my ear, taking the lobe
between his teeth and tugging. Fire shoots through me, tearing up my
nerve endings and I come and I come and I come like only he can make me.
	"Where have you been?" I ask gently, toying with the hair hanging down
into his eyes as we lay together in bliss.
	"I was trying to find answers.  I wanted you to be safe.  That was more
important to me than anything."
	"I thought you were dead," I confess.  "And I hated you for it.  I
hated you for leaving me alone to face this on my own.  I'm still kind
of mad."
	"You don't seem mad."  He's touching me again.  I push his hand away
and it falls back as though magnetized to my skin.  "Everything turned
out okay."
	"Didn't you even miss me?" I ask him, and damn it, I am not going to
cry. I've already asked a clingy question.  I don't want him to leave me
ever again and it makes me panic.
	"Yeah," he says and that gruff tone is honest.  "Every day and every
night. I worried about you and when I looked for you I couldn't find you
and when it all came back together, I couldn't get back to you fast
enough.  But you did it, Scully.  You saved the world.  All by
yourself."
	"I had help," I say, but I can't tell him about Krycek and Spender and
Skinner.  I can't tell him about any of it, I find, as I open my mouth
to try and find only a big knot in my throat.  And I realize he can't
tell me where he's been, except to say that he was trying, too, trying
to help, in ways that didn't get the job done but might have,
eventually, just as I may have failed and we would all be dead now.
	We're together.  Which is all I wanted.  It's all I ever wanted.

	xxx		xxx		xxx

	I still see her sometimes, in the halls of the FBI building, but more
often on television, talking about her causes.  I've sent checks to her
organization and I did research before I voted to see who would make
sensible choices.  I can't forget that my father is still out there, and
more men like him.  I know, as Scully does, that this could happen again
so easily.
	But I've gone back to my life of fighting the common criminal. 
Kidnappings, murders, white collar crime.  The usual FBI platter.  I
know that Mulder's back because I've seen him.  And I've seen the smile
on Scully's face. I'm happy that she's happy.  Even if it makes me feel
empty inside.  If the person you were made to love, was made to love
someone else...what are you supposed to do?
	I tell myself the things that spinsters must, that I can live without
love, that I'm focused on my career, that I will find the right person
someday.  I'm no more or less happy than I used to be.  I just miss her
from the days when our lives were in such danger.
	That's the thing about adventures.
	They end.

	xxx		xxx		xxx

	I dreamed about the grays last night. Maybe it's because I'm here in
New Mexico, only a few miles from where the Anasazi tribe lived five
hundred years ago.  Their name means "ancient aliens" and they
disappeared without a trace one day, perhaps blasting off to the distant
star that is their home.
	The grays in my dream told me that I'd made a terrible mistake and
humanity would suffer for it.  I awoke to the clock radio in my motel
room, blasting out a story of a schoolboy who planted bombs all around
the small town where he lived, killing most of the population.  He says
he doesn't know why he did it.  Something about loneliness and isolation
and emptiness.
	The seminar I'm giving isn't scheduled until tomorrow, at the
conclusion of the conference. I know I should go, put in an appearance
and take notes, meet with colleagues who feel the way that I do, but I
don't want to. Those red rocks and ruins are calling to me.  I lace up
my hiking boots and put my hair up in a ponytail, making certain I have
a bottle of water and some sunscreen and I head out into the glorious
sunshine.
	I stop when I reach a plateau just high enough to overlook some of the
surrounding countryside.  I walk along the edge, feeling brave, and look
quietly.  Then I realize I'm not alone up here and turn.
	Krycek is sitting with his back against a rock.  He raises his good
hand to waive.  "Fancy meeting you here," he says and the phrase is
absurd coming from his lips.
	"Krycek. Are you okay?"  It's the first thing that occurs to me after
the way he left us, the morning that the world was saved and the old
world returned to us.
	"Wanna see your handiwork?" he asks, reaching for the hem of his shirt
to show me the scars.  I think of Mulder back at home and don't look. 
"We made a mistake," Krycek says and a chill goes through me.  It's what
the alien said to me in my dream.
	"No," I say, even though I've had the same thought myself.  "We learned
something from it, I know we did."
	"That's not what I'm talking about," Krycek says.  He pats the ground
next to him, inviting me to sit down, and I do.  I see now where he
parked the motorcycle he rode up here on.  I wonder if this is how he
spends his time now, sightseeing and thinking deep thoughts.  "We
thwarted evolution, Scully."
	"That's impossible. Evolution can't be stopped."
	He's nodding.  He's wrong.
	"They were killing people, Krycek, for their own purpose. They have no
way to reproduce so they had to use us.  They used us.   You saw the way
the bodies were used and destroyed -"
	"Transformed," he corrects and I can do nothing but stare at him.  
"Those people didn't die, Scully.  They were transformed.  They went on
to the next phase."
	"I can't believe that," I tell him and he shakes his head.  "I'm
supposed to believe that people evolve into those hatchlings that fight
and claw and kill angrily and without reason?"
	"And then into grays, who are telepathic. They have no need of
reproduction, Scully, because they are immortal.  They're what the
ancients considered gods."  He stares out over the countryside, where
the Anasazi built their houses into the cliffsides.
	"And they're us?" I ask incredulously, and he nods.  "I can't..."
	"We made a mistake," he says again.
	"I don't see it," I tell him.
	"You will," he promises, and gets to his feet. I stare up at him from
my seat in the stand.
	"We doomed ourselves, Scully."
	"If we did, then we weren't ready for evolution. Evolution is slow,
over generations.  This...would have been a revolution.  Quick,
overnight change.  We haven't lost our chance, if it's true."
	Krycek just stares at me and his green eyes seem to burn me.  They look
brighter than ordinary human eyes.  "Are you sure?" he asks, slinging
one leg over his motorcycle and strapping on his helmet.
	I have to answer "Yes," but the words are lost to the roar of the cycle
as he blasts away, leaving nothing but a cloud of dirt in his wake.  I
watch him until he becomes a speck of black, too distant for the eye to
see.  I know I did the right thing.
	Mulder said I saved the world.
	Things are back to the way they were.
	Maybe Krycek's right, I think, as I get to my feet and begin the
journey back home.

the end.

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