Category: TRA - Conspiracy, Romance, Angst Rating: R for violence, language and adult themes Pairings: Mulder/Scully, Pendrell/Other Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. Chris Carter does. Archive: Yes to Gossamer, The TeXas Files and The Chronicles of LabBoy. Anyone else, please e-mail me first. Time Frame: Spoilers for every episode up to Terma. The rest of the fourth and fifth seasons are ignored. Summary: In an alternative future, three fates collide, in the form of a troubled marriage, a grieving agent and a mysterious vial containing Death itself. The Downfall, The Apocalypse and The Redemption are at hand for Mulder, Scully and Brian Pendrell, as the forces of Darkness and Light make their final stand. THE REVELATION by CiCi Lean 12/96 - 2/98 canny409@aol.com Chapter One: War Chapter Two: Famine Chapter Three: Plague Chapter Four: Temptation Chapter Five: Death Chapter Six: Salvation Epilogue: The Fall of The Seven Note: These chapters will be posted every few days, serial style. WARNINGS: Religious and political themes abound. If you are easily offended by alternative views on the nature of God and man's machinations in His name, don't read. Also, if you are a reader who must have a mindlessly happy MSR universe, then this again isn't the fanfic for you, because there is severe -adult- emotional and physical angst ahead for all the players, that may or may not end happily, depending on your point of view. THANKS, CREDITS & AUTHOR'S NOTES: Will follow at the end of the piece. Thank you for reading. If you've enjoyed it, please let me know. canny409@aol.com **** THE REVELATION by CiCi Lean canny409@aol.com Chapter One: War (see Introduction for Ratings & Disclaimers) ****************** "Characters of the great Apocalypse The types and symbols of Eternity Of first, and last, and midst, and without end." - William Wordsworth "Sir, the pretending to extraordinary revelations and gifts of the Holy Ghost is a horrid thing. A very horrid thing...." - Joseph Butler ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Chapter One: War FBI Headquarters, Central Plaza 6:00 a.m., 12/13/98 "I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the ending, saith the Lord." The man licked lips that were dry and sharply cracked like a dead river. He bit into the bottom lip, scraping flakes of skin onto his tongue and suddenly tasted the sugar and salt of blood. He sucked on it, regretted toying with it, and looked at his watch for the tenth time that hour. The woman standing next to him continued to recite from a huge, drooping Bible, in a loud, droning buzz without emotion, her crescendos and inflections a product of rote. A passionate recitation of words, coupled with a proud and willful lack of comprehension. "Behold, I stand at the door and knock." The man knew he should be listening carefully, but the others were late. The Lord helps them who help themselves, but this would take more than the Living Word and an empty pack of cigarettes that he shook a vain attempt to extract one more smoke. A hell of a lot more. Goddamn it. "And I looked, and behold a pale horse and his name that sat on him was Death." Finally, a familiar white rental truck turned the corner leading up to the central plaza. The man bit into his lip again and nudged the woman beside him, silencing her for just a moment. Then, with a tight and triumphant grin, she began to read from her Bible once more, loudly emphasizing each word, dragging out the syllables into snorting drawls and squeaks, until it all became mere sound and fury... Signifying nothing. "The Devil is come down unto you, having great wrath, because he knoweth that he hath but a short time." The man nervously adjusted his baseball cap and walked up to greet his fellows in the truck's cab. The sun was just beginning its ascent, the gray and cold light heralding another winter morning, perhaps with snow or just more wet Washington, D.C. frost, the kind that chills right through, past the bones, straight to the soul. With surprising speed, the two men in the truck opened its doors and ran, sprinting past the man and the reading woman, their feet flailing down the street and sidewalk, disappearing around a corner. Without warning, the truck exploded. The man on the sidewalk didn't feel the blast that emanated from the truck, just the curious sensation of flying through warm air, only to be deposited back at the beginning, where his body met the wall and turned into shadow, vaporizing instantly. He could look down upon himself, but so little was left, he recognized nothing. The black ash turned into a bright light. And in that light stood a house with darkened windows and shaking pillars. He had no choice but to enter, for the path descended easily and the gate was the only one open. Once he entered the door, he found the inside hall dark, but not dark enough to erase the outlines of a strange grandeur and vast emptiness. He began to recite the Lord's Prayer, but it echoed through the house and mocked him as he walked. And there he would walk for the rest of eternity. Alone, in a black and endless hall, not quite sure where he was or where he was headed and he would forever hope to find the one statement of God that would deliver him. But if he'd paid attention, he would have discovered it long ago and perhaps avoided his fate. //The Devil can cite Scripture for his own purpose.// A shame no one ever told him that. **************** Chapter One: War Part Two THE PREVIOUS EVENING 11:00 p.m. Dana Scully scraped the last of a full dinner from the cold plate that had stood on the table for the past three hours waiting for consumption. Her motions were short and angry, a fork scratching against stoneware, food falling into the garbage, whole and wasted. For the third night in a row. She'd always thought that this was a temporary condition. But two years is long enough to change the most skeptical of minds. It was getting ridiculously obvious and pathetically sad. Her husband did not love her. How strange. So many coy and distant actions followed by such carefully worded phrases of passion. And that first night of cries and heat, where nothing was missed, no touch or look passed without distinct meaning was to be burned into a memory that was to hold one over throughout it all. For better...or worse. She never thought how much worse it could get. Like this evening. But this evening was turning into last night and the night before that. He wasn't to be found. Oh, she didn't think he'd found a lover, a woman without complications or the ghosts of times, perhaps lives, past. No, it was much worse than that. He merely couldn't stand being at home alone with her. His territory had been marked, even when they'd finally decided on a new home. The couch was his to fall asleep on, the bed was where she would wait for him. The television remote was his, the oven, hers. Their books were separated shelf by shelf, the phone bill was still addressed to him. She'd never gotten around to changing her name. At first one could convince themselves of sheer laziness, but too much time has passed for such excuses. We have made the perfect mistake. We mistook passion for compatibility and our natural compatibility for love. And now what are we supposed to say? Sorry? Why, somehow that doesn't seem right. We stood before them all, remember? The rabbi, who put the glass beneath your feet along with the priest, who showered us with water, incense and prayer. We stood before our mothers, mine who wept with joy and yours, who refused to speak, but sat with her back straight and her eyes darting from side to side. She waited in line to kiss me when we received her at the ceremony's end, but her lips didn't touch my cheek. As your lips refuse to touch me anymore. Scully put the dishes into the sink and walked to the window. The world outside was blacker and colder than it ever appeared before. A small and petty part of her felt glad. He would suffer tonight, sitting in their old car not daring to waste the engine on heat, aimlessly watching the sky for lights and omens that would never appear. Good. Be miserable. Be alone. She'd held the envelope hidden in her coat pocket for thirteen days now. The thick document had been threatening to burst out of its holdings and unfold at an unseemly time, perhaps at dinner or during a rare moment of intimacy. But it had restrained itself and Scully was glad. She could unfurl it without the fanfare or dramatics and not have to listen to the accusations that were sure to follow. She took it out and read it over one last time. *Petition for Legal Separation.* *Dr. Dana Katherine Scully versus Fox William Mulder.* All in order. She pulled the suitcase that had been packed nearly a month before out from under the bed and called Ellen. She heard the disappointed tears in her friend's voice even as her words beseeched Scully to take temporary refuge, no, to stay always with her and her family. We have so much room. You are no bother. Please stay. I'll be up, just come over. We'll talk when you get here. Of course. Scully hung up the phone and put on her winter coat. She dug into the cluttered junk drawer for a pen, and finding one, scratched it against a corner of the petition. A small scribble of black ink appeared and she flipped to the last page of the document. Underneath her hand, in the illegible and scratchy penmanship of a physician, flowed her name onto the dotted line next to the date. Signed: Dr. Dana K. Scully, December 13, 1998. She left it on the table, forgetting to turn the light off as she walked out the door. ***************** Chapter One: War Part Three Arlington, VA 3:30 a.m., 12/13/98 "O'Neill." Agent Kathleen O'Neill's voice was still warm and thick with sleep when she flipped open the shrill and insistent cell phone that lay on her nightstand. See, get an answering machine for the house phone and they still get you, she thought hazily, not bothering to sit up, but instead sandwiching the phone between her ear and the pillow. She heard a familiar voice, much more awake than he should sound at 3:30 a.m.. "Agent O'Neill, it's Fox Mulder. I'm sorry to wake you, but I need your help." Before she could answer, she heard her husband awaken and click on the nightstand lamp. "Who's that?" whispered Brian Pendrell irritably. "Hold on a second, Agent Mulder," she said, propping herself up on one elbow. She hit the mute button. "Sshhh. It's Agent Dracula. I think he's looking for a bride, " she said, putting a finger to her lips, motioning for quiet. Pendrell grimaced with annoyance. "He has his own partner. Why does he need you again? And what time is it anyway?" "It's half-past ungodly. Now, shhh," she said, releasing the mute button. "Sorry, Agent Mulder. Mice." "Tell Pendrell I'm sorry, but I'm afraid this can't wait," he said. "Not even until the sun rises?" asked O'Neill incredulously. "I'm sorry." Pendrell sat straight up and started to shake his head furiously. "You realize that this is totally unreasonable, of course," said O'Neill, now sitting up, fighting to balance the phone with one hand and placate her husband with short waves of the other. "Of course." O'Neill let out a long sigh. Pendrell threw himself back against the pillows with a groan, still shaking his head. "Well, as long as you realize that. I guess," said O'Neill yanking her robe toward her off of a nearby hook. "I'll be there in 45 minutes." "Sooner if possible," replied Mulder shortly, as he hung up. O'Neill harumphed. Sooner if possible. What a...oh, forget it. She closed the phone, tossed it onto the bed and gingerly opened the comforter as she swung her feet to the cold floor. Ooooh...the freezing floor. With a squeak, she pulled them back up and started to rummage under the blankets for a pair of socks that one of them must have tossed off during the night. Pendrell sat up again as his wife started feeling under and around him for something to put on her feet. "I don't like this. It's the third time this month he's called you in for some forensic work that I'm sure could have waited until dawn, at least. This is getting ridiculous. Why doesn't he yank *his* wife out of bed at three a.m.?" said Pendrell, sliding over as O'Neill tossed his pillows aside in her search. "Maybe she'd throw him out of Chateau Spooky if he tried," said O'Neill, swearing inwardly that she would not get out of bed without those socks. She burrowed underneath the comforter and continued to feel around. Pendrell said nothing, but huffed angrily in reply. "Look, Brian, I honestly think they're having some problems. I can't figure out why he's using me instead of Agent Scully, but I'm sure there's a reason. And since he's the senior agent, I'm not really in a position to refuse. Besides, you should see some of the wacky stuff he digs up," said O'Neill, her muffled voice coming out from somewhere at the foot of the bed. "Where else could I do a biopsy of a Mexican, goat-killing, blood sucking bird?" Pendrell shook his head. "I've seen plenty of his wacky stuff. I just don't like you running around at his beck and call. And I'm surprised you go along with it." "Why? You used to do the same for Agent Scully," replied O'Neill poking him with a smile. She suddenly squealed in triumph and held up a pair of mismatched socks, one red, one white. "I didn't hear you complain then." Pendrell felt his cheeks burn. "That was different," he said, chastened. "Sure. You were trying to get some nooky. I'm just doing my job," said O'Neill with another smile and a raised eyebrow. "Unless you think I should try and get some nooky while I'm at it." Pendrell raised his eyebrows back at her. He slid down, pulled her toward him and buried his face in the soft spot between her earlobe and shoulder. He gratefully felt a small, warm laugh against his ear, so gentle it could have been a kiss and inhaled deeply, smelling lavender and fresh rain. "I'll give you some nooky," he said, trailing a kiss along her throat. O'Neill laughed again and picked up the clock to check it. "All right, but we can't keep Captain Spooky waiting too long. He has to be back in his coffin at the crack of dawn, you know." Pendrell took the clock and tossed it across the room. ***************** Chapter One: War Part Four FBI Headquarters 5:30 a.m., 12/13/98 Blue. Such a soothing shade of blue. Fox Mulder impatiently tapped the test tube in his hand lightly against his palm and watched the slight swirl of color run along the thin glass from top to bottom and back again. It reflected off of his glasses, creating a murky silhouette across them. His basement office was freezing this morning, not that that was anything unusual. It was freezing last night. And the night before that. He removed his glasses and tried to rub the blurriness from his vision with cold hands. Are you happy, he almost asked out loud to no one in particular. Because that's all I ever wanted. Your happiness. *Are you happy?* Mulder felt the heavy weight of a legal brief in his suit coat pocket. It swung when he walked, weighing him down, hitting him in the heart. It pressed against him when he sat, making sure he was conscious and wide awake, simply for the acknowledgment of its presence. *Are you happy?* Guess not. And I guess I don't blame you. We've gone into this together, haven't we, Scully? Headfirst into our last and greatest mystery, the legal joining of our two lives as one. But, typical as of any of our cases, this hasn't turned out as we expected, even though we thought we were ready for anything. Mulder tapped on the test tube once more, silently watching the azure liquid flow. It's not for lack of love, that is certain. Because love...oh, love is there, and in such abundance that anyone would be surprised to see us, a grown man and woman, freezing, sorrowful and separated, in both body and heart for no apparent reasons besides the small and the stubborn. Or is it more than that? //I thought that love would be enough.// But that is the core of the mystery, the mystery of our own case, isn't it Scully? For it was sprung on us, our own human foibles and everyday weakness, outweighing the great love that lives between us. How strange it is that at any moment, I am ready to die for you, but often, I can do so little else. The tiny things you need, the small gestures of every moment, of every day, the ones that are imperative for your happiness...I don't understand them, I don't know how to provide them and now, my partner...my wife, you no longer wish to wait. And I guess I can't blame you. //I thought that love would be enough.// Mulder was shaken out of his reverie by the sound of an opening door and a tiptoeing agent. He whirled around. "Oh. Sorry I'm late Agent Mulder," said Agent O'Neill, caught in mid-sneak. "I, uh, couldn't find my socks." "That's all right, O'Neill. So, is Pendrell mad at me?" asked Mulder dryly. "Well,...oh, no. No, no he's not. We, er, discussed it. Don't worry about him, he's fine," replied O'Neill, blushing. She put down her briefcase and shrugged on her lab coat. "So, what do you have this morning?" "Beats me," replied Mulder, as he handed her the test tube. "Can you find out?" O'Neill examined the tube closely for a moment, put it down and pulled on her gloves. "I can try," she said as she left the room and retreated to the lab. Mulder watched her for a minute as she jogged up the stairs and disappeared at the top. Not bad Pendrell, he thought. You did all right for yourself. She's smart, pretty, good-humored... And I'll bet she never handed you one of these. Fox Mulder pulled the separation papers out of the pocket where they'd been hanging so heavily and tossed them onto his desk. He rifled through them slowly, coming to the last page, where he saw familiar handwriting and a large *X* next to the line where he was to complete the document. Sudden and biting anger rose up as he reached for a pen. Sign here? Fine. But remember, this was your idea. He looked at them for a long time before picking up his pen. He was interrupted by his phone. He threw down the pen, and irritably picked up the receiver, only to hear O'Neill's voice on the other end. "Agent Mulder, I think you should come up here." **************** Chapter One: War Part Five FBI Headquarters 5:45 A.M., 12/13/98 "It's Yersinia Pestis" Mulder blinked as he looked at the mass of cells projected onto the small lab screen from O'Neill's hastily prepared slide. "And that is?" he asked, wishing that people would stop playing Mr. Wizard with him for once. "Bubonic plague," replied O'Neill. Mulder stepped back involuntarily as if the screen could bite him. "It's OK, Agent Mulder. It's not the same ol' Black Death it used to be," said O'Neill, suppressing a laugh. "Besides these cells are cold. Dead." "Sorry. It just has a bad ring to it," said Mulder. "Sure. Before antibiotics this was the classic slate-wiper. Killed half the people on earth. But now, it's just another nasty case of the flu. And I wouldn't have worried much about this sample, except..." said O'Neill, looking a bit troubled. "Except?" asked Mulder, deciding to back up a little more. "Well, it appears slightly mutated. Not much, but enough to make me wonder," said O'Neill hitting the projector button. "It has the classic shape of Yersinia throughout most of the cells, but look at the spikes on some of them. They still have the body of the bacteria, but with a couple of added attractions at no extra cost." O'Neill hesitated. "I'd sure like to know where you found this sample," she said carefully. "It might help me in positively identifying it." Mulder looked at her inquisitive face and thought. Trust, Mulder. You'll have to trust at some point in your life. Besides, who else do you have right now, he thought bitterly. "It was recovered during a covert militia raid in Texas," said Mulder with a sigh. "Seems that some gun-toting, good ol' boys have been planning on playing Dr. Mengele with various acquisitions from other, shall we say...unfriendly countries." "Unfriendly countries?" asked O'Neill. Mulder pulled out a label with Arabic handwriting. "With love, from Iraq. Since they've been known to play with biological weaponry, I suppose this all makes sense. I just thought it was a little too obvious." O'Neill turned pale. "But...but...Agent Mulder. This sample couldn't have come from Iraq." Mulder turned to face her. He saw wonder and fear in her eyes. "I mean, well, this will sound very silly," she stuttered. "Go on." The clock read 5:56. "The cap on the tube." "The cap?" "Well, yes. When I interned at the Centers For Disease Control one of my jobs was to order the test tubes and caps. The best and most reliable caps are these multicolored plastic ones with the locking ridges," said O'Neill pointing to the bright red and white cap atop the test tube. "And?" The clock read 5:57. "It's just one of those stupid things, but during this internship I found that only one company in the world makes these caps and they don't ship overseas. I thought it was strange at the time, but I found out it was true. And this company isn't in Iraq," said O'Neill, holding up the tube. The bright lab lights shown through it and created a cross-shaped splash of reflected blue light upon her forehead. The clock read 5:59. "Where is it?" asked Mulder, as the second hand began to revolve around the dial. O'Neill bit her lip again and inhaled deeply. "Holyroad, Kansas," she said, as time moved mercilessly on. Fox Mulder would have replied. But the clock read 6:00 A.M. And that was when the world around them came to an end. ****************** continued in: THE REVELATION Chapter Two: Famine All comments are welcome. Please send to Canny409@aol.com **** THE REVELATION CHAPTER TWO: Famine by CiCi Lean, 1998 xapen@aol.com canny409@aol.com ****************** "And I saw as it were a sea of glass mingled with fire." - Revelations, 15:2 "Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell." - Emily Dickinson ******************* Chapter Two: Famine Part One SIX BLOCKS FROM F.B.I. HEADQUARTERS 6:25 A.M., 12/13/98 "The Lord's Will be done." The man intoned deeply with his head bowed and his hat held against his heart as if in salute. His face, studded with pimples and marks, took on a mocking solemnity as he shook his head sadly, biting his lip in restraint. He finally looked up at his companion with a black grin, and his shoulders started to shake with laughter. "With a truck fulla cowshit and two six packs of nitro!" he roared. His guffaws became huge and hoarse, disintegrating into coughs and wheezing tears. "Oh, my God. Do you think we could call this stuff 'holy shit'?" He burst out again at his own joke, nearly choking on it. The man next to him said nothing, but returned his own sleek grin, with perfect teeth and clear, hard eyes which appeared to be laughing at their own, more private joke. His smile grew even brighter as the cry of sirens began to fill the streets and the faintest smells of sulfur and smoke trickled past. The smells and the sounds grew stronger, now coupled with the faraway cries of human voices. The marked man looked around. "Hey. Hear that?" he said, somewhat abashed. "Well, they finally caught on. Gave 'em a real wake up call, huh?" His companion just smiled. The marked man's grin had faded somewhat. "It was louder than I thought it would be. You know, BAM! Lasted a lot longer too," he said thoughtfully, as he grabbed a cigarette and lit it. "Hell." His companion still said nothing, but kept his eyes on the street. The marked man shuffled his feet nervously and took another deep drag. His features became uneasy. "Hey. You don't think there was anybody in there, right?" he asked with a nervous lick of his lip. "I mean, 6:00 a.m., who the fuck comes to work at six a.m.? Right?" The other man didn't reply. The marked man's breathing grew heavier, his eyes unsure. "I mean, chances are they're just...just...there's a good chance there ain't nobody dead in there, right? Awww, shit, who cares? Kill 'em all. Right? But...I bet we didn't kill nobody. Right?" The marked man ran a shaking hand through his hair and looked hopefully at his companion. "I mean, I don't think we killed anybody. Do you?" "I'm sure we did," came the smooth reply. "Oh," said the marked man with a sharp intake of breath. "Oh." "Is something wrong?" his companion asked quietly. "Hey, nothing. That's what we were supposed to do, right?" said the marked man, blinking rapidly and biting his lips. "It's just...I mean... well, hell. I've never killed anyone before. Not that I haven't thought about it, I... I just never did nothing about it before. What's done is done. And they probably deserved it. I mean, man. God...hell, that was a big explosion. Hell, it probably killed a couple of people." "A couple dozen people," his companion corrected him. The marked kept blinking, his eyes growing wet and red. "Oh, hell. Oh, hell. I didn't think...I didn't mean." The marked man closed his eyes and began to weep quietly. He couldn't see his companion staring at him in the way a predator views a weak and sickly piece of prey. "I mean, I guess that would make them dead. Guess they're not going to be doing too much after that. Not anymore," said the marked man, with small choking noises. "No, not anymore. Never again." "Nope. Never again." The marked man began to sob, with a fist against his mouth, trying to muffle the sound. "What's done is done," answered his companion, smiling. "God, it's a hell of a thing. Killing someone that is," said the marked man sobbing loudly. "A hell of a thing." "Yes. It *is* a hell of a thing," agreed his companion, as he pulled out a revolver and shot the marked man between the eyes. The marked man's eyes opened wide as the bullet entered his skull. A spray of red droplets and white bone splashed the wall behind him leaving an eccentric, dripping pattern. He took one jerking step forward as the light of life left his eyes and his body collapsed at the other man's feet. The marked man's companion smiled until he looked down and saw the bitter and bright crimson drops splayed across his leather jacket and jeans. With an annoyed gesture, he removed his jacket and wiped it with his hand. His only hand. //Oh, well. What's done is done.// And Alex Krycek smiled once more, like an intoxicated man. Drunk on the blood of saints. ************ Chapter Two: Famine Part Two LE MISSION, MARYLAND 6:25 A.M., 12/13/98 Dana Scully stretched out upon the long tan couch, holding her aching arms and shoulders above her. There's no rest for the weary, she thought. //What am I doing here?// She'd believed that leaving her...*their*...apartment would bring relief, but all she felt was a sense of displacement, the feeling of belonging nowhere and everywhere all at once. The exhilaration of freedom coupled with the absolute terror of loneliness. She hadn't been truly alone in a long time. Oh, you can be physically alone when you are married, it's true, but you are never actually alone. Your spouse surrounds you, waking and sleeping, sometimes suffocating, sometimes warmer and safer than the thickest of down quilts. But now the empress has no clothes. Her eyes began to burn, but no tears fell. She thanked God for Ellen, her friend who gave her shelter of every kind and had saved her mother from the terrible pain of receiving her abandoned and abandoning daughter in the middle of the night. She still feared her mother's trembling lips and eyelids when she would be forced to break the news to her. Oh, fury. It's all *his* fault she thought. I believed in him. I believed in us. //I thought it would work.// Scully found the remote on the coffee table and lazily switched the television on, taking care to keep the volume low so she could be sure not to wake any of the household. Channels flickered in front of her, mostly news and religious shows featuring loud preachers, from whom the touch of their hand was enough to cause unconsciousness in the name of Jesus Christ. Scully started to switch the channels with her eyes closed. "We have to accept the anointing of the Lord!" "We have this Special Report just in." "For He is the only One who can lead us to Glory." "The explosion has been heard as far away as Arlington." "You have to accept the grace of Jesus before you can see the light of Salvation!" "The FBI Headquarters is known as The Puzzle..." "In the name of God and His Son Jesus Christ I heal you!" "It is not known yet what has caused the devastating blast at the FBI Central Headquarters in Washington this morning, but we will be talking with eyewitnesses very soon." Dana Scully opened her eyes. ************** Chapter Two: Famine Part Three ARLINGTON, VA 6:25 A.M., 12/13/98 Brian Pendrell turned over for the third time, sleepily patted the other side of his bed and for the third time was startled to find it empty. Work, she's at work, he thought hazily. Strange. Figured an a few hours without a blanket-stealing, bed-hogging wife would be relaxing, he thought with a smile. He found he could barely sleep at all. The clock struck six-thirty and its huge alarm went off from across the room where he had tossed it earlier. Great. Well, might as well get up, head into work and meet up with Kathy. He wondered what bizarre evidence had forced Mulder to drag her into headquarters at three a.m.. Poor Kathy. Have to remember to get some breakfast and coffee for her. She'll probably be starving, he thought. He also made a mental note to grab her umbrella and take it in with him. For, earlier, he could have sworn he'd heard thunder. ********** Chapter Two: Famine Part Four F.B.I. HEADQUARTERS 7:30 A.M., 12/13/98 //I'm thirsty.// Fox Mulder ran his tongue over his teeth, surprised at how dry his mouth was. He choked and sputtered as he tasted chalk and grit. Blinking furiously, he tried to dislodge the minuscule white specks that scratched and burned his eyes, and his ears rang with a thick buzz, a stuffiness, that gave the illusion they were filled with cotton. "O'Neill?" Why, she was right here, he thought, trying to clear his vision. Instinctively, he tried to bring his hands up to his eyes and noticed that he couldn't. He struggled and stopped when he felt himself sliding downward with nothing beneath his feet. Soon, he began to see outlines of strange cement beams, and hanging wires...he heard the splash of dripping water. For a long moment he was confused. "Agent O'Neill?" His own hoarse whisper echoed through his head and, why, how strange. The world had literally turned itself inside out, with its hidden, secret parts laid bare as though ripped and drawn apart. He could feel the cold winter air starting to bite at him and wondered why. Finally, as he looked through a piece of wall that stood torn apart, he understood. The sky had never looked so dark. //Oh, my God.// Breathe, Mulder, breathe, he chanted. You have to breathe, you have to live. Refuse to panic. He continued to try and squirm out from underneath the block that pinned him, trying carefully not to slip further in the abyss below. Giving up, he began to look for the other agent. But he saw nothing but rubble, haze and a huge yawning chasm where she'd been standing just seconds before. //Oh God, O'Neill. I'm so sorry.// Mulder closed his eyes and tried to calm down. They'll come for me, I won't be left here. They'll look for me. It might take a while, but they will come. He began to relax. Until he smelled the one odor he could not abide. Smoke. With that, the world around him became alive with dry terror. His legs churned underneath, hanging and flailing in the empty space, hands pulling and scratching at the block that pinned him down, leaving a trail of blood, flesh and nail underneath. //I am going to burn.// Mulder could sense his fingernails and fingertips ripping as he flailed, but felt no pain. A warm liquid slid down his hands and wrists, making them slick and sticky all at once while the smoke grew thicker. //This is Hell and I am going to burn.// He began to hear voices coming from beyond what was left of the surrounding walls, and wondered if they were just a product of his imagination. //No. Wait. I hear sirens. Wait. I'm here, I'm here, I'm here.// Mulder swallowed, choked on the powder and smoke and tried to cry out. I'm here. The voices grew closer with a familiar female one cutting above the rest and echoing through the haze. "Is anyone here? We're here to help you." //Scully.// "Is anyone here?" //Scully, it's me. I'm here...please hear me.// "Is anyone here?" he heard her yell again. //I'm here. Don't leave me.// "Hello! Can you hear me?" yelled Scully through a wall. Other voices joined the chorus and fanned throughout the ruin. She heard a weak reply in the affirmative. "Help is coming. Hold on. I'm a medical doctor. Are you bleeding?" she yelled again, motioning to the rescue workers. "From every pore, Dr. Scully," said Fox Mulder his voice strong, then trailing off. "From every pore..." ************* Chapter Two: Famine Part Five F.B.I. TEMPORARY HEADQUARTERS 10:00 A.M. 12/16/98 "Agent Pendrell, this may be the most difficult thing I've ever had to do." She had green eyes. "But we've been informed by the rescue team that there is a good chance that your wife's remains will not be found." Black hair that held silk and blue fire. I didn't notice it until that first time we were together and could see its shine slide through my fingers and lie against the pillow. "The engineers say we can save up to 75% of the building if we call off the excavation." She smelled like rain. "But I have informed them that the decision is entirely up to you." The day we were married she looked so perfect I forgot all my fears. "The Director agrees with me." One day we made love outside in the park; the grass tall and the sunlight warm. The next month she showed me the test results and told me that our baby's name was going to be Felicity. And we would tell our daughter the story someday, and she would tell her children and our moments in the sun and green fields would not be forgotten. "We want you to think it over and we will abide by your wishes." We cried when she miscarried. "I wish I could do more, but what is left?" //Tecum vivere amem, tecum obeam libens.// "Agent Pendrell, did you hear me?" asked Walter Skinner gently. No. I don't think I did. ********** Chapter Two: Famine Part Six GEORGETOWN HOSPITAL 7:00 P.M., 12/15/98 "Did they find Agent O'Neill?" Scully's eyes were focused on the window, past the glass, to the sky and faraway buildings. "No," she said, watching a flock of birds fly past. "They called off the search. The part of the building they were focusing on was too unstable. It was too risky to keep digging. And the cadaver dogs came up empty." Mulder closed his eyes and tried to think away the pain behind them. "How's Pendrell?" he said, thinking it was a stupid question even before it left his lips. Scully looked down and aimlessly pulled on a loose thread from her jacket, winding it around her finger. "How do you think he is?" she asked, not looking up. Mulder couldn't answer and her eyes refused him any glance. //Probably about as well as I am// "Scully, I need a favor," said Mulder holding his hand up to silence her protests before they began. "I know you might not want to hear about it, but this isn't for me. It's for Agent O'Neill." Scully looked up at this, but kept her gaze focused past him. "Before the explosion, she was working on a piece of evidence for me that was recovered from a militia raid in Texas. It turned out to be a piece of biological weaponry." "Biological weaponry?" asked Scully. "A sample of bubonic plague. I really need you to look at it. I think it's something important," said Mulder, craning his head, trying to catch her eye. "Mulder, you can get bubonic plague samples through mail order," sighed Scully. "I'm sure this group thought it was being clever by trying to use the threat of the plague for extortion or actually thought they were going to start the next Black Death." "O'Neill said it was a mutated form of plague. It was also carefully labeled to look like it was acquired from Iraq, but we discovered that it wasn't from Iraq at all. If it wasn't that dangerous, why go to all that trouble?" "Wasn't the evidence destroyed in the blast? I can't look at something that we don't have." "I kept a vial," said Mulder. "It's in the fridge." Scully's eyes narrowed. "You kept a sample of bubonic plague in our refrigerator? In our home? Next to our food?" she asked, her voice rising in disbelief. "I didn't know what it was," he said sheepishly. "Besides, I got tired of losing the evidence. " Mulder met her eyes and she quickly looked away. "Scully, I just don't want O'Neill's death to have been in vain. If there's something there, if she really discovered something important, then I owe it to her to follow through. And I can't do that without your help." Scully sighed again and shook her head. "I'll look at it Mulder, but I doubt if we'll find some big biological weapons conspiracy. And after I'm done with that, we have some unfinished business to take care of. I think you know what I'm talking about," said Scully, rising slowly and reaching for her bag. Her eyes met his. "You *did* see the papers I left for you?" "Yes, " said Mulder, appalled at the pain that suddenly spiraled up his throat. "But I'm afraid that while signing them, I dropped my pen. There was this little explosion, you see, and..." "That's enough," snapped Scully. "We'll meet tomorrow after I'm done looking at this sample of yours. If that's convenient for you." "Of course," replied Mulder angrily. The rage began to rise between them until they heard the door open. "Excuse me, may I come in?" They both turned to see Brian Pendrell in the doorway. For a few seconds neither one of them could speak. "If it's a bad time I can come back," he said slowly from the doorway. ****************** Chapter Two: Famine Part Seven GEORGETOWN HOSPITAL 7:30 PM 12/15/98 There was something in Pendrell's face that reminded Mulder of pictures he'd seen of people who suffered from consumption, a vague and all-compassing name for a disease whose victims had died slowly, inch by inch, often surrounded by food and care, yet faced inevitable starvation and death. It might have been the huge, dry eyes or perhaps his face, which was utterly and perfectly white. Not merely sallow or pale, but salt white, the color of paper. All apologies died on Mulder's lips. They sat in silence for several minutes with Mulder's obvious unease and Pendrell's strange and placid calm. One fidgeting, one still as death...both silent. "I heard you have a good memory," said Pendrell finally, after what could have been an eternity. "Sometimes," answered Mulder, wishing for a hundred things all at once. "Memories are important, Agent Mulder," he said, looking somewhere beyond the back of Mulder's head, beyond the room, the window and past dark skies. "I hope you understand how important they can be. Because you're the only one who can help me now." "How can I help you?" asked Mulder, thinking of the empty and passionate lip service we pay the grieving, all the while desperately wishing they would please, please, go away and stop reminding us of sorrows survived and terrors yet to be revealed. //Please, please go away.// "I want you to tell me about the morning it happened." //No. Not that.// "I'm sorry, Pendrell but I have so little to tell you," replied Mulder, beseechingly. "I was only with her for less than half an hour. And then..." //Please don't make me remember.// ""It's more than I have, Agent Mulder. Please understand that whatever you can tell me tonight will have to sustain me for the rest of my life. Think of how many years that might be," said Pendrell, his voice cracking slightly. "You can't imagine it. As it is now, the days are endless. And the nights..." He stopped, breathed deeply and struggled to continue. "Years, Agent Mulder. Years that could turn into decades," he continued as the pretense of calm crumbled and a terrible, wild grief filled his eyes. "Please, tell me whatever you can. Any detail will do. Was she happy when she came in that morning? Did she look tired? Her hair...was it pinned up? Did she eat? Anything. Nothing will be too small. What was a passing moment for you is the difference between life and death for me. You have a wife whom you love, Agent Mulder. Now, please..." Mulder stared at him, but saw someone else. "Think of her and tell me." Mulder closed his eyes, thought of Scully and began. *************** Chapter Two: Famine Part Eight NY1837 ------------------- 12/20/98: 19:12PM Associated Press - BJT Wormwood, (TX) -- A mysterious illness has hospitalized 23 people over the last two hours in this small Texas community with symptoms ranging from nausea, vomiting and fever to coma. Ten of the patients are listed in serious condition with the rest listed as critical. A spokesman for John Wesley Hospital says that the exact nature of the illness is unknown at this time, but he will keep the community informed with hourly updates. (AP will update in three hours...) *********************** continued in: THE REVELATION Chapter Three: Plague All comments are very welcome. send to xapen@aol.com or canny409@aol.com **** THE REVELATION Chapter Three: Plague (All disclaimers in the Introduction) by CiCi Lean canny409@aol.com ************************ "Ring around the rosy Pockets full of poesy Ashes, ashes We all fall down." - Children's Rhyme as sung during the Plaague *************************** Chapter Three: Plague Part One WORMWOOD, TX 8:00 a.m. "Darlene." Well, hell and damnation. Where is that child? "Darlene!"" Margaret Able shook her head and felt the tight frustration of the holidays choke her like a mistletoe shoved down her throat. Four houses to visit, ten bags to carry, and exactly twenty-eight people to pretend to like. If she and Darlene didn't start right this minute, the day would be beyond endless. Damn teenagers. They live in their own little world, not giving a damn about anyone else, least of all the person who brought them into this life. Nine months of misery. And one night of pain that wasn't forgotten as quickly as they'd like you to believe. "Goddamn it, Darlene! You get the hell out of that bathroom right now!" Margaret Able screamed as she ran up the stairs. She tripped over a small hairbrush, cursed a horrible oath, and stormed further down the hall. //I'm going to strangle that little bitch.// She paused in front of the bathroom door trying to compose herself into her most frightful visage before she opened it. She ran her fingers around the door handle before turning it, just to savor the moment of rage she could release once inside. Oh, quietly...speak quietly. That frightens her. Nothing else impresses her anymore, but I've still got some tricks up my sleeve. I'm still her mother and she will still respect my entrance. Or at least fear it. With that pleasant thought, Margaret Able opened the door...and saw a strange sight. Blood. Everywhere. Bright, red drops sliding down the cool, porcelain tiles. Small, slick clots were flung against the walls, stuck upon plaster and paint, one with the pure and faultless white. The room reeked of vomit, the slaughterhouse and filthy coins. The floor was so slick, so full of crimson, no patterns were visible. And her child... //Oh, my child// Darlene Able's eyes were clear and looking straight toward heaven, but there was no movement. Or peace. Her sunken and white cheeks held a hint of fevered flush, her blackened tongue so swollen, it parted her lips and could be plainly seen, dark, foreign, and terrible. No short breaths could be heard, no twisting or cries of pain. Nothing. //My only child// Margaret Able ran down the stairs and picked up the phone. "911. What's the emergency?" "My baby! My baby! You have to help. You have to come and help my baby!" "You have to calm down ma'am. What's wrong?" "You have to come! Oh, my God." "Ma'am we can't help unless you tell us what the emergency is." "Mama's baby...my little one... mama's angel. Why won't you help her? No, no, no, no..." "Ma'am?" Silence. "Ma'am?" ******************** Chapter Three: Plague Part Two THE DAVID BAPTIST CLINIC 10:00 a.m. "Well, it's good to see you Dr. Scully." Dr. Tas Imran smiled charmingly at Dana Scully as she entered the clinic lab, wondering if her visit would take very long. You can be a Muslim and still relish a day off, he thought as she pulled a small test tube out from her briefcase. Christmas Eve was a great movie night. "Thanks for helping me out on such short notice, Dr. Imran," said Scully, as she handed over the plague sample she'd retrieved from the refrigerator earlier that morning. "I just need a quick workup on this, and then I'm out of your way." "Certainly, Dr. Scully. You know it is no problem for you," replied Dr. Imran as he took the tube from her and tried to figure out the quickest method of identification. He smiled brightly and began moving as fast as possible, trying not to look *too* careless. Always the last minute they come in, he silently grumbled. He retreated to his lab. Scully picked up a file from her briefcase and began to read. After about ten minutes she realized that the words on the page were probably having better luck seeing her than she reading them. She flipped it shut and tried to rub some of the pain from her eyes. What a horrible week. Oh God, Mulder. What are we going to do? No, forget that, she thought bitterly. What am I going to do? There is no more Mulder, no more Mrs. Mulder, just back to Dr. Scully. You have to begin to think like this, she told herself firmly. You have to convince yourself. So you can tell your family tonight. Scully closed her eyes against the thought of her mother's pain, her brothers' uncomfortable silence and the whispers of her sisters-in-law. *Where's Uncle Fox, Aunt Dana?* the little ones would ask. She almost groaned aloud and for a brief second wondered if Mulder would consent to one last Christmas at her family's. She snorted. Sure. Come to Christmas, when you haven't even been home in a week. Wonderful, wonderful. She closed her eyes, leaned back and tried, like Scarlet O'Hara, not to think about it now. After a while she began to doze, until she felt a rough hand shaking her shoulder. She opened her eyes with a jerk and saw Dr. Imran standing before her. With huge, terrified eyes and sweat rolling from his brow. "Where did you get this?" he whispered furiously. "Where? You tell me." "What?" asked Scully, wondering what the hell was going on. "I'm asking you where you got this sample. And why did you bring it to me? Is this a game you are playing? Did they send you here? Tell me," said the doctor, nearing hysterics. He began to shake her by the shoulder again. "You tell me, damn it!" "Dr. Imran, calm down. I told you I brought this sample in here for analysis. I did not bring it to you in particular, I just brought it here because it was the closest lab for this work. And you just happened to be on duty," said Scully in a stern tone, pushing his hand from her shoulder. "Now would you mind explaining what you're so upset about?" Imran took a deep breath and looked around warily ."This *sample* you've brought to me is the product of madmen and fools, not nature. You should take note of that. I'll tell you no more, except that it is the reason I left Iran and came here, hoping never to see the likes of it again," said Imran shakily, running a hand through his dark hair. "I can't believe you're dealing with such things. And you, of all people...well, I'd rather die than toy with this again. And you can tell *that* to whomever you wish." He thrust the tube back into her hand with an angry glare. "Please. I don't know what you're talking about," said Scully with an edge of exhaustion in her voice. Why does everyone talk in circles *all* of the time? Imran looked carefully at her and eyed the door. His tone became slightly more trusting. "What you hold in your hand is an unspeakable crime against nature," began Imran, sitting wearily in a chair beside Scully. "I used to work in the *weapons* factories of Iran, where the instruments of death were not warheads or bullets, but the tiniest of organisms and most potent of chemicals that had no smell or taste but left sure death in their wake. Are you familiar with Pestis A?" Scully nodded slowly. Pestis A was a biological weapon that was outlawed by every country in the world. All samples had been destroyed years before, gladly, even by the bloodthirstiest of nations. She became suspicious. "Are you saying that this is Pestis A? Imran shook his head. "No, no. Look, forget I've said anything. Forget it. I can't get involved." Scully became stern. "Withholding information from a federal agent is a crime, Dr. Imran. I suggest you tell me what you know." He laughed shortly. "A crime. Your jails here are like country clubs. I've been in jail in my home country. I'm not afraid of your jail." He stopped and began to look sick. "Look, if I give you a contact name, could you not involve me?" he asked beseechingly. "Agent Scully, I love this country. I want to stay here, not only because it's a death sentence to return to my own, but because I feel I can be useful here. Do good work in my new home and bring honor to this country that took me in." Scully thought for a moment and relented. "All right, Dr. Imran. Who can I see regarding this?" Imran swallowed harshly, forcing the bile back down his throat. "Go to Dr. Renate Von Schwartzer. She lives in Annapolis, you should be able to find her. She will tell you everything you need to know. But, Agent Scully..." Imran held up a trembling finger and stabbed it toward her urgently. "You will not, under any circumstances...mention my name. Do you understand that?" Scully nodded, not understanding at all. She slowly picked up her bag and left the pale and shaking scientist behind her and went toward her car. "Dr. Von Schwartzer." ********************* Chapter Three: Plague Part Three FBI HEADQUARTERS 10:00am "This is Ground Zero" Brian Pendrell took a felt marker and circled a small square on the projected image in front of him. An image that clearly marked the street, the sidewalk and the part of the FBI building that, in a moment of fire, glass and pain, had been reduced to rubble. The room shifted with discomfort at his lecture. Skinner had attempted to have another lab agent give the presentation, but Pendrell had steadfastly refused. He'd become so terrifyingly thin, with such cold eyes and dead cheeks, that Skinner couldn't remember if he'd ever looked any different. He watched as Pendrell quietly nibbled chocolate between sentences, chewing very slowly, taking his time with deliberate swallows after each thought, as if the rest of the room wasn't even present. "The main portion of the blast was absorbed by Area D which is in blue. As you can see, that comprises the Records Room, Evidence Rooms A-F, Storage Area D, and the Sci-Crime Laboratory," said Pendrell thoughtfully, taking another small bite of the bar in his hand. His wife had loved chocolate in all its forms, sneaking huge bites of everything from cake to candy when she thought he wasn't looking. He would sometimes kiss a sweet crumb from her chin, laughing when she blushed. It was all he ate now. When he ate at all. "I think it should be noted that this blast has certain characteristics that I find highly unusual in your typical fertilizer bomb. The force and direction of that type of blast *should* conceivably have destroyed a much larger portion of the building in a more random pattern, which leads me to the conclusion that this was a much more sophisticated type of device then at first suspected. I'm beginning to think more along the lines of a concussive type-bomb, one which uses the backlash force of the blast to generate the most damage in a very specific area of a building." Pendrell put down his marker and turned to the room. The other agents glanced at each other and squirmed miserably in their seats. "Now, this bomb is not the type you can make at home or over in the militia news groups on the Internet. A concussive bomb would have to have been built by a highly trained munitions expert, probably one trained in the armed forces at a very high level. I doubt if more than twenty people in the U.S. could build such a device, and even if they theoretically could, the materials needed would not be available under ordinary circumstances." Skinner spoke up. "What about the fertilizer residue we found?" he asked, not liking where this was going. "I honestly think that the fertilizer mixture was a ruse to cover up traces of the actual device, which disintegrated upon detonation. The blast was very accurate, too accurate. It's my belief that the Laboratory and Evidence rooms were the direct targets of the bombers." "You think that they were aiming for that specific part of the building? Why?" Skinner was growing uneasier by the second. "That, I couldn't tell you, sir," replied Pendrell. Skinner let out a long breath. The other agents were getting restless and more than slightly agitated. Christmas Eve was not the day to be called into a presentation given by a man whose wife had died in the very blast he was now so calmly discussing. Better cut them loose, thought Skinner. "All right. Let's break it up for the holiday. I want everyone in here the day after tomorrow, full of ideas and ready to put some hours in. "That will be all. Have a good holiday. Agent Pendrell..." Pendrell looked up at him. Skinner pushed his glasses up and tapped his fingers nervously. "I'd like a moment to speak with you, please. Alone. " The other agents nearly tripped over each other to run from the room. Pendrell ignored them and began to carefully slip the slide sheets back into the file. Skinner sighed, then began. "Agent Pendrell, why don't you take some time off? I understand that you want to be part of the investigation, but *this*? Do you know what you're doing? I know you've been sleeping here, or not sleeping here, as the case may be. It's also obvious that you aren't eating properly. This can't go on," he said shaking his head. //It has to go on.// "You should go home. Put your house in order, come to terms." //Throw out her things. Watch the garbage men take the bags away.// "Get some rest. Try to heal." //Smell her when I open the closet. When I lie in the bed.// "And come back when you are ready. Will you do that? I'm asking as a favor." "I'm sorry, sir, but no, I can't do that. I'll be in the lab if you need me, sir." **************** continued in... THE REVELATION: Chapter Three: Plague (2/3) All comments are very welcome. canny409@aol.com **** *********************** THE REVELATION Chapter Three: Plague (All disclaimers in the Introduction) by CiCi Lean canny409@aol.com ************************ Part Four ************************** "You don't understand. I am the great scholar, the magician, the adept, who is *doing* the experiment. Of course I need subjects to do it on. Bless my soul, you'll be telling me next that I ought to have asked the guinea-pig's permission before I used *them*. No great wisdom can be reached without sacrifice. But the idea of going myself is ridiculous." -The Magician's Nephew C.S. Lewis ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 1919 BERYL LANE 12:00pm "Dr. Von Schwartzer?" Dana Scully gingerly pushed at the cottage door and was surprised to find it open and saw that a small hallway led to a sweetly furnished sitting room from a time long ago. Graceful couches surrounded by cherry wood tables and covered with delicate lace, crisp flowers in dainty vases and walls of books. Volumes and volumes with true leather and gold bindings, good soldiers just waiting for their chance to be held and enjoyed. A delightful smell filled the room and Scully breathed in vanilla, spice and the deep, full scent of antiquity. "May I help you?" Scully turned to see a petite, but still formidable woman, eighty years of face, perhaps twenty years of soul. Her hair was pure white and her eyes were a blue so startling, that Scully blinked unconsciously at the sight. She fumbled for her badge. "Yes. I'm Agent Dana Scully, with the FBI. I came here on the advice of persons who wish to remain anonymous, regarding the contents of some evidence that was retrieved recently at a crime scene." "My. Sounds so mysterious," said the woman, the harsh tones of her native tongue softened with age and time. "But before any of that, I insist you take a seat and some tea. I just made it. And, since it is Christmas Eve, you will be the first to share the Pfefferkuchenhaus." "I'm sorry. Pardon?" asked Scully, as the older woman wheeled a small tea cart and tray over to the chaise. "Oh, I'm sorry. What do you call it here? Gingerbread house. Of course. Here's a plate my dear," said the doctor as she handed Scully a beautiful and delicate china dish, sprinkled liberally with sugar and nutmeg. "Oh no, thank you. I just..." but Scully stopped mid-sentence when she saw the gingerbread house. It was a perfect confection of brown shingles and icing curtains, gum drop gardens and chocolate lanes. She gasped in delight at the sight, amazed not only with the artistry, but the absolute precision of the architecture. There were tiny potted plants of candy, green and gold, spun nougat stairs and a fence of sweet, white sugar-lace. "It's beautiful," said Scully sincerely, unable to resist touching the tiny marzipan trees. The doctor nodded. "It's a lost art, my dear. Like so many things these days." She sighed and snapped the door off of the house. Scully made a small disappointed sound, and the doctor laughed. "It's *supposed* to be eaten. How else will you enjoy it? Here, the door is always the best part." Scully nodded and smiled. She gently bit into it and tasted chocolate, ginger and vanilla all at once fading and swirling through her mouth. She smiled brightly again and took the cup of tea that was offered to her. The doctor smiled back, with thin lips and neon blue eyes. "And now. As you were saying?" asked the doctor carefully sipping her tea, her eyes never leaving Scully's. "Well, I came regarding this sample. I was recommended to you. May I ask you some questions regarding this slide?" said Scully, putting down her plate and pulling the slide from her briefcase. She handed it to the doctor who held it up to the light. "Well. How very interesting. Very interesting, my dear," said the doctor after a few moments, then putting the slide down carefully and nonchalantly slipping another sugar into her tea. "Um, yes. May I ask if you know what it is?" asked Scully. "I should hope so my dear. It is my greatest accomplishment," said the doctor, laughing. "Pardon?" replied Scully, who could feel a slight drain of color from her face. Must be exhaustion. "Well, of course, all this was long ago. I'm afraid I should bore a young lady with my stories," said the doctor, reaching over and knocking the slightest bit of confectioners sugar from Scully's lapel. "Not at all," replied Scully, unable to resist another nibble of the house. "I am originally from Germany, as you might be able to tell," began the doctor. "I was a young woman then, not unlike you are now. And I had the distinction to be the first female researcher of actual letters in Germany, perhaps in all of Europe, thanks in no small part to my father, Dr. Ingo Von Schwartzer. Perhaps you have heard of him?" Scully searched her memory quickly. In her history books, there was an Ingo Von Schwartzer, but..no. It couldn't be him. She shook her head, just to be safe. "I'm not surprised. All they do is rattle on and on about his atrocities and crimes against humanity, but never about his...or as I might now be pleased to say..our accomplishments. Well, during our Glorious Reich, or as you might call it the number two war, my father and I had the distinct honor of being the top researchers in the Fuhrer's team of doctors at Derbinheim performing what I still consider the most ground breaking experiments in all of genetics and virology." She took another sip of tea before continuing. "Why, the work we did in one day can scarcely be matched by the years these fools take to do their work today. And millions and millions of dollars spent so needlessly. Such a waste. But I suppose we *were* lucky. We had the perfect conditions for such work. Wonderful facilities and endless test subjects." "Test subjects?" gasped Scully, hardly daring to ask, but knowing the answer anyway. "Oh, yes. Thousands and thousands of them," replied the good doctor. "They were a wonderful research tool." Scully grabbed the chair's arm and felt her stomach churn. "You tested on humans?" she asked, her voice not able to rise above a whisper. "Of course, my dearest. What else would we test on?" replied the witch, as she carefully poured the tea. "Another sugar, perhaps?" Suddenly, Scully had a vision. A vision of a story. A story of dark and winding woods, a little girl lost, a gingerbread house and the unholy creature that occupied it. Her teacup began to rattle slightly against the saucer. And the good doctor's voice continued, now oblivious to her guest, to her surroundings, and to the age into which she'd been unwilling thrust. "What you have here is Pestis B. A perfectly controlled form of bubonic plague that has the symptoms of a bacterial infection and the capabilities of a virus." "In the field of biological warfare it is a work of art," said the doctor, running a proud finger over her gingerbread house. "It is carried by a host organism and spread to a precise population. Under the right conditions and with the proper preparations you can annihilate entire continents of specific populations with one host. We were just on the verge on introducing it to the detention camps, when the word came through that our Furher had been betrayed and the Reich had been forced underground." "A black day for the pure peoples of the world," the doctor frowned, angry creases folded into her forehead. I'm suffocating, thought Scully. I have to get out of here. She bent to pick up her bag and steadied herself with her hand on the carpet to keep from fainting. "Are you all right, my dear?" asked the doctor, her expression no longer smiling or kind. "Yes...no. I have to leave, I'm sorry," panted Scully, trying desperately to gather her things quickly. She knocked her tea to the floor. "But you haven't heard the entire story. Don't you want to know what happened next?" asked the doctor, ignoring the brown stain that spread toward her feet, as her thin lips curled cruelly. "I know what happened," replied Scully angrily, as the fury rose in her and refused to go back down. "You murdered millions of innocents in the name of science and were prepared to murder millions more just to satisfy your reprehensible curiosity and sadistic tendencies. You are a killer and this is your handiwork. Your legacy of death. But this is were it ends." The doctor began to laugh, a loud, unseemly noise that came from the depths of some dark place. "You? You chastise me? You should be grateful, " said the madwoman. "I paved the road for you. You are a doctor. Do not deny it. I see it in your bearing, your speech, every part of you. But what you don't realize is that without me, without the subjects, without the experiments, you...you would not exist. Oh, perhaps you would exist, but still the chambermaid, the seamstress...the whore." "Do not deny your history, my dear. I proved that a woman's thirst for science and knowledge can be as ruthless as a man's. That is the standard to which we are held. Not what we should do, but what we can do. And how far we are willing to go." She smiled and took a final sip of tea. "Now, my dear. Tell me something," she said, her impossibly blue and cruel eyes burning into Scully's for the last time. "How far are *you* willing to go?' *********** Chapter Three: Plague Part Five FBI HEADQUARTERS 1:00 pm "I ain't never been this far up in Yankee country before." Fox Mulder looked with undisguised disgust at the man sitting in front of him. Where the hell do these guys come from, he asked himself. The Houston office had rounded up the last of the bombing suspects and the only one that looked even remotely promising was this dumbass, BobJoe Thorton, the leader of *Taxpayers Freedom Milisha.* The TFM. "And I can't say that I like it much," drawled one Mr. BobJoe Thorton. Yeah, *Milisha*. They couldn't even spell militia right. Mulder tossed the file onto the table and shook his head. This was going nowhere. He looked back at the two-way mirror. He knew that Skinner and Pendrell stood behind the partition, watching... waiting. Mulder decided to try a new tactic. Didn't want to waste another four hours on this one. "Well BobJoe. You're in for it now. Do you know what you've done?" asked Mulder taking on the tone of an hysteric. Not hard, you're almost there, Mulder, he thought to himself. "Not really, *sir*," replied Mr. Thorton, picking his teeth and smiling. "I'll tell you what you've done. You've murdered a Federal Agent, BobJoe. That's right. And in the room next to this one is a truckload of agents just waiting for me to give them the word to kick your ugly ass so hard up, you'll be shitting out your nose. Do you hear me, BobJoe?" BobJoe started to break into a slight sweat. "I didn't murder nobody." "Fuck you, BobJoe. It's just your bad luck that I'm gonna say you did," replied Mulder quickly, bobbing his head up and down like a madman. "You know why, BobJoe? Because we don't give a crap who did it any more, we just want someone to beat the shit out of and go home. I gotta hand them something, BobJoe, and guess what? You won the coin toss. It's your lucky day. Hope you like body casts. I'll bring you a hanger to scratch the damp spots." "I didn't do nothing. I don't handle that part of it," said Thorton, looking frightened. "...cause I'm fucking tired, BobJoe. That's right. I've had a bad day. It's Christmas, and instead of drinking myself shit-faced, I'm standing around smelling you. I don't want to do that anymore, BobJoe," rattled Mulder, his voice getting higher and more hysterical. "GOT THAT? SO GET READY, BOBJOE, CAUSE YOUR GONNA BE FUCKED UP! OK, BOBJOE?" Mulder was screaming, his eyes almost out of his head, right in Thorton's blanched face. "I DIDN'T DO IT! ARNTZEN HANDLES THAT!" screamed Thorton in reply. Mulder immediately straightened up. Arntzen? Krycek. My God, Krycek is back. Mulder turned and left the witness room with shaking knees. He couldn't see much except that Skinner was beet-red with fury. "You can't threaten a suspect like that Mulder," hissed Skinner, utterly enraged. "You know..." He was interrupted by Mulder's cell phone. Mulder flipped it open. "Mulder." "Mulder, it's me." Mulder sighed against the phone for a brief second. "Yeah, Scully?' "Listen to me Mulder. We have a very serious situation here. This sample you gave to me isn't bubonic plague." "What is it?" "I'm not sure, but it appears to be an some form of biological weaponry called Pestis B, that can have serious consequences for the general population. I don't know where your group got a hold of it, but we have to track them down. All of them. " "Already have one of them," said Mulder, glancing back at a rembling BobJoe. "But I think I know where they got it. Remember our friend Mr. Arntzen?" Scully inhaled sharply. Krycek. "I think our friendly, neighborhood WunderRodent heard that I got a hold of his little science experiment. Wouldn't put it past him to try and kill two birds with one stone," said Mulder grimly. "Get rid of the evidence and kill the last bearer of the Mulder family name with one cheap shot. Unfortunately, the only thing that's gone is Agent O'Neill." Scully held her throbbing temple in her free hand. "Mulder, did you read about the outbreak in Texas?". "No. Where in Texas?" asked Mulder, leaning back against the two-way mirror and wondering how long a human being could actually go without sleep. "Wormwood. It's about ten miles south of Houston. They say it might be an outbreak of the Hanta Virus, but I read the listed symptoms closely and it doesn't seem to fit the known description. You don't think that..." Scully's voice trailed off, not strong enough to finish. Mulder closed his eyes."Yeah, Scully. I think we have a problem," said Mulder as he opened his eyes and saw Pendrell standing in front of him. "Meet me up here. I'll be waiting." Mulder flipped the phone shut and looked at Pendrell. //I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.// "Who is Arntzen?" asked Pendrell quietly. Mulder saw the flames of his past, all white rooms and searing lights melding into one question. He felt a wave of anger, sorrow and shame all mingle together into one sharp crest of pain. He gently took Pendrell's elbow and began to lead him toward his office. "I have a story to tell you, Agent Pendrell," he said as they walked together down the dark hall. "And it's a long one." ************* Chapter Three: Plague Part Six CLUB SARDONYX 12:00 am //What did *you* get for Christmas, Charlie Brown?// Dunno, I think I was a bad boy this year. Alex Krycek took another shot of hot cinnamon liqueur and relished the fire that slid down his throat. Fire, sugar, blood and ashes. That's what I am, that's what I leave behind. The rumbles of his explosive handiwork still echoed faintly through his mind, bringing yet another cursive smile to his face. Yep. I've been a real bad boy this year. He clicked his prosthetic hook around the bottle and poured himself another shot of the sickly-sweet fire. He held his right arm under the table. Wrapped around his gun. Because there was a man walking toward him. A man, not a club kid or Christmas drunk, but an honest-to-God, suited man, wearing minute pinstripes, a perfect shirt, an ugly tie and very, very expensive shoes. The kind of suit that men sometimes wore to high-level meetings or corporate sales pitches. Sometimes even to assassinations. Krycek enjoyed the pricking sensation that crawled up his neck, the hairs raised and his fingers itching, not only on the gun's trigger, but still yet in the hand that was no more, the ghosts of each nerve-ending still reacting to messages that raced throughout his body. It was his phantom limb, ready to make a man a ghost. Krycek carefully pretended not to notice that the man had stopped directly in front of his table, preferring to concentrate instead on pouring an exact and precise amount of liquor into the glass in front of him. He stared as he poured, bringing his nose almost down to the glass and letting his ears and his other senses take over. Making sure he was ready. Ready for anything. A pack of cigarettes hit the table. And the suited man walked away. Krycek turned and watched the man as he left, weaving his way through the hazy crowd toward the door. The glass in front of him overflowed, with sticky red liquid seeping toward the cigarette pack and pooling behind it. Krycek picked the cigarettes up. Morleys. Ain't my brand, Krycek thought. But maybe I'll have one anyway. He opened thepack and found the note that lay inside. "126 Jacinth Street, 8:00 am." Alex Krycek smiled. //Well, Happy New Year, Charlie Brown.// ********************** continued in... THE REVELATION: Chapter Three: Plague (3/3) All comments are very welcome. canny409@aol.com **** *********************** THE REVELATION Chapter Three: Plague (3/3) (All disclaimers in the Introduction) by CiCi Lean canny409@aol.com ********************** Part Seven ********************** "Oh, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes." - William Shakespeare ************************* FBI HEADQUARTERS 6:00 a.m. Dana Scully tried to force the stern tone into her voice to no avail. "If we do this we'll have no authority, no access." "We have neither now. Skinner has been ordered to take us as far from this one as possible. He's using the *too close to the case* excuse," answered Mulder grimly. "As far as our authority goes, it's in our beliefs, Dana. Our desires for the truth. For justice. For answers. Don't you want answers, Dana?" Scully felt herself spinning in place, both hands raking compulsively through her hair. I can't do this, she thought. I can't, I can't...I must. "And, as far as access goes, in this case, the ends will justify the means." Here Mulder nodded at Pendrell, who was quietly packing computer equipment, false ID's, cameras and other items no less obvious in their intent. Oh, God, thought Scully. Not this. Not him. Not now. "Agent Pendrell," said Scully quietly, hoping that he would somehow become the voice of reason that would pull them back. "You do understand what Mulder is planning here don't you? Do you understand the risks? We could all lose our jobs, our reputations... our lives." Pendrell looked at her with old eyes. He pulled his FBI badge from his inner coat pocket, flipped it open and ran his thumb across the photo as if something had been captured there that was now erased and foreign. Lost. He flipped the case shut. And wordlessly let it drop to the floor. He turned back to his packing as Mulder pulled Scully to the far side of the room. "There's nothing here, Dana," Mulder hissed. "Nothing. We've been betrayed, because they too, have been betrayed." Scully turned on him furiously. "Mulder, I once knew a man who would have given reason a chance." "And I once knew a woman who wanted answers." "Well, I guess we never really knew each other at all then." Mulder closed his eyes for a brief second. Who was going to yell stalemate? "What better can I do for him, Scully?" asked Mulder the old obsessive gleam returning, a look once so attractive and intriguing to her, but now making her shudder, her skin crawl. "We'll find out the truth. We have a real chance here to expose these men and..." "Mulder," Scully interrupted. "You have a real chance here, to do something for someone else. Leave it. Leave it alone. Leave *him* alone and let him bury his wife in peace. You aren't doing this for him and you know it." "Scully, I think you misjudge me," said Mulder, his eyes turning black and tight. Scully bit her lip to keep the tears back. "No Mulder, I misjudged you a long time ago. I thought I had met a crusader for justice, for what was good versus what was not. But instead, I met a man so wrapped up in himself and what he wanted to believe, looking so far beyond, that he couldn't see what was staring him right in the face," said Scully hoarsely, not wanting this conversation now. "Why was Agent O'Neill in the lab that morning, Mulder? Why Mulder? Because what you had found *really* couldn't wait, or I just wasn't available at 3am after you'd been a no-show for three nights in a row?" Mulder flinched. Damn you, Scully, don't you dare. "Were you using her, like you plan on using him?" She defiantly turned blazing eyes on him. "Like you were using me?" Mulder felt rage, sorrow and grief threatening to choke him all at once. //I don't understand. I don't know what went wrong. Why won't you help me?// "Your obsession is no longer a passion, Mulder. It's a disease. Infecting everything in its path. Consuming, destroying...killing. That's right, Mulder. Your search is killing people, people who have no chance against it, because they don't even know. And like a drunk driver you always survive to take your next passenger on another ride," said Scully breathlessly as thought she had been running or choking...or both. Mulder pulled the mask up. "We are either partners or we are not. Make your choice," he said coldly. "Partners?" her voice rose in fury. "Partners? I am your wife!" she hissed. "Have you forgotten? Has it slipped your mind? Have you finally lost your mind? Has this plague you call the Truth taken your senses from you? Is what everyone been saying all along true? That *Spooky* Mulder is insane?!" Scully was hysterical now, the dam of emotions and half-said things bursting into a huge wave that threatened to drown them both. She didn't see the single tear that dropped down Mulder's cheek. "No, Dana, I haven't forgotten. But you can't say that all is well in our home." Scully breathed deeply. In and out. In and out, she chanted. She felt her heart slowing down as Mulder continued. "Look. Let's declare a truce. For this one case. Because Dana, there is much more at stake here than I think either one of us realize. Please Dana. I need you," said Mulder, putting his hand under her chin and attempting to tilt her face toward his eyes. She pulled away. *Needs* me. He *needs* his Gunga Din. His Tonto. But yet...she hesitated, with the old doubts, the old softness, filling her mind and her heart. The benefit of the doubt won. One last time. "All right, Mulder. This one. Because I think there *is* something at stake here," she sighed, still trying to breathe. Yes. There is so much at stake here. With an exhale, Mulder let her go. He turned around to the man at the opposite end of the room. "Well, Pendrell. Are you ready to travel the Spooky Highway?" asked Mulder with a forced joviality. He tried to hide his sweat-filled relief at Scully's positive reply. Merry Christmas , indeed. Thank you, Santa. Pendrell neatly stacked the last suitcase and turned to them both matter-of-factly. "I'll be meeting you in Houston. I have something I have to do first." **************** Part Eight RIVERSIDE ASYLUM VIOLET, MARYLAND 8:00 am "Mrs O'Neill?" "I took off that coat long ago. You should have seen that closet. It wasn't much in itself." "Your daughter, my wife, is dead." "But, oh my God. It had the biggest damn hangers you've ever seen." "I just want you to know that you won't be abandoned here. I've made the arrangements for your care in her absence and in case anything should happen to me. It's what she would have wanted." "Did I ever tell you the story of my wedding day? I have a secret." "I also think that you should try and understand that Kathy forgave you for the things you did. She knew that you weren't well. It was hard on her, but she never blamed you. I don't know that I could have done the same, but her heart was always the kinder one." "The communion wine..." "There won't be a funeral. I...we..have nothing to bury. I'm sorry, but I can't do it. I won't cry over an empty box." "...spilled right on my dress. It fell from my lips and drip, drip, drip, right onto my brand new wedding dress. The priest began to scream, Oh, God! Oh, God! And I laughed and laughed, until I saw the stains. Right on my nice, new white dress. All red and bloody like and it weren't never coming out. I could wash it a million years. Never, never coming out." "I wish I had something useful to say." "I have a song. I wrote it all alone. Do you want to hear it? It says "Before the days I gathered flowers, I dreamt of courtly things..." "I wish I had a different story." "...a father's tomb o'er wedding bowers and no river floor deny, there my breath is filled with song, but far too much water have I. I sought my own salvation, in tune and trophies green..." "I wish I wasn't alone." "...and heard sweet words over my own bride's-bed, never to be seen." "Goodbye, Mrs. O'Neill. I have to leave now. Goodbye." "Wait." "Yes, Mrs. O'Neill? "Drown'd did you say? She is drown'd? Where?" "Oh, where?" ***************** Part Nine 126 JACINTH STREET 8:00 am "Comrade?" "Comrade." Krycek greeted his host with a bright, Slavic smile. He received a face full of smoke and the sight of evil and angry eyes in return. "You aren't very careful are you?" Click. The hook shut with a snap. He makes me so tired, thought Krycek. "I had the prudence to initiate a clean up after your operation. And I was very interested in what they found." "Yeah, there's nothing more interesting than five tons of rubble and a shitload of broken glass, that's for sure." Krycek lazily slung a leg over the chair's arm, clicking his prosthetic arm once more, gleaning the light from the metal. The smoker tapped an ash from his dangling cigarette. It splattered across the wood, throwing tiny, red sparks that left black trails underneath. "Is that so? Well, I have something more interesting for you." Without looking behind, the smoker opened the large French doors that led to the front room and drew Krycek's attention to what was inside. There sat a woman. A woman neither moving, nor seeing, one who was strangely motionless, like a fearful automaton, barely noticing her surroundings, yet keenly aware that there was something...something very, very wrong. Well, what do we have here, thought Krycek. "You'll take her with you to Texas. She's our insurance so you will be careful with her. With proper treatment and precautions there should be no trouble. When you arrive you know what to do." "Mulder knows?" asked Krycek, unable to take his eyes off their guest. "He knows more than he should," replied the smoker. "Too bad," said Krycek, moving slowly in front of her and kneeling as to get a good look at her face. Krycek lifted her chin to look at her eyes. She had green eyes. Krycek studied her closely and saw a mass of small ribbon scars, faint echoes of glass shards, cut scabs along with fresher bruises and swollen red blows. He brushed the hair from her forehead. She had black hair. Black hair that held silk and blue fire. And there were needle marks on her arms, delicate spider webs of blue and red abuse, easily mistaken for something self-inflicted. "I'm warning you to be careful this time," said the smoker. "After this, there will be nothing left to lose." But Krycek wasn't listening to him. He had something prettier to look at. "Come on, honey." Krycek brushed the metal hook along her jaw. "Don't be afraid." Her eyes closed as she winced against the cold metal and gingerly raised a hand to deflect it from her painful and swollen face. Krycek smiled. "Aw, come on, baby. That's no way to treat me. We're going places. That's right. You and me. And do you know where, baby girl? She shook her head with the slowest of motions. "Daddy's gonna take you to Babylon," he whispered. And Kathleen O'Neill looked down at Alex Krycek with uncomprehending eyes. ********************* continued in... THE REVELATION Chapter Four: Temptation All comments are welcome. canny409@aol.com **** ********************* THE REVELATION Chapter Four: Temptation (All disclaimers in The Introduction) AN X-FILES FANFIC by CiCi Lean, 1998 xapen@aol.com or canny409@aol.com *********************** "The last temptation is the greatest treason To do the right deed for the wrong reason." - T.S. Eliot 'Murder in the Cathedral" ************************ Wormwood, Texas 12/25/98 "Be of good cheer, it is I, be not afraid!!" Clapping. Clapping mingling with the sound of untrained voices singing in a crowded driftwood room, complete with low-slung plastic chairs and a box filled with death. The Handler trembled from head to toe, his eyes closed and his fists clenched, his arms raised to the ceiling where God was supposed to live. "The King of Babylon stood at the parting of the way." The noises grew louder, and turned into a shrieking hymnal, with the scrapes of metal chair legs against a cement floor. There was one young man face down in the aisle, in a dead faint, not even noticed by the rest of the room. A mother held a baby to her breast, swaying and singing, her eyes closed as the infant slept. The Handler's mouth opened, and with the slightest of breaths, yelled out the words of Samuel. "Come out, come out, thou bloody man, thou son of Belial!" He plunged both of his hands into the box of Majove rattlesnakes. And the Handler raised them high over his head as the room reached its furious pitch. The reptiles squirmed and rolled between his fists, their tails screaming their fright. The rattling could be heard above the human noise and it was the clean sound of nature calling out, like the bright colors of all poisonous creatures, a warning to all who come across their path. //Do not tempt me.// The Handler let them slide through his hands, grasping and pulling at them to prove not only the existence of his God, but the special singularity that had been bestowed upon him and him alone. I shall handle Death, I shall cheat it, it will have no power over me. I, too, can be like God. Yes, in Jesus' name...of course. He shook the snakes, the living death between his fists, yelling to God his defiance. But sometimes God answers back. //Do not tempt Me.// The first rattlesnake struck with grace and ease, sinking its fangs into the Handler's cheek, the soft flesh running with a muted pink, with blood and spilled venom mixed. He felt the deadly spasm of fire burn down his neck, coursing through his veins, numbing his arm and leg immediately. The singers took no notice of his distress, but instead, their noise became louder and longer, echoing his scream as a sign of faith. The second snake was neither as fast nor as graceful, but it didn't matter. It bit him in the neck, striking leisurely, but receiving a satisfying amount of blood for its trouble. The Handler now shook in spasms, his legs and arms no longer under his control. Flailing, he hit the floor in jerking repose, the snakes falling with him. The singing became louder still. The snakes escaped, sliding through the room, their movements inherent and smooth. At the sight of the fallen Handler, the room calmed slightly and a man went over to the prone figure and took his pulse. Empty... gone. He called two strong men to the front of the room with small gestures and they began to drag him outside. The room quieted as they watched the Handler's feet flop down the wooden stairs. The two men hauled his body to the yard and tossed him onto the soft earth. Their shovels scraped in rhythm and soon there was no hole, no disrupted space...no Handler. After it was done, they threw their shovels aside and re-entered the church. And there, a new Handler stood at the pulpit. With the words of Isaiah on his lips. "We have made a covenant with Death, and with Hell are we at agreement!" The singing began once more. ****************** Part Two Dana Scully looked out the airplane window over Texas airspace contemplating the clouds that floated below. Mulder lay in the seat across the aisle, headphones planted on his ears, dozing. Scully continued to stare out the window from the relative comfort of her aisle seat and couldn't understand how something as solid-looking as those clouds, white and endless, were just an illusion of water and air, form without substance. You couldn't lay upon them, with your head thrown back into softness and infinite pillows, and if you fell from this height, you would pass through them as though they didn't exist. //If I fell.// What would happen if I fell, she wondered. Would I live to greet the ground, falling so quickly that I wouldn't feel as though I were falling at all, but suspended in place with the world speeding towards me? Arms akimbo, flying once and for all? Or would the air and space take my senses mid-flight, and would I meet my end in bliss and darkness, not knowing my last moments? //What if we fell?// Scully glanced at her sleeping husband sprawled across three seats, headphones now dangling. She reached over and ran a single finger through his hair, brushing the stray piece from his forehead, soft and slightly slick with sweat. He shifted at her touch and returned to sleep. Her gaze returned to the window. //What if we fell?// What regrets would we have in silent tumbling? Could our hands be joined as we spun in the wind, our eyes locked and our grasp sure? Or would we be torn apart, unable to see one another? Our Fate one, but our paths separate. Scully closed her eyes, imagined their flight until she became dizzy and suddenly stopped. I don't want to know what might be, she thought. I want to know what is. And I refuse to fall. ************* Part Three The Devest Club New York City 12/25/98 "What the hell is going on here?" The white-haired man had slitted eyes and perfect hands. He considered his hands his most attractive feature and so, took careful care of them. But now, red clenched and knuckles whitened, they appeared strained and rather old. He silently pounded them on the armrest of his chair, a slow and deliberate motion. "This was not the time for any outbreak." The white-haired man's voice was a small and hoarse shadow of its formerly imposing tone. The smoker shrugged. "These things happen. We'll soon regain control of the situation." "This must be the work of those damn Russians. We've underestimated them. *You* have underestimated them!" cried the white-haired man, furiously stabbing a finger toward the smoker. "You of all people should have foreseen this." The smoker understood the implication. His father had been Russian. A Russian spy, to be exact. Yes, perhaps I should have warned you about *your little problem*, he thought. But I didn't. And I had my reasons. "This must be stopped. This must be handled," gasped the white-haired man, running out of imperatives. "This... this..." He breathed raggedly, with watering eyes. But once it has started..it is...it is.. It is begun. Yes, it has begun, thought the smoker, hearing the words the white-haired man dare not say. But it really began long, long ago. It began the day my father was shepherded down that metal hall to the chamber that held the electric chair. You were there. Don't you remember? You were so happy when you had caught him. You were ecstatic when you got the chance to kill him. Don't you remember? You taped his eyes shut, so they wouldn't burst from their sockets. You shaved his legs, so that he wouldn't erupt into flame. You stood behind the glass, so you wouldn't have to smell his burning flesh. The white-haired man rose, trembling and old. He motioned to a younger man behind him for support. The smoker lit up once more, meeting the old man's eyes with the contempt of the victor. And in that moment, they understood one another. The killer and the traitor. The smoker smiled and wondered how the white-haired man could have been so blind. Didn't he remember who I am? I am my father's son. Son of the Russian Bear. And I refuse to fall. ******************** Part Four Highway 66 Big Tuna, Texas "Welcome to the Lone Star State, right, baby?" She's nodding. Of course, she can't understand a word I'm saying, but who needs that? Her hair is flying in the breeze, she's got the look of quiet angels and this drive is going way too fast. You know, maybe they'll let me keep her. Alex Krycek smiled. Maybe they'll let me kill her. She hasn't complained once. Not even when her bed was a car trunk in freezing Kentucky, with the winter turning the steel into ice and you could see the words leaving your mouth on air so cold, it had knives in it. She didn't even cry when she was in there, no, not once. Maybe if she had, I would have let her stay in the back seat with me; to hell with the highway patrols. I would have kept her warm. Maybe tonight. Of course, her *medicine* helps. Hard to feel pain when she's loaded up on smack and God knows what else they gave me to pump into her. Wonder what would happen if I let it wear off? Would she scream? Because even without the drugs, she isn't looking too good. With all those scars and scratches all dug in around those pretty green eyes, sweet red lips bleeding and cracking...she might have a broken bone or two. And her fingertips are turning one nasty shade of blue. Oh, but Kathleen. Kathy. Queen of all Kathy's. My Special Agent Kathleen O'Neill. The girl who's gonna help me take out that fucking Mulder once and for all. You're a gift from the angels, baby. Look at you, just staring straight ahead, not making a sound, so sweet and quiet. You know, I'd marry you, baby, but it looks like you're already married. Yeah, I've seen you playing with that wedding ring. So what's his name, baby? Let me ask you again and watch the darkness fall in those green eyes. I swear you still look at me with hatred every time I ask what it is, as if my lips aren't good enough to say his name. But I already know what it is. Brian. Is that it? Must be. It's what you've been calling out in between the needles and the silence. It's what's scrawled inside that gold band you wouldn't let me touch, until I knocked your face against the windshield so hard you found it hard to say no. It -is- hard to say no to me, isn't it? Come on. You don't have to give me that look, baby. I've been to the dark place. I know the ropes. But all this isn't gonna last much longer. See that road, the rain-covered black? It looks like it goes on forever, but it ends somewhere. Everything has its beginning and its end. And like the road, yeah, like you and me, it's all boiling down to that one final sentence. It's the end of the world, baby. And aren't you glad I'm here to share it with you? ****************** Part Five Whitehope Hospital Wormwood, Texas "Dr. Jane Lourdes, Centers for Disease Control." Dana Scully held up her fake ID card and hoped that Pendrell knew what the hell he was doing when he made it up. A weary nurse waved her on in no particular direction, with black rings underneath her glazed eyes; her uniform crinkled and splattered with stains. Scully walked down the hall which was littered with gauze, paper, waste bags and various items that shouldn't be on a hospital floor. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of rotting food and the awful, sweet, smell of decay, along with the metallic odor of dried blood. She tried to stop an orderly in the middle of a run. "Excuse me, is there a floor doctor I can speak to?" she asked, turning quickly, trying to follow him as he moved. He continued forward without a backwards glance. She kept walking down the hall at a slightly faster pace, noticing more garbage and a general unkemptness, which was disconcerting, not only for a doctor, but for all of one's beliefs in what a hospital should be. The smells became worse, the silence more frightening. There were no intercom announcements, no phone rings, no tinny beeps or comforting rattles of efficiency. She side-stepped a huge pile of bloody sheets. Scully finally came upon a small knot of white-coated men, whispering and throwing fearful glances left and right. She drew a deep breath and held up her ID once more. "Excuse me. I'm Dr. Jane Lourdes, Centers For Disease Control. Is there anyone here I can speak to regarding..." The group scattered before she finished. One doctor remained, fearful, but stared at Scully with defiant eyes. "Oh, so you've finally arrived, have you?" he spat. "Well, I'm so glad we finally caught your interest. What's the matter? Weren't we *third-world* enough for you?" Scully shook her head in confusion. "I'm sorry. But I was sent here to help," she replied, thinking that the less she said, the better. "Can you tell me exactly what's going on here?" The doctor let out a short, bitter laugh. "Come with me. I'll show you what's going on," he said, with an exaggerated bow and sweeping arm motion. He continued to laugh and shake his head as he escorted her toward the larger wards. Scully noted the crease between his eyes, a small triangle of madness. The smells became almost overwhelming, and Scully fought not to gag. "Here," the doctor said, as he tossed her an apron and a face mask. "Not that these will help, but you *are* our guest." Scully put them on warily as he opened the ward door. She gasped at what she saw. A seemingly endless row of beds greeted her, the air around her filled with moans, weeping, strangled cries and the stench of death. Bed after bed of victims in every stage of distress and disease, from the confused screams of those merely in pain, to those in the very throes of death, smiling and reaching out for the embraces of invisible loved ones; loved ones that were perhaps still alive, or perhaps, dead for decades. The ward floor was spattered with blood, the white walls were dotted with crimson droplets and no one seemed to care. Scully turned to the doctor in shock. "How many?" she asked, fighting the urge to cover her ears and run. "Two hundred and twelve," he replied emotionlessly. "We got the first forty or so two weeks ago. They're gone." He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. "The rest came Christmas Day and in the days afterwards. Some live longer than the others. The younger ones look like they might pull through sometimes, but they never do. If only I could save one...just one..." He stopped and tried to swallow. "One hundred percent fatality rate and no one is coming to help us. You're the first government agency to show up, except for them." He pointed toward the back of the ward. There, oblivious to the suffering and death, stood soldiers with goggles, filtration masks and huge, automatic machines guns. They stood silent and still, like strange insects from Hell, without eyes or ears, just holding their weapons, ready to kill anything that should dare cross their path. They lined the walls and did not move. "What are the symptoms?" Scully asked hoarsely. Were those soldiers looking at her from behind those expressionless masks? Would she be found out? Would it make a difference? "According to the majority of patients it starts with a headache, not unlike a migraine. It progresses quickly, sometimes within hours, to fever. Then the vomitus nigro begins." Vomitus nigro. The black vomit. Not truly black, but a red so dark it could stain steel. "Then the delirium sets in. The fever isn't particularly high, but the patient becomes delusional anyway. Those are the screamers over there," said the doctor, pointing toward one corner of the ward where the most noise was coming from. "Then comes the spiking fever and finally, death. And there isn't a damn thing we can do about it." The doctor turned angrily to Scully. "We have absolutely no idea what it is, how they got it, where they got it, how it's spread, nothing. For all I know, I'm next on its list." He continued, furiously. "Now you tell me something. Why won't anyone help us? Why are these soldiers here, but you are the first, and the only, health official to arrive? Why won't they let us go home to our families? We'll come back to treat the patients, they should have some faith. I remember my oath." The doctor's eyes began to falter, to turn red from weeping. "I wouldn't leave these people, these children, to suffer and die alone. But I have to go home at some point. I don't even know how my own children are." "They haven't let you leave the hospital?" asked Scully with horror. The doctor shook his head. "They took the names and ID's of all the doctors on staff and locked the doors. I've been trapped here for two weeks. We all tried to protest last week and *this* is what happened." He motioned to a side door and opened it quietly. Inside lay a man hooked up to life support. The doctor bit his lip. "That's Dr. Lane," he said, looking around fearfully. "He organized the protest." Scully watched as the respirator bag inflated and deflated in rhythm. The doctor gently moved a tube from his co-worker's chest. "And what happened?" asked Scully, wondering what part of Hell she had arrived in. The doctor turned to her with anger and pride. "He told them he was leaving to go home. He walked to the door..." said the doctor, hesitating only for a moment, closing his eyes against the memory. "And the soldiers shot him in the back." Scully's head began to throb. ******************** Part Six CandleLight Motel Wormwood, Texas "Hey, Scully, I think Pendrell and I are on to something." Six hours after her hospital visit, Scully sat in the cheap motel room chair, gripping its sides and taking deep breaths. Pendrell's fake badge hadn't helped her into the hospital, but it had certainly helped her leave. Unlike anyone else. Mulder rose from the laptop he and Pendrell were huddled over and walked over to her. He didn't like the look in her eyes. He knelt in front of her and waved a hand back and forth before her face. She waved it away with a pale and shaking gesture. "All right, Scully?" he asked, thinking to dare and take the moment to rub her knees gently. She stared straight ahead and began to massage her temples. "I'm fine, Mulder. What have you and Pendrell found?" she asked, her fingertips traveling in circles at her brow. God, my head hurts, she thought. "Well, Bill Gates over here..." Mulder nodded toward Pendrell, "...hacked his way into the *secret* militia undernet. We've gotten some mention of Arntzen, better known as Krycek, and discovered the various groups he's been dealing with. Seems like he's been a busy boy." Scully nodded. This room...it's so hot. "Tomorrow we're going to try and get some direct downloads of information on him, and track down the origin of those plague vials they had in their possession," said Mulder watching as Scully's cheeks began to reflect a flush of fever, red blood against white skin. Pendrell joined in. "I think if we can get into one of their own computers we'll have a better chance of getting something a little more concrete. If we're lucky, they're paranoid enough to have followed through completely on him," he said, sliding the mouse quickly over various windows. "That's good," replied Scully. Her eyes began to drift in and out of focus. I feel seasick, she thought. //Ahab?// Mulder looked at her closely and didn't like what he saw. "Scully..." he began. Scully rose, took two faltering breaths, and began to retch. Pendrell turned around just as the vomit began to spew from Scully's lips and nose, her body heaving with the effort. Mulder grabbed her around her waist and tried to hold her forehead with his palm. He attempted desperately to steer her toward the bathroom but she could not walk, as her body gasped and convulsed. Pendrell ran to the bathroom and grabbed a wastebasket and wet towels. Scully took short, desperate breaths between each retch, trying to catch her breath only to expel again. Smells began to fill the room. The smell of the slaughterhouse. The smell of filthy coins. And Mulder looked down in horror at the stain splattering across the cheap, motel room rug. It was dark red. So dark a red it was almost black. Black enough to stain steel. ********************* continued in... THE REVELATION Chapter Five: Death All comments are welcome. send to xapen@aol.com or canny409@aol.com **** THE REVELATION Chapter Five: Death (1/2) (All disclaimers in The Introduction) AN X-FILES FANFIC by CiCi Lean, 1998 canny409@aol.com ********************* "An apology for the Devil. It must be remembered. that we have only heard one side of the case. God has written all the books." - Samuel Butler "Io fei gibetto a me de le mie case." [I made my own house be my gallows] - Dante Part One %%%%%%%%%%%% WORMWOOD, TX ST. PETER'S BRIDGE "Not a bad day for winter." Louis Jordan adjusted his cap as he peered into the sky with a farmer's gaze. His squinting eyes and grim mouth turned upwards in their usual search for either the blessings or curses of the air that surrounded him. He sniffed and exhaled sharply. "Nope. Not a bad day at all," he concluded, as the young woman who stood next to him looked not up toward the dull sky, but out, over the river that ran below them. She rocked an infant in her arms, a silent and peaceful baby. "Did you turn the gas off, Louis?" she asked aloud quickly, with a strange desperation. "The gas?" Louis asked quietly. "You can't leave the gas on in the house," she said, clutching her baby so tightly, that the infant would have bawled if it had been awake. "It's dangerous, you know. Why, all sorts of things can happen when you leave the gas on in a house. You just can't do that." The bridge they stood upon rocked slightly. Perhaps it was the wind. "I don't think that matters too much no more, now that the sickness has come, Carolyn," said Louis, gently. "Now that Ma and Daddy and all the little ones are gone." "Well, maybe it don't matter to you none, Louis Bane Jordan!" his wife cried out. "But it matters to me! It ain't right leaving the gas on in the house! It isn't right at all!" Her sobs began to fill the damp air, sounding childlike, with loud hiccoughs and ragged breathing, but the baby in her arms slept still. Black blood began to drip from the sides of Carolyn Jordan's lips. "I'm pretty sure the gas is off, Carolyn," said Louis, looking tenderly at his wife, wiping her mouth carefully with his pocket cloth. "Do you want to go back to check?" //Do you want to turn back?// "Because I'll go back with you. Or I'll stay here. It don't matter none to me," he finished. His wife's crying ceased and she wiped her face with the back of her hand. She reached up and caressed her husband's cheek, all rough stubble and thin bone. Louis smiled at her with a terrible love and kissed her hand passionately. But she wasn't quite ready to give up. Not yet. "You ain't sick, Louis," whispered Carolyn, with huge, fevered eyes and stained lips. "You could go to Marketville and they'd never know where you was from. Oh yes, you could. You ain't got the fever, and you ain't gonna get it. You would have had it by now, Louis. The mark ain't on you. You could be free of all this." But Louis Jordan only folded his wife and the infant she held to his heart. A dead infant, wrapped in little yellow elephants and blue birds. "There's no freedom for me now. Except here. With my Carolyn and the last of my children," said Louis matter-of-factly, as if speaking of the weather, the water, or the crops. "And with them I'm gonna stay. No use trying to tell me otherwise." He took her hand and together they moved to the bridge's edge. Carolyn Jordan looked down upon the water and the rocks that shone through the white splashes, so far below the platform upon which they stood. She took another step forward. "Ain't this wrong, Louis? They'll say we sought our own salvation." "It's not wrong, Carolyn." Hands...fingers...hearts entwined, they stepped closer to the abyss. "The preacher said that this ain't right," said Carolyn, cradling her dead child as she stepped over the bridge's short fence. "Well, I never yet met a preacher yet who knew what the hell he was talking about," said Louis, as he pressed his lips against his wife's. And together, they stepped into nothingness. *************** Part Two WORMWOOD, TX CANDLELIGHT MOTEL "What now?" The whisper of sick room hissed from Pendrell's lips as his eyes darted from the double bed upon where Scully lay, to the blur that was Fox Mulder. Mulder was pacing furiously through the tiny room, past the cheap mirrors and the tattered drawers. His feet barely seemed to touch the garish orange carpeting as he ran. Or the still damp stains of blood that lie there. "You stay here, Pendrell," said Mulder, as he checked his gun clip for the tenth time. "Keep an eye on Dana, while I go to the militia compound. If anyone has some answers to what's going here, they will." Pendrell stared at Mulder, who continued to rush from one short end of the room to the other, snatching small items, pocketing some, discarding others, a thoughtless blur making the room appear even smaller...more restricted, than it already was. He felt a small tug upon his fingers. "I'm fine," rasped Scully, as she clutched Pendrell's hand, her blue eyes burning against a perfectly white face; splashed with the deep blush of fever. He wondered at those eyes, pools of heat and fear. "I'm fine," she repeated, this time to no one in particular. A thin rivulet of scarlet crept past her lips and slipped down her cheek. "Of course you are," replied Pendrell quietly, with a forced smile. "Certainly." He gently wiped her face with the wet cloth that lay on the nightstand, already soaked red with blood. Mulder was compulsively pacing now, his hand slamming the gun clip back and forth, moving from wall to wall, turning just before contact, long legs racing to nowhere, silent and furious. He looked maddened, trembling with fury and fear. "I'm going to kill them...I swear it," Mulder muttered. He turned again and paced sharply to the closet, and then back to the door as Scully continued to speak softly from her bed, nonsensical words born of fever and pain. Pendrell watched and waited and wondered how long it took till one went insane. "Agent Mulder, may I speak with you privately for a moment?" said Pendrell, motioning toward the motel room door. Mulder raised an eyebrow and, after a moment, followed him outside. There was a cold wind blowing in the darkness and the sun was just beginning its ascent over Texas, bright white against a blood red sky. "You don't mind staying, do you, Pendrell? Because if you do..." began Mulder, but he didn't get to finish his sentence. Mulder heard the crack of Pendrell's fist against his jaw before he actually felt the pain. He staggered back, more from surprise than the force of the blow. "I want you to stop this insanity. You're not going anywhere," said Pendrell tiredly, shaking his fist out and grimacing with pain as he did so. "You're going to stay here with your wife." Mulder held his hand against his jaw; shaking his head with barely undisguised contempt. For a long moment he towered over the smaller man, fist twitching slightly. "That wasn't a smart thing to do," Mulder growled. Pendrell flinched, but didn't back down. "Agent Mulder, I'm going to the compound. There are rumors floating around the Internet that the Bureau is going to be raiding it any day now. So whatever is in there won't last long, but with luck I can sneak in and out before the shit hits the fan." "You?" sneered Mulder. " You'll need luck all right. If you don't mind Pendrell, I'd prefer to handle this myself. No offense, but I would like to see Scully live through this." "She's not going to," replied Pendrell bluntly. Mulder inhaled sharply, his form rigid and his eyes narrow and cold. "You're becoming a liability on this little trip, you know that?" he said menacingly. "She has less than thirty-six hours to live. I've gone through the database at the hospital. Over three hundred cases, not one survivor. Don't make me spell it out for you," replied Pendrell, his voice trembling, but without anger. "Or if I must...the word we are looking at here is *dead*. Do you understand that?" "Shut up," said Mulder, furiously. "Damn you. Is this some stupid revenge? Are you enjoying this? Because I swear, Pendrell..." "You can swear all you want, Agent Mulder. You can even hit me back if you like. But I'm not staying here alone with your wife. It's not my place. I'll stay here with you both if you want, but if either one of us is to make it out of here alive, then I suggest you let me go to the compound," he replied. "Coward," hissed Mulder. "You don't care about anything except your own skin, do you? I'm not surprised. You little..." "Who's the coward here?" Pendrell said, his voice filled with exhaustion, despair and fear. "No, don't look at me like that. Listen to me, for just one moment. Inside that room is someone you made a promise to." "A promise to protect," said Mulder, sharply. "But that time is past!" cried Pendrell, with surprising anger. And for one terrible moment, Mulder could see before him the haze of the destroyed FBI building, replete with the gaping wounds that destroyed not only cement and metal, but flesh and blood...hearts and souls. A wound that took a wife from her husband. "Now is the hard part. This is where you forsake all others, even yourself. Especially yourself," continued Pendrell, miserably. "When they put in the *until death do us part* section, they weren't kidding, Agent Mulder. You have to stay. Your own life is at stake here, whether you know it or not." "She's not going to die," said Mulder, shaking his head furiously. "They couldn't have set this loose without a plan. They do nothing without escape routes, secondary plans, they have ways...they always did." His voice faded slowly, as the reality began to sink in. "If there's anything to be found, I swear to you I'll find it," said Pendrell quietly, when he finally saw the defeat in Mulder's face. "And I swear I'll bring it back. But stay with her. Not only for her sake. For your own." Mulder put his hands to his head, as it began to ache cruelly. "That way you won't have to ask me what her last moments were like. Like the evening I was forced to ask you," whispered Pendrell, his voice shaking. After a long, silent pause, Mulder slowly handed Pendrell the car keys. The younger man took them with a sigh and walked over to the car. "Oh, and Pendrell?" called out Mulder, as he opened the door. "Yeah?" "I don't enjoy being hit. Not even by you," said Mulder, with only the slightest warning. Pendrell turned to face him. "Really? That's strange," he replied with a sigh, as he climbed inside the car. "I enjoyed it tremendously." ************** Part Three THE HARBOR VIEW FUNERAL HOME CHRYSOLYTE, TEXAS "Death is an elephant sitting on your dining room table," said the mortician. Alex Krycek bit down on the filter of the cigarette that carelessly dangled from his lower lip and watched as the ashes flickered through the smoke to the floor. He nodded enthusiastically at the elderly mortician sitting and smiling in front of him. "That's a very old saying, you know." The man who sat before Krycek was everything a mortician was supposed to be. Bone thin, pale, and terribly old. A veritable grim reaper in a very good black suit. "Do you know what that means, young man?" asked the mortician with a smile, cracking his knuckles, perhaps for effect. "No. Why don't you tell me?" asked Krycek smoothly, sliding down into the ancient leather chair. Nice chair. Have to get me one of these someday, he thought. "Death is a huge part of life, Mr., Mr . . . " began the mortician. "Krycek," he replied, not bothering using one of his many aliases. The mortician seemed pleased. "Krycek? Russian?" he asked pleasantly. "Whatever," replied Krycek, looking over and smiling at the woman to his left. A woman who was everything a dying person should be. Bone thin, pale, and terribly quiet. But yet... There was still life in Kathleen Pendrell's eyes. "Yes. As I was saying, death is a presence that's with us every moment. Looming before us, like an elephant sitting right in our living room. But we chose to ignore it and it can't be ignored, for it will rise and strike us at any moment...anywhere. Yet, we laugh, we dine, and all the while, death sits right besides us at all times." Krycek nodded again...understanding perfectly. "Yes, it could appear at any time, any second, and it seems we're never prepared for it," the mortician sighed. "There's so much trouble could be avoided if we only plan, yes, plan for that inevitability. For everything dies, Mr. Krycek." Krycek shook his head in complete commiseration. "So true. In fact, that's the reason why I'm here today. You see, my...my, uh, wife here," Krycek nodded toward Kathleen, his voice lowering to a whisper. "She's...well, let's put it like this. Dumbo's gonna be visiting her pretty soon. So we're here to, you know, get everything good and ready, maybe let her pick out a nice casket, look at the headstone, try out a pillow or two...you know." The mortician nodded with delight. "Oh, yes, I know." Krycek winked at him. "I'll bet you do." "Well, that's a very refreshing thing, I have to say. You and Mrs. Krycek have a very enlightened view of death," said the old mortician, smiling. "Very enlightened, indeed." "Hey, it's hip again," said Krycek, without the slightest trace of irony in his voice. "Every trend comes back you know. And what's trendier than death?" "Indeed," said the mortician, happier than a mortician had the right to look. "Indeed," said Krycek, pulling out a revolver from his jacket. "And guess what?" The mortician blinked at the sight of the gun. "You're going to be the height of fashion," said Krycek, as he aimed and pulled the trigger. As the bullet hit, there was only surprise in the mortician's eyes, as if he wasn't quite prepared for the impact, prepared for the inevitable. Even as he slumped forward, the blood merely dripping from the entrance wound, he looked confused. Not quite ready. Alex Krycek laughed out loud. "Guess our pal here wasn't much of a Boy Scout, huh? Be prepared. He didn't look that prepared to me." "Oh, well. Never could stand a hypocrite. Can you, sweetheart?" he asked with a smile. Kathleen Pendrell looked carefully at him. And slowly shook her head. *************** continued in THE REVELATION: Chapter Five: Death 2/2 All comments are very welcome. Send to Canny409@aol.com ***** THE REVELATION Chapter Five: Death (2/2) (All disclaimers in The Introduction) AN X-FILES FANFIC by CiCi Lean, 1998 canny409@aol.com *********************** Part Four *********************** "Tempus edax rerum." [Time. The devourer of all things.] - Ovid *************** WORMWOOD, TEXAS CANDLELIGHT MOTEL "Melissa?" "Scully, it's all right. I'm here. Even though I think I could help you more if I were out there. But we have to stay together now, don't we, Scully? That was always our problem, wasn't it? " "Mom? I told you it's all right. There is nothing that goes against nature, only our knowledge of it. I have no unrest. I'm fine." "Tell me it's better that I'm here. You'd rather have me here, wouldn't you, Scully? You want me to be here with you, don't you? Our separations are what always led to our defeat. That's the truth, isn't it?" "Melissa?" "I can't leave you, Scully. I never understood it before today. Never understood that it was always so much more important that we be together, stay together...and that protecting you was a fruitless endeavor if we were apart. But, Scully, I understand it now. Even in this terrible place, in this godforsaken room, I can see it. It took so long, but I see it now. I can only protect you with the truth...the reality of my presence." "I have no unrest." "My God. You're boiling hot. This damned fever..." "You killed my sister! You shot Melissa! I know the truth, now all I want are the answers. You shot my sister. I don't know how long I can follow you." "Scully...it's me, Mulder. Do you see me? Can you hear me? I know you're angry with me. With us. But all I ever wanted was your happiness, Scully. I thought this marriage, this life, would make you happy. But you aren't happy, are you? Because I've disappointed you. I've disappointed everyone. But I think we still have time, we can still make this work. Scully, do you hear me? Can you speak? Tell me you think we can work, be together once more." "I have to go to my sister." "Or have we just made a terrible mistake? Is this all a mistake?" "I HAVE NO UNREST!" "Scully..." "If Mulder dies because of what you've done, there is no one who will stop me from throwing the switch myself and gassing you out of this life for good, you son-of-a-bitch!" "Can you hear me?" "This is where the hope is." "Scully?" "And this is where it ends." *************** Part Five THE KINGDOM COME VALLEY FORT WORMWOOD, TEXAS "Are you a Godfearin' man?" Brian Pendrell thought long and hard before replying. Do I fear Him? He who made typhoid and the swan. He, who allowed slaughters in every nation far and wide since the dawn of time. Some, destined to create a burning, trembling, memory in every human soul, others, perhaps far greater, left to languish forgotten. Unknown forever. Do I fear Him? "Yes," answered Pendrell, honestly. "That's good," said the man with the hat and the gun. "Because we don't take in no one but those accepting of the fury of the Almighty." You also don't take in anyone who hands you less than a car and a trunkful of money, thought Pendrell bitterly, as he watched every item he brought in with him disappear into the depths of the militia compound. Why is it that the God I believe in is never short of cash, while everyone else's God is crying poverty? "You heard about the plague, didn't ya?" asked the man in the hat. He spat upon the ground in front of Pendrell and didn't wait for an answer. "It's the just punishment of the wicked, all full of their filthy ways, talking on the TV of sodomy and the Devil. Well, their time has finally come. Now only the righteous will be saved, brother." He spat again and lit another cigarette. "So are you seekin' salvation, brother?" he asked. "Is justice salvation?" asked Pendrell distractedly, trying to take in his surroundings as they walked, not really listening. "Yes, for only the just shall be saved." "Then that's exactly what I'm looking for," replied Pendrell, his heart skipping a beat as they passed a secured section of the compound, complete with satellite antennas and generators. This must be the communications center, he thought. This is where my answers are. This is where the truth is. But the man passed right by it and Pendrell was forced to follow. They walked toward a clapboard building. And Brian Pendrell heard the singing. "But the road to Salvation is a hard one, Brother Daniel," said the man, his eyes narrowing, becoming snakelike. Pendrell looked up at the mention of his alias. "You know, there once was a Daniel who walked into the lion's den," the man in the hat drawled, as they reached the house. The singing grew louder. "For four days and nights he lay there prayin' to God with all his soul that his life might be spared," he continued as they climbed the stairs. The man opened the door and Pendrell saw plastic chairs, a driftwood altar, a crucifix and a box. A box full of Mojave rattlesnakes. "And because of his faith, and only that faith, he was saved," said the man, as the snake Handler motioned them both forward... Toward the box. "Do you feel faithful today, Brother Daniel?" said the man to Pendrell slowly. He shut the door behind them. ************* Part Six WORMWOOD, TEXAS CANDLELIGHT, MOTEL "Six hundred and sixty-six..." Fox Mulder had counted the tiny ceiling tiles three times before losing his place and beginning again. He was on the double bed next to his wife, who lay glassy-eyed and still, her lips moving, but without making any sound. "Scully?" Mulder turned as he spoke and looked at her closely. The clotted blood had stopped seeping from her lips and the mindless screams of a few hours before had faded into memory, while only their echo remained. But, how white she was. Stark white against the redness of the fever's rash that snaked down her neck and arms. White against the bloodstained pillow and sheets. White against his trembling hand. Mulder held up the cup once more to her lips, but she no longer took the water offered to her... She no longer spoke. "I'm here, Scully," he whispered. "I know you can hear me. And even now you know me. You know that I love you. So very much." Mulder kissed her lips passionately and her blood left its mark on him. He pulled back and the tears bit at his eyes, but he refused to fall. He'd realized his grand mistake and his hubris in a single night, but it was one discovery that seemed much too little, much too late. //Many are called, few are ready.// His cell phone rang and he answered it. "Mulder." He ran his hand gently over his wife's cheek, and brushed away the water and the blood. "It's Pendrell." The whisper on the other end seemed worlds away. "How's the militia life?"replied Mulder, feeling the heat from Scully's forehead burn against his fingertips. "It's not for me," said Pendrell, trying to erase the memories of the singing, the madness and death that had left him shivering and sick. "Have you found anything?" Mulder asked, not expecting any good news. "Yes... well...I think I might have," whispered Pendrell, cautiously. "I found out that no one here is sick." "Good for them," replied Mulder, watching his wife's chest slowly rise and fall. He brushed another damp strand from her forehead. "And that the children have fresh inoculation marks." Mulder's resignation quickly turned into something more hopeful. A vague flash of sunrise over a very dark night. "Inoculation?" he asked slowly. "Yes. And I found what they've been injecting into them. I'm not sure it's for the plague, but if it was, it would explain why even the more intelligent ones around here are so damn confident that they won't be stricken." Pendrell held up a small vial containing a clear liquid and watched as it sparkled in the dim light. "God's little helper," whispered Mulder. "Precisely." "When can you get it here?" asked Mulder, turning around at the sound of Scully moaning. He saw the blood begin once again to drip from her mouth... Her ears. "Just as soon as I download these last two files and steal the car back," replied Pendrell over the phone, and Mulder could hear the tapping as his fingers flew over the computer keyboard. "They have an entire cache of information here on our friend Arntzen, just as we suspected." Behind Pendrell, the door to the computer room opened slowly...silently. "Pendrell, you have to get here now. If you have anything that we can treat Scully with, it has to be here soon. She's dying,...I see it. I see it in her face," said Mulder, and Pendrell could almost feel the wild desperation seeping through the receiver. "Will you come back with it? You have to promise me..." "I'll come back. Nothing will stop me," replied Pendrell, yanking the second disc from the drive. "I promise you both. I'll be there in less than an hour." "Thanks," Mulder breathed into the phone and Pendrell heard the receiver drop onto its handle. As Pendrell hung up his own phone, his blood ran cold as he heard the click and scrape of a door closing behind him. He reached for the service revolver in his jacket and prayed he'd remembered to remove the safety catch. The gun felt heavy, cold and unfamiliar in his shaking hand. "I was told you would come," said the voice behind him. Pendrell whirled around, gun outstretched and trembling, only to see the Handler standing in the doorway, his black gums grinning at him. "Yep, I was told you would come," the Handler repeated, as he walked over to a chair. "Mind if I sit? Man getting a might old to be standing around all day." The Handler groaned as he sat, scratched at a scab that hung bloodily from his chin and stretched loudly, oblivious to the gun that was pointed at his head. "Don't make me kill you," gasped Pendrell, his voice shaking as badly as the revolver in his hand. "I've never killed anyone before. Don't be the first." "Never killed anyone before, eh? Well, it's a helluva thing, killing someone that is. Never enjoyed it much myself," the Handler yawned, his mouth containing only empty space and blackened gums. "But I ain't afraid of dying." He paused. "There's things worse than death," he said thoughtfully. He popped his neck with another yawn. "Anyway, I was told you would come." "By whom?" "Does it make a difference?" "Yes." "Maybe Jesus told me." "I don't think He could be bothered having conversations with the likes of you." The Handler laughed loudly. "Now that's a good one. You know, the real joke here is that I don't believe in Jesus. Nope, never did. I used to read the gospel every day and every time He starts getting to that *other cheek* business, well, He just loses it for me. Now, don't get me wrong. I believe in Our Lord. Oh, yes. The great Lord Almighty, the Father of righteous vengeance. *I come not in peace, but with a sword.* Yep. Now, *that* I understand." "I'm sure you do," replied Pendrell, coldly. "But I'm not in the mood to discuss theology with you or anyone else right now. Who told you that I was coming here?" "Let's just say that I was told you'd come and who told me ain't of concern no more. I always believed that the message was more important than the messenger." "So did I," replied Pendrell quietly. "And I've got a message for you," said the Handler, grinning. With a quick toss from the Handler, a dull yellow envelope landed at Pendrell's feet. He regarded it curiously, fearfully, but didn't move toward it. The Handler leaned back and casually picked at his teeth. Slowly and carefully, without lowering his gun or his sights, Pendrell knelt to grasp the envelope and shook its contents blindly onto the floor. Only when he heard the clink of metal against the cement did he look down to see what it was. A wedding band. Plain, thick and golden, shining in the dull electric light. He picked up it and examined it curiously. It was an ordinary ring, one that you might find anywhere, except that inside of it was an inscription. A unique inscription. *Brian & Kathleen, 6/24/97* He blinked and read the next word that circled the interior of the band. *Eternity* "Oh." And immediately Pendrell looked sick, as though he had been struck across the face. He held up the wedding ring, slid it over his index finger and observed the lamplight reflected in its tiny ridges and swirls. He repeated the tiny, openmouthed sound. "Oh." Out of the envelope had also fallen a Polaroid photograph. When Pendrell looked once more he saw green eyes and black hair. Black hair that held silk and blue fire. And the world began to swim as he held the photo of his wife in one hand and the slim gold band in the other. A carousel ring of eternity waiting to be grasped. The Handler simply smiled his toothless grin. He tossed Pendrell a note and it fluttered down and landed face up upon the floor. *1212 Raglan Road, Highway 66. You have one hour.* There were no more words as Brian Pendrell ran for the door, gasping and retching in his haste. He threw the lock open and even as the Handler's laughter echoed past him, he ran. Down the rotted hallways, past the singers and the serpents. He had seen much more than he'd ever needed to and had realized a truth, perhaps the most awful one of all. He realized that the Handler was right. There were things worse than death. *********** Continued in: THE REVELATION Chapter Six: Salvation All comments are very welcome. Canny409@aol.com **** THE REVELATION Chapter Six: Salvation (1/3) (All disclaimers in The Introduction) AN X-FILES FANFIC by CiCi Lean, 1998 canny409@aol.com ************* "She will tell you the pain is gone. Soon she will be quite well again. All will be well again. Your home will be happy again. You will be like other boys," said the Witch. "Oh!" gasped Digory as if he had been hurt, and put his hand to his head. For he now knew that the most terrible choice lay before him... "The Magician's Nephew" C.S. Lewis ***************** Part One ***************** ROUTE 66 WORMWOOD, TEXAS "Gin!" The private threw down his hand in disgust as the corporal laughed. The cards fluttered down throughout the jolting army truck, in small waves of white and red, numbers and royalty flipping onto the floor. "That's three hands in a row, Jack," said the corporal, still laughing deeply. "Want to go for four?" "God, it's hot in this damn truck," grumbled another private, the one with a gleaming bald head. "Damn hot." "It's been hot in these parts way too long," replied another. "It's January, goddamn it." "Yep. Goddamn," said yet another soldier. "Naw, I ain't goin' for four. I'm sick of this," Jack said to the corporal, sliding what remained of his losing hand across the ammunition box. "Where we going anyhows? This ride has been damn long." "Too damn long," muttered the private with the bald head. "We's headed into Wormwood, weren't you payin' no mind to the commander?" said the corporal, shaking his head. "You jackasses better be on the up and up when we gets there, is all I'm sayin'." "We ain't gettin' nowhere...been stuck in this truck ten goddamn hours." "Hey. Hey now," yelled a soldier from the back of the truck. "Check it out! Maury done here got a picture of his baby boy yesterday morning. Check it out, y'all." A thin, blushing soldier pulled a small snapshot from his wallet and handed it to the soldier next to him, who, in turn passed it down the line. "This ain't Maury's kid. Look how good lookin' he is." "Fine boy there, Maury. Congratulations." "Ain't he a little soldier. Man, look at those hands and feet. I tell you, when that boy get old enough, he'll kick his old man's ass." "Aww, he could do it now." Loud laughter emanated throughout the truck as it ground to a halt. The men immediately straightened out and grabbed their equipment. The back door was folded down and one by one, in orderly formation, they exited and lined up. "Fall in!!" The commander was an impressive figure, perfectly pressed, immaculate and straight backed...a leader in every way. His medals, his shoes, even his sunglasses, shone in the dull January sunlight. He examined the assembled troops carefully for a moment, and then, began to speak to them in loud, inspiring tones. "Men, your mission here is simple. You are to block all entrances and exits to the three townships of Wormwood, Chrysolyte and Harbor View. No one is to enter or leave. After the roads are secured, you're then to neutralize the population of all three townships, down to the last civilian man, woman and child, without regard to age or gender." The soldiers stood straight, listening without emotion, but the private named Jack felt the color drain from his face. "Neutralize the population, sir?" he gasped, wondering if his sense hearing had deserted him. The commander turned upon him sharply "Which word was it exactly that you didn't understand, Private? Which part of this order don't you comprehend? Tell me, Private." "Sir. I understand it completely. Sir." "Good. I'm glad to hear it." "Sir. Yes, sir." "Fall out!" the commander cried. "And may God be with you." The soldiers did as they were told, with white hands clutched tightly around their rifles. At first, they drifted off slowly, and then began to jog, almost as one creature, toward the town proper, their boots hitting the dirt in a synchronized, trotting rhythm and their faces now hidden underneath blank, protective masks. The commander watched as they grew smaller in the distance. He turned to his assistant. "Be sure Black Ops is ready with their strike. After the civilian population is taken care of, I don't want any of these soldiers taking to the hills once they find out that they aren't going to be returning to duty, or to anything else for that matter." "Yes, sir," replied the assistant, in the clever, but submissive tones that assistants have used throughout the centuries. "A soldier's life is a hard one," said the commander, lighting a cigar. "The sacrifice is great. Those were brave men. Every one of them, giving their own lives for the greater good. A monument is waiting for them in Washington already, you know." "Really, sir?" The commander sniffed and pulled a tiny, wayward black thread from one of his medals. "Certainly. We'll be wheeling it out, oh, I suppose next Memorial Day. That would be good. What do you think?" "Capital idea, sir." "Yes. Such brave men. Every one of them," sighed the commander, as the last soldier faded in the distance. "Indeed, sir." With that fine sentiment, the commander turned around and headed toward his private car, his job here now done. The car door was opened for him, and as he stepped inside and sat, he noticed a small piece of brightly colored paper stuck to his foot. As the vehicle roared off, the commander picked it up and examined it. It was a playing card. The King of Hearts. The commander examined it for another moment and then tossed it out the passenger side window. The card flew back, toward the town, sailing on a strange wind that kept it aloft as he drove onward. "Such brave men," he repeated, as the card spun higher and higher, appearing to hit the clouds themselves, until finally, it disappeared, straight into the bright blue sky. *************** Part Two CANDLELIGHT MOTEL WORMWOOD, TEXAS Toward the end of her life, Dana Scully's lucidity had returned to her. It had been thirty hours since she first had shown the signs of infection and the stages of fever and madness had relentlessly passed. But now, as the dawn rose upon her illness, her eyes cleared, and they became sharp and sensible once more. "I'm going to die," she said when Mulder brought the ice back. The bucket fell from his hands. He crawled into the bed next to her and took her face in his hands, a white and thin heart between his fingers. "No, you're not. Pendrell's found something. He's on his way here with it now, Dana. You're not going to die. You're going to live. You have to keep repeating that," he whispered and kissed her forehead. "No Mulder, I'm going to die. We all are, some of us just sooner than others," she said, her eyes a bright, blue flame. "And I want to talk to you before I do. About us." "Scully..." Mulder began, alarmed at her alacrity. "No, Mulder, listen. When we...you and I were married, I made a terrible mistake." Mulder paled and looked away. "I could have told you that." "Please listen to me, Mulder. What I'm saying is that I did you a grave injustice through my own selfish error in allowing you to marry me. This is my fault and my fault entirely. I'm just realizing that now." Mulder looked confused. "Scully, I'm the one who was always running off, searching, not being there for you when you might need me. I'm the one who refused to compromise." "You couldn't compromise who you are, Mulder. And my refusal to accept that fact, along with my own rigid and foolish sense of what was appropriate, what was *required* to lead a full life, led to the sad situation you and I found ourselves in these past few months. "You thought that you *had* to marry me?" "No, I thought that our marriage in itself was something that was expected of me. Something I'd expected of myself. That life's natural course was to fall in love, to marry and to, somehow, have children, when what I should have realized that if you have love, all the rest is only smoke and shadow." "But now, now that I'm dying, I realized that I've failed you. Failed to recognize, love, and respect that core that is you, and I wanted to change you, relentlessly pushing you toward what I felt you should be, how you should act, even toward what you should believe. I was wrong, Mulder, and I apologize." "No, It's my fault, Scully...you see," began Mulder weakly, but Scully put her finger against his lips, silencing him. "No. I'm the one who's failed you, Mulder," said Scully, sadly tracing a finger across his jaw. "And I'm sorry that it's taken all this to make me see it. I'm also sorry that I'm going to die before I have the chance to try and make the proper amends to you." Trembling in every bone, Mulder looked at her. "You're going to live, Scully. And we're going to work this out. What exists as you and as me, as us...will all be saved. Saved together." Scully stared at him, her vision beginning to cloud over once more. "Really? Do you really think I'll live?" she asked, a tiny trickle of blood seeping from her lips. Mulder wiped it away, put his lips against hers and kissed her with a terrible love. "Yes. I do." "*Well. Then, *if* I live, Mulder," she began, the clearness and light starting to slip away once more, her eyes turning into dark pools of feverish clouds. "If I live, Mulder..." "Yes?" "I think we should still get the separation." ************** Part Three 1212 RAGLAN ROAD ROUTE 66 Brian Pendrell sat perfectly still. It was a good idea, for when you don't want anyone to know how frightened you are, it's best to sit motionless and silent, and wait until the fear abates somewhat. But the fear was refusing to diminish, and so he sat very quietly, trying hard to breathe lightly and keep an absolutely tranquil appearance All this had started out well enough. He'd driven there like a madman, not stopping until he'd reached the address on the paper, not stopping until he'd seen the house with the green shutters, the house far away, down a hill, with a smooth path and open gates. He'd entered running...tearing and slamming things in his wake, calling out his wife's name as he ran, until he'd noticed how hushed and dead and black the halls were and he'd slowly become silent with them. When Pendrell entered the room with the red drapes, *he'd* been waiting for him. "How do you do?" the smoker asked politely. And now, Brian Pendrell sat in a chair and wondered how the hell he had gotten into such a mess. A tiny voice, filled with anger and self-pity whined through him and he thought terrible, awful, murderous thoughts and silently enjoyed every one of them. Oh, how he hated Mulder and how sincerely he wished that Scully had died before he'd left on this stupid charade. He wished he'd never met either one of them, wished they'd never crossed his formerly calm and comfortable path. He even wished that he'd never met the woman in the photograph that sat in his pocket; the one with the blank eyes and delicate hands that were folded neatly upon her lap. He wished he were dead, but knew that death didn't come for the asking. So, Pendrell simply sat and concentrated on being perfectly quiet. All the courage and resolve he'd displayed just a few hours before had left his features. He finally looked like what he was. A lab technician. A lab technician that was frightened out of his mind. The saying was true. A man is dangerous only when he has nothing left to lose. Once his wife was shown to be alive, to possibly be obtained, Pendrell had ceased to be dangerous. The man in front of him knew this. "You look like someone who's been in the desert awhile," said the smoker, with a strange, soft compassion, and the tiniest hint of a smile. "You look hungry. I can get you something to eat. Are you hungry?" I am dying of hunger, Pendrell thought, but said nothing. "I mean you look starved, really. But you have to tell me. Do you want me to get you some food?" Slowly, Pendrell shook his head, and the smoker sighed, a sweet, hushed sound. "We've had our eye on you, you know. You're an intelligent man, Mr. Pendrell. A highly intelligent man." "I'd like to see my wife please," said Pendrell, his voice cracking through dry lips. The smoker shook his head, his voice roughened silk. "I'm very sorry, I'm afraid I can't do that. I don't have access to her. But, don't despair yet. There are options in this situation, as in any other." "Such as?" asked Pendrell, his knee jumping convulsively. "I know that you are currently in possession of the immunization serum from the militia compound," began the smoker. "And I think you are intelligent and inventive enough to learn how to use it for certain purposes, perhaps ones it was not meant for." "I'm very interested in how a scientist like yourself would utilize this serum for these purposes and would find this information more than valuable. Therefore, I'm willing to trade my resources to assist in the retrieval of your wife, if you would consent to abandon your current course and share your knowledge with me." "I can't do that. I've made a promise," replied Pendrell miserably. "A promise?" asked the smoker carefully. "A promise? To whom? To Agents Mulder and Scully?" Pendrell didn't reply, but his knee shook harder and his face grew whiter. "I see. Mr. Pendrell, please tell me just one thing. What have *they* ever done for *you*? asked the smoker, his voice softer and sweeter than warm honey. Pendrell's mouth opened, then closed and he began to breathe harshly. "That's not the point," he said wretchedly. The smoker merely smiled. "But, that's exactly the point, Mr. Pendrell. Now, please, think of your dear wife, this woman that you claim to love. I can make no promises, but there might still be a chance to retrieve her. And yet, you would still give away that hope, as slim as it might be, for two people whom you owe nothing to." "Well...I," stuttered Pendrell, his hands beginning to tremble violently. The smoker's eyes turned snakelike, narrow and sharp. "Please. I just want you to think of it. Imagine, you and your wife together, happy once more. She will look at you with gratitude in her eyes and you'll have her in your bed once more, loving and content. You and she will live a normal, happy life and all this pain will be forgotten. Think of it, Mr. Pendrell." "Oh," whispered Pendrell, holding his hands to his head as if he were in pain. "Oh." "And all this can be obtained with a single word. Come, Mr. Pendrell, put away these foolish ideals, and assist me. You won't regret it." "Well," said Pendrell hopefully, suddenly seeing bread, water and cities of gold. "Well, I... maybe...might be able to...perhaps, I can work out something with you." The smoker's continued, smiling. "Of course you can. And after we've concluded our business, you could even go back to work, yes, go back to the Bureau and Skinner will never have to know. Why, not even your wife would ever have to know what had happened here. You can easily make up some story to tell her. " At this, Pendrell's head snapped up and his eyes narrowed, turning clear and sharp. "You think that I should lie to my wife?" The smoker was struck silent. "And not tell her that I lied, stole and virtually murdered to get her back? And not accept the consequences of such a confession?" The smoker still said nothing. For, sometimes... Even the Devil makes mistakes. Pendrell rose, flushed and enraged. "Well, that's very interesting. You know, the more I think about this, the more confused I am. Can you please tell me exactly when you became so concerned about me? Where all this wonderful benevolence is coming from?" The smoker lit another cigarette...silently. "I thought so," spat Pendrell, rising and backing out of the room, his hands shaking very badly. "I'm very sorry, but I don't think any deal between us would be beneficial, no...not to either one of us." "The selfish choice is always the best one, Mr. Pendrell. You're making a grievous error," said the smoker, looking up through his lighter's flame. But he was talking to an empty room. And as the smoker stood, in the dark room with the red drapes, he heard a car's engine outside, starting loudly...and then fade in the distance. ********* continued in THE REVELATION Chapter Six: Salvation (2/3) All comments are very welcome. Send to xapen@aol.com or canny409@aol.com **** THE REVELATION Chapter Six: Salvation (2/3) (All disclaimers in The Introduction) AN X-FILES FANFIC by CiCi Lean, 1998 canny409@aol.com *********************** Part Four *********************** CANDLELIGHT MOTEL WORMWOOD, TEXAS Fox Mulder lay next to his wife, his fingers tightly entwined with her pale ones, thinking of many things. Moments shared, moments lost and every possible future together, some of them stretching all the way to the grave, where they would lay once more, side by side, with tombstones entwined instead of fingers. He thought about the remains of a man and a woman found in the ruins of Pompeii, their huddled shadows discovered underneath a thousand years of ash and fire, a tiny baby between them. Without thought, Mulder turned and crawled into Scully's unconscious, bloodied embrace and found comfort there, even in the face of death. This is where I belong, he thought. No matter what the future holds. And so he lay, silently, until he heard the insistent rapping at the motel room door. Mulder jumped up, grabbed his gun and slowly opened the it. "I've come," said Pendrell, holding a small brown bag in shaking hands. Mulder yanked Pendrell inside the motel room and grabbed the bag. "Christ, what took you so long?" he asked, frantically dumping its contents onto the night table. He sorted through them furiously, and cried out when he saw the vial. "Is this it?" Pendrell nodded and took it from his hand. "I'm going to start the drip," he said, going to Scully's bedside and slowly removing some tubing from her medical bag. "The disks are in there too. They might be of some use." Mulder sorted through the pile and found them, two black squares of hope. He picked up a small gold band and wondered at it. Palming it, he found a worn Polaroid photograph and there, in muted colors, Fox Mulder saw Kathleen O'Neill's worn and pale face. Mulder gasped and turned to Pendrell, with horror in his eyes. "Where did you get this? Who gave this to you?" he demanded, the photograph shaking in his hand. Pendrell shrugged. "Your friend, the smoker. He didn't want me to return here. But that's all irrelevant now." "But...but...she lives?" whispered Mulder, nearly choking. "She lives?" "Perhaps, but don't make any assumptions." Pendrell glanced at him vaguely. "Agent Mulder, please understand. I'm a coward. Therefore, any choice I made was easier than you might have imagined." Mulder squeezed the tiny gold band tightly and felt it bite into his palm. "I hope this works," sighed Pendrell, as he inserted the needle into a slim vein in Scully's right hand. "I'd hate to think that I died for nothing." Mulder didn't comment on Pendrell's odd choice of words, but continued to stare at the photograph. "I'm going to look at the disks," said Mulder abruptly, putting the ring down. "Aren't you curious to see what happens here? asked Pendrell, slowly sinking into the chair next to Scully's bed, gently pushing a damp lock of hair out of her eyes. Mulder booted up the laptop and opened the first disk. "I know what's going to happen there." "And that is?" "She's going to live. And so are we." ************************** Part Six CANDLELIGHT MOTEL WORMWOOD, TEXAS It was nearly dawn before they spoke again. "Jesus Christ," muttered Mulder under his breath, as he stared at the laptop screen. "You found something on Krycek?" asked Pendrell, mindlessly watching the IV drip, listening to Scully's steady breathing. "No," replied Mulder, cracking his knuckles furiously. "But I found something on Arntzen." Pendrell turned to look at him. "How can that be possible?" "Because Krycek isn't Arntzen." "What? Who is Arntzen then?" "It's the smoker," hissed Mulder, enraged. "It's been him all along. His name is Vladmir Arntzen, and he's been working as a spy for the Russians for the past thirty-five years, maybe longer. Under their direction, he's organized the militia movement, creating his own army in the process. He's a double agent, a traitor not only to this country, but to the blasted Consortium as well." Pendrell swallowed harshly, but said nothing. "He was sent here. Sent to create and establish a second civil war within the United States. That's been his plan all along. To organize the militia movement with propaganda and stolen weapons. Oh, he's a patriot all right, but not for this country. He's started the new Civil War, continuing the Cold War that's never ended, right here. Everything. The plague is a ruse to start the conflict, terrifying and thinning any resisting population. Militia members have all received inoculations for it." "It's a New World Order. Not for the U.S., not for the Consortium, but for himself," finished Mulder, his cheek twitching with fury. //Oh, lies underneath lies, deceptions within deceptions.// Pendrell wiped a thin sheen of sweat from Scully's forehead with unsteady fingers. "You know, I heard gunfire...saw soldiers, on the way over here. Perhaps his war has already begun. I know those militia boys were gearing up for something big." "Then we'll have to get the hell out here and fast. Look, I think we can use this information for a safe passage out of here," said Mulder, yanking on his jacket. "I'm going to go and have a talk with our Russian friend. And you *are* staying here this time, Pendrell, no ands, ifs, or buts about it." Mulder affectionately grasped the shoulder of the man in beside him. "So don't make me punch you in the face," he said kindly. "Now, keep an eye on Dana and I'll be back soon." Pendrell gaped at him. "But we don't know if she'll...she'll be..." "Yes, we do," said a soft female voice behind them. They both whirled around and looked at Scully, at blue eyes that were clear and open, with the color having returned to her cheeks. "She lives," he whispered joyfully to Mulder, who merely nodded in reply. "Of course she does," said Mulder, walking over and pulling his wife into a long embrace, her head tucked in against his shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Of course she does." ******************** Part Seven 1212 RAGLAN ROAD 66 ROUTE 66 "You're a prince among liars, Vlad." The smoker jumped at the sound of his name, his real name. He whirled around pale, with wide eyes, until he saw Mulder's figure silhouetted in the doorway. The smoker's demeanor immediately relaxed, for he felt knew this man, and knew exactly how to handle him. Besides, he had alternative plans. "Nice place. And I always thought Russia was an impoverished nation," said Mulder, tossing himself into a chair and placing his feet up on the antique cherry wood table in front of him. "I don't know what you're talking about, Mulder," replied the smoker casually. "But since you usually don't know what you're talking about, I'm not that surprised." "Vlad, what do the words *high treason* mean to you? Of course, the punishment doled out by our pathetic legal system might be preferable to what awaits you when your well-manicured buddies discover the charade you've been pulling on them for the past forty years. I think the evidence in my possession will be enough to clearly prove your menace to their beloved Project." But the smoker merely smiled in reply. "My, my. You are as resourceful as always, *Fox*. But since you're here, and not rushing back to your dreary subterranean office to orchestrate my downfall, I can only assume that there's a deal to be worked out here. I think you want to trade your information for something. Am I correct?" "Correct," replied Mulder, his eyes sharp. "Well, my friends in New York don't believe in deals, Mr. Mulder," said the smoker, leaning back and tapping a long ash from his cigarette. "But I personally find them a wonderful tool. Now, let me guess what you want in return for your evidence pertaining to my treasonous duplicity. A real UFO, gift-wrapped perhaps? "No." "Ah, your beloved sister. Is that it, Mulder? Do you want to know her current whereabouts?" asked the smoker with a smile. Mulder's cheek twitched. "No," he whispered. The smoker's face took on an astonished air. "Well, what is it you -do- want, Mulder? If it isn't one of those things, I can't imagine what it would be." "I want Agent Kathleen O'Neill," replied Mulder, his hands trembling. "I know she's alive and you know where she is. Give her to me, to Pendrell...and the evidence in my possession is yours." "Such an unselfish gesture, Mr. Mulder. You're full of surprises this evening." "I want you to listen to me carefully. I have enough information here on these two disks to make your life more than miserable. Give me her whereabouts and you get the disks." "Very good. But, are you sure that's what you want?" "This is no longer a question of what I want." The smoker smiled his snake smile. "I understand perfectly. But you do realize that the selfish choice is always the better one, don't you?" Mulder said nothing. Once more, the smoker lifted his cigarette between stained fingers and smiled. "You may find Agent O'Neill at the Chyrsolyte Funeral Home, and yes, she is alive. You might want to stay off of the main roads however, there seems to be a bit of an altercation going on between the local populace and your beloved government. I'd be careful if I were you. You know how difficult these country people can be when threatened." Mulder tossed the disks down, and stalked out without looking back. When he was gone, the smoker pulled out his cel phone and Krycek's voice could be heard on the other end, replying in dulcet tones. "They're on their way. You know what to do." **************** continued in THE REVELATION Chapter Six: Salvation (3/3) All comments are very welcome canny409@aol.com **** THE REVELATION Chapter Six: Salvation (3/3) (All disclaimers in The Introduction) AN X-FILES FANFIC by CiCi Lean, 1998 xapen@aol.com canny409@aol.com *********************** Part Eight *********************** "Uncertain mastery of melting armies War, plague, and revolution New conspiracies, broken pacts; To be master or servant within an hour This is the course of temporal power." -T.S. Eliot Murder in the Cathedral ************* THE CHRYSOLYTE FUNERAL HOME WORMWOOD, TEXAS She refused to be still. And it was beginning to drive Alex Krycek insane. No amount of drugs, no threats, would silence her. She was ranting now, loudly, like the woman on the school bus corner he remembered from his youth, a twitching, shaking, air-punching object of derision, her hands fluttering like a pair wild birds at her sides. "It has come!" she cried. "They've heard the horn! The Lamb has called them to the Lion's feast! It has come!" Her words made no sense, they'd become a buzz in the back of his mind hours before, but, like any maddening sound, it was growing impossible to ignore. Her voice fell to a whisper. "The door is closing...it is nearly shut. There are flames advancing to devour the mother. The mother of harlots and abominations." Oh, just to be able to kill her now. "Shut up," he snarled. "Just shut up..." "The dragon shall be laid hold upon, bound for a thousand years." With a furious motion, Krycek slapped her across the face, impossibly hard, the crack of his hand resounding throughout the room and the red blood splattering from her mouth, dripping down onto her chin. "I told you to shut the fuck up," he gasped, close to the edge. But she refused to quiet. "Babylon is fallen, is fallen, is fallen that great city," she chanted, as if singing a song from a child's play. "Babylon is fallen, is fallen, is fallen..." He hit her again, this time with a closed fist, a blow hard enough to break bone. But still, she sang. "Is fallen, is fallen, is fallen." The blood now streamed from her nose and lips, staining her clothing down to her waist. Finally, Krycek decided he had to kill her. He'd figure out another way to lure them down here, Mulder and the two idiots that were with him. But no more of this. He'd had quite enough. Two long strides took him to the far corner and with a jerk of his hook, he tore open a cremation oven door. The blast of heat threw him back, burning his face red. Krycek turned with fury toward the singing woman, the flames licking at his back. "Hey, I need to see you over here. Just come to me, because you and I have to have a talk. Come on, honey, just step over here." Her singing stopped. She looked at him curiously for a moment, and then nodded in smiling agreement. Slowly, with shy, dancing steps she walked up to him, and he held out his single arm, ready to usher her into the fire and silence all prophecy...forever. But that was not to be. For, with a strength worthy of angels, Kathleen O'Neill raised her hands before her... And shoved Alexander Krycek straight into the cremation oven. He didn't burn immediately, for a moment he simply lie among the blue and white flames as one would lay in a field of flowers or a soft bed. But soon, the screams, the smells...the devouring, began, as he was enveloped in a furious red fire, a demon's tongue of flame. "Babylon is fallen" was the whisper heard beneath the very loud, but very short, screams. "Is fallen, is fallen, is fallen." With a curious expression, the blood-covered woman picked up the gun that had fallen from Krycek's jacket. She smiled at it's smooth surface, its perfect poetry of destruction. "Is fallen," she said to it, as if she expected the gun to answer with a song of its own. ********* Part Nine Brian Pendrell stared for a long time at the outside of the funeral home, debating its black exterior and still wishing that he hadn't made this far into life. "I'll go in alone," he said with resignation to Mulder. They were sitting in the old Ford he'd stolen from the militia compound, with Scully strapped into the passenger seat, pale, but certainly alive and alert. "No use in all of us getting killed if it's a trap," he sighed. To his vague surprise, Mulder nodded in agreement. Maybe this was something that he *had* to do alone, even if he didn't want to. So, with silent steps he left the car and entered the funeral home, no longer fearful, but starving still. Without a backwards glance, he walked past the corpse of the mortician, past the caskets, down the stairs to the ovens as if he knew exactly what awaited him. His destiny...his fate, all bound up in what stood before him when he opened the basement door. A woman covered in blood, holding a gun in her hand. "How do you do?" said his wife politely. For some strange reason, Brian Pendrell no longer felt his hunger. "I'm afraid I have a small problem here," she continued mindlessly, the blood drying and cracking upon her chin and shirt front, her voice small and fragile. "I certainly hope you can help me." "I'll try," he whispered, his eyes watering, filled with tears, thin smoke, and his nostrils burning with the sour stench of burnt flesh. "My wedding ring," she continued, running a sore-covered hand through tangled, matted hair, sweetly, as if putting the final touches upon the coverings of a white veil. "My wedding ring is missing. Someone has taken it from me, and I'd like it returned, if you don't mind." The gun shook in her hand and her face was sheet white, with a single twitching cheek. Her eyes held no recognition of the man in front of her, just blankness, a singular madness and a strange, placid calm. She cocked the trigger with a smooth motion and trained it upon his chest. "Now. If you don't mind." He shook his head, barely able to see her through his tears. "No, I don't mind. I have it. I have it right here, as a matter of fact." Pendrell pulled the gold band from his pocket and held it up for her to see. O'Neill looked at it, its shine, its perfect circular glow, and daintily, she held out her left hand to him, as if in offering. With red-rimmed eyes, he walked up to her and slid it onto her bruised and battered finger, taking care not to further hurt the ripped skin underneath. When it was placed firmly, O'Neill stared at it, holding her hand up to the light to examine it, and then, without warning, the gun in she held clattered to the ground. She lurched toward her husband...crumbling; the madness leaving her features. "Brian?" she asked with a trembling mouth as the light of consciousness left her eyes and he held out his arms, catching her as she fell. As the wind catches a leaf. ************* Part Ten ROUTE 66 WORMWOOD, TEXAS "The back roads are blocked. We have to go overland." Fox Mulder drove the car like a madman, a core of sanity and life, surrounded by three passengers who were either mad, wounded or both. He didn't confer with them, not even Pendrell, who was no longer brave or strong, but barely able to hold a single, trembling hand over his wife's eyes, as if trying to spare her the sights that frightened him so. Mulder simply drove the car as he'd always driven himself, completely possessed with a single goal in mind. To save them all from the Apocalypse that surrounded them. Houses were in flames, the air was filled with gun smoke and he could see the vultures begin their circular flight far overhead. The militia groups had the hills, the government soldiers took the vast fields and the war had truly begun. Abandoning the dirt road, Mulder floored the gas and hit the tall grasses, bounding and bouncing over rocks, shrubs and dead bodies. As the car hurtled violently over a small hill, he felt Scully clutch his arm tightly. Glancing over at her, he saw her face was set with a determination as grim as own, a pale white strength, and it bled into his soul, making him strangely fearless. He hit the pedal harder, nearly standing in the driver's seat, the wheel fighting him as the dark scenery flew by. Mulder had no idea exactly where they were headed, he just knew that he wanted to get away, far away from the explosions and screams that were still echoing behind them. North...I have to go north. North to Houston...north to home. I have to get us home, Mulder thought desperately, as the car's engine began to smoke and rattle. There's no place like home, he chanted silently. No place like home. No place like home. "Shit," he cursed under his breath, as the gas needle began to falter toward the red zone and the engine smoke thickened over the windshield. The car slowed, then ground to a sputtering halt in the middle of a vast field. Mulder unhooked Scully's seat belt, jumped from the car and helped her out. "Come on," he yelled into the back seat, over the sounds of gunfire that were growing louder by the second. "Come on...come on!" "But I...don't...think," stuttered Pendrell, white with shock. Mulder ran over, pulled open the back door and snatching at clothing, hair even, he yanked Pendrell and his wife from the car. "I don't give a shit what you think, get out! Move it," he cried. "Come on. There's shelter somewhere around here." Without another word, he took Scully's hand tightly and the four began to run, at an impossible pace, through the field. It was burnt brown with winter and war, the red stains of soldier's blood still spotting the dirt. Mulder heard Scully sharply gasping for air behind him, felt the tug upon his hand as she began to lag. "Come on, Scully," he yelled back, without turning around. The gunfire was becoming deafening around them. "I can't, Mulder...I can't," she cried out over the noise. "You go on, I can't do it." "Come on, Scully. I know you can do it," Mulder yelled in response, his legs churning mindlessly beneath him. "I know you can do it, because I refuse Scully...I refuse..." A new noise began to filter in through the gunfire. "Refuse? What do you refuse?" gasped Scully, still struggling as she ran, but less so than a moment before. It was a whirling mechanical noise, chopping through the air. "I refuse, Scully! I refuse to let us fall!" cried Mulder, slowing down as the source of the noise came into view before him. It was a helicopter. Mulder came to a breathless stop, panting for air, pulling Scully to his chest, as the helicopter landed directly in front of them. Scully buried her head in Mulder's chest as the air around them became a whirlwind of dirt and smoke. He stared at the chopper, amazed at the sight of the side door opening and a familiar face peering back at him. "Come quickly, Mr. Mulder," yelled the white-haired man over the helicopter's blades. "You have to hurry, this place is going to hell at this very moment." Mulder gaped and clutched Scully tighter. He peered down at her, then looked back and saw Pendrell and O'Neill stumbling up from behind. Mutely, he nodded at the white-haired man, and led Scully toward the chopper. He lifted her aboard and then helped Pendrell and his wife up. Without a backwards glance, he jumped inside, and heard the door slam closed, shutting out the guns, the smoke and the screams below them. Breathing harshly, Mulder closed his eyes for a moment, and then turned to look around at his wife and his companions, until his gaze came to rest squarely on the white-haired man "Did you find out his name, Mr. Mulder?" the white-haired man asked, his eyes dull with rage. Mulder stared at him for a long moment, as the ground flew by beneath them and Scully rested her head against his shoulder. "Yes," he replied quietly. "His name is Vladmir. Vladmir Arntzen." And the white-haired man merely smiled. ******** 1212 BERYL LANE ROUTE 66 The Handler entered the dark, red room silently, cringing with fear, nearly scraping and bowing even before the smoker turned around to look at him. "They's gone, I think," whispered the Handler, his voice hoarse and shaking. The smoker said nothing as he lit another cigarette. "I think they's all gone," the Handler repeated in the same terrified monotone. "And my boys ain't doing so good out there. There's strange tales coming in from the fields. They saw something they says, saw flames shooting from the sun, then two suns in the sky whirling around in circles, then bleeding, filling the sky up with red. They says even the government soldiers stopped fighting to look at the sight." "Then they says that men, tall and bright as no man they'd ever seen before, carryin' terrible swords, swords made of fire. They had faces of gold, the men says, and they was awful to look at. I told them that it was bullshit, that it was all bullshit, but they's insistin' that something's going on out there. They's refusing to fight." The smoker remained silent. The Handler bit his lip, scraping his black gums along its dryness. "I thought if I'd come here, you could straighten this out. Tell them they was just seein' things, that there was nothin' to it. You can tell them that, can't you? Because there ain't nothing to it, is there? I mean, you don't believe what they're saying, do you? You don't believe it now do you?" The cigarette fell from the smoker's hand...with ash and fire tumbling to the ground as he spoke. "Of course I believe it," he replied, as the sky darkened red over Wormwood. "Of course I do." ********** continued in THE REVELATION Epilogue: The Fall Of The Seven All comments are very welcome. xapen@aol.com canny409@aol.com **** THE REVELATION - EPILOGUE The Fall of The Seven *********** All seven and we will watch them fall... I saw an angel come down unto me In her hand she holds the very key Words of compassion, words of peace And in the distance, an army's marching feet But behold, we will watch them fall There will be a plague and a river of blood There will be Seven tears, but do not fear In the distance, twelve souls from now You and I will still be here. We will still be here. There will be no death, for with every breath A voice of many colors will sing a song that is so old We will be singing, while we watch them fall. "7" by P. Nelson ******** NY1837 ------------------- 3/29/98: 19:12PM Associated Press - BJT URGENT -- Soviet Spy Sentenced To Death Houston, (TX) -- After deliberating for less than three hours, a Texas jury today sentenced Vladmir Arntzen, convicted traitor and mastermind behind the deadly Wormwood Rebellion, to death by electrocution. Arntzen sat stone faced as the sentence was read, while his co-defendants looked visibly shaken. Arntzen was tried together with his fellow conspirators, the Kingdom Eight, who escaped the death penalty and received, instead, sentences of life in prison without possibility of parole. The rebellion, along with the preceding intentional infection of the Wormwood populace with the deadly bacteria Pestis B, left six hundred and sixty-six civilians and ninety National Guardsmen and Marines dead. The ensuing battle between members of the Kingdom Come Valley Militia and government forces left another five hundred dead in its wake. Following the end of hostilities, Arntzen was almost immediately named as the mastermind behind the rebellion and was arrested in Welzow, Germany, two weeks later. After the sentence was read, the presiding judge, Crafton Stands, immediately set the date of the execution for two weeks hence, on Saturday, April 14th at midnight. According to his lawyers, Arntzen does not plan on appealing the verdict or the sentencing. (AP will update in 10 minutes....) ******** CONFIDENTIAL: EYES ONLY To: Walter Skinner, Assistant Director From: SAC Fox Mulder - X-Files Division Re: Case X-82348/B Sir: Thank you for your quick response to my previous memo. Attached you will find the revised and final account of the Wormwood investigation as conducted by myself, SA Dana Scully and SA Brian Pendrell. While some serious questions remain unanswered, the attached findings should be clear documentation of the traitorous duplicity of Vladmir Arntzen, formerly referred to as "The Smoker," and his involvement in what's now being referred to as "The Wormwood Rebellion." I hope this will be acceptable to The Director, and to the Federal Prosecutor, as a permanent record of the pertinent facts in regards to this incident. Please convey to Texas Governor Wilkes that I am not interested in witnessing Arntzen's execution as has been offered. I believe I've witnessed enough incidental death in this lifetime. I have no need to seek it out. Note that also attached is a commendation for inclusion in the personnel file of SA Brian Pendrell, who showed extreme efficiency and courage in the face of an overwhelmingly stressful situation. I hope you will approve this commendation, as it well deserved. I have approved outright his request for extension of his personal leave in the wake of his wife's recovery, as I assumed would be appropriate in my role as SAC. I appreciate your personal inquiry into Agent Scully's health. She has recovered fully from her infection with the Pestis B bacteria and, I believe, is ready to start working again. This is ultimately at your discretion, but I am being frank when I say I see nothing to keep you from reinstating her to full time work. That investigation being concluded, I am asking you, sir, for permission to further investigate the residual Wormwood phenomenon, as was reported by the surviving soldiers, in the aftermath of the rebellion. Reports of distinct and previously unknown aerial phenomena, astral occurrences and what might be, or might not be, coinciding mass hallucinations of unheard of proportions. I await your word if I may be given permission to look into this further. Signed, S.A.C Fox W. Mulder ********* CONFIDENTIAL: EYES ONLY To: SAC F. Mulder, X-Files Division From: Walter S. Skinner, Assistant Director Re: Wormwood Phenomenon Investigation Permission denied. ********** "I am the Way, and the Truth, and the Life . . ." The priest droned on, his voice echoing off cold steel. "No one comes to the Father, but through Me." "Dead man walking!" cried the guard, as Vladmir Arntzen was led, shackled, as his father before him, down the final walk to the chamber of death. And they were waiting there, all of them, waiting for him. The Governor, the guards, the white-haired man; why, even Skinner himself was waiting behind the thick glass of the execution chamber. The smoker was being shepherded, shepherded down that metal hall to the chamber that held the electric chair...as his father had been before him. //You were there. Don't you remember?// Oh, these men, these men, they are so happy they caught me. They're ecstatic they finally got the chance to kill me. Just like my father. See...see how history repeats itself? You are taping my eyes shut, so they won't burst from their sockets. You shaved my legs, so that I won't erupt into flame. And you are standing, standing behind the glass, so you won't have to smell my burning flesh. But, yet, even after this ends; yes, my friends, thought the smoker, even after this ends...I might surprise you yet. Because I am still my Father's son. And I refuse to Fall. ********** The boxes filled up quickly as the tape ripped across borrowed cardboard, sealing up possessions and, indeed, lives themselves, forever. Scully slid the tape gun over to Mulder's side of the apartment and he took it wordlessly as he packed his things. They worked silently, emptying their house, dividing things without argument, politely offering each other various tools and household items, with her insisting that he take the blender, which he loved for his breakfasts; him demanding that she take the toaster oven she always used to make her Sunday lunches. What about this extension cord? Oh, I don't need that, besides they can be bought anywhere. No, Scully, I think it was yours, please take it. Do you want this CD, Mulder? No, I never liked it that much, and I remember you used to listen to it. Don't worry, Scully, that's all right, you can have it. I think you bought it anyway. Besides, the CD player belongs to you. At the very end there were very few items left. Just a couple of spoons, two plants... And the wedding pictures. Eyebrows raised, Scully pulled out the large white album. Biting her lip, she turned to Mulder with a sheepish expression. "Would you mind if I kept these?" she asked gently. "They're really too beautiful to lose." "Sure, Scully. But I'd really like to have one of those pictures, if you wouldn't mind," said Mulder, nodding toward the album. "Of course not," replied Scully, handing him the photos, in all their white and black glory. The white of her wedding gown, the black of his tux, both of them surrounded by endless flowers. Mulder carefully flipped through the album, and finally came to a portrait of Scully sitting alone, her face shining beneath her veil, the bouquet held against her chin. She was more beautiful than life itself at that moment, and somehow, it had been perfectly captured by some accident of light and fate. "This is the one," he said, pulling it carefully from the plastic and placing in his breast pocket. Scully looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, wondering at his choice. "Are you sure that's the one you want?" Mulder didn't look up at her, but simply nodded. "Very sure." Silently...cautiously they returned to their packing, the rip of the tape, the bang of the boxes slowly quieting. Finally, everything was stacked neatly, hers to the left, his to the right, when their gazes fell simultaneously on the only item that was left to be divided. Their bed. A giant, king-sized bed that had been a wedding gift from Scully's mother. It was plain, graceful and strong, made of rare pine, carved and polished by hand. The mattress was almost new, the bedsprings barely worn, and it stood as an island of beauty in the now nearly empty room. Scully sighed and turned to her husband. "I''m not sure what to do with this. Do you want it?" Mulder took a moment and stared at it thoughtfully. "It's a great bed. I haven't been in it in a while, but I'm sure it's still as comfortable as it used to be." Scully nodded. "It's very comfortable. I love it." "Maybe I should let you have it, then," Mulder replied quietly, turning toward his wife, who returned his glance, blue eyes into hazel, ice into fire, sky and sea merging into one horizon. Looking down, blushing...Scully shook her head. "That wouldn't be fair," she replied, her heart suddenly pounding for some odd reason. "Why...why don't you try it out, just to see how you like it, and then we can decide." Mulder nodded, his own heart starting to race, much to his surprise. With quiet steps, he walked over to the bed and then slowly lowered himself onto it, into its warmth and softness. He lay there silently for a long moment and then spoke. "It's nice, but it's uneven," he said. "It's leaning on this side; I feel as though I'm falling off. It doesn't have the balance I need." Scully slowly walked over to the bed and sat on the opposite edge. "Is this better?" she whispered, staring at her husband, at his careful body, his perfect, relaxed length. Mulder nodded. "Somewhat. But it's still not even." Scully lifted her feet onto the bed, and sat with her back against the headboard. "Better?" "Better, yes," Mulder replied, staring at the ceiling, at the swirls and patterns of plaster. "But not yet perfect." Sliding down, Scully finally came to rest upon her back, next to her husband, in her own bride's bed, next to the man she'd stood beside, before them all, as the priest blessed the rings and the rabbi offered the Word. As the water and the wine flowed, in the form of laughter, joy and tears. We stood before them all, remember? Remember the rabbi, who put the glass beneath your feet, along with the priest, who showered us with water, incense and prayer. Remember how we stood before our mothers, mine who wept with joy and yours, who refused to speak, but still, how happy we were on that bright morning, so very, very happy. Don't you remember, my love? Don't you? And as Dana Scully and Fox Mulder turned toward one another, their eyes meeting, their fingers, and then their very bodies entwining, they did remember. Remembered their vows, and at the same time, forgot. Forgot the small pains, the selfish thoughts, all the things that were less important than that moment when they'd stood and repeated the words that now echoed once more in their hearts. //I take thee, Fox William Mulder...to be my lawfully wedded husband.// //I take thee, Dana Katherine Scully...to be my lawfully wedded wife.// //For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health. In good times and bad.// //And forsaking all others...to be thine alone.// //Until death do us part.// ********** Almost exactly nine months after her terrible ordeal, Kathleen O'Neill gave birth to a six pound, six ounce baby girl, whom her delighted parents immediately christened with the name "Grace." Pendrell in particular adored and doted on the child, with her full head of black hair and startling green eyes; so much so, that he didn't concern himself too much with the timing of her arrival. Or the fact that her blood type matched neither one of her parents'. His wife left the Bureau to care for the baby, and they remained happy in the following months, watching Grace grow into a surprisingly intelligent and articulate toddler, one who could speak at six months, walk at ten and read at twelve. Pendrell made jokes about genius parents having genius children, but people around them grew uneasy when a mere infant spoke to them in French or read the ingredients from their purchases at the supermarkets. One cold winter night, Pendrell rose to check on the baby, but when he peered into her crib, to his absolute horror, he found it empty. Heart pounding, he ran to check the rest of the house, and with a great sigh of relief, he finally found her in the living room, peering out the front window, staring at a huge star, one that he'd never quite noticed before, but one that dwarfed nearly everything else that hung in the midnight sky. Kneeling, he planted a kiss on her small cheek and gently reprimanded her. "Here you are. You gave your daddy a real scare, Little Lamb. What are you doing out of your bed so late?" The child turned away from the window to stare at him, with a pair of bright green eyes, eyes that held something very ancient... And very terrible. "I'm waiting, Daddy," she replied softly. Pendrell looked at her curiously. "Waiting for what, angel?" The child turned back to the window, to stare at that one star that burned so brightly all the others seemed to bow toward it, their tiny lights fading against its wondrous glare. "I'm just waiting," she said. "That's all." ******** THE END CiCi Lean, 1998 canny409@aol.com ********** Because I have loved so deeply Because I have loved so long God, in His great compassion Gave me the gift of song - CiCi Lean DEDICATION, CREDITS, THANKS AND AUTHOR'S NOTES: DEDICATION: For my husband Steve, who loves me unconditionally. CREDITS: There are many works of all media alluded to and quoted throughout this story, but mainly: The King James Bible, The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis, Murder in The Cathedral by TS Elliot, the movie "Unforgiven" written and directed by Clint Eastwood, "As You Like It" and "Hamlet" by Wiliam Shakespeare. The poem recited by Mrs. O'Neill in Chapter Three is part of an original one of mine, entitled "Ophelia's Last Stand." THANKS: First and foremost to my favorite "stalkers" Karen Rasch, Lici Inge and Florens. Without your nagging, I could NOT have ever finished this. I thank you a thousand times over for your wonderful support and encouragement. Thank you. I'd also like to thank Michelle and Alicia, for their beta-reading prowress and helful suggestions and support. And, I'd like to thank the following people who were so kind in their feedback and support: Westshore, Nicole Perry, Brinson, Trillian, Stef Davies, Rivka T., JullietteXF, xxxgizziexxx, Whitney Cox, Cathy and Laura Buchard. AUTHOR'S NOTES: This piece is a homage to "The Magician's Nephew" by C.S. Lewis, which is a wonderful book about the contridictions between science and faith, which to me is what the XFiles is all about. If you have children, or are a child at heart, I truly recommend The Chronicles of Narnia, by CS Lewis for their, and for your, enjoyment.