From: mabtng <mabtng@mindspring.com>
Date: Sun, 01 Sep 2002 20:17:13 -0700
Subject: Last One Standing by mabtng
Source: direct

Summary: A worldwide plague erupts throwing Mulder and Scully into a
fight for survival in a battle between good and evil.  Who will
survive and which side will they choose?

Classification: RAC

Rating: R

DISCLAIMER:  Mulder, Scully & everything X-File are owned by Chris
Carter, Fox, and 1013 Productions.  Most of the other stuff in this
story is entirely based on the work of Stephen King and his book, "The
Stand."  Oh, there's a few characters in here of my own...  But.  This
is solely done for fun...no profit is involved in any way...


******

LAST ONE STANDING
by mabtng

******


"All these are the beginning of sorrows..."
          - Matthew 24:8

******


PROLOGUE
 

Somewhere in California
June 14


"Shit! Shit! Shit!" was all the man in the biohazard suit could utter
as he ran to the special phone.

There was no dial on this phone set.  It was not needed.  For this
phone had only one reason to exist...a reason that all had hoped would
never come to pass.  He picked up the receiver and the other end began
to ring immediately.  It was answered on the second ring.

"Project Blue has gone out of bounds," the suited man spoke, trying to
control his own panic.

"I see," the man on the other end responded coolly.  "And what steps
are being taken?"

"The carrier reached...and cleanup has begun in Arnette, Texas...but,
as we expected, it will not be one-hundred percent effective."

"Very well.  Thank you for the information," the calm voice stated
just before he closed the line down forever.


******


<<"And he told two friends, and so on...and so on...">>

******

Houston Detention Center Facility
Houston, Texas
June 15  --  Tuesday


For such a bright and cheery day, it was down right nasty inside the
lobby of the Houston lock-up facility.

Sergeant Walter Philkey watched the line of impatient folks from his
stool perch behind the bullet-proofed glass facade of the front
"desk."  The stool rocked slightly, back and forth, thanks to the one
only slightly shorter leg and it's user's boredom.  But, as Sgt.
Philkey always told the new personnel assigned to his beat, "They pays
me the same...whether I talk ta' one person an hour or if'un I talk to
two duhzun."  Life could be worse.

So, Sgt. Walter Philkey, overweight and red-faced from too many years
of wrapping his feet around a stool and dunking jelly doughnuts while
waiting for the occasion of his retirement, took his time as he
answered questions and handed out forms to young ladies with kids on
their hips who wanted to come and visit their daddies in prison.

But then, the one highlight to his dull day arrived. A detective,
obviously from back East, came in the door and flashed his
badge...saying he was there to arrange the pick up a prisoner for
extradition.

It was Sgt. Philkey's absolute and slightly power-proud pleasure to
lead the detective to the head of the long line, enjoying some of the
grumbles of displeasure from a few of the more nasty, brutish, and
short folk still in line.  

And he was amused to notice the cowboy boots on Mitchell's feet. 
Boots that undoubtedly still had slick soles and no wear on the heels
from propping them up on desk tops.  Why was it that these easterners
always wore their neglected cowboy boots when they visited Texas?  He
looked at the boots once more.  Nope.  Judging by the way Mitchell was
walking...like his toes were pinched and his calves were abnormally
stretched...like he had a broom stick shoved up his ass...they weren't
neglected.  They were brand new.  Must have got 'em at the airport. 
You could probably still read the size stamp inside.  He wondered if
ol' Detective "East" had even taken the price tag off.

As he pushed the release button for the security door to let
"Detective East" back into the hallowed bowels of the jail, one of
Philkey's buddies from the State Highway Patrol came through the front
door.

Philkey waved to Trooper Joe Bob Brentwood and motioned for him to
join the detective by the security door.  Brentwood nodded and waved
back...and promptly sneezed so hard that Philkey thought he musta bust
a brain cell or two.

"Jee-zeus, Joe Bob!  You trying to make your head explode or
somethun?" Philkey exclaimed as the two men walked through the
security door and by the entrance to the front work area.

Joe Bob grabbed an already heavily used and limp snot rag from his
pocket and wiped his raw, angry red nose.

"Nah.  Must be an allergy or something...just hit me this afternoon. 
I sure hope it ain't none of that summer flu shit.  Summer colds are
the worst...and I went and forgot my 007 notebook when I was here
yesterday...thought I better come an' get it.  It's got all my case
notes for the past two weeks."

Philkey nodded his agreement. "Well, go git yourself some coffee.  It
ain't too bad...Connors made it.  Not that paint removing sludge Burke
always makes."

Joe Bob headed for the pot, stuffing his abused rag back into his
pocket.

Philkey turned when he realized he had forgotten Det. "East."

"So, what can I do you fer?" he asked, being sure to draw out his
accent for a an extra measure.

"I'm Detective Mitchell, Arlington, Virginia P.D.  I'm here to do the
extradition paper work on a Ramon Smith.  They said you'd have
everything we need here."

"Oh yeah...got it right here.  Just waiting for the papers you're
supposed to show me."

Mitchell opened the folder in his hand and pulled out several forms,
all filled out in triplicate, of course.

Philkey took the forms and started down his extradition checklist.  A
few moments later, he nodded.  For once, a detective had all the
papers needed.  Definitely a first.

"Looks like you're set, Detective.  When's your flight back home?"

"Tomorrow morning...7 a.m."

"Okay...Now, hang on here for a sec...I just want to check our
transport schedule..."

Sgt. Philkey turned to peruse the various clipboards on the desk
behind him.  There had to be at least ten...all of them straining to
hold the thick stacks of mostly ignored papers that had been shoved
into their "mouths."

Mitchell leaned over onto the counter.  As usual, another case of
hurry up and wait.  And nothing was worse than having to wait around
in an unfamiliar jail for some stupid prisoner.  Well, maybe all the
red tape and paperwork was worse.  Either way, he wanted to get
everything over with so he could come back tomorrow and pick the guy
up, get to the airport and hightail it back to the Nation's Capital
and his own private Barca Lounger and remote control.

Philkey interrupted his World Wide Wrestling Federation viewing
fantasy.

"Good news, Det. Mitchell. You're in luck," Philkey continued.  "The
transport wagon has a pickup at the airport tomorrow morning...so
they'll go ahead and take Smith all the way to the airport gate for
ya'...give you a little more time to enjoy the fine sights and
'quiz-zine' of downtown Houston..."

Mitchell sighed in relief.  Maybe this extradition wouldn't be so bad
after all.  The worst part of these "business" trips was always
getting the prisoner to and from the airport.  Once you were on the
plane, things were pretty easy...even though you had to un-cuff your
prisoner on the plane due to FAA regs.  Like that was gonna save the
bad guy's ass if the plane went down.  Yeah.  Sure.  Just like those
flotation devices would in event of a "water landing."  Love those
airline semantics.  

Yup.  Houston hospitality was looking up.

Now, he could bounce around town in his rental car...kick back and
relax a bit before having to be on the alert again with a prisoner in
his custody.  Plus, he could use some time to let his aching feet rest
for a bit.  He had no idea what had possessed him to buy those damn
cowboy boots at the Houston airport.

"Hey, that's a good deal," Mitchell remarked as he smiled for the
first time that day.  "What else do I need to do?  Sign some papers or
something?"

"Yup.  Just give me your ol' Johnny Reb here and here," Philkey said
as he pushed the forms down the counter to him.  "Then they'll have
you sign somethin' at the airport.  And that's it."

Mitchell signed the forms and returned them to Philkey just as Joe Bob
chose to sneeze once again.  Mitchell grimaced with sympathy.

"Hope you're cold gets to feeling better, there, Trooper..." Mitchell
exclaimed and turned back to Sgt. Philkey.  "And thanks for all your
help...Guess I'll go get me some breakfast then."

"Not a problem, Detective.  I'm happy to be of help.  I'll buzz ya'
out the door here...and you might try Helen's Diner...it's just around
the corner there...got the best breakfast in town.  Lotsa grease...the
eggs'll just slide from the plate down yer throat..."

The security door buzzed and Mitchell headed back into the lobby,
looking forward to a large serving of bacon, eggs with tons of hot
sauce, and hash browns.

He had no way of knowing that later that day, one Trooper Joe Bob
Brentwood would be picked up by men in biohazard suits and spirited
away to a quarantine facility to die.  

For Trooper Joe Bob Brentwood had been at ground zero shortly after a
certain "escapee" from a top level security "research" facility
crashed his car and expired in good ol' Arnette, Texas...courtesy of
what would soon be known as the Superflu.  

So, Detective Mitchell really had no way of knowing that a third
passenger had now joined him for his trip back to D.C.  

Good ol' Captain Tripps, aka "Tube Neck," had been hand delivered by
Trooper Joe Bob Brentwood into the custody of one tired Arlington
Police Detective.  No handcuffs required.

And Sergeant Walter Philkey returned to his work, not knowing that his
forced "retirement" would be upon him before the end of the week.  No
one would find him as he sat, dead as a proverbial doornail, choked on
his own swollen tongue.  Dressed in his sweat-yellowed white
undershirt, sitting before his television set with the cable that had
been provided courtesy of the local installer who had too many parking
tickets.

And no one would even care.

It just wasn't Sgt. Philkey's week.


******

A Dark Office in New York City
June 16
1100 hours


"So how long do we have?"

"We must be in our designated position within twenty-four hours. 
After that, it will be too late...they will know what's going to
happen."

"And everything is ready for us?"

"Yes.  There should be no unforeseen difficulties.  Now, the plane to
Nevada is waiting.  I suggest you all get on the helicopter and get to
the airport now."

"And what about you?"

"I have a loose end that needs to be wrapped up.  I will rejoin you
shortly so that we can continue our work."

The other men quickly vacated the room, grabbing vital briefcases and
small belongings before heading for the roof and the waiting
helicopter.

The last man stood before the slat covered window, enjoying the last
draw from his cigarette.  That last draw was said to contain the worst
of carcinogens.  He smiled and let the smoke slowly curl from his lips
and nose, creating a halo of blackened gray about his head.

True, things were happening quite a bit ahead and to the side of their
schedule...and they had not calculated the results on the public at
this stage.  It would either be disastrous or victorious; but, at this
point, there was absolutely nothing they could do to stop it.  Only go
along for the ride...and be there to wrest the controls after free
fall.

But, there was something he could do to secure his own outcome.

He waited for a few more seconds by the window.  He could hear the
whine of the rotors of the chopper above as it prepared to lift off. 
He stepped back from the window and sat down in the cool leather chair
behind the massive mahogany desk.  His old, shriveled hands caressed
the smooth arms.  It really was a shame he would have to leave this
behind.

A second later there was a blinding flash of light and the building
shuddered with the concussion of a loud explosion.

The man calmly opened the elegant cigarette box that sat just beyond
the dark green desk blotter and removed the next rolled victim.  He
smiled as he placed it in the corner of his mouth.  Then, with a quick
flick of his wrist, he struck a match and lifted the glowing stick in
cupped hands to light his habit.

He savored the small crackling sound of paper and tobacco igniting as
he softly inhaled, feeding the flame and encouraging its purpose.

Yes.  It was his game now.  His and his alone.



******

CHAPTER TWO

******

"It's a beautiful day in this neighborhood
A beautiful day for a neighbor
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?"
                       - Fred Rogers

******


Police Impound Lot
S. Arlington Mill Dr.
Arlington, VA
June 17 (Thursday)
1500 hours


Arlington Police Detective D.J. MacInerny sat in her white Ford
Taurus.  Her seat back was reclined, the air conditioning set to full
blast and the vents were turned appropriately to create a cyclone
effect about her head and armpits.  The driver's window was cracked
open slightly so she could flick the end of her cigarette outside. 
The air was so humid, the smoke didn't even want to rise.  

It was hot as hell.

*"Hotter than the air outta old Sad-dam's butt."*

If it weren't for the fact the air conditioning in the office building
that masqueraded as headquarters was completely fucked and on the
fritz, it would have been a day that even she preferred to spend
indoors.  And that said alot.  For "Mac," as her co-workers called
her, definitely had a calling for the streets.

That was why she and many others loved working auto theft.  She got
the best of both worlds.  The freedom of working her own cases as a
detective and the chance to get out of those hot, confining uniforms
and, at the still time, she got to "work the street."  Cruising the
night in confiscated sports cars, looking for bad guys, driving fast,
jumping out, gun in hand, arresting car thieves before they knew what
hit 'em.  

Beat officers enjoyed working with the Auto Squad because the
detectives still knew what the street was about.

At the same time, the inquisitive side of her was satisfied by the
nitty gritty detective work she often had to do.  Establishing
patterns, using informants...crawling around stripped vehicles looking
for information and clues...it was challenging.  And, usually, the
things she uncovered went far beyond car theft.  It was rare that Mac
arrested a car thief without finding a gun and/or drugs in his
possession.  Investigations often expanded to include murder, drug
trafficking, and armed robbery.  

Criminals of the late twentieth century were "renaissance" men and
women.  They preferred not to specialize in one area; but rather, they
enjoyed branching out to dabble in all kinds of felonies and
misdemeanors.  The Whitman's Sampler of Crime.  

*"Life is like a box of chocolates..."*

But these boxes only contained those deceptively good looking
swirly-topped chocolates that you had to spit out after realizing they
were filled with "mystery nougat" or some cherry-nut crap.  Too bad
that someone usually got hurt during the tasting process.

And it was too bad that the bad guys didn't give a rat's bee-hind that
police departments separated their detective bureaus into specialties.
 So, often, it was Mac's job to examine the box of chocolates,
cheating and slicing into a few until she found the ones filled with
her specialty.


Which led her to the reason she was sitting at the impound lot on this
humid, sweat-provoking afternoon.  Yesterday, in the wee hours of the
morn, Midnight officers had recovered the partially stripped remains
of a Toyota 4-Runner along S. Four Mile Run Drive.  No arrests had
been made, but the recovering officer had paid her a visit at the end
of his shift because of the strange circumstances involved.

The truck had seemingly been stolen.  The driver's vent window had
been broken out and the ignition was "punched."  But, all identifying
markers had been removed.  The tags were gone, the Vehicle
Identification Number (VIN) plate was ripped from its place on the
front dash, the stickers removed from the driver's door...and all
papers had been removed from the interior.  The VIN stamped in the
firewall had been sanded down, making it impossible to read.  

Someone went to great trouble to keep the car from being properly
identified.

And the vehicle had obviously been used as a "battering ram."  It's
front end was crumpled in quite nicely.

Ordinarily, "Mac" would have run down to the impound lot as soon as
she could; but her Wednesday dance card was soon to be filled.  She'd
arrived at 0530 hours to go through the stack of new reports, reading
each and assigning it to the appropriate member of her unit whilst
munching on her morning coffee and the bran muffin that was supposed
to keep things "regular."  Sometimes.

After her second cup of real coffee, which she grabbed during her
second cigarette break from "The Grind" down the alley since the
coffee in the Criminal Investigations Division did NOT promote
regularity, she began her daily round of phone calls to victims of
various auto thefts.  True, the hour was still early, but it was
usually the only time she could catch them.  And, first on the "to
call" list: the geniuses who left their doors unlocked and the keys in
their ignitions and can't understand why their car was stolen.

When 0930 hours rolled around, she grabbed the pile of folders from
her "Court" file and headed for the Court House across the plaza. 
With any luck, everyone would just plead guilty and she'd be out
before noon.  Then she could go down and take a look at that Toyota.

But, before she could hit the exit, she was waylaid by one of her
squad members.

**

Detective Josh Mitchell had staggered through the lobby of the
Investigations Bureau, cuffed suspect in hand.  While "Mitch" was
obviously pleased to be back home with his prisoner, he was also
bleary eyed and brimming with a full blown, nasty cold.  He turned his
head as he sneezed loudly.

"Hey, Mac!  Can ya' give me a hand with this guy?"  He motioned toward
one of the suspect "interview" rooms even as his nose dripped.

"Sure," Mac responded.  It wasn't like she was actually looking
forward to sitting in the court's crowded witness room while defense
lawyers and Commonwealth Attorney's argued over pleas.  The room was
too damn hot and everyone was always in a lousy mood.  

She had looked over the suspect as she took his arm.  Ramon "Smith"
was quite a catch.  They had held at least ten warrants for his arrest
for several months, but he had fled the area.  Then, police in
Houston, Texas had notified them that they had arrested Smith.  The
Arlington Commonwealth's Attorney had agreed to extradite Smith
because of the number and serious nature of the charges.  So, Mitch
had headed off for Houston to pick the little shithead up.  Free trip
and generous meal allowances for Mitch with only a few hours work as
an "escort."

Unfortunately, it looked as though Mitch had been sick and miserable
for most of the trip.

Mac took Smith into the interview room, undid the cuff on his right
hand, then recuffed him to the hook on the heavy table.  As she turned
to exit the room, she had to smile as Smith began to sneeze.  Served
the bastard right after running off to Texas to avoid the "Po-Leece." 
She hoped he choked on his own snot.  But, only after they got to
close out about forty open cases with his confessions and
fingerprints.

Yup.  It would be a good ol' day for Auto Theft Statistics.  Worthy of
at least two Coors at the end of the day.

She walked out of the room and ran into Mitch.  Poor guy looked
awful...all the way down to his cowboy boot tips.  She felt sorry for
him.  He really was a good guy to work with.  Funny, dependable, no
desire to be anywhere but Auto...which meant he was safe and reliable.
 No Kevlar needed to prevent back-stabbing.

"You got everything under control here, Mitch?" she asked.

"Yeah, we're good to go.  I just hate this cold.  Can't imagine where
I got it.  Ron's parking the car...then he'll be here to help with the
interview and processing,"  Mitch sniffed.

Mac had headed out the door to court.

Unfortunately, the "alleged suspect" in one of her cases was being a
total prick and demanding a trial by jury.  It ended up backfiring on
him...the judge threw the book at him.  The plea bargain the C.A. had
offered earlier in the day woulda been a piece of cake.  But, at
least, Mac had felt a little better about the fact that she didn't get
home until 1900 hours.

She had immediately fallen into bed, exhausted, not knowing why in the
world her muscles and joints had begun to ache so much.

She might have smiled if she had known that poor Ramon Smith would
choke to death on his own personal mixture of snot and phlegm before
the week was done.  No great loss.

** 

So, Thursday had arrived...a brand new spankin' day... and, after the
usual morning routine, it was finally time for Det. "Mac" to go into
action.  

*"Wonder Woman!...."*

And it was no great sacrifice, cause the idea of hanging around the
station for the rest of the day with a bunch of sweaty-bodied, tackily
dressed detectives was not high on her list of things to do before she
bought the farm.  The ever-mingling aromatic combo of cops' and
robbers' b.o., old coffee, nuclear-blast surviving non-dairy creamer,
ineffective roach spray, and dusty files was even too much for her
desensitized smoker's nose. 

With a quick word to her sergeant, she headed for the door.

"Just make sure you leave your radio on, Mac.  Mitch called in sick
today so we're short..." The Sarge's comment was interrupted when he
bust loose with a sneeze. 

"Bless you...and OK.  Not a problem...just give me a holler if you
need me."  Mac grabbed a box of tissues from the table that held the
Haines' Index and tossed it to him.

"See ya' later, Mac...and thanks.  And be sure to grab a Big Gulp or
something...it's hotter than..." he was about to offer an interesting
metaphor that involved various parts of a prostitute, but then
remembered all of the EEOC training he had been forced to sit
through.

Mac smiled.  She knew what he meant.

"Not to worry, Sarge.  I already planned the 7-11 hit." 

She had then immediately grabbed the keys to her assigned Taurus and
headed out the door.

**

Once at the impound lot, she had donned the set of coveralls she kept
in the trunk for "dirty" work.  She had combed over the car for
identifying information and came up empty.  Usually, she could get
enough information from other things in the car.  Some manufacturers
of high-theft vehicles were now stamping the VIN all over the various
parts of the car...but, this particular model was not marked.  

She would have to rebuild the VIN.  It would be relatively easy to
construct the first nine characters.  They were a code created by the
country of origin and specific vehicle characteristics such as engine
cylinders, body style, model type, year of manufacture and restraint
system installed.  The hard part would be the last eight digits. 
Those were the individual "serial" numbers unique to the car.  For
those, she would have to work on the sanded down numbers of the
firewall VIN.

*"We can rebuild him...."*

She returned to her stash of tools in her trunk and grabbed some
pieces of sandpaper and a small bottle of liquid.  Then she set to
work.

It was messy, elbow-grease-filled labor.  She would vigorously sand
down the metal over the VIN with varying textures of sand paper. 
Then, she would polish the metal with a smooth cloth.  Then, she
pulled out the small bottle.  Carefully, she applied the acid inside
to the metal.

After several cycles of this work, it paid off.  Using a flashlight to
provide oblique light, she was able to make out those last mysterious
eight digits.  

*"Come to Mama!"*

She had her VIN.

She had grabbed her cellular phone and called the ECC to run the VIN
through NCIC and VCIN, which was the Virginia equivalent of NCIC. 
Moments later, she had her suspicions confirmed.  The car was indeed
reported as stolen.  What she hadn't expected, however, was the note
added to the NCIC report.  The car was wanted by the FBI as being used
in a suspected abduction in Maryland.  The instructions called for an
Agent "Scully" to be notified immediately upon its recovery and the
car was to be held for her personal inspection.

*"So, La-de-dah..."*

**

So now, at 1500 hours, Detective D.J. MacInerny sat in her Taurus,
engine running, A/C blasting, a sweaty and nearly drained Super Big
Gulp of Coke beside her, waiting for the "Fibbie," Agent Scully, to
arrive.  

She flicked her tenth cigarette butt out the window as she stared at
the nearly empty pack.  Her switch to "Merit Ultimas" had been a
concession of sorts.  Rather than just plain out quit the
full-strength Merits she had glued to her side for years, she decided
to "taper off" first by cutting down to the "lighter" Ultima. 

That had been three years...and about two-thousand packs...ago.

She snapped out of her reverie and reached for the radio buttons.  She
was damned tired of listening to Top 40 crap.  And this new piece of
shit, "Baby, Can You Dig Your Man..." was almost enough to make her
eat her gun.  It was about as bad as the country manure that Mitch
always had to listen to on stake outs.

*"Mah dawg dun died,
Mah girl, she cried
Mah truck is shit
Mah life's the pits..."*

And the Top 40 stations weren't any better.  Q107 seemed to only play
five different songs all day...all by the newest one-hit wonders.  It
was definitely time for some classic rock...maybe she'd get lucky and
hear from some local boys like Steely Dan.

Steely Dan was a good bunch of boys...nice songs about local
hangouts...places Mac herself had haunted in her younger and much
wilder days when she still had some oats left to sow.  

And some Mary Chapin Carpenter would be okay, too.  Sure, she sang
country, but she was a local...Mac remembered going down to the
"Cellar Door" when she was a senior in high school, and the D.C.
drinking age was still 18, to watch her perform.

As she reached for yet another cancer stick, a chill went through
her.

"Oh, shit," she muttered even as her nose geared up for a full blown
sneeze.

*"Ah can no help it, Cap-un.  She's going ta blow!"*

It was like a snot grenade going off in the car.

She looked at the explosion of new greenish drops on the windshield
before her.  "Gross!  Good thing no one else uses this car," she
thought aloud.  She rummaged under the seat for a paper towel and used
it as a tissue.

"Hell of a time to get a cold," she muttered disgustedly.

She'd have to go get some of that echinak...echinake...echin....whatev
er the hell that stuff was that her new-age sister in Southern
California was always telling her to take.

She had just finished blowing her nose and performing the perfunctory
examination of the towel to see what disgusting concoction had come
out of her head when she saw the blue Crown Vic roll up the gravel
road.  If she listened closely, she could swear she heard the car
scream, "Feds!"  Mac returned her seat back to its normal position,
folded and stuffed the "tissue" towel in her pocket, and threw the car
into gear.  There was no way she would walk in this heat when driving
would do.

She motioned to the blue car as it crossed through the gate and they
pulled up, driver to driver, their sides nearly touching.

"You Agent Scully?" Mac began, even as she eyed the auburn-haired
federal agent.

"Yes...and you are..."

"Detective MacInerny...just call me Mac.  I got your car up in the
next row...if you wanna follow me around...I wanna keep my air
conditioning close by..."

"Not a problem," the agent replied.

** 

FBI Special Agent Dana Scully wasn't much up for slogging around in
the heat either, and she knew that "Mac" had probably been sweating
away for quite a while already today.

She tailed Mac through the impound lot filled with a sea of dead and
neglected vehicles.  They passed by several "car-casses" that had been
completely gutted by fire.  Scully smirked to herself.  Processing
these wrecks was a lot like the autopsies she performed on human
victims.

You had to methodically go through each part of the body and pore over
the exterior to find the secrets inside.  All to uncover the truth of
what had happened to this "victim" who could not speak for itself.

And you had to be totally anal and obsessed with your work as you
performed it...or else you would miss something important.

Scully glanced over at Det. Mac as she threw her Taurus into park. 
Yup.  Judging by the grease stains on her sleeves and the grime still
lingering on the edges of her face, the Arlington detective was
definitely anal retentive when it came to her job.  And she probably
had an oral fixation, too...most cops did.  

She wondered how long it would be before Mac completed the picture and
put something into her mouth.

It took about 3 seconds before Mac had popped another Merit Ultima
into her mouth.  

Scully parked her car behind Mac's and got out.  The immediate
greeting by a blast of sticky heat was not welcome. "Whoever had the
brilliant idea to build the D.C. area on a swamp was a friggin'
genius," she thought ingenuously as she plucked the plastered shirt
from her chest. 

Before heading over to Mac and the car she was there to examine, she
opened the back door of the Crown Vic and pulled out a small Igloo
cooler.  It was time for some drastic kiss-up measures...cause it
never hurt to resort to some cheap bribery to win a new ally.

Scully dropped the cooler on the hood of her car and popped it open.

"So, Mac...what are you drinking?" Scully inquired.

Mac's eyebrow raised as she mentally moved her respect for the FeeBee
up a notch.  She walked over to the cooler and looked inside.

Scully had prepared a cross section of beverages just for this
purpose.  She was very well aware of the potential hostility between
locals and feds...and she knew that this particular detective must
have been slaving away under the hot sun for most of the day, just
waiting for her Federal Ass to get there.  And, since Scully knew just
how ridiculous this particular case would sound to the sweat covered
local, she figured it would be a good thing to grease a few palms
before having to reveal the sordid details of the case.

"Ah, the glories of working in a unit called the "X-Files"," she
sighed to herself.

"Help yourself," Scully offered.

Mac smiled.  "Thanks, Agent Scully...just what the doctor
ordered...and it will certainly do until it's Miller Time," she
replied as she scooped out an ice covered can of Coke.  "How'd you
know that my Big Gulp just died?"

Scully shrugged.  "Let's just call it intuition...and experience. 
Now, is this the car in question?"  Scully asked, pointing to the
deceased Toyota 4-Runner.

"Ah-yup," Mac drawled in a fake twang.  "Thar she be," she nodded as
she opened the Coke with a crisp "swish."

Scully began to ask another question but was interrupted as Mac
erupted into a loud sneeze.

"Bless you!"  Scully exclaimed.

Mac waved her off as she pulled out the paper towel from her pocket.

"It's nothing.  Musta got some Coke fizz up the old nose...Now, you
wanna tell me what's up with this baby?"

Scully mentally rolled her eyes.  This was not going to be fun.

And Det. MacInerny would have agreed if she had known that she was
spending one of her last few days in a police impound lot sweating
buckets over a Toyota.

For Det. Mac's weekend plans were about to be permanently postponed. 
Instead of sailing on the Potomac River with her friends from the Tac
Squad...she'd be laying on her bed, surrounded by used Kleenex...her
blackened eyes forever open and unseeing as they stared at the
ceiling.

If she'd only known it would end like this, she never woulda cut back
from those full-strength Merits.

******

I-395 en route from Arlington to D.C.
1600 hours


One hour later, Scully was on the phone to her partner, Agent Fox
Mulder.

"I'm not kidding, Mulder.  This is not an X-File.  It's obviously an
insurance scam.  Leon Di Capo was probably drunk and ran his car into
something.  He made the abduction story up to cover for the
accident...then he probably dumped it somewhere he knew it would be
stripped for parts."

"And what about the punched ignition, Scully..." Mulder whined in
reply.

"Mulder.  When the Arlington detective and I examined it, it was
obviously a half-hearted attempt to make it look as though it was
punched...it wasn't even done well enough to start the car.  We tried
it.  Besides...I don't think the dearth of alien technology would
require them to punch the ignition of a Toyota 4-Runner with a dent
puller...can't they just do a mind whammy thing?..."

Scully could picture her partner as he sighed in defeat over the
phone.  

"But, Scully.  Maybe they wanted something in 4-wheel drive...I hear
that Reticula has some pretty rough roads..."

Scully rolled her eyes.

"But we haven't really looked at the possibility of spectral
phenomenon....they might not have the techn..." he tried to continue,
just wanting to yank her chain.

"I'm hanging up now, Mulder.  I'll see you later..." She pulled the
phone from under her chin and turned it off, then dropped it on the
passenger seat.

As she continued across the 14th Street Bridge into D.C., she moaned
at the thought that it was still only Thursday.   


******

*"...They did eat, they drank, they married wives, they were given in
marriage, until the day that Noah entered into the ark, and the flood
came, and destroyed them all.  Likewise also as it was in the days of
Lot; they did eat, they drank, they bought, they sold, they planted,
they builded; but the same day that Lot went out of Sodom it rained
fire and brimstone from heaven, and destroyed them all...."*
           - Luke 17:26-30

******

CHAPTER THREE

******


Washington, D.C.
FBI Headquarters
June 19 (Friday)
1200 hours


Scully's sneeze filled the room.  She reached out to the box of
tissues on her desk and grabbed one, pressing it into service.

"Bless you," Mulder muttered.  It was amazing that such a huge
explosion could come from such a small...er..."height challenged"
person.

Scully nodded her thanks.

Mulder sat back in his chair once again and glanced at the clock. 
Scully stopped her nose-dabbing and looked at her partner.

"What's up, Mulder?  You got somewhere to be?"

He leaned forward, his full lips pursed and his brown eyes oh so
innocently open wide.

"Well, actually...I was gonna head out early today and go up to
Greenwich to see my mother for the weekend...thought I might leave
before rush hour hits."

Scully raised her brows in surprise.  While Mulder and his mother had
been getting along quite well recently, they still did not make a
regular habit of visiting one another.  Mulder saw the look on her
face and continued to explain.

"My mother is changing some of her living will and power of attorney
stuff and she needs me to be there to sign some forms..."

Scully hadn't meant for him to have to explain...after all, she wanted
to encourage Mulder to have some more "family time."  

"Sure, Mulder...have a nice trip.  I'll see you Monday."

"But, of course, I don't have to go. I could stick around if you
think..."

"Mulder...Go ahead.  I think it would be good for you to spend some
time with your mother."  Mulder, who almost always felt like a fish
out of water in personal, touchy-feely situations, was obviously
looking for an excuse to stay. And she wasn't going to help him.  

"You sure, Scully?  If you think you might need me to give you a hand
or something, I can always do this another time..."

"Gee, there's the followup report on the car recovered over in
Arlington...expense vouchers from our last trip...and three case
reports to polish off.  But, seeing as how you are allergic to
paperwork...I think I'll manage somehow,"  Scully replied as she
reached for another Kleenex and dabbed at her nose.

"You wound me."  Mulder's dramatic response, hands held over his
"pierced" heart, was completely lost on Scully as she sneezed once
again.

"Bless you!  Are you sure you're feeling okay, Scully?"  Mulder's
voice was now filled with genuine concern for his partner.

Scully cleared her throat and wiped at her runny eyes.  She looked up
and sighed.

"It's an allergy, Mulder.  NOT a reason for you to stay in D.C.  Go! 
Have a nice visit with your mom...enjoy the nice sea breeze and get
away from all this awful humidity. In fact, stay a couple of extra
days if you want...no since rushing back to this mess.  Besides, with
that Maryland abduction case cleared up..."

"Okay, okay.  I know when I'm not wanted.  But, why don't you go ahead
and cut out a little early today yourself...go take something for that
sneezing..."  Mulder suggested as he grabbed his suit jacket and
headed for the door.

Scully nodded blearily.  "I just might do that.  In fact, I might just
go and visit my mom tomorrow... she asked me to spend some time with
her this weekend.  I'll just finish up that voucher and then I'll be
off like the bride's pajamas..."

Mulder waggled his brows at her suggestive reference and smiled.

"And now you've given me a lovely image to hold onto whilst I'm
gone..."  Scully humphed in reply.  "Have a nice weekend, Scully...and
say Hi to your mom for me...I'll be back Monday morning...but you know
where to reach me if anything comes up..." He held up his cell phone
to illustrate.

"Yes, I know.  Now, go," she waved him off, "...but no stopping for
cockroaches or the alignment of planets....okay?"

Mulder reached for the door handle, but as he opened it he turned once
more.

"Scully...please promise me you'll look after that cold....Let your
mom spoil you a little.  When you're not here this place is so...Well.
 I'd hate to have to do all the filing again while you're out
sick...and I don't think the pencils could stand another flight to the
ceiling..."

Scully was about to respond, but bit her tongue.  She knew what her
partner was really trying to say.  After all they had been
through...after her battle with cancer...the burning of their old
office.

They were finally both healthy and in their new office.  Back in the
basement where they belonged.  Working together again.  Getting back
into their familiar grooves, albeit grooves that seemed to involve
much more unacknowledged physical contact.  She softened as she
remembered all the pencils that had been stuck in the ceiling tiles
after her last "vacation."  He would never fully admit it, but he did
miss her.  He really wore his heart on his sleeve sometimes.

"I promise, Mulder.  But drive safely, okay?"

"It's a deal," he headed out the door. "And I'll call you tonight," he
called out as the door closed behind him.

Scully leaned back in her chair.  She had known he wouldn't forget
their ritual.  Ever since their return from their ordeal in the icy
fields of Antarctica, they managed to touch base with each other every
evening.  

The conversations were never long...and never held much substance. 
But it was a cryptic and safe way for each of them to touch the other
without having to actually express the deeper things that wanted to
burst out.  The calls were little pressure release valves.

And right now, for many reasons, those were the only releases that
either one of them was prepared to deal with.  And they both seemed
comfortable with it, for now.  Time.  They just needed some time to
rest and do a little physical and mental recharging before they could
consider what had transpired in Mulder's hallway.  What had almost
transpired...

Her thoughts were interrupted by another sneeze and then the ring of
the telephone.  The single ring signified it was coming from an inside
line..from another extension in the Bureau.  It would be safe to
answer...cause she really wasn't in the mood to deal with outsiders
today.  The office was already too quiet and a heaviness was settling
in her chest.

"Agent Scully," she spoke crisply, all traces of allergy and
melancholy on hold as she got back down to work.

******

*"A Minneapolis cold is rotten..."*

Across the Potomac River, the Arlington Police Department's Detective
Bureau was in disarray.  Half of the detectives, including Josh
Mitchell and D.J. MacInerny, had called in sick.  And the ones that
had reported to work were a mess of snot, Kleenex and that mysterious
orange TheraFlu.

Captain Peter Holliman could only hope that this summer flu would pass
by their station quickly.  And with that thought, he reached for his
own box of tissues.

******

Dana Scully's Residence
June 19
2305 hours


Scully sat on her pin-striped couch.  The large soup spoon in her
right hand was making an admirable bull-dozing attempt on the
chocolate-chocolate mint chip ice cream quart-sized bucket that she
held in her left hand.

The television droned on in the background.  The late evening news was
depressing as usual.  Wars and rumors of wars, homicides, traffic
accidents, pets up for adoption.  The regular stuff.

Scully lifted the spoon to her mouth and let the cold ice cream slide
down her throat.  She was really becoming annoyed by the constant
scratchiness that was developing just at the back...where you couldn't
quite reach it...and that throat numbing spray hadn't helped at all. 
So, she resorted to the best throat medicine known to woman...Haagen
Daaz.

She just wanted Mulder to call so she could carry herself off to bed
and sleep off whatever allergy or cold this was.  She really didn't
want to show up sick on her mother's doorstep the next morning.

*"Hi, Mom.  Long time no see. Now.  I'm sick, so please take care of
me the whole time I'm here so I can recover just in time to go back to
my apartment...And, yes.  Home made chicken soup would be
lovely...with some Saltines, please."*

No.  That wasn't the route she wanted to take.  She sighed as she dug
for her next spoonful of medicine.  At least she didn't have a fever.

Just as she closed her mouth around the spoon once more, the phone
rang.  She left the spoon in her mouth as she reached for the
phone...

"Huh...ro," she sputtered around the stainless steel.

"Scully?  You into the Rocky Road again?"


******

Mrs. Mulder's Residence
Greenwich, Connecticut
2330 hours


Mulder hung up the phone, amused.  He loved catching his partner when
her hair was down...or, as in this case, when her mouth was full of
the stuff she would never admit to allowing in her diet.

Lately, she had been unfolding before him like a complicated origami
sculpture.  And he was enjoying the process of revelation.  While
lesser men would be tempted to simply tear at the paper, flattening it
out immediately to see the secret pattern, he knew that his patience
would reap many rewards.

And it was definitely the safest route for now.  Over the past six
years, they had both spent so much time being knocked over and
battered about by outside forces. They just needed a little down time
so that each of them could find their own footing again.  Then, they
could get on with walking down the path.  Hopefully, together.

This evening's conversation had not lasted long.  Not nearly long
enough by Mulder's standards.  And, from the wistful sound in Scully's
voice, not by her standards either.

He told her about the drive to his mom's house...about the traffic jam
on the Beltway that had him cooling his heels for a good forty-five
minutes.  

She asked about his mother.  He told her that she looked great.  The
best she had in a long time.  He could hear Scully's smile through the
phone line.  And he told her that his mom said hello.

He knew that his mother had harbored a soft spot for Scully ever since
the younger woman had shown up at his father's funeral.  Scully had
given her the hope that her son was still alive.  The fondness had
grown when Mrs. Mulder had felt Scully's presence in her hospital room
after she suffered her stroke...Mulder had never told Scully that,
even though she had appeared unresponsive and comatose in her hospital
bed, she had known Scully was there.  And that she had taken great
comfort in it.

They talked about Scully's mother...about her plans for the weekend. 
And Mulder begged Scully to snag some extra samples of Margaret
Scully's infamous chocolate chip cookies for the office.

He had frowned when Scully had coughed into the phone.  He was
concerned when she turned her head to sneeze...several times.

She had reassured him that she was fine...just a little out of sorts.

And he had made her promise to hang up and go straight to bed.  She
had sighed and reluctantly agreed.

Then he promised to call her at her mother's the next night.

They hung up.

But, while it was a real pick-me-up to talk to her...he wished that
she didn't sound so congested and hoarse.


******

Saturday - June 20
1000 hours
Annapolis, MD
Residence of Margaret Scully


"Burglar!" Scully announced as she entered through the front door of
her mother's house.

Her mother came out of the kitchen, smiling as she dried her hands on
a dish towel.  "I guess I need to be more careful about who I give
house keys to..." Margaret Scully responded as she walked over to give
her daughter a quick peck on the cheek.  her brow creased.  Scully's
face was a bit warm.

"Are you feeling okay, Dana?  You look a bit flushed..."

Scully waved her off.  "It's nothing.  Just a slight touch of a cold
or something.  I just need to relax and keep drinking herbal tea and
I'll be fine..."  She tried to convince herself.

"Well, let's get you some tea then. Oh! And I think I've got something
else you'll like..."

Curious, Scully dumped her overnight bag by the couch and trailed
tiredly after her mother.  It had taken most of her energy to get up,
pack and drive this morning.  The walk to the kitchen was not
altogether welcome.  But, she went along obediently.

A huge and slightly impish smile plastered itself on her face when she
saw it on the kitchen counter.

Three cookie sheets covered with dollops of chocolate chip cookie
dough...and, the prize...a mixing bowl that still held a generous lump
of raw cookie dough.  And the dough had her name on it.  Amazing how
that sight could make the sick rise up once more.

Margaret opened a drawer and pulled out a large soup spoon.  She
handed it to Scully with an indulgent grin.

"For once, there are no brothers, nephews or nieces to interfere. 
Enjoy, kiddo."

Scully grabbed the bowl, plopped herself down at the kitchen table and
dug in.  She loved mornings like this...when she was the sole
recipient of her mother's attention.  She knew every thirty-four year
old single woman's secret:  You never outgrew the need for some
quality Mom time...or the need to be spoiled.  'Cause Mom was the one
person on the planet who still put you first...before everyone else.

And since her father's death, their bond had grown stronger.  Her
brothers were married...with families of their own.  Families that had
to come first...something she completely understood and agreed with. 
But, it meant that she and her mother had grown more dependent upon
each other for attention.  For all the little things you just need to
share with someone.  Someone who's interested in what you did today...
 The only thing wrong today was her annoying cold.

She looked up from her meal to watch Margaret put the tea kettle on
the burner and then slide the cookie sheets into the oven.  Yep.  One
thing was for sure.  Mulder was gonna be one very happy G-Man when he
got back to D.C.  Maybe she'd take pity on him and just go ahead and
take a box of cookies straight to his apartment instead of making him
wait until he got into the office.  She could see his silly grin of
discovery now.  Yes.  She'd have to do that.

"Mom.  You do realize that if you keep doing this, Mulder is simply
going to move in with you...right?"

"Well, dear.  You know I could simply give the recipe to you...that
might make the living arrangements more enjoyable..." Maggie replied.

Scully's jaw dropped open.  Her mother never ever teased her about
men.  And she had never insinuated anything concerning her
relationship with Mulder.

"Mo-ther!" Scully warned.

Maggie simply smiled as she walked over to the fridge to grab the milk
carton.  She set it on the table.  "Guess I must have touched a
nerve...maybe I need to start doing a little more prodding...just to
have some fun," she thought.

"Where is Fox this weekend?"  She asked as she moved over to take the
steaming kettle off the burner.  She pulled two tea bags from the
shelf and dropped them into two mugs and poured the hot water in to do
its job. 

"He's visiting his mother for a few days..." Scully mumbled through a
mouthful of cookie dough.  "They had some family business to attend
to..."

Maggie brought the mugs to the table and sat down.

"So.  What are we going to do today?  Shall we shop or do we putter
around the house?"

Scully pushed the now empty mixing bowl away and leaned forward,
elbows propped on the table, cupping her chin in her hands.

"I'm not sure I feel up to any mall adventures today...how 'bout we
just act lazy for a day?"

Maggie was concerned now.  She leaned forward and put her hand on
Scully's forehead and moved to feel her cheeks.

"Honey, you do have a slight fever.  Why don't you go curl up on the
sofa?  I'll bring your tea in and we can just do nothing for a
while...I'll even let you use my chair massage pad..."

"Mom.  That's the best offer I've had in a long time," Scully
murmured.  She was suddenly very tired.  Must have been the effort of
eating the cookie dough.

She got up and moved to the living room, kicking off her shoes and
toeing them under the end table by the sofa. She adjusted the massager
pad so she could lay down on it...and promptly collapsed on top of it.
 She pulled the afghan from the back of the sofa and let it drape over
her body.  She hit the massager switch and let the pad go to work on
her sore back and shoulder muscles. 

As she began to drift off, she ran her tongue across her teeth,
tasting the remnants of the cookie dough.  She sighed happily as she
felt her mother tucking the afghan around her.

This was a nice way to be sick.

******

Saturday - June 20
2300 hours
Mrs. Mulder's Residence


Mulder was not happy.  Not that he minded talking to Maggie Scully. 
It's just that she wasn't the Scully he had looked forward to speaking
with all day.

Scully had been asleep when he called.  Mrs. Scully said she had been
sick all day...coughing up a storm.  But, she had felt better this
evening...and her fever had gone down.  Maggie had sent her to bed at
10 p.m.

Mulder had not hidden his disappointment very well...and Mrs. Scully
had been sympathetic, and slightly amused.

She had inquired about his mother.  He had told her that all was 
well.

Then he asked her to tell Scully that he would not be back in D.C.
until Tuesday or Wednesday.  His late arrival in Connecticut on
Friday, thanks to the traffic, meant that they had been unable to get
some legal papers signed.  They would have to meet with the lawyers on
Monday morning.  Hopefully, they would be done Monday and he could
head back then.  If not, he would definitely be in on Wednesday.

Mrs. Scully had promised to relay the message.  She told him to enjoy
his time with his mother and wished him a safe trip home.

Then she had hung up.

And now, Mulder felt miserable.  Not that he had wanted Mrs. Scully to
wake her daughter up just to chit chat with him...but... 

He knew he wouldn't sleep well tonight.


******

*Ring around the rosies
A pocket full of posies
Ashes, ashes
We All Fall Down*

******


Sunday - June 21
Margaret Scully Residence
0630 hours

Dana Scully awoke to the sound of muffled coughing.  Only this time it
wasn't her doing the coughing.

As she became fully alert, she realized that it was coming from her
mother's bedroom.  She waited for a few moments, but then slipped out
of bed when she recognized that the coughs were not stopping.  In
fact, they were growing worse.

She exited her room and walked to her mother's bedroom door.  She
frowned when she could clearly hear.  The coughs were wet and
deep...that phlegmy rattle that comes with nasty things like pneumonia
or tuberculosis.

"Mom?" she called as she knocked on the door.  When she didn't get an
immediate response, she opened the door and stepped inside.

The sun was shining brightly through the bedroom window, its strong
rays falling across the bed.  

Scully froze.

And then her feet flew across the floor to her mother's side.

Margaret Scully lay on her back, tangled in the bed sheets...desperate
ly trying to find a respite from the fever that had overtaken her. 
Her dark hair was sweat-plastered to her scalp and neck.

Her puffy face was tinged with blue as she tried to stop coughing and
catch a decent breath.  Scully quickly realized that she was choking
on her own mucous.

She grabbed her mother by the shoulders and sat her up, sliding in
behind her to support her weakened body.  She wrapped her left forearm
across her mother's upper chest and used her right hand to pound on
her mother's back as Margaret continued to emit strangled coughs.

After a few moments of pounding, Margaret expelled one huge hacking
cough and a large greenish yellow wad of phlegm exploded from her
throat and onto the front of her nightgown...and across her daughter's
arm.

Margaret sat up straight and heaved in a giant gasp of welcome air.

Scully's right hand stopped its pounding and began to rub small
circles of comfort across her mother's shoulders and back.  Although
it was debatable as to exactly whose comfort the back rub was
intended.

Margaret's gasps for air soon evened out, her face returned to a
flushed and non-cyanotic color.  After a few minutes, she brushed at
Scully's hands.  She wanted to gain some sort of control back...and,
looking at her nightgown and the sludge on her daughter's arm...she
was more than a bit embarrassed.

"Like mother, like daughter," ran through Scully's head.

"Will you be okay for a sec, Mom?  I'm going to go get you some water.
All right?"

Margaret nodded while she tried to find her speaking voice. 
"Yes...I'll be...fine," she rasped, her own hand moving over her
stampeding heart.

Scully got up swiftly and ran down the hall to the bathroom.  She
grabbed a handy floral Dixie cup and filled it at the tap.  Then she
opened the medicine cabinet and sorted through its voluminous but
organized contents.  Leave it to a mother and grandmother to have
every remedy known to mankind.  She grabbed the bottle of Robitussin
expectorant formula and did a half-run back to the bedroom, being
careful not to spill the water.

***

1000 hours

Scully sat on the sofa, television remote in hand.  She stared with
inattention at CNN as they discussed the new summer influenza season.

She reached for her mug of tea and took a small sip.  Her throat was
feeling much better.  She could only hope that her mother bounced back
as quickly as she had.

She had tried to get her mother to go to the hospital or to at least
call her regular doctor; but, Maggie had vehemently refused.  She
didn't want to bother her doctor on his day off.  "Besides," she had
said. "My daughter is a doctor."

Scully had relented to her mother's stubborn will.  Maggie had her
drag out the old vaporizer and it was now chugging away, hopefully
loosening some of the phlegm still caught in Maggie's chest.

The acetominophen had seemed to help reduce the fever and aches.  And
Maggie had said that she just needed to get some sleep...that she
would be fine.

Scully had tucked her in.  Given her a bell to ring if she needed
anything...and Maggie had promptly fallen asleep.  Unaware that her
daughter checked in on her every fifteen minutes.

And unaware that Scully had sworn to herself that she would handcuff
and carry her mother to the hospital if her temperature went over
one-hundred degrees again.


******

Sunday - June 21
2300 hours
Mrs. Mulder's Home


Mulder stared at the phone.  His conversation with Scully had been
painfully short.  Scully had sounded tired and still slightly sick.

She had told him about her mother's illness.  About her mother's
refusal to go to the doctor.  He had made a smart comment along the
lines of "like mother, like daughter."  She had given a half-hearted
laugh.  Until he heard Margaret Scully's cough in the background.

He had told her about his delay in getting back to D.C.  She
understood.  It was not a problem.

Then Scully had said she had to go.  Mulder said he understood and
made her promise to call him in the morning as soon as she got into
the office and let him know how things were going...and that he'd keep
his cell phone by his bed if she needed him during the night.

She promised she would call.  And then, she hung up.

He frowned.  He had never known Mrs. Scully to be sick.  He had always
assumed that she was too...perfect to be felled by a simple flu bug. 

And now he felt a bit guilty about his earlier plotting with Scully on
the chocolate chip cookie caper.  He sincerely hoped that Margaret
didn't force herself into the kitchen tomorrow just to bake his
favorite confection.  He knew that it was an  innate Margaret Scully
trait...to do something so selfless... just to make him happy.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden, overwhelming urge to
sneeze.  He had just managed to cover his mouth and nose with his
cupped hands when it erupted.

He cursed.  The sneeze had emanated deep in his chest.  And it had
brought forth an unpleasant scratchiness in his throat.

Damn.  Just what I need.  He got up from his bed and marched out of
his room, down the stairs and into the kitchen.  He put the tea kettle
on and waited for the water to boil.

Maybe some herbal tea would help.

******

CHAPTER FOUR

******
  
"There was a young lady from Niger
Who smiled as she rode on the Tiger.
They came back from the ride with the lady inside
And the smile on the face of the Tiger."
          - Author Unknown

******


Monday - June 22
0630 hours

Margaret Scully was feeling much better.  And Scully even agreed that
she looked better.  She was still a bit weak and her ribs were sore
from all the coughing, but she was definitely feeling human again.

So Dana Scully prepared to head into work.  Once showered and dressed,
she packed up her overnight bag and headed down to the kitchen to grab
a quick breakfast.

Her mother was already seated at the kitchen table, dunking a tea bag
in her mug of hot water.  She still looked weak, bleary circles under
her eyes, but her eyes were alert for the first time in twenty-four
hours.

Scully walked over and kissed her mother on the cheek.

"What was that for?" Margaret exclaimed in surprise.

Scully shrugged.  "I'm just glad you're feeling better, Mom.  I admit
you had me worried yesterday..."

"I'm fine, Honey.  I guess we both just had some twenty-four hour bug.
Although I have to say that I would rather not feel like that again." 
She took a few small sips of her tea, but for some reason it just
didn't taste good this morning.  

Scully nodded her head in agreement as she filled her mug with hot
water.  She noticed that her mother had already set out a halved
grapefruit and some cereal for her.

"Let's hope it has run its course...and maybe we can try this
mother-daughter thing again next week...and do it right." Scully said,
almost apologetically.  She was disappointed that their time together
had been ruined.

Margaret smiled and leaned over to brush some hair back from her
daughter's face.  "I'd like that, Dana.  I just don't get to see
enough of you anymore...and maybe Fox could come join us for dinner on
Friday.  I haven't seen him for awhile..."

"I'll ask him...I'm sure he'd love some of your special roast beef..."
Scully ventured.

"Hint taken, dear," Margaret smiled.  "Now.  Just don't forget that
box of cookies when you leave...Lord knows I can't eat them all."  She
got up and placed her still half-full mug into the sink.

"I'll remember.  I thank you...and Mulder thanks you," Scully replied,
trying to avoid the spray of grapefruit juice that squirted directly
toward her eye.  For a moment she wished that she was wearing her
protective goggles. The ones she used when she conducted an autopsy. 
Then she went back to dissecting her grapefruit.

Margaret crossed back to Scully and placed a hand on her hair,
smoothing it in a caress that only mothers know how to do.  "I'm going
to go up and take a nice long bath now...you'll be okay here?"

"Of course, Mom.  I have to leave in about two minutes anyway.  Enjoy
your soak...and please call me if you need anything.  I thought I'd
come over after work anyway..."

"You don't need to do that, Dana..."

"Mom.  Humor me.  Besides...it's partly selfish on my part.  I saw
that lasagna in the freezer...and it's been screaming my name since
yesterday."

Margaret laughed.  There was always one thing that would ensure visits
from her children:  the infamous Maggie Scully Cooking.

She bent down and placed a kiss on Scully's head and turned to leave.

"See you tonight then, dear."

"Tonight, Mom."

******

Scully's spirits lifted a bit more as she headed into work.  For
whatever reason, traffic was unusually light.  Especially for a Monday
morning.

At this pace, she would make it to work in record time.  She could
only hope that the afternoon commute would be just as easy.

******

As Scully drove westbound on Route 50, she never noticed a gray,
all-wheel drive-cause-it's-the-need-of-every-suburban-road-warrior
Volvo station wagon parked on the shoulder of one off-ramp.  

If she had, she would have noticed Walter X. Beauchamp.  The X stood
for Xavier.  And he had always hated his middle name.  Even though his
wife, Muffin Eleanor Richfield Beauchamp, the Sweetheart of Sigma Chi,
thought it was just perfect for a Patent Law attorney.  And it looked
really nice on his degree from the Marshall Wythe Law School at the
College Of William and Mary.

But, Walter Xavier had other things on his mind today.  At the moment,
he was draped over the front passenger seat, his head hanging out the
door as he spewed a particularly lov-er-ly string of green and yellow
crap out of his nose and mouth.

"What would Muffin say about this?  It's green and gold...our school
colors!" But he didn't think he'd share the color commentary at the
next Alumni Chapter meeting.  He snorted as he picked up a dirty paper
towel from the floorboard and used it to wipe his nose and mouth
clear.  "Bounty.  The quicker-picker-upper!"  he wondered if "Rosie"
had ever envisioned this use for her product.  

Walter Xavier might have pondered this question longer, but at that
moment, a particularly large wad of viscous mucous, the size of a
baseball, decided to force its way from his chest...on its way to his
mouth via his throat.  Problem was, his throat was nearly swollen
shut.

So, Walter Xavier Beauchamp turned purple while hanging out of his
all-wheel drive Volvo station wagon...the one he and Muffy had bought
when they started trying to conceive a Walter Xavier Jr.  His neck
swelled, his face expanded and grimaced as it turned blood black, his
fingers clawing at his neck.

Walter Xavier died even as Muffy stood in her living room, wondering,
between her loud sneezes, why her husband forgot his briefcase.  But,
she wouldn't have to wonder for long.  No one would find her
permanently poised on the living room sofa, legal briefcase in hand.

And Mr. Nigel Hammond never would get that patent paper filed to
protect the design of his new and revolutionary invention: "Hammond's
Recliner with built-in t.v.remote/beer cooler/tobacco pouch/spittoon/a
nd BBQ grill."

No great loss.

******

Mrs. Mulder's residence
Greenwich, Connecticut
0800 hours

Fox Mulder felt absolutely rotten.  And no matter what he did, he was
either too hot or too cold.  If he used his blanket, he burned
up...when he threw it off, he was freezing within moments.  Was this
how Scully had felt the other day?

He groaned.  Maybe he just felt worse because he was sleeping in his
old bed in his mother's house.  And no matter how hard you tried to be
an adult...when you got back under your parent's roof, you reverted
back to all your old behaviors.

A quiet knock on his door roused him from his trip down memory lane.

"Fox?" his mother called from the hallway.

"C'mon in, Mom," he replied thickly.  His throat felt so
constricted...like he had swallowed a cantaloupe.

Teena Mulder glided into the room, carrying a small breakfast tray. 
Mulder noticed she was wearing those Isotoner slippers he gave her on
her last birthday.  For some reason, that made him very happy.  Like
he had actually given her something useful...something that made her
comfortable for a change.

"I brought some things that might make you feel better.  Think you can
manage some juice and toast?"  She placed the tray on the nightstand
and sat down beside him, stretching out a hand to feel his forehead. 
"You've still got a fever," she said with concern, her brow slightly
furrowed.

Mulder pushed himself up with his elbows and rearranged the pillows so
he could sit up better.

"I feel pretty lousy, Mom...but I could try some of the juice.  Don't
think I can manage any food," his sentence was cut off by a series of
harsh, fluid filled coughs.

Mrs. Mulder patted him on the back and waited for the spell to end. 
As the coughs slowed, she picked up the juice and held it out for her
son.

A few moments later, Mulder was able to take the glass from her and
tentatively sipped at it.  He was thankful that she had chosen apple
juice instead of orange juice.  The acidic orange would have torn his
sore throat apart.  He let the sweet juice coat his ragged throat as
he swallowed painfully.

Finally, the glass drained, he handed it to his mother, a shy smile on
his face.  "Thanks, Mom.  Sorry I had to go and get sick on you."

She nudged his shoulder slightly.  "Don't be silly, Fox.  I don't get
to take care of anyone anymore...I'm sorry you're sick, but it is nice
to have someone to look after," she admitted.

Mulder smiled.  He hadn't seen this side of mother for many years.  "I
just hope you don't catch this bug from me."

"Nonsense.  Now...is there something else I can get you?  Do you want
to try this toast?"

"No thanks, Mom.  The juice was fine...I'll just get some water and
some Tylenol and see if that helps."

"You stay there," Mrs. Mulder stopped him from rising.  "I'll get the
water and medicine for you...And then, young man, you'll  lay back
down and get some sleep..."

"But what about our meeting.." Mulder tried to protest.

"I've already called the law office and left a message, telling them
we'd have to come in tomorrow or Wednesday.  So relax.  Just let an
old woman spoil her son for a day."

Mulder laid back, resigned to his fate...albeit a not-so-bad fate. 
But, then he remembered something.

"Mom?  Dana Scully is supposed to call me this morning...wake me when
she calls?"

Mrs. Mulder smiled.  "Okay, Fox.  But only if you get some sleep now. 
We need to get that fever down...I'll be back in a sec with that
water."  She left the room and headed down the hallway.

Mulder sat back against his headboard.  He was being spoiled by his
mother and Scully was supposed to call soon.  Maybe being sick
wouldn't be such a bad thing after all.

Too bad he didn't realize that within two hours his temperature would
be skyrocketing...and he would miss a very important phone call from
his partner.  

It just was not Agent Fox Mulder's day.


******

Monday - June 22
FBI Headquarters
Washington, D.C.
0915 hours


Scully stood outside of Assistant Director Walter Skinner's
office...in the antechamber as it were.  This is where most agents,
brown-nosers and snivelers alike, spent their time straightening ties
and suits, smoothing hair. All to mask their nervousness and prepare
themselves for the intimidating presence of their leader.

But, ranks be damned, Skinner had more than met his match in Agents
Mulder and Scully.  And he showed them respect and extended more than
a little latitude to them because of it.  And, therefore, Scully's
nerves were not on edge; but, she still hoped she would be able to
suitably cover for Mulder's absence.  And, even though her mother
looked better and said she would be fine...she really wanted to find a
way to leave work as soon as possible and hightail it back to
Annapolis.  Just to be sure.

She looked up as Kimberly, Skinner's secretary, hung up the phone. 
Kimberly's eyes and nose were red and a telling box of tissues was
close by her side.  The more she thought about it, it had seemed as
though she had heard in inordinate number of sniffles and sneezes in
the Bureau halls on the way to Skinner's office...

"You can go in now, Agent Scully..."

Scully nodded and walked over to the door.  She knocked twice and
opened it, walking in and closing the door behind her.

Skinner stood and motioned to the chair in front of his large desk.

"Agent Scully, have a seat please..." he looked around expectantly. 
"Where is Agent Mulder?"

Scully sat down and began her explanation.  "Sir, Agent Mulder is
still in Connecticut...he had some important family business to attend
to..."

"Oh," Skinner's brow tightened.  This was not good timing.

Scully let loose with the sneeze she had tried to hold in.

"Excuse me," she said as she brought a Kleenex to her nose. "I am in
contact with him and can relay any information to him if needed..."

"You might just have to do that, Agent Scully...although at the
moment, I'm not sure what you should tell him..."

"Sir?"

"Some information has crossed my desk...it's sketchy at best...I
thought you two might be able to dig up some more facts..."

"If you tell me what you have, Sir, I'll get right on it..."

Skinner sat down behind his desk and opened a manila folder.  At
first, he was only going to give the folder to Scully...not discuss it
just in case they were listening in...but, then he realized that if he
was correct about what was going on...they had other, bigger fish to
fry at the moment.

He leaned forward and handed the folder to Scully.

"This came across my desk a short time ago...An APB for a military man
named Campion...he's apparently AWOL from his base since June 11th or
12th..."

"Sir, I don't understand why we'd be involved in this...he's a simple
AWOL?"

"That's what I thought at first, too...But, read on.  There are also
coded references to coordinating the search with the CIA and the CDC
as well as USAMRIID....and I checked the ORI on the secured teletype
and it originates in Nevada....this thing is big.  There are
references to "containment"....yet, they don't list any serious crimes
committed by this man...and they aren't clear about exactly what needs
to be contained."

Scully's eyes widened.  This couldn't be another case involving the
black oil that Mulder had been exposed to, could it?  Or another case
involving bees?

Skinner could read her thoughts as she pored over the materials
again.

"I don't know anything for sure, Agent Scully.  I just thought you
might want to do some follow-up. Right now, it seems as though there's
some argument over exactly who should be handling this matter... But,
I think this might be something different than our first hunch.  I
can't imagine any of our old friends sending out a teletype like this.
 As you and I are well aware, they have their own forces to deal with
these kinds of problems..."

Scully slowly nodded.  Suddenly, her throat felt thick.  What exactly
was going on?  Why were the CDC and USAMRIID involved?  Her stomach
began to turn.  A hundred sickly faces flashed in front of her...an
Arlington detective sneezing all over herself...people in the grocery
store yesterday, emptying the cold and flu product shelves...Kimberly.
..Mulder's mother....her mother. She'd never seen her mom this sick.

She jumped up from her seat.  "Excuse me, sir...I'll get right on
this..."

Skinner did not even have a chance to give her his standard "Mulder
and Scully Watch Your Back Warning."  He sighed.  His head was really
beginning to hurt.  He slid his thumb and forefinger under the bridge
of his glasses and rubbed his sore nose.

******

X-Files Office
1000 hours


Scully pushed her way through the door to the office and headed
straight for her desk.  She needed to call Mulder right away.  She
picked up the phone and dialed the number to his mother's house.

It rang at least six times before Mrs. Mulder answered.

"Hello?"

"Mrs. Mulder?  This is Dana Scully...is Mu..Fox there?"

"I'm sorry, dear," Mrs. Mulder responded.  "He's caught some kind of
flu and he's in bed, asleep."

Scully tried not to panic...she knew she was probably just being
paranoid...but then again, paranoia was not always a bad thing.  "What
are his symptoms?"

"He's got a nasty cough...his throat is a bit swollen...and his
temperature is 102 and still climbing, I'm afraid.  I'm hoping the
Tylenol I gave him will bring that down."

Scully held her breath.  She and her mother had had the same symptoms.
 And they had both gotten better, right?  "Mrs. Mulder, it sounds like
he has the same flu I just had...it should get a lot better after the
first day...but, if it doesn't...please call me.."

"Let's hope it's the same thing...it probably is.  I know he's going
to be disappointed that he missed your call, Miss Scully."

Scully had to give a bittersweet smile.  "It's Dana...You have my
number, right?  So you can call me if anything changes?"  Her worry
was obvious.

"Yes, it's right here by my phone.  I promise I will call you, Dana."

"Thank you, Mrs. Mulder.  I'll try and check in with you tonight..."

Scully hung up the phone, a frown on her face.  She had really needed
to talk with her partner.  He would instinctively know who to
contact...how to proceed with the information Skinner had given her. 
She sighed and sat down behind her desk, her head in her hands.  She
still did not feel one-hundred percent.  She still had a throbbing
headache...a pounding pain behind her eyes.  It made it hard to think
straight.

But then, an idea struck.  She grabbed the phone and dialed.  Her call
was answered after the second ring.

"Langly, turn off the tape," she instructed firmly.

**

Fifteen minutes later, Scully was on her way out the door, headed
toward the office of the Lone Gunmen, the trio that made Mulder's
paranoia seem mild.  But, they had often helped the agents solve cases
and uncover conspiracies. And, she had to admit, she had a definite
soft spot for them.  Langly, Byers and Frohike had been more than
anxious to help Mulder find a cure for her cancer over a year ago.

As she reached for the door, however, the phone interrupted her
escape.  She debated for a moment over whether or not she should
answer it.  Finally, deciding it might be the Gunmen, she went back to
desk and answered it before it could roll over to her voicemail.

"Scully."

At first, there was no response.

"Agent Scully," she prodded once more.

Then a weak voice cracked over the phone line...

"Dana...Honey?"

Scully's stomach dropped down to her feet.  "Mom?  What is it?  What's
wrong?"

Her mother's voice was slurred...and broken by hard, deep coughs. 
"I'm not feeling very good...do you think you could..."

Scully did not need her mother to finish.  "I'm on my way, Mom.  Don't
try to move. I'll be there as fast as I can, okay?"

"Okay..." Margaret Scully's voice drifted off.

"Mom!" Scully yelled in alarm. 

There was no response.  Scully didn't wait.  She tore out of the
office and ran to the parking garage.  She grabbed the cell phone from
her pocket and called A.D. Skinner's office.

She was surprised when Skinner answered.

"Sir?  This is Agent Scully...I need some help...I was hoping Kimberly
could..."

"Kimberly went home sick, Agent Scully.  What is it you need?" Skinner
could hear the panic in Scully's voice.

"Sir...it's my mother.  She's at her home...and she's very sick.  I
need someone to call the Annapolis Fire Department and get an
ambulance to her house...I'm on my way there now...but I'm afraid it
might take me too long..."

"I'll do it right away, Agent Scully...just give me the address..."

Scully stopped short.  God.  She couldn't think straight...she
couldn't even remember her own mother's address...Shit.  Of course,
she could remember every other address they had lived at during the
first twenty years of her life...she just couldn't remember the most
important one...Shit!

Skinner stopped her inner-tirade.

"Agent Scully, just concentrate on getting there in one piece.  I'll
pull your file up on the computer...I know her address is listed
there.  Hang up now and I'll call you back in a few minutes."

Scully sighed in relief.  "Thank you, sir....thank you."  She hung up
the phone and jumped into her car.  The tires squealed loudly as she
raced out of the parking garage and onto the Washington streets.

***

Matilda Van Owen cursed as she barely managed to avoid becoming
roadkill.  The damned car had literally flown out of the damn parking
garage.  Damn Washington drivers!  She shook her fist at the driver. 
It was one of those damned Washington Professional Women...the ones
that always had those severe haircuts and blue suits and leather
briefcases.

They always made her want to puke.  They didn't know nuthin' about
real life.  Life that you live day by day...by the seat of your pants.
 Matilda reached up and tucked a few strands of graying and greasy
hair up under her floppy knit hat.  No.  Damnit.  They didn't know
nothin'.

And they never had to deal with these damn colds like the one that hit
her last night.  She leaned over and coughed, hocking up a nice big
ball of green phlegm, which she spat onto the damned street...adding
to the mix of trash and suspicious fluids running at the curb.

Damn.  This cold was gonna be the death of her.

And it was.  At six p.m. that evening, she would lay down on her
cardboard bed and never get up again.

No great loss.

******

Somewhere in Maryland
Eastbound Route 50
1030 hours


"Damnit!" Assistant Director Walter Skinner cursed again as he swerved
around another slow vehicle.  He knew that he was probably still a
good ten minutes behind Scully...and she was sure to be driving even
more recklessly than he was.  

He had hoped to overtake her on the road, but he had been slowed by
sluggish drivers and by an inordinate number of cars that seemed to be
abandoned at the side of the highway.

And he had been concerned when he saw several large National Guard
trucks at the border between D.C. and Maryland.  Something was up and
it wasn't good.

And he had a suspicion as to what that something was.  And that was
the reason he was en route to Margaret Scully's home.

He had called the Annapolis Fire Department.  It had taken at least
ten attempts before he got through...he had been getting a busy
signal.

But, when he got through, a weary recording informed him that all
dispatchers were busy taking other calls.  Walter Skinner knew that
was bullshit.  Thanks to all the Washington COG meetings he had
attended, he knew the policies of all the local jurisdictions'
emergency centers...and this recording went against every protocol.

He persisted, trying the number from his cell phone as he ran down to
his assigned vehicle, a powerful Ford Crown Victoria.  He kept getting
either the busy signal or the recording.

As he had peeled out of the parking garage, heading toward Route 50,
he had debated whether or not to call Scully.  He had finally decided
to wait until she would be closer to her mother's home.  At least that
way she might not wrap her car around a tree before arriving.  In the
meantime, he kept calling Annapolis.

He never did get through. 


 
******

CHAPTER FIVE

******

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned.
- William Butler Yeats "The Second Coming"

******

Residence Of Margaret Scully
Annapolis, Maryland
Monday - June 22
1115 hours


If anyone had been on the street to listen, they would have heard the
racing roar of a car engine and the whine of an overtaxed transmission
as Dana Scully sped down around the last corner to her mother's home.

But everyone was tucked inside their own four walls.
  
***

Including Mr. James Freeman, the neighborhood busybody and the general
bane of everyone elses' existence.  

The man who regularly clipped his hedges so he could see into his
neighbor's windows without so much as straining his neck.  

The man who regularly watered his lawn just so he could keep tabs on
all of the neighborhood children who would undoubtedly grow up to
become serial murderers.  

The man who regularly complained at every civic association meeting
because someone had let their lawn grow a half an inch too long.

But, today, Mr. Freeman just didn't feel up to snuff.  He lay on his
sofa in his white undershirt and his brown plaid boxers with a can of
Ensure by his side.  He stared at the pile of kiddie porn magazines
that he had removed from his secret hidey-hole.

He died the next day, a slimy mass of snot, pus and piss by a pile of
smut.

No great loss.

***

Scully pulled up in front of the house, parked on the wrong side of
the street and jumped from the car, leaving her driver's door open as
she ran to the front door.

If Mr. Freeman had been watching, he would have called the police and
demanded that the malfeasant parker be arrested on the spot.

The front door was unlocked and she burst through it.

"Mom??!  Mom?  Where are you?" She frantically screamed as she ran
through the house, checking each phone extension, heading toward her
mother's bedroom.  She came to a stop in the open doorway.

Margaret Scully lay crumpled on the floor beside the nightstand, the
phone pulled onto the pile carpet beside her.  Scully froze.  Was she
too late?  She was scared to move forward.

Then her mother's chest rose with a rattling breath.  Scully let go of
the breath she had been holding and ran to her mother's side.

"Mom?  Can you hear me?  I'm here...I'm here," she gently called as
she caressed her mother's face.  Margaret was burning up with fever.

This was not happening.

Then Scully heard a noise from downstairs.  Was the ambulance there? 
Why hadn't she heard a siren?

"Agent Scully!"

Scully recognized the booming baritone.  It was Walter Skinner.

"Up here, sir...I need help!" She called.  She listened as he ran up
the steps...taking them two at a time.

"Back here...in the bedroom, sir!"

And then, Skinner was at her side, helping her lift her mother to the
bed.

"Where's the ambulance?...And what are you doing here?" Scully
demanded.

"Scully," he bowed his head in frustration, "I couldn't get through. 
No one was answering at the emergency center."

"What?"

"The few times I didn't get a busy signal, all I got was a
recording...I thought I better head after you to see if I could
help..."

Scully nodded slightly as she digested Skinner's information.

"I have to get my mother to the hospital..." she stated simply.

"Then let's go...we'll take my car," Skinner replied.  Then, before
Scully could move, he reached down and scooped Margaret up into his
arms.  "Let's move."

And they rushed out of the house.

And Scully never noticed that her boss was flushed with fever
himself...and that his own breath had begun to rattle through his
broad chest.

******

Residence Of Mrs. Mulder
1115 Hours


Mulder closed his cell phone.  It had taken several attempts, but he
had finally gotten through to the Bureau's communications center.  And
he had been fortunate enough to speak with someone he knew, a young
and very helpful woman named Holly.

Holly had told him that dozens of agents and other personnel had
called in sick.  The Bureau only had a skeleton staff...and those who
were at work were all sick, too.  Even she had a horrible sore
throat.

When he had asked her about Scully, she had paused.  Then she told him
what she had heard.

That Assistant Director Skinner had flown out of the building yelling
out that he was headed toward Annapolis to help Agent Scully...and he
had collared two agents in the hall and ordered them to get an
ambulance to an Annapolis house.

Mulder's heart cracked.

"Scully."

If only his mother had woken him when she had called earlier, even
though he knew that he had been completely knocked out by his fever. 
He had only become coherent in the last fifteen minutes.  Finally, the
Tylenol and the many fluids his mother had forced upon him and in him
had helped him turn the corner.

God.  He needed to get up and go find his partner.  But his body
wouldn't cooperate.  

He had to settle for punching the speed dial again. 

******

Washington, D.C.
FBI Headquarters
Communications Center


Holly frowned as the line disconnected.  She hated delivering bad
news.  Especially to Agent Mulder.  About Agent Scully.  She
considered them both friends...they had helped her and defended her a
few years before when she had been victimized by a psychopath.  She
hoped that Dana was okay.  She knew that Agent Mulder would worry
himself sick about her.

She reached for her coffee mug, hoping the warm fluid would help to
soothe her own aching throat.  She swallowed...hard.  If she didn't
feel better by noon, she would go home.

And that's what Holly did.  She went home to her Fairlington apartment
with her two cats and curled up under an afghan knitted by her mother
in Iowa...and, twenty-four hours later...she died.

And even though a window was open and they could have escaped, her two
loyal cats remained by her side.


******

Somewhere In Annapolis
1135 Hours


Walter Skinner held his breath as he swerved around another abandoned
vehicle.  The number of idle cars was increasing as the day
progressed. 

He tried not to look in the back seat where Dana Scully sat with with
her mother.  Margaret Scully was laying across the seat, and Scully
had perched herself on the edge of the seat by her mother's legs.

He tried not to notice how swollen the sick woman's neck was.  How the
bruises had crept up the sides of her neck and under her jaw,
following and seeking out all lymph nodes in their path.

He tried not to hear Scully's quiet pleading as her mother's breath
wheezed in and out of her mouth.

He tried not to smell the aura of destruction that filled the car and
the air outside.

And he tried not to let Scully see that he knew that they were
fighting a losing battle.  And, as he wiped his own nose with a
handkerchief, that he suspected he would also fall during the oncoming
siege.

God.  Where was Mulder?  Was he dying, too?  No way.  Mulder had
defied death too many times.  He should be here with Scully.

******

Residence of Mrs. Mulder


Mulder kept punching the speed dial on his cell phone, trying to reach
Scully or Skinner.

And he kept getting the same recorded answer: "We're sorry, but all
circuits are busy.  Please try again later..."

******

Annapolis Community Hospital
1140 hours


Walter Skinner had tried to maneuver his car through the sea of people
into the emergency room driveway.  It was impossible.  Waves of
walking, sitting and laying sick and wounded littered the sidewalks,
the pavement, and the lawns.

A man held a useless pressure bandage around his son's bloody arm...a
gusher that spouted courtesy of using the power saw in the garage as a
toy.

Two women huddled together beneath a blanket on a sweltering
day...their faces green with flu.

A mother and father trying to hold onto their three children, all of
them coughing, their eyes bleary and red.

A man laying on the pavement, his femur sticking up through his
pants...what he got for not bracing his house painting ladder
properly.  His buddies had dumped him there and fled in terror when
they saw the multitudes of dying people.

And there were hundreds of others who were obviously felled by the
flu.

Why wasn't any of this on the news?  No one said anything on the
radio...there had been nothing on the television this morning.  

Skinner pulled the car over as close to the curb as possible and put
it in park.  He left the engine running as he opened his door and
stepped out.  He leaned back into the car to speak with Scully.

"Just hang tight here for a minute...let me see if I can get some
help," he began.

Scully had finally lifted her gaze from her mother and she was now
surveying the scene warily.

"Keep the doors locked and the engine running...I don't like the looks
of this.  You do have your weapon, right?"

Scully's eyes widened in comprehension.  Things here were liable to
get nasty very soon.  There were too many people...there was no way
they could all get treatment.  She nodded.

"Look...I'll flash my badge and see if we can get some help...but be
ready for anything. They've already got armed guards by the door..."

Skinner hit the power lock button and closed the door.  He slowly wove
his way through the crowds to the doors.  For whatever reason, the
pushing and complaining throng recognized an air of power and
authority that surrounded the man and allowed him to pass.

The guards eyed him nervously as he approached.  They fingered the
safeties on their shotguns and pistols.

Skinner pulled out his badge case and held it up for their
inspection.

"F.B.I...I'm Assistant Director Walter Skinner.  What's going on
here?" He demanded, taking a gamble that these were the type of men
that responded to a hierarchy of authority...they were used to a chain
of command.

They did not relax their stance, but one guard spoke.

"Sir.  We've been instructed to bar all entrance to this facility. 
This hospital has been placed under quarantine orders."

"By whose authority?"

"We received our instructions from the Hospital administrator.  I was
under the impression that he had received orders from somewhere
else."

"Look, men.  I have a sick agent in my car," he tried to reason,
conveniently sliding over the technicality that Margaret Scully was
merely related to an agent.  "Please let me take her inside to get
some help."

The head guard shook his head, although to his credit, he actually
seemed remorseful...sympathetic.

"I'm sorry, sir.  That's impossible.  We cannot let anyone pass..."

"But she's sick, damnit!" Skinner's voice began to rise.

The guard lowered his own voice and leaned toward him, hoping no one
else could hear...it would not be good to start a full scale panic.

"Look,sir.  Even if we did let you in...there isn't anyone to help
her.  Nearly the entire medical staff has come down with
this...whatever it is.  And for whatever it's worth...*no* one has
left this hospital for over six hours.  But, I have noticed a change
in the color of the smoke coming from the furnace...if you get my
drift.  If I could, I would leave....but most of us here have wives
and husbands on staff inside...I suspect we'll all stay here 'til
whatever happens happens."

Skinner swallowed the lump in his throat.  He tersely nodded his
understanding.  "Good luck, then," he whispered and turned back to the
car.

"Good luck to us all," the guard replied.

**

Scully had watched as Skinner approached the guards, but then her
attention was diverted as her mother began to mumble something.

"Bill?  Did you find the shirts I ironed?" Margaret rambled.

Scully grasped her hand tightly, trying to will her back to health.

"Mom?  It's me.  It's Dana...Mom? You need to wake up..." She begged,
her voice hoarse with dread.

"Dana?"

Scully sighed with relief.

"Yes, Mom.  I'm here..."

"Did you and Missy finish setting the table...your father will be home
tonight..."

Scully bowed her head and laid it across her mother's chest.  She
prayed to God.  She pleaded with him to spare her mother...she had
never wanted to imagine this moment...she wasn't prepared to watch her
mother die.  Damnit!  She wasn't supposed to have to go through this
for another twenty years...after Maggie was old and thoroughly gray.

But, before she could finish her lament, her cell phone came to life.

She grabbed the phone from her pocket.

"Mulder?!"

The voice on the other end hesitated for a moment.  "No, Agent Scully.
 This is Byers."  Byers turned his head from the phone to cough. 
"We've been trying to reach you about the information you asked us to
look into...."

Scully rubbed her forehead.  The timing was miserable...but she did
need to know what they had found...and she needed them to find
Mulder.

"What is it, Byers?"

"Well...I can say we found some links for you...," he sighed, "But it
isn't very good news..."

"Tell me something I don't know," Scully replied as she looked down
upon her mother.  

"But we can't discuss this on the phone...can we meet?"

Scully shook her head.  "No...I can't.  My mother is very sick...I'm
trying to get her to a hospital..."  She paused as she thought of a
drop spot.  "Can you drop it somewhere?  Say, the "Eight Ball?" She
spoke in their prearranged code.  The "eight ball" referred to a
particular coat rack in Mulder's apartment that had billiard balls as
ornaments.  The Gunmen would know to place their information in a
secret niche in Mulder's closet.

"That's fine," Byers replied.  "And I'm sorry about your mother...hang
on for a minute..."

Scully waited as Byers held a muffled conversation with Frohike and
Langly.

"Agent Scully...as far as we can tell, the one hospital that is still
taking patients is George Washington University.  If you can get into
D.C., that is..."

"What do you mean, 'get into D.C.'?"

"They're closing off the bridges and roads.  Virginia is completely
sealed up...no one in or out.  You can still leave D.C. and get into
Maryland...but they won't let you back in...although they might allow
an FBI agent with credentials to pass..."

Scully quickly digested the information.  Her head reeled.  This was
too much too fast.  How could things go from normal to hell in a
handbasket so quickly?

"Thanks, Byers...and one more thing..."

"Anything, Agent Scully..."

"Can you try and get hold of Mulder for me?  He's at his mother's
house...and he was sick..."

"We'll do it, Agent Scully...just take care of your mother..."
Byers sneezed before Scully could thank him.  She waited a moment.

"Thank you, guys...and good luck."  She hung up, not knowing why she
had made her last comment...but she had a chilling feeling that it
might be a very long time before she ever saw the three again.  

If ever.

******

Residence Of Mrs. Mulder


Mulder yelled in frustration.  He had finally gotten a connection on
his cell phone....only to find that Scully's cell phone was busy.

He wished that he could storm out of the house and pace the yard...to
vent his frustration outside of his mother's hearing range.

But his body still would not let him stand.  He fell back against his
pillows and squeezed his eyes shut...trying to conjure up an image of
Scully...one where she was completely well and safe.


******
Route 50
Washington, D.C./Maryland Border
Over the Anacostia River
1600 hours


Sergeant Tom Caldwell stared at the pavement that marked his post. 
This was a dirty job for a group of sick Army grunts.  And it had been
beyond weird to barricade a major bridge into the District.  Something
had definitely gone FUBAR.

He coughed and spat up the wad of gunk that left a miserable taste in
his mouth.

One of his men called out.  There was another news van headed their
way.

He looked up to see the tan van approaching, it's little dishes and
antennae sprouting from the roof.  Damn.  He was tired of these little
shithead reporters pestering him simply because he was doing his job.

Of course, it helped that he and the boys had received orders to use
any and all means necessary to stop these pricks.  That meant he was
judge and jury.

He smiled.  The anger that had been building in his stomach had
reached his head over an hour ago.  He could actually hear the voices
telling him exactly what to do to the next media mogul-wannabe that
crossed his path and didn't show him the proper respect.  Yessiree,
indeedy-do!  "Ten-hut!" and all that crap.  He and his boys were
ready.

The van stopped a mere ten feet from the barricade.  A whiny little
scrap of a man jumped down from the driver's seat.  His cameraman sat
in the front passenger seat...his camera already zeroing in on the
unit.

Who the fuck did they think they were?  Compromising national security
like this?

Je-sus!  His eyes rolled and he turned to his men and simply nodded. 
A big smile plastered on his face.

In perfect synchrony that would have made General Patton quite proud,
the men raised their rifles and opened fire.

Eugene P. Smythe, fledgling reporter for Channel 7 news, who was only
promoted to fledgling that morning because all of the regular
reporters were out sick, was very aware of the first bullet as it
twisted and bounced through his gut...snipping through intestines and
dancing around his kidneys.

When he had dreamed of his big break in high school and college, he
had never envisioned this.  Not even when he pictured himself as a
world renowned war correspondent.  Of course, he hadn't pictured
himself working in the mailroom of Channel 7 either...but that had
happened, hadn't it?

The second shot hit a microsecond later...or maybe it was simultaneous
with the third, fourth, fifth and sixth shots.  Either way, it didn't
matter.  Cause the bullet behind Shot Number Two immediately and quite
explosively removed the right side of his brain.

God.  It just wasn't Eugene P.'s day. And he had never even gotten any
airtime.


Sgt. Caldwell grinned in satisfaction as his men cleaned up the mess. 
That is, if dumping the bodies of the reporter and cameraman over the
bridge and into the Anacostia River was cleaning.

They had just moved the van to side of the barricade when Sgt.
Caldwell spotted their next victims.

A dark blue Crown Vic...and it looked like it had two occupants.

He grinned as his finger began to twitch over his trigger guard.

***

Skinner slowed as he approached the barricade.  Something looked
hinky.  Maybe it was the news van at the side of the road...that was
it.  If there was a news van, where were the reporters and cameras?

He pulled over and parked about fifty yards from the barricade.  Once
again, he left the engine running.

Scully could see his concern.  "What's wrong?"

Skinner kept looking ahead.  "Agent Scully, I want you to climb up
here now and get ready to take the wheel.  Something is wrong
here..."

Scully didn't hesitate to act.  She recognized the tone in his voice
and trusted it.

She slipped onto the seat beside him and he finally looked at her.

"I'm not sure what's going to happen...maybe nothing.  Maybe they'll
let us through with our credentials.  I hope so...but, just in case. 
Be ready to haul ass out of here the minute I give you the signal..."

"But what about you, sir?" She protested.

"If things start going bad...," he paused.  "Your duty is to get
yourself and your mother to safety....Besides, I have a feeling that
I'll be in the same condition," he motioned toward Maggie, "within a
few hours.  Just wait for my signal and do not hesitate to do what you
have to do..." 

For the first time, Scully noticed Skinner's pallor...the fever sweat
on his brow...the rale in his breathing.  A sadness enveloped her
chest...the ache moved to her throat.  He was quite possibly going to
sacrifice himself for her and her mother.

She grasped his hand.  Words seemed inadequate as she looked him in
the eye.  She hoped he could sense the gratitude, the friendship...the
thanks...and the faith she had for him.  She could remember every time
he had come out of nowhere to back her and Mulder...the times he
risked everything for them.

"I know, Agent Scully....Dana.  Same here.  But, hopefully, my radar
is off and all will be well.  But, if it isn't...make sure you find
your partner and kick his butt once for me." He smiled as he squeezed
her hand.

Then, before she could react, he was out the door and walking toward
the barricade.

***

Sgt. Tom Caldwell eyed the man who dared to approach.  And what was
that the man was removing from his pocket?

But, unfortunately for Skinner, before he could display his badge,
identifying himself...Sgt. Caldwell caught a glint of metal at
Skinner's waist.  It was a gun!  This man was an infidel!  He was
going to trick them and kill them all!

"Gun!" Caldwell screamed....even as Skinner screamed out, "FBI!"

The men didn't wait for another word and they opened fire.

*** 

Scully could only watch in horror as Walter Skinner's body jumped with
the impact of each round.  He dropped his badge on the ground and his
back hit the railing, and with one last blow to his shoulder, he was
tumbling over the side and down toward the waters below.

There was nothing she could do for the man she had called a friend. 
The man who had saved her life...and Mulder's life...on more than one
occasion.

The only thing she could do was follow his last instructions to her. 
She threw the car in gear, turned the steering wheel hard to the left
and floored it.  Plumes of black smoke exploded from the exhaust as
her tires left their imprints in the pavement.

She could hear the staccato of gunfire as the soldiers turned their
aim toward her.  A bullet sang past her open window and she
instinctively ducked lower in her seat, relieved that her mother was
already laying down.

She ventured a glance in the rearview mirror, praying she wouldn't see
a fleet of army vehicles in pursuit.  And God answered her plea.  

The soldiers had been instructed not to leave their post.  They
maintained their barricade, content that any threat she had posed was
over.

But she was horrified to see that no one had even moved to retrieve
Skinner's body from the river.

With tears threatening to blind her, she knew her only option.

She headed back to her mother's house.

***

Sgt. Caldwell surveyed the ground where his latest victim had dropped
something.  And some of his men accompanied him.  His mistake.

Because they quickly saw the federal badge laying on the ground.  They
had killed a federal agent...a brother!

A mutiny arose and judgment was quickly passed.

Sgt. Caldwell's body was dumped over the railing, not far from where
the FBI man had fallen.

No great loss.



******

CHAPTER SIX

******

I tell you, in that night there shall be two men in one bed; the one
shall be taken, and the other shall be left.  Two women shall be
grinding together; the one shall be taken, and the other left.  Two
men shall be in the field; the one shall be taken, and the other
left."                - Luke 17:34-36

******

Residence of Mrs. Mulder
Tuesday - June 23
1100 hours


The sneezing began at five in the morning.  The coughs soon followed. 
And then, the fever hit.

Mulder walked to and from his mother's bedside. To the bathroom, to
the kitchen.  He brought her cold washcloths to wipe her brow. He
brought her glasses of water and tiny and medium sized pills. And he
brought her chicken broth and supported her head as he spoon fed her
small sips of the warm liquid.

She was much sicker than he had been.  He had felt almost normal by
last night.  Almost like he had never been sick.

He encouraged his mother to get as much sleep as she could.  He only
disturbed her to take the Tylenol.  Then he waited until she awoke on
her own to feed her the soup to ply her with fluids.

And he watched over her while she slept, checking her fever, covering
her when she was cold, uncovering her when she was hot.  Wiping her
face and neck with a cool cloth, washing the phlegm from her lips and
nose, from her hands.  Massaging her feet when her legs cramped.

The only other thing he could do was wait.


******

The Qwik-EE Corner Market
Greenwich, Connecticut
1400 hours


Mulder walked up and down the nearly empty aisles.  Even the Spam had
been cleared from the shelves.  There were only three or four other
shoppers.  And they all looked like shit.  Snot-nosed and phlegmy. 
Walking dead.

They murmured rumors of who was sick, about bodies they may or may not
have seen, about phone lines and t.v. signals that didn't work.

Mulder shuddered.  He grabbed several bags of Ramen Noodles...he could
make a broth and forego the noodles. And he grabbed several cans of
frozen orange juice, a bag of hamburger buns, since there weren't any
bread loaves, and some Ritz crackers, 'cause anything tastes good when
it sits on a Ritz. Anything except whatever it was these people were
coughing up, that is.  He grabbed some other sundry items.

He took his basket up to the check-out counter and let the runny nosed
clerk ring up the groceries.

"That'll be $32.14, sir," the clerk snuffed.

Mulder handed over the cash, got his change, and he beat feet getting
back to his mother.

The streets of Greenwich were scary.  There were still some people
milling about.  Some of them walked around like zombies, delirious
with fever.  Some were shellshocked...they had lost family members. 
And some had stared at him with hatred in their eyes.  Why was *he*
looking so good?

He wanted to shout at them, tell them he *had* been sick. That his
mother *was* sick...

But, instead, he broke into a run and tore through the streets to his
mother's door.

He locked them inside.  Away from the outside world that was falling
apart.

But the barrier was really only an inch of wood.


******

1600 hours


Mulder almost fell out of his chair when his cell phone began to ring.
 He dove for his jacket, which was draped over the back of the sofa,
and dug the phone out of the pocket.

"Scully??" He answered hopefully.

"Mulder?" the male voice excitedly exclaimed.  "Man!  We had just
about given up..."

"Frohike?  Is that you?"  Mulder tried not to let his disappointment
show.  While it wasn't Scully, maybe they had news from her. 
Meanwhile, Frohike was still talking...

"...you only knew what we had to do to get a signal...all the regular
lines are out...we're bouncing this baby off a zillion satellites
right now...not sure how long we'll be able to hold it..."

"Frohike," Mulder silenced him.  "Have you heard from Scully?  Where
is she?"

Mulder was answered by silence. Then Frohike coughed.  A long bout of
coughing.

"Frohike?"

A few seconds later, he could hear the phone being passed to someone
else...

"Mulder..."

"Byers.  What's going on?"

"Sorry.  We've all got the flu...what folks on the Net were calling
Captain Tripps, at least until most of phone lines and servers went
down for some unknown reason and now only a handful of people are
still well enough and have the technology to get online.  We think the
government is shutting down communications..."

"What's happening?  And where is Scully?  Have you talked to her?"

"We talked to Agent Scully yesterday...and now we've lost all contact.
Her cell phone is either turned off or her battery is dea...drained."
He corrected his word usage.  "Dead" was not a good one to use these
days.

"How is she?  Where is she?"

"We only got to talk to her for a moment.  She had asked us to
investigate some information she had obtained. Information that is
possibly related to this 'epidemic'. We found some things, but
couldn't risk a phone chat...she asked us to drop the information in
our favorite place..."

Mulder nodded silently. He knew the spot.

"But...how *was* she?" Mulder insisted.

"She sounded tired...and a little sick.  Mulder.  Her mother was very
ill. She and A.D. Skinner were trying to get Mrs. Scully to a
hospital.  It didn't look good, I'm afraid..." "Damn," Mulder
muttered.  "I should have been there..."

Byers interrupted.  "Mulder.  This is affecting *everyone.*  The three
of us all have it.  And people are *not* recovering... people are
dying everywhere.  From what we can tell, it's worked faster on the
East and West Coast, but the Midwest has also been hit. It's just a
matter of time before everyone has been infected.  There are reports
from Europe, Africa, and South America.  This is a world-wide
pandemic.  A very small percentage of the population...less than one
percent...*appear* to be immune.  But it could be that they'll merely
have a delayed reaction.  We just don't know.  We only know that there
is no safe place."

Mulder winced as he heard his mother coughing in her bedroom.  No one
was safe. This thing was fatal.

"But, Mulder, what we found for Scully...all I can say is that *you*
might be immune...maybe you'll understand better when you see what we
turned up...either way..."

"What about Scully?  Is she immune?"

"...We don't know...maybe, maybe not.  We just don't know.  I'm sorry,
Mulder..."

Mulder closed his eyes.  This was all too much.

"I need to get back there," Mulder stated between clenched teeth.

"That's not a good idea. Not now."

"What's going on?  Why?"

"Towns, cities, states...everyone's putting up roadblocks.  And
they're shooting people that try to get through.  D.C. has been
completely closed off since yesterday."

God.  Scully.

"When we spoke, Agent Scully was still in Annapolis. We think she was
going to try and get through to D.C...take her mother to G.W.
Hospital. But we don't know for sure.  I doubt they would have been
allowed to pass through from Maryland.  Odds are, she's still in
Annapolis..."

"Thanks, Byers.  Thank the guys for me."

"Will do, Mulder."  There was a long pause.  "This is probably the
last time we'll be able to speak, Mulder. We're all sick...and it's
just a matter of time before electricity and other services shut down
completely. We just want to wish you good luck...."

"Thank you," Mulder choked.  These men, strange and eccentric as they
were, had been true friends.  They had helped him and Scully when no
one else would listen.  They had helped to save Scully's life.

"Please, guys. If you find anything to help yourselves...use it..."

"Will do, Mulder," Byers forced the cheerful tone into his voice.  

And the line went dead.

Fox Mulder felt very alone.


*******

There are many shades in the danger of adventures and gales, and it is
only now and then that there appears on the face of facts a sinister
violence of intention -- that indefinable something which forces it
upon the mind and the heart of a man, that this complication of
accidents or these elemental furies are coming at him with a purpose
of malice, with a strength beyond control, with an unbridled cruelty
that means to tear out of him his hope and fear, the pain of his
fatigue and the longing for rest: which means to smash, to destroy, to
annihilate all he has seen, known, loved, enjoyed, or hated; all that
is priceless and necessary -- the sunshine, the memories, the future;
which means to sweep the whole precious world utterly away from his
sight by the simple and appalling act of taking his life."
- Joseph Conrad   Lord Jim

******


Residence Of Mrs. Mulder
Greenwich, Connecticut
Wednesday - June 24
0900 hours


Mulder sat in a chair beside his mother's sickbed.  He had drawn the
curtains and left the lights off...they hurt his mother's eyes.  He
sat in the dark and listened quietly as his mother's life ebbed away.

He had one blessing.  While she was seldom awake, those precious times
that she was, she was lucid and aware.

And in those moments, they talked.  Perhaps for the first time in
Mulder's adult life.

**
"Fox?"

"Yes, Mom?"

"You do know that I love you...that I've always loved you?  That your
father loved you..."

"Yes, Mom.  I know that. Sometimes I didn't believe it, but I do now. 
And that's what counts."

"Yes, dear."

**

"Fox?"

"Yes, Mom?"

"Do you think you'll ever marry that young woman?"

"What woman, Mom?"

"'What woman,'...Don't be silly, Fox.  Your Dana Scully."

"Why do you ask that, Mom?  Do you think I should?"

"Yes. I do.  I like her, Fox."

"So do I, Mom."

**

"Fox?"

"Yes, Mom?"

"Don't waste so much time. You should just tell her."

**

"Fox?"

"Yes, Mom?"

"Are you scared?"

"I am, Mom.  I am."

"Don't be, sweetheart.  I'm not afraid.  Hold my hand, would you?"

"Yes, Mom.  I've got it."

"I'll always be with you, Fox.  So will your father...and your sister.
 We love you.  Remember that. Remember the good things...don't dwell
on the rest.  It's over.  Done."

"I'll try, Mom."

"You've lived in the past for far too long.  You're just like your
father that way.  I never understood that about either of you.  Learn
from the past, Fox, but live for the present..and for the future."

"I think you're right, Mom."

"I think Dana would agree, don't you?"

"Yes, Mom."

**

"Mom?"

"Yes, Fox?"

"I love you."

"Yes, Fox.  I've always known that."

**

And at noon on June 24th, Mrs. Teena Mulder died.



******

My, Grandma.  What big teeth you have!...

******

Residence of Mel Hampton
Greenwich, Connecticut
Thursday - June 25
0900 hours


Fox Mulder sat on the strange couch with the remote control in his
hand.

Good ol' Mel Hampton was an electronics addict.  Mulder could remember
his mother's comments when Mel had his satellite dish installed.  It
looked like a part of the Very Large Array in New Mexico.  Good ol'
Mel.

The Hamptons were probably in their house up in Maine.  They had
houses everywhere.  The man had made a fortune from the design of
those child-proof bottle caps.  The ones that *only* children could
open.

He didn't think Mel would mind him sitting in their living room,
thumbing through the zillions of television signals.

Anything to be out of his mother's house.


He had buried his mother behind the house.  Under a shading elm tree.

It had taken him all afternoon yesterday to do it.

And now, he just needed to be out of that house.  Away from the
memories, recent and past.

So, when he had remembered Mel Hampton's huge satellite dish, he had
retrieved the spare key his mother had hidden in a kitchen drawer and
headed next door.

There wasn't much on the tube.  Nothing of any import anyway.  Lots of
"I Love Lucy" and "Hawaii Five-O" reruns.  No sporting events.  ESPN
was running some old "Highlights of the Super Bowls" shows.  He kept
searching.

Finally, he came to rest on what appeared to a local television news
program.  The logo on the screen said "WBZ-TV." It looked like a
Boston station.

The anchor, Bob Palmer, was droning on, not really giving any news. 
But, suddenly, Palmer stopped and yelled, "Okay, right now!"  The next
thing Mulder saw was Palmer holding a gun in his hand.

What followed was shocking.  Palmer told the viewers that army troops
had been filtering and censoring the news for days.  They had
maintained complete control of the station.  They had destroyed film,
they had forced him to read their "sanitized" copy...under threat of
execution.

Within minutes of the coup, Palmer was showing videotape.  It showed
sick and dying people crowding the city's hospitals.  It showed weary
doctors and nurses saying that there was nothing they could do for
these sick people.  There were truckloads of dead bodies being dumped
into the Harbor.

And armed soldiers were everywhere.  And they did not hesitate to
shoot first and forget to ask questions later.

Mulder paled.  Byers had been right.  Their fragile society had
crumbled in mere days.

It had become a dog-eat-dog world.

And Scully was out there. Somewhere.  Probably alone.


******

Downtown Greenwich, Connecticut
June 25 


Timmy Hoffman had never been an overachiever.  In fact, he hadn't even
been an achiever.

If you had asked his late mother if he had ever done anything for
anyone or anything else in his entire nineteen years, she would have
been hard pressed for a positive answer.

Well.  There was that time when he was five.  He had found a baby bird
that had fallen from its nest.  He had cradled it in his hands and
brought it home.

He showed it to Vern, his older brother.  Vern had taken one look at
the sickly, crying animal and laughed.

"You dummy!  Now he's gonna die for sure.  His momma will never take
him back.  You're a bird-killer, butt face!"

Timmy had blinked back his tears.  He hadn't meant to kill the baby
bird.  He wanted to prove his brother wrong and he went to scoop up
the hungry creature so he could take him back to his nest, but Vern
had intervened.

Vern grabbed the bird roughly.  "Whaddaya want, butt-face?  You want
this dead bird?"  He laughed.  "Here.  Catch!"

Vern spun around and threw the bird with all his might.  It made a
horrible splat as it hit the kitchen wall and slid to the floor.

Timmy had run from the house in horror and shame.

And he never cried again.  Not even when Vern got his head cut off
trying to jump onto a moving train six years later.

He still remembered that "splat."

Now, Timmy was a big boy.  Definite linebacker material. If he had
been able to control his temper enough to play an organized sport. 
And if he had been intelligent enough to remember any of the team
plays.

The rest of Timmy's family was already dead.  His dad had died years
ago, but his mom and his two sisters had expired this morning. 
Leaving Timmy to his own devices.

And his own devices included looting every house he came across.  And
his own devices had supplied him with more guns than he could carry.

He had found two buddies in town.  And while Timmy wasn't sick at all,
his pals, Wayne Hydell and Norris Johns, were.  But they were still up
for having some fun.  Damn.  If they were gonna die, they were gonna
have some high times first.

They were armed to the teeth when they came across their next house. 

The mailbox outside had a name on it.

Mulder.



******

CHAPTER SEVEN

******

"Man," says the Grand Inquisitor, desires "not only to live, but to
have something to live for." However, this "stable object" of an
other-directed life must, according to Christ's teaching, be chosen by
man's free conscience, aware of good and evil and always able to
choose between them.  Such a choice causes "spiritual agony;" and
therefore, "man prefers peace, and even death, to freedom of choice in
the knowledge of good and evil."

- Fyodor Dostoevsky  "The Grand Inquisitor"


******
Residence Of Mel Hampton
June 25th
1700 hours


Fox Mulder had finally settled into a fitful slumber when he heard it.
 The distant sound of breaking glass.  Then there were voices. 
Drunken voices.

Quietly, he stood and moved over to the window that faced his mother's
house.  He stood, hidden by the curtains, and peeked out.

What he saw ignited a short fuse in his gut.

Three drunken assholes were breaking into his mother's house.  They
had the audacity to even break a front window and crawl inside, in
full view of anyone who cared to notice.  Of course, there weren't
many folks around *to* notice...

He ran to the Hampton's back door and out into the back yard.

As he approached the low fence dividing the Hampton's property from
his mother's, he reached to his waistband and pulled out his Sig
Sauer.  These sons of bitches were going to learn a lesson they would
not soon forget.

With one quick jump, he slid over the fence and behind some bushes. 
He could hear the men rifling through the house, knocking tables
over.

Enough was enough.  Now, he just needed to get them all in one room at
the same time...

He crept up to the living room window and peered in from the corner. 
Two in the room, the third was in the kitchen...What the hell?  Was he
making dinner or what?

He pulled his key from his pocket and slipped it into the back door. 
Carefully and oh so silently, he turned it in the lock.  There.  Now
the door was open.  He just had to wait for *his* opening...

Then, Timmy Hoffman entered the living room.  He was bearing beer for
his buddies.

They were laughing as they ripped through Teena Mulder's belongings.

"Damn.  I had hoped we'd find some women here, if ya' know what I
mean," Hydell grabbed his crotch to illustrate his rape fantasies.  "I
wonder where the bitches in this photo are?" He pointed to a mantel
picture of Teena and Samantha Mulder.

"We'll go find some real soon...have some real fun," Hoffman reassured
him.

Mulder's stomach turned and he let out a roar.

He lunged through the door and was in the living room entryway in a
heartbeat.

"Freeze!  Don't even breathe, you shitheads!"

All three men dropped their open beers.  

The next minute seemed to happen in slow motion.

Wayne Hydell, neighborhood bully since the age of three, dove for his
shotgun.  Norris Johns, the token "Mikey" of the trio, dropped to his
knees.  And Timmy Hoffman tried to pull his .357 Magnum from his
belt.

Wayne Hydell was hit first.  The bullet went straight through his
right forearm, rendering the muscles there useless.  He howled in
surprise and pain.  And he promptly fell back on top of Johns, who
yelped at being covered with blood.

Hoffman was so busy being distracted by the spray of red from Hydell
that he never noticed Mulder fly across the room until he felt the
muzzle of the Sig pushing squarely against his forehead, right between
the eyes.  Mulder grabbed the .357 and threw it down the hallway.

Hoffman's eyes widened in fear and he felt a rush of hot liquid run
down his leg.  The man before him was insane.

Mulder's eyes pierced through him.  "Go ahead. Make my day," Mulder
snarled.

"Look, Mister...we didn't mean any harm. We didn't think anyone was
living here....we'll go...." he lied.

Mulder began to stroke the trigger.  And just as Hoffman was sure he
was going to lose what little brain matter he possessed, Mulder pulled
the gun back.

Hoffman had just begun to sigh in relief when Mulder hauled back and
punched him with a devastating blow to his gut.

"Get the fuck out of my house!" Mulder roared.

Hoffman, still doubled over, ran out the front door without a second
invitation.  He kept running until he was completely out of Greenwich.
 And then he ran some more.  He never even glanced over his shoulder,
for fear that he would see Mulder on his heels.

He would never forget that look in the man's eyes.  And he would never
forget his public humiliation, pissing his pants in front of Johns and
Hydell.

His rage would build for a long time to come.

Johns hauled Hydell up from the floor and dragged his accomplice out
the door.  Johns was feeling much too sick to deal with nutcases like
the owner of this house.

Mulder followed them to the doorway and watched as they fled. 
Satisfied they would not return, he slammed the door shut and locked
it.  He examined the broken window, then went to the basement to
retrieve a suitable piece of plywood.

Ten minutes later, the window was secure and nailed shut.  He went
through the rest of the house and nailed all of the other windows
shut.

Then, he set about cleaning up the mess the burglars had made. He had
uprighted tables, sponged up the blood from the floor, and cleaned up
a few broken glasses.

And then he saw something that made his heart stop...and fall.  The
picture of his mother and father...on a happy day.  The one where a
young Teena Mulder looked adoringly up at her brand new husband.

Hoffman had swept the picture from the mantel.  And now the frame and
glass were broken. And the glass had torn the photo.  

Mulder sat down heavily on the floor by the shattered frame, all of
his adrenalin and anger drained away.  He put his face in his hands
and sobbed.

He cried for everything he had lost. And because he had no idea who he
was now....what he would do.

God.  He wanted Scully.

******

Wayne Hydell and Norris Johns made their limping way to the deserted
town center and broke into a drugstore.  Hydell was crying like a baby
as he tried to bandage up his arm.  He wouldn't let Johns pour any
antiseptic on the wound.  It would hurt too much.  His mistake.

Within an hour, Johns was so tired of Hydell's bitching and moaning
that he simply got up and left him.

Johns went back to his old house, where he died the next day, his
throat swollen shut.  Too bad he died on the back porch...out in the
open.  Exposed to all the town's hungry pets and wild animals.  He was
always such a big, meaty guy.

Hydell didn't know it at the time, but his case of the "flu" had
really been just that.  The common cold.  So, he didn't die right
away.  Too bad for him.  By the time his sniffles were fading away,
his arm had swelled to the size of a mammoth deli tube of bologna --
angry black and green spider webbing crisscrossed the skin.  And it
smelled really bad.  His fever climbed until it rivaled August in Las
Vegas.  His brain cooked inside his thick skull.

And, on June 28, he finally died, whimpering on the drug store floor
amidst the Tampax and Depends.

No great loss.

******

Somewhere 
June 26th
2330 hours


The old man tossed and turned in his sleep.  He didn't need many hours
of slumber anymore. One of the so-called benefits of being geriatric. 
Just needed about five hours.

But, in his dreams tonight, the old lady wouldn't let him alone.

She kept singing that same old song...

"Climbin' up the mountain, children..
Climbin' on here for to stay;
If I nevermore see you again,
Gonna meet you at the Judgment Day."

He walked up the country road, following her voice, until he reached a
driveway, marked by a mailbox and a smattering of gravel.

He turned up the rutted path and stared as the house came into view
from behind the trees that circled the front.  The owners must have
planted the trees many years ago.  They surely didn't take root on
their own.  In these parts...and how did he know he was in
Nebraska?...all nature provided were plains of grass and corn and
wheat. When you saw trees, you knew there was a house nearby, 'cause
people planted them there for a reason.

The singing stopped and he looked up.  A woman, older than Methuselah,
sat in a rocker on the front porch.  Her eyes bore straight through to
his heart.

"Well.  Don' be just standin' there, boy!" She called, waving him up
to her.

He walked up and took her gnarled hands in his own.  Her hands were
hard and strong from years and years of hard work.

"We need to speak quickly, child."

He laughed.

"And what's crawled into your throat?  Makin' you laugh at an old
woman?"

"I'm sorry," and he genuinely was.  He didn't want to offend her. 
"It's just...it's been a long time since anyone called me 'child.'"

She laughed...a hoarse belly roll.  "Well, to me that's what you are.
I've got children older than you..." and then she was serious.  "And
we're *all* children of God...whether you believe that or not doesn't
matter.  What *does* matter is why you're here now..."

"Why *am* I here?  And who are you?"

"I'm just an old woman doing God's will. I don't pretend to know His
answers. I jus' do what He tells me...and He's tol' me somethin' about
you..."

The man stared at her doubtfully and cocked his head to the side.  It
was just a dream, right?  He could go with it for now...

"You *think* this is a dream, child, but it is and it ain't.  You'll
understand later.  For now, you just' need to know this.  You *think*
you're an old shoe, that your use is through...But God has other plans
for you, child.  He has one more mission left. And He needs you to be
ready."

"What is this 'mission'?" He asked, now intrigued, if still a bit
doubting.

The ancient woman smiled and began to rock her chair...back and
forth..."You'll know it when it comes, child.  You'll know it when it
comes..." She stopped suddenly and leaned forward, her breath falling
across his face.  "And it's coming soon."

She pointed toward the road and he could just make out the form of a
young woman.  She walked with confidence, her auburn hair flitting in
the wind about her face.

The woman smiled and waved to the old woman.

"That's right, child," the old woman called out.  "You know what to
do. You know what to do..."  

The porch receded...the corn faded...and the old man awoke.

He couldn't remember his dream. And couldn't explain this sudden sense
of urgency he felt.  He fluffed his pillow under his head and rolled
onto his right side.

Damn.  He was gonna have to be more careful about eating spicy things
so close to bed time.


******

June 26th
2321 hours


Mulder was walking down an endless highway.  The landscape was flat
and green as far as the eye could see.

He could hear the ears of corn whispering as he passed, the stalks
rubbing together in the wind.

He could smell the summer prairie on his skin...in his clothing.

But, instead of the peace he knew he should feel...he was unsure. 
Nervous.  Dread bubbled up into his throat.

The wind began to blow harder.  The sky darkened and rumbled.

He looked to a rise on the horizon.

A man stood there.  A dark man, looking east.  His arms were raised
high and his hands were motioning...as if to beckon him on.

He turned his gaze upon Mulder and Mulder gasped.  The man's eyes were
a glowing red.

Mulder turned and ran.  The man laughed, his voice filling the sky.

"You can run, Foxy! But you just can't hide!"

Mulder ran faster and stumbled over a corn stalk that suddenly crawled
across the roadway.  He screamed and pushed himself up....

To find himself in his mother's back yard, beside her newly dug
grave.

But something wasn't right.  The dirt was moving.  He scrambled back
on his hands and knees, terrified but unable to take his eyes from the
site.

He could hear his mother's voice calling him..."Fox?  Now why did you
go and put me here?  When I'm still alive?...."  But the voice wasn't
*her* voice. It held no soul.  Only darkness and cold.

He shivered.

Then a chalky white hand burst up through the dirt. It pointed
directly at him.

"Why, Fox?  Why!"

******

Mulder screamed and sat upright on the sofa.  Sweat poured down his
back and from his brow.   It was only a dream.

He scrubbed his face with his hands.  It was one helluva
nightmare...one he'd never had before.

He stood and walked into the darkened kitchen.  He desperately wanted
to turn on the lights, but knew that it wouldn't be prudent.  He
needed to lay low for another day or two...make sure that the Three
Assholes didn't come back to settle any scores.

He opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of water.  He popped the
cap and took a long, cool drink.

He had decided to move into the Hampton house for a few days.  That
way, he could still keep an eye on his mother's house, but he wouldn't
have to actually *stay* in it.

And it helped that Mel Hampton had been a bit of a security freak. 
Once, when he had come up to visit his mom, Mel had brought him over
and proudly showed off all the high and low tech devices he had
installed to protect all of his electronic gadgets.  He'd wanted to
impress the FBI agent.  It had worked.

Mulder had wished *he* had steel doors for his apartment.

So, he had spent the day of June 26th firmly ensconced in he Hampton's
version of Fort Knox.  He'd spent the morning searching Mel's huge
video library, trying to find a movie he wanted to watch. But after
reading the titles, he found it was too depressing.  It reminded him
too much of what was no longer going on in the outside world.

So, instead, he had picked two "Nature" documentaries... something
about Cockroaches and one on the American Prairie Dog.

He had taken his time preparing his lunch...going to the trouble to
make an egg salad sandwich from scratch. Anything to kill some time. 
Besides, he didn't think he'd be able to eat eggs safely for very
long....

He spent the afternoon trying to figure out how he would get himself
back to Washington...or to Annapolis.  There were bound to be more
idiots like the Three Assholes out there. But the next ones might be a
little bit smarter.  They could lie in wait...and just blast him
away.

Then, there was the problem of *how* to get there.  A car would
probably be out of the question.  From just looking at the roads
around Greenwich, he knew the interstates and main highways would be
littered with abandoned vehicles.

He would have to find another way.  Because he absolutely could not,
would not fail in his quest.

He'd spend one more day here. Then he would poke his head out of the
sand and do some reconnoitering.


But now, he stood in the dark with a jug of water at his hip, knowing
he would never get back to sleep.  He went back to the den and pulled
out some more Nature videos....he guessed he'd just have to sit and
learn more about bugs.  And who wouldn't want to do that?

He kept the volume low and mindlessly watched the flickering screen.

******
Downtown Greenwich, Connecticut
June 28
1100 hours


Mulder warily walked through the deserted town.  He kept his gun at
the ready. Just in case.  But, he needn't have worried.  There was no
one else.  The Three Assholes had apparently either died from the flu
or moved on to greener and easier pastures.

The electricity had finally gone off this morning at 5:52 a.m.  At
least, that's what the kitchen clock had said.  He had missed the big
moment, snoring away on the Hampton's sofa.  

It had made his decision to venture outside a whole lot easier.

He hadn't seen many dead bodies.  A man in his car...a woman in her
doorway.  Most of the residents had had the decency to lock themselves
up in their homes before they expired.  For that, Mulder was eternally
grateful.

And the constant sea breeze on these streets meant that the smell
wouldn't be too bad. As long as you stayed upwind.

It was eerily silent.  The kind of silent that must have existed
before man walked the earth.  Just the ocean and the rustle of the
wind through the grass and the trees.

He nearly jumped out of his own skin when he heard the door slam.  It
took him a few moments and a bunch of deep breaths before he realized
that it was simply a screen door opening and closing in the sea
breeze.  He walked over to the little house and secured the door
latch.  Problem solved.  Future heart attacks averted.

He continued his walk...heading toward the docks.  If nothing else, he
could go enjoy the view.  Mulder had always been a loner...he had
always liked spending time by himself...but that had been in his
Pre-Scully days.  He had gotten used to talking to someone, to sharing
ideas. He had enjoyed annoying her on a regular basis.  He liked
having someone around who noticed when he was gone.

So, his thoughts were a mix of hope and fear when he heard a man made
noise coming from the harbor.

The unmistakable whirr of a motor.


******

CHAPTER EIGHT

******

"We tell ourselves stories in order to live... We look for the sermon
in the suicide, for the social or moral lesson in the murder of five. 
We interpret what we see, select the most workable of the multiple
choices.  We live entirely, especially if we are writers, by the
imposition of a narrative line upon disparate images, by the 'ideas'
with which we have learned to freeze the shifting phantasmagoria which
is our actual experience." - Joan Didion
The White Album

******

Greenwich, Connecticut
June 28th
1100 hours

Mulder ran toward the puttering noise of the outboard motor. He  found
himself by the docks before it even registered that he was about to
run out of terra firma.

He pulled up short, gathering his brain back into his head, and
quickly ducked behind several large packing crates beside one of the
buildings by the wharf.

Stupid, Mulder!  You don't even know who's out there...you could have
been blasted full of lead before you could utter the words "Hidey-Ho,
Neighbor!"

The noise of the motor raised in pitch as the boat apparently was
drawing nearer to the dock.  Mulder chanced a peek from behind his
cover as the boat came into view.

It was just a small fishing boat...the kind where you and one buddy go
out with a cooler and pretend to fish while you down a few brews on
the lake, all whilst trying to keep the wormy bait out of the Bud. 

Mulder surveyed the boat's occupant, who had now shut down the motor
and was trying to maneuver to the dockside.

One man.  One very old man.  One very old man who, if you put him in a
yellow rain slicker, you would swear you've seen him on a box of
fishsticks in your neighborhood grocer's freezer.  

Mulder blinked his eyes once, twice.  Yup.  He was the Gorton's
Fisherman.  And everyone knew you could "trust the Gorton's
Fisherman." 

But then, the Gorton icon made a huge boating faux pas.  One that
shattered the cherished battered fish fillet image.  The old man stood
up quickly...which wasn't a particularly wise maneuver in a boat that
size.  The boat teetered from side to side....and promptly lurched
aport...sending it's captain into the briny depths o' the sea.

"Gorton" let out an indignant cry as he flopped into the water with
all of the grace of a dead carp.

Mulder was running down the dock in an instant.  He grabbed a long
scoop net and extended the pole out to the floundering swimmer.

"Here," he yelled over the splashes of water.  "Grab hold."

The old man was momentarily stunned to see another breathing human
being, but the stinging salt water soon prompted him to take hold of
the lifeline.

Mulder guided the man over to a ladder at the dockside.  He offered a
hand up as the man creaked up the wooden rungs.

Finally, the old man was standing before him, water dripping off the
end of his large nose.  A nose that was even more pronounced than his
own.

"Thank you, son," he sputtered as he blew the water from his lips.  He
held out his hand to Mulder and Mulder shook it.

"I'm glad I was here..."

"So am I," the old man laughed.  Then his laughter faded as he
assessed the younger man.  Trying to decide if he was a threat or a
friend.  He seemed to decide he had a new ally and his narrowed eyes
opened once again.

"My name's Ezekiel Polk, but my friends call me Zeke...and since I'm
running low on friends these days, I'm guessing you'll have to do."

Mulder smiled.  "Call me Mulder. It's good to meet you, Zeke."

"Likewise, Mulder.  And now, Mulder...if you'll give me a hand reeling
in my boat...you can share in the benefit of my morning activities..."

Mulder's brow raised in curiosity, but he decided to go with the flow
for the moment.  Using several poles on the dock, they hooked the boat
and brought it to the dock.  Mulder climbed down the wooden ladder and
was able to secure the boat to the dock.  

It was then that he discovered what Zeke had meant.  He had two crab
pots...and they had quite a nice collection for the steamer.  He
grabbed the pots and heaved them up, one by one, onto the dock.  Then
he climbed back up the ladder.

"Now, Mulder.  Let's say we take these babies over to the restaurant
over there and cook us up some lunch...then we can get properly
acquainted."

Mulder nodded.  His stomach was already growling.  

They each grabbed a pot and headed toward the restaurant.

******

The Rusty Scupper 
1300 Hours


"So...you were really an FBI agent?  No shit?" Zeke managed between
the cracks of his mallet on the steamed crab in front of him.  They
had used the restaurants grill to fire up the steamer.  Zeke was
seriously getting into the crab eating business.  Bits of shell and
melted butter decorated the lobster bib he had tied around his neck. 
Mulder's looked about the same.

"No shit.  I lived in D.C., but I was up in Greenwich to see my
mo...." Mulder stopped.

Zeke put his mallet down and reached one weathered hand across the
table to lay it on Mulder's arm.  "That's okay, son.  Tonight, we can
reminisce and remember.  But only tonight.  After that, you have to
move forward.  Think about where you're going.  What you're going to
do.  We'll go insane if we don't.  There must be other survivors of
this...whatever it was."

Mulder looked up.  It was such a relief to have someone to talk to
about all of this.  He had been scared to hope...but now, he had an
ally.  Zeke could tell him if he was crazy for believing that Scully
was alive...and if his absolute need to find out for sure was insane.

"There *is* somewhere I need to go, Zeke.  As soon as I can..."

Zeke stared at the young man's eyes...studied his body language.  He
wasn't hard to read.

"Who is she, Mulder?"

Mulder did a double take.  How did Zeke know?  "Why do you ask that?"

"What?  You think I was born yesterday?  Mulder.  I know the look. 
You've been separated from someone you love.  Plus, you aren't wearing
a wedding ring...and if you were married, your wife would have
probably been with you to visit your mother..."

Mulder smiled and looked down into his beer mug.  "You shoulda been
the FBI agent, Zeke."

"I'm sure.  Now.  Who *is* she, Mulder."

"Her name is Dana Scully."

******

One hour later, Zeke and Mulder were hunched over a bunch of nautical
charts.

"This is quite doable, my friend," Zeke pronounced, gently slapping
Mulder on the back.  "With the friendly little yacht I procured
yesterday, we can definitely make our way to Annapolis.  And it will
certainly be a safer and clearer journey than if you try to go over
land.  I'm sure all the highways are clogged with abandoned cars...not
to mention a few crazy people running around with guns.  
"Yup.  We can do this and be there in just a few days."

"I'm game if you are, Zeke..."

"We can gather supplies today and get fueled up...and leave first
thing tomorrow morning, if that's okay with you."

"The sooner the better," Mulder remarked.  Now that he had a viable
plan, he was very anxious to get moving.  But he knew that he still
had one or two things he had to do in Greenwich first.  His duties as
a son.

He would take care of that business as soon as they were done with the
supplies.

"Why don't you show me that boat you've been talking about, Zeke?"

Zeke let loose a giant smile.  "Yes!  You won't believe this baby!"

The men stood and began to clear their table...then burst out
laughing.  One small pleasure they now had...they certainly did not
need to do the dishes!  They dropped their plates on their tables and
walked outside into the sunshine.

*****

The Docks
Slip #59
1430 Hours

"Here she is!  My beauty!" Zeke exclaimed proudly.

Mulder let out a low whistle.  Zeke had not been kidding.  He had
known that there were plenty of old-monied folk in the area....but
this yacht was gorgeous.  Must have cost at least a million and a
half.  He read the name on her, "The Siren Of The Sea."  Yup. 
Fitting.

"It's a sixty-five foot Pacific Mariner Luxury Motoryacht.  It's got a
cruising speed of twenty-two knots...but she'll go up to
twenty-seven," Zeke rambled along as he walked alongside the boat,
pointing out the finer details.  It's got four staterooms...a luxury
galley...a fully-stocked wet bar...a nifty entertainment center...two
showers and a tub...teak cabinets and trim... "Yessiree.  She's
everything I ever dreamed of and more."

Mulder looked up at Zeke.  The old man was posed, his chest puffed
out.  All he needed was a pipe and a captain's hat.

"This is great, Zeke...but, um, do you know how to drive her?"

Zeke looked aghast.  "Don't be silly my boy!  Don't let that
unfortunate incident at the pier fool you...just because a
seventy-five year old man's legs don't act like they used to.  I grew
up on the water...down in Norfolk.  I assure you this is one lady I
can steer."

"Then...Permission to go aboard, Captain, Sir?" Mulder offered a mock
salute.

"Permission granted," Zeke saluted back.

The two men boarded and set to work, making a list of what they would
need for their voyage.

*****

The Siren Of The Sea
1800 Hours

The men had made quick work of their supply mission.  Then Mulder had
left Zeke to finish the refueling.  When he returned, they would
finish stowing all of the supplies.

Now, Zeke sat in the pilothouse, looking at the small harbor.  While
Mulder had not said much about where he was going, Zeke knew all too
well that the young man had gone to tend to his "family business."  He
sighed.

It had been a long time since Zeke had any family to be concerned
about.  His wife, Marie, had died twenty years ago and they had never
had any children.  They were always too busy traveling. Too busy with
their jobs.  There had been times he had regretted the oversight. 
But, now, seeing how things had ended up, he wasn't sorry at all.

He decided to let Mulder keep his secrets.  If the former FBI agent
wanted to share, he would. In his own time.

Besides.  Zeke had his own secrets to withhold.  He hadn't told Mulder
exactly why *he* had been at the shore when the epidemic hit.  For
Zeke had lived in Clinton, New York...a little town outside of Utica.

Two months ago, Zeke's doctor had given him the bad news.  He had
pancreatic cancer.  He had, at most, six months to live.  There was
nothing they could do for him except to prolong his life by a few
weeks courtesy of a bunch of nasty sounding treatments.  Zeke had
declined.  Hell.  He was seventy-five.  He had no reason to fight
nature.  No family to be upset.

Instead, he had sold off most of his belongings and headed for the
coast.  He had been determined to purchase a small sailboat or yacht
and spend the rest of his time at sea...going wherever the wind or his
moods happened to blow.

When the epidemic had hit and he had not even had so much as a
sniffle. He had to laugh at the irony.

But then, Mulder had come into his life today.  And, for now at least,
he had some purpose to living and breathing.  He had to help this man
find his loved one.  Maybe he'd call it his last stab at achieving
some good karma.  Whatever.

He stood up and walked over to the pilothouse's mini-galley and opened
up the fridge.  These rich folk sure knew how to live.  Zeke pulled
out a beer and sat down in the pilot's chair.  He popped the can open
and took a long, cool swig.

And he waited for Mulder to return so he could finish his life's
mission.

******

Residence Of Mrs. Mulder
1815 Hours


Mulder walked through the house one last time.  He did not want to
forget anything.  He had closed all the closet doors...made sure all
of the windows were tightly shut.  And he had cleaned up his mother's
room.  Made sure the bed was neatly made.  She would have liked it
that way.

He had pulled out the old family albums from the hallway closet and
removed two photos, carefully sliding them into a five by seven
envelope he had taken from a desk drawer.  Then he had packed the
albums away with care.

He checked the kitchen to ensure that all was clean and in its proper
place.

He checked the basement to make sure all of the laundry was out of the
washer and dryer...that the lint trap was clean.

Then he went back up to his old room.  Everything was as it should be.
 He sat on the bed and stared at the walls, ingraining them in his
memory...hearing the voices of the past.   Some of them happy...some
angry...some sad.  His hand smoothed a wrinkle from the bedspread.

He stood and walked to the door.  With one last look at his past, he
quietly closed the door and walked down the stairs...through the
hallway...and out the back door, making sure it was locked.

He crossed the backyard to the small rise that afforded a distant view
of the waters to the east.  

He sat down beside the newly turned earth.  Where he had buried his
mother.

His conversation with her was silent.

Then he picked up his envelope and stood...brushed the grass from his
pants...and walked away.

And he never looked back.

******

The Siren Of The Sea
1930 Hours


The sun was just beginning its slow fall to the west when Zeke heard
the welcome voice.

"Permission to come aboard?"

Zeke opened a window and stuck his head outside to see Mulder standing
on the pier below.

"Aye-aye, me matey..."  His pirate's voice needed considerable work,
but the smirk it evoked from Mulder made the embarrassment worth it.

Zeke noticed the envelope was carrying, but he didn't ask about it. 
Instead, he grabbed two more beers from the fridge and went down to
meet his companion.

He held out one beer to Mulder, who gratefully took it.

"You go grab some ice from the galley...put in in the bucket from the
sink...and dunk one of those six packs into it.  Then, meet me up
top," Zeke instructed.

Mulder was happy to do as he was told.  He was on automatic pilot for
the evening.  For once, it was his pleasure to follow someone else's
orders.  That way, he didn't have to think.

***

Two hours later, the two men had a pretty good buzz going.  They had
talked about everything and nothing.

Zeke had told him about his "former" profession.

"I was a 'consultant.'  Basically, that's what you do when you studied
international economics in college.  You produce nothing.  You
contribute little to society.  You get paid to sit around and
think...then write papers and give talks with polysyllabic words that
no one knows the real definitions of...and you wear a lot of coats and
ties...and go to a lot of hoity toity cocktail parties.  Occasionally,
you get hired for spots on CNN talk shows."

Zeke had been much more interested in hearing about Mulder's work at
the Bureau, although he was a bit skeptical about some of the cases
Mulder described.  But he loved the tale about the cockroaches in
Miller's Grove.

And it all made him even more curious about this Dana Scully woman. 
Finally, the second six-pack of Coors gave him the courage to ask.

"So, Mulder, my boy.  You've told me of your exploits and adventures
with your partner.  But, now I want to *know* about this Dana...what
is she like?  Is she pretty or what?"  Zeke grinned.  

Mulder's tongue had been loosened and was about to spill the beans. 
But first, he took another sip of beer.

"Or *what*," he replied.

Zeke's eyes widened. "And...?"

"We've been partners for seven years now..."

"And how long have you been *together,*?" Zeke interjected.

Mulder began to shake his head.  "No...it's never been like that...not
that I haven't *thought* about it...often...but the time was never
right..."  Mulder's face darkened.  Maybe he would never have the
chance to...

Zeke quickly interceded.  "Mulder!  We're gonna find her...and I wanna
know what to expect!"

"Expect the unexpected, then," Mulder grinned.  "She's a pistol. 
There's no one like her.  She's short...but don't tell her I said
that...like five foot two...and she's got the most amazing hair...the
way it just kinda curls around her face...framing it.

"And did I mention that she's brilliant?"

Zeke nodded his head.  Mulder had covered this part many times, but
Mulder was oblivious.

"Yup.  She is.  She's a doctor.  A pathologist.  She's the one who
could figure out what happened to everybody this week... she'd do that
in a heartbeat..." he voice faded...but he found some strength to
continue.

He smiled.  "She'll never admit it, but she's the one who always takes
in strays...dogs...me... And her father was a captain in the Navy.  I
doubt that he was the one who taught her, but she knows some really
bawdy drinking songs.  I found out once when we were stranded in,
believe it or not, Antarctica."

Zeke grinned and shook his head.  Mulder sure had some stories.

"She said it would keep us warm...she taught me a bunch.  Guess it
worked.  We ended up okay. A little frosty...but in one piece."

"She sounds really special, Mulder."

"She's my best friend," he replied.

Mulder reached over to the bucket and grabbed another beer.

"Which is why I'm so sorry I never told her how I felt...what I
felt..." 

Zeke leaned back in his chair, his jaw dropping. 

"My God, man!  With all those degrees, can you really be this stupid? 
You think *words* are what counts?"  Zeke shook his head in
disbelief.

"I was married to my Marie for over thirty years.  And you know what? 
In that time...I think I can count the number of times we uttered "I
love yous" on my hands and toes.  You can *say* the words to
anyone...words don't mean a single thing.  What counts is what's in
here..." he tapped his hand over Mulder's heart.

"So...you're not vocal kind of people.  So what?  Do you think that
Marie and I loved each other any less simply because we didn't feel
the need to announce it on a regular basis?" He shook his head. 
"Marie was my other half.  If there's such a thing as 'soul mates' we
were it.  My life ceased to be real when she was gone...  

"And good grief.  From all that you've told me...the things she did
for you...the times she followed you when anyone with an ounce of
sense would have stayed behind...and the things you did for
her...What?  You think *normal* people do that?  You *don't* get out
much...do you?

"Mulder.  Let me ask you this question."  Mulder looked up and met
Zeke's gaze.

"Think about all you've told me...when you add up all the facts, end
to end...Does Dana love you?"

Mulder was silent for a moment.  It seemed almost presumptuous to
answer. After all, they were Scully's feelings...But, he needed to
tell Zeke the truth.

"Yes," his voice cracked.  "Yes, she does...she did..."

Zeke stopped him.  "And, my dear boy...if *you* know that, don't you
think that Dana, being that wise and brilliant woman, would know that
you loved her, too?" 

When he thought about it the way Zeke laid it out...Mulder had to
agree.  Yup.  He'd been an absolute ass of an idiot.

"Then *why,* my boy, do you insist on beating yourself up about
something you haven't told her yet?"

Mulder raised his head sadly.

"Because I might not find her...because she might be..."

"Mulder.  I want you to listen to me.  I don't know how I know this or
why I know this.  I just do.  Dana Scully is *not* dead.  You *will*
find her.  I'm gonna make sure you do.  I think it's my job."

Mulder just stared at the old man.  He wanted to believe.  Really
wanted to.  And when he looked into Zeke's eyes, it was hard to
resist.  He seemed so damned sincere.

Zeke watched his new friend.  He had no fucking idea *why* he had just
said that.  But something in his head and in his gut told him that it
*was* true.  He just couldn't put his finger on who told him.  

Was it just a dream?

He slapped Mulder on the back.  "Look, my friend...my slightly drunk
friend.  Go down and go to bed.  I'll clean this up.  We need to shove
off early in the morning..."

Mulder stood and began to carefully climb down the ladder to the lower
deck.  He stopped and looked up.

"Thanks, Zeke...for everything."

"That's what I'm here for, Mulder.  That's what I'm here for."

And Zeke was absolutely right.