12345678901234567890123456789012345678901234567890123456789012345

1.

I wander in the woods, cold and alone. Twigs and sharp stones 
tear at my feet, leaving them a bloody mess. Wet leaves slap my face 
like clammy hands as I walk. My body feels as though it is not mine; 
my legs, my muscles, they do not obey me as they should. I am, it 
seems, walking on ground in a constant state of violent motion, as 
though the forest floor is trying to break free from the rest of the 
world. The world, I know, is standing still, just as it has always 
been; it is my body that is trying to escape. 

The woods are covered in a smothering blanket of silence. The 
birds have ceased their joyous singing. I hear no life-giving water 
flow. The air itself is motionless, as though the heavens have had 
their breath stolen away. The world is frozen, waiting for I know 
not what. Or perhaps this indelible something has already come, and 
nature stands in quiet shock. 

But more silent than this chilled forest is my own mind. I can 
still think, still interpret the world around me. New thoughts come 
as easily as my chilled breath. And yet no old thoughts or memories 
present themselves when I call to them. It is as though my head is 
filled with a heavy haze; I can see brief flashes - faces, places - 
but they are but glimpses through the fog. The more I try to peer 
through, the less I can see.

I wrap my arms around my trembling body. It is so cold here, and 
I am wearing no clothes. I have no care where they are or how they 
got there; all I want is to be warm again. My goose-pimpled skin is 
a sickly shade of white, as though I have not seen the light of the 
sun in months. The pale glow of pre-dawn gives way to the gentle 
hand of daybreak, and though the coming flood of brightness stings 
my eyes, it warms my skin and gives me a strange sense of hope. 

Soon I come upon a road. Through the vapor of my own breath I see 
the letter "X" written in bright orange paint, parts of it faded 
from long-term exposure to the elements. Flickering images of memory 
come out of the fog and fade away again. A beautiful woman with hair 
the color of the setting sun. A coffin with a hideously twisted 
corpse lying inside. A man smoking a cigarette, smoke surrounding 
his head like a dark mockery of a halo. These memories are old; I 
get that impression very strongly.  Seven, maybe eight years have 
passed since this "X" was painted. 

But those images disappear just as quickly as they come, drawn 
back into the unreachable recesses of my mind by greedy fingers of 
mist. As I walk down this road towards I know not where, twin 
needles of light stab into my eyes. I realize they are headlights; a 
truck has pulled up alongside me, and the driver is speaking. I 
focus on what he is saying, forcing my ears to work after a long 
time of inactivity. Then man has been repeating the same phrase over 
and again, judging by the irritated and condescending tone of his 
voice. "Hey, buddy, need me to take you to a hospital or somethin'?" 

"Yes." My own voice sounds strange and foreign and raspy to my 
ears. It has not been used in awhile. How long? I'm not sure. I 
cannot recall first entering those woods; the only past I know of is 
waking up cold and naked in a clearing. As near as I can tell, that 
is the whole of my existence. 

"Hop on in, man, I'll getcha to a hospiddle."

The driver gives me a blanket as I step into the truck, and I 
thank him in that same strange voice.   I catch my reflection in the 
rearview mirror as I shut the door: my dark hair is disheveled and 
shaggy, and bits of leaves jut out from it at all angles; my 
mahogany eyes are wild; a beard that doesn't quite fit with my dirt-
smeared face nonetheless adorns my chin; and I see that my slightly 
large nose is bent as though it has been broken once or twice. Okay, 
so I know what I look like, but who am I? 

I ponder this as we drive, staring at the stranger in the mirror. 
It only stares back with questioning eyes.

2.

I do not know how long I have been in this place. Minutes drag on 
for days, and weeks pass in the blink of an eye. The place reeks of 
death and disinfectant, and I grow paler by the moment. My room is 
windowless, the only light coming from fluorescent bulbs that hum 
like a swarm of bees and flicker often, threatening at every second 
to cast me into total darkness. Nurses drift like automatons in and 
out of my room. They ignore my requests for information; it seems as 
though they cannot hear me. I begin to wonder if perhaps this is 
true. Have I gone mute? Or do they simply choose not to answer? And 
since I get no response, I am left to question and ponder the 
visions, which haunt me when sleep favors me with a blissful yet 
brief escape from this cold reality. 

I can barely remember the dreams when I awaken. Occasionally I 
will recall faces or events, but more often than not I am left with 
only feelings. I know that I am experiencing memories in my slumber; 
I only wish they stayed with me instead of being chased away with 
the dawn's fiery light. The redhead is often a key part in these 
visions, though I have yet to keep her name in my mind past waking. 
I know from the impressions I receive from her that we were great 
friends. The thought occurs to me that perhaps we still are, and 
that she may be out there somewhere, searching for me.  More 
gossamer hope comes from this wish than I would have dreamed 
possible. 

I know I had a sister at some point. She was younger than I, with 
the same dark hair but eyes like my grandfather’s, blue like the 
sea. I used to tease her a lot, but I loved her more than I ever let 
on. But then one day something bad happened, and I lost her. Dead, 
alive, missing - I am not sure, but I feel that I still must search 
for her. 

Many of my dreams leave me feeling frightened and yet intrigued, 
curious even. I've risked my life and safety many a time; perhaps I 
was in a dangerous line of work. I often dream of aliens and bright 
lights, of monsters and mutants. Some of these are leave me with 
amusement, while others cause me to wake in a cold sweat. 

Throughout it all, one man I have seen more than I wish. He is 
always shrouded in shadows and smoke from the cigarette omnipresent 
in his mouth. The thick pollutant surrounds his head like an aura of 
darkness. He terrifies me and angers me at the same time. I wish to 
kill him, but there is some connection that prevents me from doing 
so.  What it is, I can only guess.

But all this is just speculation. I crave answers, but my needs 
go unheeded. I do not know if I will ever get out of here. I am 
still so weak, though I grow a little stronger each day. I doubt, 
even if I could, that those nurses would let me out. They have me 
strapped to the bed and wired into all kinds of machines. I could 
not for the life of me guess their use, though some of them seem a 
little familiar: heart monitor, IVs, brain-wave readout. How I 
remember these things remains a mystery.  But others flash images 
too quick for my eyes to see, and they are all written in some 
strange language I cannot understand. 

The place is so silent it is smothering. The quiet weighs down on 
me as though to kill me. All I can hear is the steady beeps of the 
machines and the footsteps of the nurses as they come to adjust a 
wire or give me a shot or press a few buttons, stone-faced and 
grimly silent all the while. 

Men in dark suits pace the hallways as well, peering occasionally 
into my hospital room. I can't help but feel as though I am trapped 
in an aquarium. Ignored, watched carefully, studied. I wish to 
scream but the nurses have grown tired of my questions; they have 
silenced me with drugs to freeze my vocal chords. However, I find I 
can utter a few syllables just before redosage. I guess they heard 
me after all. 

But one day, the silence is broken. I hear a commotion in the 
hall, yelling and threats, and someone cocking his or her gun. I 
stretch my neck out to see, but my view is blocked by a dark-suit in 
my doorway. One of the voices belongs to a woman and sounds very 
familiar. 

Soon my guard is pushed roughly out of the way. Into my room 
bursts the redhead from my dreams! She is real! She closes the door 
and locks it behind her, but no one tries to enter. She runs and 
throws her arms around me, sobbing into my shoulder. She unstraps my 
arms, which instantly hold her tightly as I feel they have done a 
thousand times before. A name suddenly comes into my mind, and I 
whisper it into her ear. "Scully..."

3.

The woman pulls away form the embrace, her eyes filling with 
hopeful tears. I tuck an errant strand of crimson hair behind her 
delicate ear, astounded at how familiar this motion is; my hands 
seem to know just where to go. I cradle her cheek in my hand, and a 
shimmering tear slides down her face. I brush it away with my thumb. 
She sighs and smiles. Her eyes scan my features as though to check 
my face against the one in her memory. 

"You remember?" She says it like a prayer, but with an edge of 
fear as if my not remembering will shatter her heart. I know now 
that this woman was told of my medical condition before arriving. I 
know also who gave her my whereabouts, but all will be revealed in 
due time. 

I can feel that the drug is wearing off. The dryness it leaves in 
my throat begins to fade and I answer, "Yes. A little." 

She sighs again, wrapping her arms around me. Scully swings her 
legs up onto my hospital bed, nestling in close and laying her head 
on my chest. I know she is listening to my heartbeat, reassuring 
herself that I am real. I stroke her hair, soft as silk beneath my 
fingers, and hear her muttter, "Finally..." 

A few strands of memory come together, adding themselves to the 
small tapestry of my recollection. I remember the letter "x," lots 
and lots of them. Dozens of files marked with it, and videos too. I 
blush slightly, glad she cannot see, as I realize my penchant for 
dirty movies. More recently, lights. Bright and blinding, they fill 
my vision and lift me up. I feel weightless as though made of light 
myself. Then I can hear a drill, spinning and whirring and hissing 
like a snake. I can't see it, and this terrifies me most of all. I 
feel a sharp stabbing pain in the back of my neck, and then 
everything goes back. 

"Scully, they did something bad to me, didn't they?" My voice 
sounds strangely small and infantile, weak and scared. It resembles 
a child who has awakened from a nightmare, calling out to his mommy 
for reassurance that the world still exists. But I know my nightmare 
was real. She watches as I touch the back of my neck. 

"Let me see, Mulder," she says. Mulder? Is that my name? Yes! 
Realization comes so strongly it is almost painful; my head reels. 
Fox William Mulder. The kids at school used to beat me up for that 
name; that’s why my nose is bent. I even made my parents call me 
Mulder. I had a nickname, too: Spooky. I never liked it very much. 

Her skillful hands carefully examine me as I take in this new 
information. I hold the name tightly in my mind; I run it around and 
around my brain like wine, savoring the taste and letting it spill 
over me. Fox Mulder. Not the most masculine name in the world, but 
it is, at last, something to call myself.

She looks me in the eyes, her stare pulling me out of my reverie. 
Her azure orbs are clouded, shrouded in shadows like the smoking man 
who drifts like a phantom through my dreams. Her expression is 
grave, her lips drawn into a thin tight line. If possible, she is a 
shade paler. 

"You have a fresh scar. Three guesses as to what they put in 
you." 

I know the answer, and it scares me beyond words. Nearly 
whispering, I answer, "A chip."

4.

A week later, I sit in a room lit by a thousand flickering 
computer screens. Machines whir all around me, lights wink in the 
dimness like eyes. Over the steady hum of electricity, I hear the 
redhead speak with the three strange men. They do not want me to 
know what they say, but I strain my ears anyway. 

"What do you mean you can't disable it?" she says, and there is 
anger in her voice. 

The short one casts a sad glance at me from across the room. His 
gaze then meets the grim eyes of his companions before he looks at 
Scully's face. For some reason, the way his eyes roam over her body 
makes me uneasy. His voice is grave as he answers her, "No, I'm 
sorry, there's nothing we can do." 

The one with the beard - the one who is prim and proper like 
every mother's dream - chimes in. "You know what will happen if we 
remove it, and the same thing may result from tampering with it." 

Scully stares intently at the floor, hiding the emotions which 
pass briefly across her face. When she looks back up, this time at 
the hippie who got stuck in the wrong decade, she has returned to 
her normal state of cool composure. Her eyes ask a silent question, 
and the long-haired one answers. "We just don't want to take the 
risk." His eyes flash furtively at me and then flick back to her. He 
looks briefly at her stomach. "Does he know?" 

She shakes her head. 

"Do I know what?" They all turn to look at me. "Listen, I may 
have lost my memory but I'm not an idiot. I know you're keeping 
something from me and me and I want to know what the hell it is!" 
I'm on my feet now, moving towards them purposefully. I tower over 
the short one - the one who looks like a frog when you get close - 
and he cranes neck to meet my burning stare. 

They all exchanged nervous glances but keep studiously silent. 
"What are you hiding from me?!" 

A small voice peeps up behind me. "I'm pregnant." 

5.

The room falls into total silence. I look at each in turn, and 
all expressions save Scully's are unreadable. Her eyes hold mine, 
and they glisten with tears. Relief, hope, but most of all joy 
sparkle in their crystalline depths. Her hand drifts unconsciously 
to her stomach, resting upon the new life growing there. I look at 
her belly and an incredible feeling of rapture overtakes me. I want 
to sing and dance and shout it from the rooftops: my Scully is 
pregnant! 

'My Scully'? Those words come so naturally to mind, and suddenly 
memories bombard me. Kisses, confessions, passion, pleasure, 
secrets, silence, lust, love. Flashing images of flesh and fantasy. 
Whispers in the dark. Secret glances across the room at work. We 
were more than just friends with benefits. More than lovers. We were 
as close as two people can be without becoming one and the same 
being. We had shared a love so powerful, so consuming, that nothing 
else in the world mattered. And now that love had created a new 
life. 

Hadn't it? This child was mine, right? I think back to Frohike's 
glances at her, but none of them had been reciprocated. Langly? No, 
not her type. She liked tall, dark, and handsome...Byers? The 
thought makes me laugh. 

Their names, I know their names! Melvin Frohike, Ringo Langly, 
and John Byers: The Lone Gunmen. The Three Wisemen. These conspiracy 
gurus had been my friends for years now; how could I have ever 
forgotten them? Frohike, the Frog Prince with a heart of kryptonite. 
Langly, conspiracy god and computer wizard trapped in a hippie’s 
body. Byers...Byers. The shy, quiet type with a knowledge deeper 
than understanding, who could deliver the most horrid news with a 
straight face, flat voice, and yet all the sympathy in the world. 
Losers though they be, they are my best friends. 

The phone suddenly rings, and we all jump at the silence's abrupt 
death. A whirlwind of motion erupts in the room. Suddenly Langly is 
flipping switches, Byers is grappling with wires, and Frohike is 
donning a headset system straight from NASA...the logo is still 
prominent on the earpiece. 

In the midst of this swirl of technological confusion stand 
Scully and I. The chaos does not reach us as we stare into each 
other. I step close, nearly touching her but keeping a respectful 
distance. "Why didn't you tell me when you first found me? 

"I was afraid," she says in a tiny whisper. 

"Of me?" 

"No, *for* you. For me, too. I don't think I could've endured it 
if you didn't remember. There you were, imprisoned in that 
godforsaken excuse for a hospital, mute and sedated and lost in your 
own mind...I couldn't have laid this on you then. To know that a 
total stranger was carrying your child..." 

"Scully, if it could be anyone in the world having my baby, I'm 
glad it's you. *Our* baby, Scully! A little boy or girl, a whole new 
life that we created. Our own little miracle!" I place my hands over 
hers on her stomach and sense the energy of the developing infant. 

"If only you knew how true that was," she says softly. 

I am about to question what she means by that, but Frohike taps 
me on the shoulder. I turn and he holds another NASA headset out to 
me. "It's for you," he says.

6.

"Thanks, Frohike. Check the connections; I don't wanna miss a 
word of this. Langly. Make sure you're recording this; I want hi-
res. dat. If there's a bug a mile away from this phone, I wanna hear 
it. Byers. Run a trace as fast as those hacker hands'll let you; 
this guy won't stay on the line long and we need a location quick." 
I say all this very quickly, my voice practiced. They all stare at 
me, mouths agape, eyes wide. No one moves. "C'mon, fellas, get your 
asses in gear! I'd hate to think what would happen if Saddam Housein 
was on the line about to spill about his nuclear bomb's alien 
technology!" 

Their hands burst into blurry action, but still their eyes stay 
focused on me. "Oh, guys, *my* kung fu is the best," I say just 
before I put on the headset. I wink at them as I turn my attention 
to the microphone in front of my mouth. "Mulder." 

"Forestville, California. 1684 Conner Court. Tuesday. Both of 
you." The grating voice is gone with a decisive click of a 
disconnecting line. I receive eager looks as I slip off the 
headphones. 

"Scully and I have to go to Forestville, California by Tuesday. 
1684 Conner Court." I sound confused, and to be honest, I am. The 
voice on the other end had been so familiar; I knew I'd heard 
before, many times. The sound of it had conjured up all kinds of 
images in my slowly-clearing mind: black fire, living shadows, 
endless night. And evil I felt deep in my chilled heart. 

But more than that it brings fear. Terror. An uncontrollable 
primal emotion that makes me want to run screaming into the safe 
haven of night. I would, except it's two in the afternoon. Very hard 
to run screaming into the night in broad daylight. 

Yet I have faced this evil many times before. Won, lost, tied, 
but always confronted the incarnation of corruption with head held 
high. And now I have an even better reason to be strong: I am going 
to be a father. I must set a good example for my child - my child - 
and stay strong. 

Scully steps up beside me, taking my hand in a reflexive gesture 
of unity. "Let's go, G-man." 

"You don't have to come, Scully. You know that. I don't want you 
- either of you - to get hurt." My hand moves again to her stomach 
in a sign of protection. 

"Don't worry. I - we - can handle this. Besides, we've got big 
strong Daddy Dearest to protect us, don't we?" Her face is 
flirtatiously close to me. I look down into her eyes, searching 
their depths for any sign of fear or hesitation about the journey on 
our horizon. I find none. 

I kiss her quickly, fleetingly, and am suddenly aware of eyes 
weighing down on us. I turn and see the Three Wise Men, cocked heads 
resting on their hands, gazing at us with interested amusement. 
"Aw!" they chorus. 

"Oh, shut up," I tell them. "You're just jealous because the 
Baywatch screensaver you downloaded doesn't kiss back. Now what did 
you get from those traces?" 

As the swivel in their chairs to retrieve the data, I head 
Frohike mutter, "Your kung fu is the best...what a geek..."

7.

I stare at her reflection in the window; her eyes play tag with 
mine as she pretends to be fascinated by the landscape far below. I 
see every emotion plain on her face, though her exterior betrays 
nothing to the untrained eye. Her mind is set on something so 
distant that she is lost trying to find it. She looks zombified and 
nearly comatose, but I know she is working harder than ever, toiling 
and battling within the gates of her mind. We are a million miles 
apart, though the heat from her skin warms mine. 

Then her eyes catch mine for a lightning's breath, and she smiles 
ever so faintly. Slowly, she turns to face me; her gaze traces over 
my face as a blind man reads with his fingers. "Hi," she says 
softly, and her eyes fall from mine. 

"Why haven't you been talking to me?" I ask, holding her prisoner 
with a soft but scrutinous stare. I yearn to know what thoughts stir 
in her ever-spinning mind. 

"I was just thinking," she answers quietly, doggedly, "about you, 
about me, about what's going to happen now. Where do we stand?" She 
lifts her chin, meeting my eyes full on. 

"Scully, I can't plan the future until I know my past." I reach 
down and take her cool hands between mine, playing with her fingers 
gently for a moment as I twine them together with mine. "But I will 
tell you one thing, Dana Scully: whatever happens, you're very 
important to me and I will never let anything happen to you." I 
uncurl one hand and settle it lightly on her stomach, which I notice 
is ever so slightly swollen. "Or our baby." 

She miles faintly, locking steady eyes with me. In their 
translucent oceans, I see so many things: trust, fear, love, 
longing, and a sadness so powerful it pains me. But joy, too, 
overwhelming joy: I see our unborn child resting in those liquid-
sapphire eyes, see her holding this precious miracle with the touch 
only a mother can give. As happy as I am to be a father, I am even 
more happy for her; she has wanted this for so long. 

But the fear and sadness seep back into her eyes like a black 
tide. "How can you ever have a future with someone you don't even 
remember...you may never totally remember?" A slow tear falls from 
her eyes, and I brush it away with a touch of my lips. 

I breathe my promise into her ear, "I will love you to the day I 
die. I will be everything you need and want.  I am yours, Scully, 
forever.  And I will love our child just as much, and welcome 
him...with arms wide open." 


I kiss her velvety lips, my mouth barely brushing hers. She sighs 
softly into me. "I won't ever let you out of my sight again, Fox. I 
promise." 


Then our lips touch and melt together.  When we pull apart, I cup 
her cheek in my hand and feel a tear beneath my palm. She caresses 
my face and it comes away glistening with tears.  On an unspoken 
cue, we join our hands together and let the liquid diamonds mingle.  
Tears of joy to wash away all the hurt and loneliness. Tears of a 
new beginning.

8.

Before we know it, our flight screeches to a halt; my teeth knock 
and rattle together as the plane bounces along the rough runway, and 
my knuckles turn white as I clutch at the armrests. Inertia nearly 
flings me from my chair once the heaving machine stands blissfully 
still. I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding, and 
silently thank God and the pilot for not killing us all. A shaky, 
static-spliced voice drifts over the intercom, "Hey guys, Kevin 
Kelley the Pilot here. Thanks for flying Santa Rosa Airlines and I 
hope you had an interesting flight!" 

"Interesting? More like life-threatening," I grumble, and Scully 
winks in agreement. We stand on weakened legs, grab our coats from 
our seats, and gratefully exit the plane arm in arm. 

The airport, much like our flight, is strangely empty. No line of 
eager travelers greets us at baggage claim, nor do we have to wait 
as we rent a car. I ask the blond behind the counter, "Is this place 
always this quiet?" 

She looks tolerantly at me and replies, "No, sir. Last couple 
days, the airport's been pretty dead. Matter of fact, you're the 
first people I've seen in nearly a week. If things don't pick up 
soon, I'm gonna be out of a job." She hands me a key on a miniature 
bunch of grapes. "The black Jeep out front. You two sure picked a 
great place for a honeymoon." 

"Oh, we're not - " I begin, but Scully puts a hand on my arm. "We 
both grew up around here, thought it'd be nice to come home for 
awhile," she lies with a totally straight face. 

"Well, the wine country's glad to have you back!" says the blond, 
and her smile tells us gently to leave. 

Once we're out of earshot, I turn with new eyes to my partner. 
"How could you lie like that? What's the difference if one woman 
knows we're FBI?" 

"It's a small place, Mulder. People talk. Sometimes it's best to 
keep certain things quiet." She winks suggestively at me. "Isn't 
that right, *Dad*?" 

A new memory pushes out of the haze: caught in compromising 
situations many a time by Skinner or others, I had lied boldfaced to 
protect our reputations and our jobs. One particular time, the 
assistant director had caught us making out in our office, and I had 
told him I was giving her CPR. The lamest excuse in the book, I 
know, and doubtless he'd known I was lying. But being the respectful 
man that he was, Skinner had said nothing. 

We have reached the car by now, and I open Scully's door for her. 
"What a gentleman!" she exclaims as she steps in. I stroll over to 
the other side and hop into the driver's seat. "You may wants this," 
she tells me, and pulls a wallet from her pocket. I flip it open and 
see my FBI ID and badge shining out at me. I stare at them as though 
seeing an old friend for the first time in years. 

"While you were gone, I kept this on my night-stand," she 
confesses. Scully doesn't look at me as she says this, and I doubt 
she could continue if she met my gaze. "I didn't have any real 
pictures of you. Skinner found it in the car after - you must've 
left it there. He gave it to me, said I should hang on to it until 
you came back. It helped me remember what you looked like, and it 
kept you close to my heart." She squeezes my hand and stares 
straight into my eyes. "But now you're here, and I don't need it 
anymore." 

I squeeze her hand back, but reluctantly break eye contact. 
Though the mysterious messenger never mentioned a time, the day is 
Tuesday and slipping away all too quickly. As we pull out of the 
airport lot and down the deserted dust road, I don't let go of her 
hand. I can't.

9.

Scully intently studies the faded and crumpled map as the airport 
falls away behind us. "About 20 miles of nothing," she reports," 
between here and Forestville...nothing but cows." She glances out 
the window and her eyes smile. "Lots and lots of cows." My gaze 
flickers to the roadside, where the golden fields of dry grass are 
flowered with clusters of black and white. "Lots and lots of cows," 
I echo. 

If the airport and the plane were vacated, this barren stretch of 
blistering pavement is desolate. No other cars travel beside us, nor 
do any merry farmers tend to their sleeping herds. Something here 
isn't right... 

I suddenly slam on the brakes, and the seatbelt cuts painfully 
into my shoulder as the Jeep goes from sixty to nothing in less than 
three seconds. I look alarmedly at Scully, and she gapes at me with 
wild eyes. Her hair is tossed askew with the sudden jolt. As if she 
is reading my gruesome thoughts, her eyes change from slightly mad 
to totally terrified. On some unspoken signal, we both leap from the 
car and race toward the field. 

The change from air-conditioned SUV to this is incredible. The 
sun beats down angrily upon us, and a hot wind stings our faces. I 
nearly choke on the dry, dusty air as my feet pound the hard dirt. I 
ignore the physical discomfort; my suspicions, horrible though they 
are, implore me to confirm them. When I finally stop and take a deep 
breath, I nearly gag: a repugnant odor wafts from the cow over which 
I stand. The foul stench invades my nostrils and I can hardly 
breathe. Scully stops dead behind me and her face turns slightly 
green. 

I pull a handkerchief from my pocket and use the flimsy fabric to 
bar my nose and mouth from the horrible fumes. It doesn't work. I am 
nearly knocked backwards by it as I lean near to the dead animal. 
The creature, upon closer inspection, had been dead for quite some 
time; maggots writhe beneath the rotten flesh, flies feed freely on 
the putrefied carcass. But something about the decomposition strikes 
me as odd; what exposed flesh that is till intact is as white as 
snow, not brown-green as it should be. 

"Mulder, come here! I've found something!" I realize now that 
Scully wandered away from me, and quickly follow the sound of her 
voice. 

Presently, I find her kneeling over a body...a human body. A 
young girl, perhaps twelve or thirteen, dead beneath a twisted, 
gnarled apple tree. Her flesh, like the cow's, is an unearthly shade 
of white, as though her skin had been bleached. "Jesus, Mulder, what 
could've done this?" Scully asks, bewildered. I can only shake my 
head as I survey the graveyard before us. 

"Maybe this is why we're here, Scully; to find out what this 
virus or contagion is and stop it." She nods in grim agreement, and 
we walk back to the car, careful not to disturb - or touch - any of 
the fallen creatures.

10.

"Welcome to Forestville" reads a rickety wooden sign with forest-
green cursive. "Population: 1,326" 

No one passes us as we roll down the dust-covered mainstreet - 
neither on foot nor in car. The air stands still, and despite the 
raging temperature I feel a chill shudder through my body. No wind 
dares to stir and the only sound is the thunderous hum of the Jeep's 
engine as it echoes off the buildings. Glass windows like gaping 
eyes, haunted an accusing, stare out at us with timeless intensity. 
The silence itself seems angry, vengeful, demanding that a grievous 
wrong be made right. Icy dread lumps in my stomach. 

At last we spy a truck up ahead. It faces us, heading towards us 
on its way out of town. I keep my eyes trained on it as we near it. 
The truck gleams bright, new, and it's black surface is not al all 
scratched. Either well cared for or just purchased...but I realize 
it is not moving. And the engine makes no sound. Something it 
terribly wrong. 

Out brakes squeak as I slow to peer inside. To my surprise, the 
cabin is not empty. A couple, man and woman, sit inside, dressed in 
casual frat-party clothes. I look closer. Their faces. Their faces 
are colorless, beyond the palest blanch. Ivory. Snow. Ghostly. 
Nothing but bone and chunks of wan flash falling from nearly exposed 
skulls. Rotting corpses, going nowhere in their fancy new pick-up. 

I accelerate, hoping against hope that Scully did not see what I 
saw. But I hear a weak and shaky voice, one that cannot possibly 
belong to her, whispering beside me, "Mulder, stop the car. I think 
I'm gonna be sick..." 

She is out of the door before the vehicle even comes to a full 
halt. I rub her back gently as she retches into dried out bushes. 
When her gagging subsides and she can breathe steadily, I hold her 
close to me. "It's the pregnancy," she whispers, trying to reassure 
me. "Morning sickness in the afternoon." 

Her response hurts me; I'd hoped her walls had disappeared, but 
apparently still stand stubbornly firm. But I know that the harder I 
push the less they will give, so I play along. "Yeah, of course. I 
know how tough pregnancy can be on a woman's system. Why don't you 
go sit in the car and rest while I have a look around?" 

She shakes her head in vehement disagreement. "You are not going 
anywhere without me, mister. You know the Bureau's policy on 
backup." She winks and takes my hand. "Besides, you could use my 
help." 

"Always." 

Walking almost reverently, at a funeral march pace, we head into 
the nearest building: El Molino Pharmacy. The stagnant scent of 
refrigerated air and a dramatic change of temperature welcome us 
back to some sort of civilization. In the back, I see an old man 
with his back to us. Holding Scully tightly by the hand, I approach 
with quiet caution. 

"Sir?" I say softly, then a little louder. "Sir, can you help us? 
What happened here?" The old man does not move. 

I draw a deep breath, and Fear fills me to overflowing. One more 
step and he is in arm's reach. I tap gently on the man's shoulder, 
then recoil in terror. 

The man topples and slides to the floor. His long gray hair rests 
on nothing but bone. A grinning skull, perhaps happy with my 
torment, stares up at me, its teeth yellow and rotten. As I gape 
down, rooted in horror to the floor, a cockroach crawls from the 
deep, empty eye socket. 

Scully gasps and cries out beside me, and I pull her head to my 
chest. I stroke her hair soothingly, transfixed by the morbid 
mystery of death. The entire town, I realize, the entire town is 
dead. Every single human and animal, save the spiders and 
cockroaches which can survive the apocalypse unscathed. A village of 
rotting corpses. 

I turn and lead her quickly back to the car. "Let's get the hell 
away from here; the faster we find this house, the faster we go 
home."

11.

My foot falls leaden on the gas pedal, and the horrible sights 
drop away behind us. I breathe deeply, slowly, to ease my racing 
heart to its normal rate. I close my eyes, hoping to wipe the 
ghastly images from my mind, but they are permanently scorched into 
my memory. So I focus only on the road before me, not letting myself 
wander back to the gaping skull, the bleached flash, the gaping 
eyes, so angry... 

<Stop it,> I order myself. <You're a man, not a mouse. Just 
deal.> I give myself a mental slap, take a nice deep sigh, and begin 
scanning the roadside for a sign reading Connor Court. 

Scully has taken out the map again and is searching for some sign 
of where we should turn. "Take a right," she suddenly quips, and I 
look ahead to find the street. Nothing but a solid wall of trees 
greets my eyes. "Where?" I ask. She turns to me, trying hard not to 
laugh. "Back there," she replies, pointing with her thumb. 

I hang a U-turn and quickly find the road. It is little more than 
a gravel path, a stone river curving through the forest. We see 
remnants, bare skeletons, of homes as we drive along, each more 
devastated than the last: one is gutted by fire, another reduced to 
rubble by a powerful earthquake. Some have rotted away, ravaged by 
time and abandonment. Others look as though the forest has reclaimed 
them, rewrapped its viney embrace to choke the life out of them. The 
numbers, needless to say, of all these houses are unreadable. 

As we turn a corner, I spot something very out of place: a two-
story Victorian house with a small attic. A brick chimney runs 
through its middle, and it actually smells of fresh paint. 
Glittering golden numbers proclaim the address: 1684 Connor Court. I 
look at Scully: she looks at me. "Guess this is the place," I say, 
and she answers with an empty, "Yeah." 

Simultaneously we exit the Jeep, and cautiously climb the wooden 
steps to the front door. I brace myself, preparing for any horrors 
that might await us inside. My hand inches towards the brass 
knocker, and I summon up all my courage to lift it. It seems to 
weigh a thousand pounds, and I let it drop with a clank that rips 
through the hot autumn air. 

About two seconds later, I turn to Scully and say, "Well, no one 
here, guess we better go home." 

She grabs my shoulder firmly before I can leave the front porch. 
"Nu-uh, Braveheart, you're staying with me." 

Just then, the door creaks open with an eerie horror-movie creak. 
Scully's grip on my arm goes limp, and her hand falls weakly to her 
side. Her face fades to the same shade as the corpses', and her 
electric blue eyes widen till I am sure they will fall out of her 
head. 

An insane rage builds up within me. I want to grab the man in 
front of me, rip out his black heart and stuff it down his throat. I 
want to tear his arm off and use it to bludgeon him to a pulp. I 
want to take his incessantly present cigarette and shove it in a 
place I'm sure the Surgeon General wouldn't recommend. 

He smiles as though we are old friends returning home at last. 
"Come on in," he tells us merrily. "I've been waiting." Without my 
permission, my legs carry me into the Smoking Man's home.

12.

The Smoking Man leads us into a poshly decorated living room. 
White suede covers the sofa, which sits beside a white marble coffee 
table. The cream-colored carpet matches the lampshades match the 
wallpaper. Ornate chandeliers - yes, two of them - sparkle and 
glimmer in their own light. A delicately carved fireplace sits 
against one wall, a fire crackling happily within it. Atop the 
mantel rest several delicate candelabras, each with a flame dancing 
at its peak. A small clock in the middle chime the hour: 4 o'clock. 
I eye the painting hanging on the wall; though my artist eye is 
novice at best, I guess it to be an original Rembrant. 

He lowers his old creaking form into one of the three cushioned 
chairs, each one matching the sofa. He plucks a cigarette from its 
resting place on the small table beside him, lights it with a gun-
shaped lighter, and motions for us to sit. We do not. 

"You're dead," Scully says matter-of-factly. I am not sure if 
she's trying to convince herself or throw him off guard. "I saw your 
body with my own two eyes." 

"Can I get you something? A beer, water...I make and excellent 
bloody Mary," he says, completely ignoring Scully. 

In a flash, I stand menacingly in front of him. With one hand, I 
grip his shoulder tightly. With the other, I snatch the Morely from 
his mouth and slam it into the overflowing ashtray beside him. 
Scully comes up beside me and puts a gentle hand on my arm, but I 
shake her off; I am not in the mood for this walking tumor's teasing 
games. I tighten my grip but still get no reaction. "What the hell 
are you doing here and what did you do to those people!?" I scream 
in his face, but he only looks at me calmly. 

"All in due time, son," he tells me, and the words are a slap in 
the face. Me, his son? How did this information remain hidden in the 
last few wisps of fog in my memory? "First, just sit down and relax 
for a moment." He pulls out another cigarette and begins puffing 
away. 

I sink defeatedly into the softness of the sofa, and Scully plops 
down beside me. "So how's the pregnancy going, Dana? Boy, girl, bug-
eyed alien hybrid?" he asks nonchalantly, in the same tone he'd use 
as if asking the weather.

She looks at him, at me, at her hands. I see her fingers chipping 
away at the nearly vanished nail polish. The tips of her nails are 
short and rough, as though she has been biting at them for days. How 
did I not notice that? I wrap my hand around hers, telling her 
silently that she need not worry while I am with her. 

When she looks up again, I see tears and defiance in her eyes. 
"I'm not telling you anything, you bastard. You're not going to be a 
part of this child's life until every breath in my body is gone." 

"Well, that's gratitude for you. I go to all the trouble of 
reversing your infertility and returning Mulder, and all you can do 
is call me names."

13.

Silence, heavy and oppressive, settles over Scully and me. Smokey 
simply takes another long drag on his cigarette, patiently waiting 
for one of us to speak. When the roar of the stillness grows 
unbearable, I throw the inevitable question into the air, "How?" 

"I thought you'd never ask. You see, it all began when I took 
Scully on our little trip. You remember, Dana, when you woke up in 
your bed in you pajamas and didn't know how it happened?" 

"You drugged me," she says quietly, staring again at her hands, 
"and then did some sort of procedure." 

"Smart girl," he continues. "Of course I did. My best surgeons 
worked on you, re-inserting your harvested ova. No cutting, no 
scarring; just needles and plenty of expensive equipment. Only took 
a few hours and you were fine." 

"But why? Why then, all of a sudden, just decide to give it all 
back? Because you wanted to atone for all the pain you caused before 
you died?" I ask, playing right along with the script. He has this 
whole conversation planned, and I know it. 

"No, no, Mulder. I was never dying to begin with. I simply was 
struck to the core in a moment of joy. Even a devil can fall in 
love. Scully, you are so good, so innocent, so beautiful. And there 
I sat, in my proverbial cave of darkness, watching you. A spot of 
light in my black world. I wanted so much to bring you to me, so you 
could bring a bit of warmth to me heart which had been cold for so 
long. But you hated me. I wanted to give you something, something to 
change your mind and endear myself to you. I guess it didn't work." 

It hurts to know that this poor excuse for a monster could put 
into words so precisely what I'd felt the first time I'd seen her.

"What do you mean you were never dying in the first place?" 
Scully says, obviously upset at the idea of being made a fool. 

"I mean exactly that. How else world I convince you that I wanted 
a reprieve? You would never buy that I just up and changed my ways. 
There had to be a reason. And I knew that you would tell Mulder of 
my 'sickness', and whatever Mulder knows Krycek and Marita can find 
out. Good thing my secretary is a make-up artist; they never even 
suspected. And my robe that I was wearing when they pushed me down 
the stairs was padded, and my head protected me a thin, invisible, 
but very strong layer of spray on plastic. I was barely hurt at all 
when I fell. A simple body switch - plastic surgery can do wonders, 
even on dead bodies - and no one was any the wiser." 

"But...why? Why disappear?" I lean forward, drawn into the story. 

"The conspiracy was ended. The UFO would leave and we'd be left 
with nothing but memories of a proud past. I wanted to disappear and 
start again. Knowing that my Scully" - I flinch at this familiar 
name; she is *my* Scully! - "was pregnant with my grandchild, I had 
no choice but to contact the aliens and have you returned. I 
couldn't stand to have my grandchild grow up without a father. And 
in this exchanged I learned something very interesting." I stop, 
puts out his stub in the ashtray, and slowly draws out another. With 
painstaking sluggishness, he lights it and takes a deep drag. "The 
end of the world is coming in less than a year. Start up the 
fireworks, here comes the Apocalypse."

14.

"You see," my father continues, "the rebel aliens have finally 
decided enough is enough. They have grown tired of tracking down and 
destroying abductees while more are being taken every minute. So, 
they are going to wipe out every human on this planet." In response 
to our stunned silence: "Forestville was a test-group. They released 
a small amount - only three micrograms - of their own virus. Three 
micrograms, wiping out over a thousand humans and animals. It 
would've kept going and destroyed all of Sonoma County, but the 
rebels set up a bio-quarantine and kept the infected population 
contained. 

Ever the medical half of our duo, Scully asks, "Is there a cure? 
A vaccine?" 

"No. The virus is adaptive; they created it to counteract any 
human attempt at destroying it. I'm afraid humanity is doomed." His 
cigarette has been reduced to a mere stub, so he reaches for 
another. But his scouring hand encounters only and empty cardboard 
box. "Hmm, out," he says calmly. "Guess I'll go get another pack. 
Excuse me." He rises, leaving Scully and I alone. 

"So, what are you thinking right now?" Scully asks me. 

"That I want a cigarette myself. We supposed to believe this 
guy?" 

"I don't know," she says, a far away look in her eyes. Her hand 
moves to rest on her stomach, and I know she is questioning the gift 
of our child, this blessing from a demon. "What if he's right? What 
if humanity is damned?" 

"It's not a matter of if humanity is damned, Agent Scully. It's a 
matter of when the judgement is coming," Smokey's voice booms as he 
enters the room. I jump, startled by his sudden appearance. I feel 
Scully tense beside me at the sound of his voice.  He has that 
affect on people He sits nonchalantly in his chair, puffing away on 
a fresh cigarette. He places the new pack beside him, holding a 
dozen new links in his chain of smoke. 

"So why are you giving us this information if we can do nothing 
to stop it?" I say, reaching to hold Scully's hand. 

"Because I can save you. I can take you to a place safe from the 
plague. A medical building in Canada, hidden away from the rest of 
civilization, known only to we higher-ups. The building is state-of-
the-art: closed circulation, sealed windows of inch-thick glass, 
enough supplies to last you the rest of your lives. I am offering 
this chance to you only once, and only because you are the only 
family I have left. I am not without a heart: I want my 
grandchildren to see the light of day. What is your decision?"

15.

Scully and I have always had a strange way of communicating. We 
seem to always be on the same wavelength and often speak without 
uttering a sound; this ability, far from telepathy or mind reading, 
is an extrasensory perception formed through a deep connection of 
trust and friendship. Sometimes late at night, Scully and I would 
talk into the wee hours of the morning about everything and nothing. 
Whenever this form of understanding came up, I would often akin it 
to that of identical twins: we speak our own language of silence and 
can finish one another's sentences when we do converse out loud. 

I feel her fear and trepidation at the thought of trusting this 
man, this Father Lucifer, who has tried innumerable times to crucify 
us on the cross of his conspiracy. I sense her pain and sorrow and 
guilt of surviving as the anti-Adam-and-Eve, the last man and woman 
on earth. I know her despondency over the impending death of nearly 
everyone she cares about. But I feel and share with her the hope 
brought by the devil's temptation: he is holding the Apple before 
us, and it would be so easy just to reach out and take it. I love 
our unborn baby with all my soul, and the though of our child never 
living to see the light of day jabs daggers of guilt into my core. 

But what is a life without freedom, without fresh air and the 
wind against your face? What if the plague is never set free and 
humanity continues to mill about its anthills while we rot away in 
our fortress? Our child would hate us for it, hate us for 
imprisoning him with a hasty promise. 

And her family, Scully's mother and Charles and Tara and Matthew 
and Bill?..yes, as mean and spiteful as he has been to me, not even 
he should suffer from that fate. How could we live with the 
knowledge that we stood idly by while their bodies were ravaged by 
an alien virus? My father, the one who raised me, would think me a 
coward; my mother would call me a deserter; and my sister would say 
I was a jerk. 

We cannot accept, but we must. Life over death, safety over 
hazard, hope over despair...all coming down to a question of 
integrity: are we strong enough to face ourselves and God? 

"I need your answer, NOW," Smokey breaks in, shattering out 
intra-person reverie. He taps the ashes of his dwindling cigarette 
into the ashtray in a sign of impatience. 

With one final glance, we reach our decision. "No, not unless we 
may bring Scully's family with us." 

"I'm sorry, but that cannot be done. The facility is not large 
enough to accommodate you all." 

"Then I'm afraid we must decline," Scully says, and her tone is 
final. 

"Sorry to hear that you won't come willingly," he says with an 
evil glint in his cold gray eyes. "I suppose I shall have to use 
force now." Quick as a cobra, he slams down on a button I didn't 
even notice was there. 

Shackles spring from hidden compartments in the sofa, trapping 
Scully's and my arms. My ineffectual struggles cause the clamps to 
tighten painfully. Suddenly, menacing needles jam themselves into 
our arms, emptying into us a vial-looking green liquid. My vision 
swims as blinding light and pain erupt behind my eyes, and my head 
slumps forward onto my chest as I lose the battle with 
unconsciousness.

16.

In my dream, my footsteps echo in hollow emptiness. Stars sparkle 
above and below, rippling as though water passes over them. The 
stone path on which I travel hangs in nothingness, supported only by 
the light of the innumerable suns. They hang so close I feel I can 
touch them, but the distance is an illusion through which I cannot 
see. 

Suddenly before me stands Scully. I rush to hold her, but her 
gaze remains unfocused and she does not move. Only when I stand 
within inches of her do I realize that she is only a statue. Her 
figure is exquisitely carved into fine marble laced with silver. 
Wind seems to ripple through her stone gown as she stares 
heavenward, palms outstretched, waiting. The curves of her body are 
so perfect, she looks like a goddess. Her stone lips, so full and 
ripe, look so real, and I can almost see her chest rise and fall. 
Even her hair, tossed about in that same still wind, looks alive. 

I reach out and touch her face, whose curves and complexion are 
the perfect mirror of my beloved Scully's. As my fingers meet stone 
flesh, cracks spiderweb from their tips, and each line glows like 
lightening. They spread over the entire carving until she glows like 
a sun. In a blinding flash of light, the stone explodes and knocks 
me back. 

There, standing before me, is Scully, full of life...only 
more...more. Her hair is laced with starlight and the red vibrates 
with color. Her milky complexion glows with heavenly light and 
galaxies swirl in her eyes. The color of those blue orbs has 
changed; they gleam a luminescent blue the like of which I've never 
seen before. They are the exact color of the sunrise...no, a lake 
within a glacier...no, the deepest part of the ocean...but really 
none of those things. More like the afterimage of a bright flash, a 
blue that glows with a life of its own. 

Her dress swirls around her like tendrils of mist, and she smiles 
at me with lips the color of perfect red roses. She steps down off 
her marble pedestal and holds out to me a perfect hand, creamy white 
and sparkling in starlight. I reach out and she pulls me up with the 
strength and grace of a jungle cat. Her hand is warm and real in 
mine, smooth as silk and yet powerful in a way I've never felt 
before. 

Despite myself, I run my fingers through her satin hair, trace my 
thumb over her soft lips, pull her close to me and feel the warmth 
of her body against mine. She says nothing, only smiles with quiet 
love in her stunning eyes. I lean in and kiss her softly, holding 
her in my arms and hardly daring to believe that She lets me. "My 
goddess..." I breathe as I nuzzle her neck, inhaling the sweet 
perfume of her hair. 

She suddenly looks at me gravely, and her voice is the sound of 
bells made of ice. "What good is a moon, Fox, if its righteous light 
is swallowed up by the hungry night? And yet in its season it 
returns and returns, guiding others to its noble path." 

A violent shaking seizes the ground beneath us, and her hand 
falls away from mine. The stars are torn from their unwavering 
guardposts and I am cast into darkness. "Scully!" I scream into the 
smothering night. "Scully!"

17.

My eyes burst open as consciousness yanks me out of my nightmare. 
Wherever I am, the air is so thick with darkness that I suspect I 
have gone blind. I try to move my hand to find a lightswitch, but 
something restrains my wrist; it feels like Velcro straps, sharp 
fabric cutting into my flesh. The material holds both wrists down, 
as well as my feet. I draw a deep breath and realize it is also 
fastened around my chest. Panic grips me; paralyzed and blind, I 
fight to calm my heart. 

My sense of hearing adapts quickly as I strain my ears to catch 
any sound. I barely detect the faintest of breathing very near to 
me. As I listen closer, I catch just a hint of snore.  I know in an 
instant who it is.  Scully, my Scully, alive and breathing beside 
me. At least I know she's safe. No other noises great my ears, so I 
decide we must be alone. 

I try to get some sense of where I am. I am lying down flat, and 
the surface beneath me is soft yet firm, most likely a mattress. I 
cannot feel anything but open space above me, so the room must be 
fairly spacious. Still restrained, I stretch my fingers out as far 
as they can go; my right hand connects with something warm, 
alive...another hand. Scully's hand. I take comfort in knowing I can 
touch her, if only a little bit. 

The air I breathe is cool, regulated. The smell of dust invades 
my nostrils, as well as a hint of disinfectant. I recall the Smoking 
Man telling us that he would take us to an old medical building in 
Canada...this must be it. My mind quickly puts the pieces together: 
he drugged us, knocking us out, then loaded us into a car or truck. 
He must have had help, though; demon or no, he could never have 
carried a full-grown man and pregnant woman all by himself. By 
plane, train, or automobile, he must have gotten us up to the Great 
White North, placed us on either one large bed or two stuck 
together, and restrained us to keep from escaping.

"Scully, Scully, wake up!" I whisper into the darkness, and my 
voice is heavy with sleep and drugs. It sounds harsh to my sensitive 
ears. "Can you hear me?" With one finger, I tap her hand and hope it 
is enough. 

She groans tiredly and tries to stretch, only to find she has 
been clamped down. "Mulder, what's going on?! Why can't I move?!" 
she asks in a frantic voice. 

I rub my finger soothingly over her hand. "I don't know, but 
don't worry; I won't let anything happen to you." She sighs, and I 
hope it's because she feels a little better. 

"Of course you wouldn't, Fox, not if you could move. But now that 
you're restrained..." A familiar voice suddenly assaults my ears. A 
tiny flame flickers for an instant just inside my field of vision; 
then a glowing red circle inches its way toward us. 

Damn I hate being right.

18.

A click, and a blinding light surges and seers in my eyes. Tears 
of pain form, but at the same time, the brightness awakens within me 
those final memories which have eluded me thusfar. A necklace of 
precious gold and sacred significance, placed around my neck like 
some kind of anti-noose, a sign of love, a charm for protection 
against known but unknown enemies. Placed by Scully in a tender 
moment after what nearly became my Last Supper. She'd said it would 
keep her near me so that I wouldn't be alone. Scully had kissed me 
then, and she'd made me promise to return safe and sound. But then 
the light had come, and the Bounty Hunter had torn it from my neck. 
He carelessly tossed the gleaming crucifix onto the cold forest 
floor. Even as the light carried me away, I lunged for the necklace 
and begged Scully to forgive me for losing it, for leaving her. 

Skinner must have found it afterward and returned it, for she 
wears it now. 

Now I return to the present. Fluorescent afterimages dance like 
sprites on my retinas, and I groan under the assault of light. My 
pupils contract rapidly, and I realize that Smokey has merely 
flipped on a bedside lamp, dim at best. He towers over me, peering 
coldly into the depths of my eyes, into *me*. I shift uncomfortably, 
as though he's entered my mind and tried to steal it all away again. 
The light glints briefly on his teeth - made visible in a smile that 
makes Antarctica sound like Hawaii - and for a moment I swear I see 
fangs. 

My attention turns to Scully, who has just uttered a cry of 
(hopefully) surprise. Her stomach has swollen to an incredible size, 
as though she's almost to term. Her cheeks glow with that wonderful 
pregnant-lady-glow, outshining the tears of fear in her eyes. She 
stretches out her fingers and curls them around mine, squeezing as 
hard as she can. Her voice is surreal as she says, "Our baby is 
kicking." She smiles weakly, and I blow a kiss to her. 

"Babies, Agent Scully," the Smoking Man says. My eyes flick 
angrily to him. "You're having twins." I notice that he's put out 
his cigarette. Maybe the monster actually cares about the child - 
children within Scully. 

"Twins!?" she says in disbelief. I detect a hint of happy tears 
in her voice. 

"Yes, a boy and a girl. Both healthy, thank God. You're about 
five months along, I should say." 

"Five!?" The word is a gasp full of shock and doubt. "We've been 
here three months?" 

"Yes. The sedative we used was designed specifically not to hurt 
you or the babies. As you've probably guessed, the chemical was not 
exactly of earthly origin, but it quite suited our needs. It kept 
you out for weeks at a time, sort of like a coma-inducer." 

" 'We'? 'Our'? " I repeat. The words stick out like an alien 
stiletto in a drawer of spoons. "Just who else are you working 
with?" 

"A few certain individuals with whom you're undoubtedly 
familiar." 

I hate it when he plays these dumb games. The restraints bite 
like serpents into my flesh as I struggle to grab him. With a 
painful tear I succeed in ripping through the right-hand strap, and 
I seize the lapels of his black suit. "Don't toy with me, old man. 
TELL ME WHO YOU'RE WORKING WITH!" 

"Oh, leave him alone, Mulder. The devil's gotten weak in his old 
age," hisses an all-too-familiar voice. For the first time, I notice 
a door opposite the bed. A shadow blocks out the suddenly present 
light from the attached hallway. I pull against the remaining 
restraints as I see who it is. 

Krycek. 

And behind him, a woman. A woman with long black hair and eyes 
like the sea. My grandfather's eyes. Blissful realization floods my 
mind, bringing with it a strong undertow of suspicion. 

"Samantha?"

19.

My hand drops limply from its grasp on the black suit. All my 
muscles slacken; I suddenly feel as though I'm falling. Samantha 
alive? How? What about my vision of her, free, living in the 
starlight? I could not have dreamt it; I was awake, walking through 
the California woods. I *saw* her, I hugged her...but at the same 
time, on some level, I'd known the answer could never have been that 
simple. I stare at the young woman before me, familiar and yet 
somehow a stranger. Perhaps she is just another of the clones, but 
the hope still flickers that this one is real. "Is it truly you?" I 
ask in a voice that sounds distant. 

She runs to me and throws her arms around my shoulders. Oh how I 
have longed to embrace her again! "Oh Fox," she sobs, "I never 
though I would see you again." My free arm comes up around her, and 
despite myself tears squeeze out of my eyes as I hold her tight. She 
pulls away and studies my face. Her gaze is so familiar - and seems 
so genuine - that I feel this *must* be my sister. At last, she has 
returned to me. 

"How?" I say in disbelief. 

"It's a long story." She turns to Krycek, who has now ventured to 
stand near the foot of the bed. His brown eyes are scared, wary, 
dare I say nervous. "Untie him," Samantha says forcefully, and he 
obeys like a loyal puppy. Soon my legs are free, and she herself 
undoes my left-arm restraint. The Rat-Bastard releases Scully, and 
she immediately hugs me tight. The babies kick against my stomach as 
if they can sense me. Samantha wraps her arms around us both - or 
should I say all? - and CSM puts a hand on her shoulder. We remain 
that way for a long moment, some obscure mutation of a family. "I 
missed you," I whisper into her softly curling hair. 

The spell evaporates quickly. Samantha looks to our father, and 
the old man nods as if in approval. He sits in a chair near the 
wall, close enough to overhear but far enough away as to not cast 
his shadow over us. Krycek sits by the opposite wall, alert, 
watching. His wary eyes are trained on the Smoking Man; I note this 
for further questioning. 

Samantha takes my hand, lacing her fingers together with mine. 
She holds Scully's hand as well, and her eyes flick back and forth 
between us as she begins her story. 

She clasps my hand so tightly that her knuckles turn white. My 
fingers begin to tingle as circulation dwindles, but I don't say a 
word. She looks uncertainly at Scully, then at me. I nod a gentle 
encouragement, and Samantha sighs heavily. Her voice is shaky as she 
begins. "After the light took me, I remember being in a white place, 
like a hospital. I'm not sure how long I was there. Days seemed like 
minutes, minutes dragged on for years. The aliens and the doctors, 
they did...experiments on me." I detect tears in her voice, but a 
deep breath chases them away. "I don't really remember all that much 
- I think I repressed it all - but I have scars on my legs, arms, 
and abdomen. And one on my neck." Her tortured eyes meet mine again, 
and she untwines her hand from my grasp. She touches the scar 
lightly, and as she flinches I know she's remembering the nightmare-
dentist whir of the drill. She squeezes my hand again. 

"When the aliens had done all they could on their ship, they 
returned my to the air force base where Father said you found my 
diary. He raised Jeffrey and me and took really good care of us. I 
had no memory of you or Mom or Dad; the aliens took it all away. As 
far as I knew, I'd spent my whole life as their...lab rat. Sometimes 
the doctors would come back and do more tests, and each time it was 
worse than the last. 

"Finally, when I was about fourteen, I just couldn't take it 
anymore. I ran away. About two miles from the base, a patrol car 
picked me up and took me to the hospital. I thought I was finally 
going to be safe. But the aliens found out and took me back, took me 
with the light. I don't remember anything after that, not until 
Alex" - I flinch at the familiarity that name implies - "rescued me 
from a high-security CDC facility. That was a little over a year 
ago, and since then I've undergone hypnosis to help me remember. 
Some things are still pretty cloudy, but I remember a lot."  She 
looked at me with the ghost of a smile in her eyes. "Like how much 
you used to tease me." 

"I'm so sorry, Sammie. I should have done more, fought harder, 
saved you - " 

She shakes her head. "No, no, don't worry about it. I've forgiven 
you already. Besides, I knew how to dish it out, too. Remember that 
time I made you cry because I made fun of your name?" 

I catch Scully's eye. "I never cried." 

"Oh, yeah, you cried like a little girl." The smile leaves her 
eyes, and she clears her throat gravely. "Fox, there's something 
important I need to tell you, and I want you to promise me that 
you'll keep an open mind and not do anything...extreme." 

"Mulder? Extreme? Never," Scully jokes, but I tell Samantha that 
I'll try to stay calm. 

"Alex and I have gotten close over the past year. He kept me 
safe, even got me back to my father. I got them to speak again after 
Father faked his own death. Alex and I" - there's that familiarity 
again! - "well, we're kind of, um..." She studies the carpet, the 
walls, everything but my eyes. Her hand starts to sweat in my grasp, 
and when she speaks I must strain my ears to catch it. "I'm 
pregnant, too."

20.

The next thing I know, Scully and Samantha are pulling me away 
from Krycek, unprying my fingers from his throat. I struggle against 
them as Alex climbs to his feet, leaning against the wall for 
support. His hand gently runs over his neck, and I can clearly see 
screaming red marks - in roughly the shape of my hands - forming a 
necklace of soon-to-be bruises. He glares at me, but his steely, 
angry gaze is clouded with fear. Good. He *should* be afraid. But 
then, something strikes me as odd...I get the feeling that he 
doesn't fear me; he's afraid for the life of his child. Just as I am 
for mine. I shudder to think that I can possibly have something in 
common with this rat-bastard, but I know in my heart that it is 
true. My anger melts away slowly. Samantha loves (again, a shudder) 
this man enough to have a baby with him; the least I can do is show 
a little civility. 

As if sensing that I no longer want to kill him - at least 
immediately - Scully and Samantha release me. I slump onto the bed, 
cradling my swimming head in my hands. This is all so overwhelming: 
I'm a father of twins, trapped by my father with the one I love in a 
top secret Canadian medical facility with my sister that I haven't 
seen since she was eight, along with my enemy who she's in love with 
and has a child with. Those people on Jerry Springer think *they've* 
got hard lives? Add to that the fact that we're being protected from 
a virus created by extraterrestrials bent on destroying humanity in 
order to save it, and we've officially crossed the border into 
Wackyville. My life was always this insane? 

I turn to my father. "You've been strangely silent during this 
whole thing. What, no witty comments or apocalyptic insights?" 

"I myself have a bit of news, Fox. And this concerns everyone." 
Oh, shit, more fun stuff for this carnival of paranormal weirdness? 
"Early this morning, just before Fox and Dana here decided to wake 
up, one of our outer contacts informed me that the virus had been 
deployed. By this time, an estimated 30 million people have been 
infected. Only a few thousand have died, but it's spreading every 
second. A few small groups have locked themselves in quarantine-
zones, so there's still a chance that the entire human race won't 
completely die out." How comforting. He puts a hand on Scully's 
shoulder, and for once his face shows emotions other than anger and 
cold calculation. "I'm sorry, Dana, but your family was counted 
among the dead." Quickly he leaves the room, and for a moment I 
think he's wiping a tear from his eye. 

"Oh, Scully, I..." I hold her tightly to my chest and stroke her 
hair. She weeps openly, unabashedly, and her tears seep through the 
thin material of my shirt. She wraps her arms around my torso and 
her hands claw at my back in restless circles. I take her with me as 
I lie down, and she curls up into a fetal position, burying her sobs 
in my chest. Her whole body shakes as she cries, mourning the loss 
of those she could not save. 

And I know it's somehow all my fault.

21.

Soon Scully falls asleep, but her rest is far from peaceful.  I 
hear her moaning and crying out for her mother, and she flails about 
wildly on the bed.  Luckily she does not wake herself; I pull the 
blankets up over her and motion for Samantha and Krycek to follow me 
out of the room.  I close the door softly behind us and keep my 
voice hushed.  "Do you think we can trust him?  He’s not exactly the 
poster-child for honesty."  

"Father seemed to be telling the truth,” Samantha says.  “Why 
would he lie about something like that?"

I lower my voice even more, and the two lean in closer to hear 
me. "Because he wants to break Scully’s spirit.  As long as she knew 
her family was out there, alive, she would stop at nothing to find 
them and get them here.  By taking away her hope, he makes it a lot 
easier to keep her - and therefore me - under control."  I take her 
firmly by the shoulders and look intensely into her eyes.  Poor 
Samantha is clearly not used to thinking about her father as such a 
diabolical human being, and I hate to be the one to take away her 
innocence about this; but it needs to me said. "I don’t think we can 
trust him."

She wrenches herself from my grasp and turns away,  but not 
before I see the flashing anger in her eyes.  Her reaction pains me.  
My baby sister hates me.  I move to go back into the room, but her 
hand on my shoulder stops me. "I’m not mad at you.  I’m mad at me.  
All this time, I never let myself see.  I just wanted a normal life, 
you know?  That’s all I ever wanted."  Her voice is tight with tears 
that have never been shed. "I never, I couldn’t, accept that that 
would never happen, not with a father like ours.  He’s evil, Fox."  
She falls into my open arms and sobs softly.  Krycek puts a 
comforting hand on each of our shoulders.

For the first time, I look into his eyes.  Concern.  Anger.  
Love.  Pain.  He’s human, I realize.  Something passes between us in 
this instant.  I smile at him, and he smiles back at me.  We will 
never be best buddies, but I think I’ll let him live.  Maybe reduce 
the ass-kickings to once a week.  Okay, twice.

22.

We have been here now nearly four months, and my beautiful Scully 
is so large she can barely walk. Samantha is starting to show her 
pregnancy just a little bit; she and Scully can talk till all hours 
about everything from cramps to swelling to something they call "the 
watermelon thing." When conversations turn that way, Krycek and I 
promptly exit the room. I am constantly amazed at the growth of our 
relationship. I feel so lucky to finally have a guy-friend who's not 
half computer, even if he did knock up my sister. 

The Smoking Man has all but vanished from our home, and I can't 
help but wonder where he goes. He cannot leave the facility - risk 
of infection is far too high - so there must be some room we have 
not yet uncovered. I have gotten to know these catacombs fairly 
well, and he won't be able to hide for much longer. Once in awhile 
he appears in what we call "the Newsroom" to tell us of the spread 
of the White Plague, and the news is never good. The Russians and 
the Japanese have been working on a vaccine; the Smoking Angel of 
Good Tiding predicts they will be dead before anything has 
developed. He knows that the virus is spread by any contact - air or 
physical - with a living infected person. Apparently the virus dies 
about 3-4 days after the body does. The disease attacks white blood 
cells, causing them to reproduce in great numbers. It also alters 
those cells so that they consume red blood cells instead of other 
bacteria. The body's aerobic and cellular digestive functions shut 
down, and the person dies a slow, painful death. 

It also attacks melonocytes and prevents the manufacture of 
melanin in the skin, which gives the victims their unnaturally white 
appearance. It destroys the pituitary gland, which also controls 
skin pigmentation. 

All this from a guy in whose wake tobacco leaves grow. 

The plague has now entirely decimated the United States; only a 
few small pockets of quarantined people have survived. We've heard 
that some groups are hiding out in bomb shelters and mines, and 
Scully has not yet given up hope that her family is among the safe. 
Thought I do not tell her, each day the possibility of their 
survival grows smaller and smaller; I fear they are already gone. 

We have been summoned to the Newsroom again, and icy dread lumps 
in my stomach. I hate these meetings, to see the look of hope - hope 
that her family lives, hope that the scientists have found a cure - 
on Scully's radiant face, then to watch it fall like a bird shot 
down from the sky. Nevertheless, we sit in the all-too-familiar 
office chairs and await the latest happenings. Lambs being led to 
the slaughter. 

"Well, the sickness has reached Australia. We're hoping that, 
since the population is spread so far apart, the fatalities there 
will be minimal. The Russians' top scientists, Maxim Voladarsky and 
Anastasia Potsueloff, have been infected. They accidentally infected 
themselves while working on a dead body.  They thought the post-
death infection time period had passed, so they didn’t wear any 
protective gear.  But the virus was still active. Work on their 
vaccine has doubled in effort, but they only have a few days left at 
best." He pauses, as though he doesn't really want to say what he 
has to. "We've gotten hold of a body. We need an autopsy right 
away."

23.

"Wait," Scully says suddenly. "Why do we need an autopsy? You 
already know what this virus does to the human body." 

"Yes," Smokey replies, "but we believe the virus may have 
mutated. This man that we brought in died only *three hours* after 
infection. That is one-sixteenth of the normal rate. We need to find 
out what caused this change; maybe this strain of infection will 
give us some way to find a cure. We've got biohazard suits in the 
medical bay; you'll never have to touch him. There's no risk 
involved." 

Scully begins to follow him to the makeshift morgue, but he stops 
her. "Sorry, Dana, but I can't let you do this autopsy. First, I'm 
not going to risk having you go into labor right when you're 
dissecting his heart. Second" - and he says this with a respectful 
smile - "you just won't fit in the suit. Samantha, you and Krycek 
have some medical training." They nod while I raise a surprised 
eyebrow. My baby sister, a doctor? It never even occurred to me. 
"Scully will direct you via intercom while you perform the autopsy." 

All of us file like obedient ants after him, Scully lumbering 
last as she carries two passengers. I walk alongside her, one arm 
over her shoulder, one hand on her belly. She leans her head onto 
me, letting me know that the thrill isn't gone. "I love you," I tell 
her. She always needs reassurance now; I think she feels 
unattractive, but to me there's just more of her to love. 

By the time Scully and I get to the sick-bay (I was a Trekkie as 
a child, what can I say?) Sammie and Krycek are all suited up. They 
step into the first room, and the glass space fills with a 
disinfecting mist. Next they enter the autopsy bay, and the doors 
close behind them with a pressurized swish. Scully begins to 
instruct them via a PA system, and they follow her orders with 
amazing precision. 

The process is long and arduous. The man's blood has congealed, 
thickened by the overproduction of its cells. Scully's words of past 
echo in my mind; "it starts as an invader, but soon becomes one with 
the invaded; forcing you to destroy it, but only at the risk of 
destroying yourself." This poor man's body turned against him, 
destroying him from the inside out, and all he could do was watch in 
agony as his immune system betrayed him. I realize that we do not 
even know his name. Would we even want to know? 

Screams shatter my thoughts like glass. Samantha is screaming, 
screaming in pain. Her leg! She clutches at her leg and collapses to 
the floor. Blood seeps out between her fingers and pools around 
her...the scalpel falls from her trembling hands. A scalpel stained 
with her blood. And the victim's.

24.

My fists sting as I pound helplessly on the inch-thick glass. I 
call out her name again and again, hoping beyond hope that maybe she 
will be okay. She writhes about in agony on the floor, and blood 
continues to gush from her wound. So much blood. Too much blood. 
What if she severed a vein? She would bleed to death! No! Not when 
I've finally gotten her back! 

Now Scully is fighting to pull me back from the glass barrier. 
Cracks begin to spiderweb out from my hands before she finally 
wrestles me away. I watch in helpless horror as Krycek applies 
pressure to the wound, slowing the gush ever so slightly. Sammie 
quickly loses consciousness; the red puddle grows to cover more and 
more of the cold linoleum. Scully turns me away from the terrible 
scene, pulling me close to her. I bury my choking sobs in her 
willing shoulder. "Oh God, Oh, God, please..." I never made it past 
the "please"; surely God knew what I meant. 

Time moves strangely. I thought I cried for only a moment, but 
really, long minutes had passed between the time I began to weep and 
the time Krycek emerged from the chamber. He had removed the 
protective suit in the tween-room, but his hands were still covered 
in blood. Sammie's blood. While trying to dress the wound, he'd had 
to take off the gloves or risk losing the scissors or gauze; the 
numbing contact of the gloves I know all too well. 

His eyes are tortured, brimming with tears. He doesn't even need 
to say the words; I already know. He stares down at his red-stained 
hands in disbelief. "I couldn't save her," he says in a distant 
voice. "I tried, but I just couldn't..." 

Then a strange look passes briefly over his face. He seems 
somehow...determined. Grimly agreed to a dark task. I don't even try 
to stop him as he runs back into the inner chamber. Don't raise a 
hand in protest as he kisses Samantha's ice-cold lips, as he lays a 
hand on the stomach that has become a tomb for his unborn child. I 
don't even flinch as he picks up the scalpel stained with her blood, 
the victim's blood, and now his blood. All I can do is cry as the 
sanguine fluid pours from his open wrists, watch as he slumps to 
cradle Sammie's head in his lap as his life fades away. 

"Godspeed, brother," I sob. "Godspeed."

25.

The days run together, blurring like a chalk drawing under the 
assault of a rainstorm. Nights fade into days fade into nothingness. 
I close my eyes and all I see is Samantha lying dead in a pool of 
her own blood. I open my eyes and the vision remains, clear-cut and 
painful as the day it was burned into my mind. Awake, asleep: I 
can't tell the difference anymore. I feel as thought I am drowning, 
the silver surface of the saving sky slipping farther away each 
moment. And I don't even try to swim upward. 

Scully comes in to feed me. Cold, mashed-up foods so far beyond 
the point of recognition. I just don't have the energy to chew 
anymore. Has Samantha's death aged me, or reduced me to a state of 
perpetual infancy?  I lay still and weak as an infant or an old man. 
So I sit in my bed as either a newborn forty-something, or an 
antiquated man with all his hair. 

Poor Dana, my dear, sweet Dana. Locked in this tomb with no one 
but a vegetable for company. And with child, no less. Look at me, 
sitting here, trapped in my own sobbing body and drowning in a sea 
of my own sadness when she's thrown out a lifesaver to me. We can't 
go on like this. Beautiful Dana, save me...save me from myself. Be 
my light in the darkness. 

Oh look how she curls up next to me and wraps her arms around me. 
Just like she did late at nights, when the stars would dance in her 
hair as she whispered her love for me. I want to save her now from 
the pain of that love, from the tears in her eyes that threaten to 
swallow her whole. Her fingers trace the lines of my face, thumbs 
caress my lips. No matter how I command them, those lips will not 
obey my orders to kiss her. She freed me once from my bondage at the 
hospital, but can she save me from my own prison? 

Her lips, like the beat of a butterfly's wing, against my cheek. 
Then touching along my jawline, my chin. Planting soft little kisses 
that blossom into points of icy fire on my flesh. A sigh, almost a 
moan, escapes my lips. Did I just make a sound? Yes! Oh kiss me 
again, my angel, for you are as glorious to my self-imposed night as 
a winged messenger of heaven sent to save my soul. Pull me out of 
this pit by the strength of your love! 

She hears me; whether it is my moan or my thoughts I know not. 
She presses her body against mine, waking up places that I'd nearly 
forgotten. I feel the babies' kicks through her stomach and into 
mine. Her mouth presses against my forehead, my eyelids, my nose. 
Her breath lights my skin on fire and as I rise out of my black sea 
I sink deeper into her silver ocean. Salvation cometh on the lips of 
a saint! 

She kisses me, soft and powerful, on the mouth. Thus from my 
lips, by hers, my darkness is purged! My arms are mine to control 
once more, and embrace her as I have yearned to do for ages. My 
legs, my feet, my hands, my mouth; all are mine again! I hold her 
with all my strength, clinging to her as to a rock during the 
tumultuous storm. Oh Dana, my goddess and savior! "I love you, Fox," 
says she, and I am startled by the tears in her voice. 

"And I am so in love with you, Dana."

26.

Scully snuggles in as close as her anatomy will allow. She wraps 
her arms like a vine around me, rests her head against my chest, and 
sighs as she listens to the steady drum of my heart. I let my 
fingers play through her velvety hair. Each sensation feels new, as 
though I'm touching her for the first time. She is water to a 
thirsty man, light to the darkest heart, sight to the blind, love to 
the lonely. And best of all, she is mine. Not in the antiquated 
cave-man/fifties way; she is mine in the sense that I would die 
without her. In the sense that she keeps me going. In the sense that 
she is as much a part of me as my heart or lung or soul. 

"I dreamt last night, Fox," she says softly. "I dreamt that we 
were somewhere far, far away from here. You, me, and the children. 
Somewhere safe, where there was no such thing as aliens or viruses 
or death. Where the sky was ocean blue, and the sea the color of a 
spring morning. Were we swimming in the sky or flying at the bottom 
of the ocean? But then the storms came, and our paradise was torn to 
shreds." She props herself up on her elbow and looks down into my 
eyes. "What are we going to do? This is no place to raise a family. 
Trapped in this prison, no windows, no garden, no other children to 
play with." 

I run my hand over her arm and pull her in a little closer. "But 
what lies outside? Death, despair, nothingness. We have to face 
facts, here, Dana. Pretty soon, we may be the very last people on 
earth. We go out there and who knows what could happen. We could get 
infected. *They* could get infected. And with us, all humanity 
dies." 

"Mulder, the virus is useless after the death of the victim. If 
we wait long enough, it will die out totally. And what about those 
people your father said were in hiding? Humanity arose from a small 
population of Homo sapiens. Who's to say we can't do it again?" 

"Not that I wouldn't mind repopulating the globe with you," she 
smiles faintly at my suggestive stare, "but those rebels will stop 
at nothing to destroy the human race. They find us, they kill us. Or 
even worse, the other aliens find us and turn us into breeding 
fields for their demon offspring." 

She sits up totally, casting off my embrace. Her eyes once so 
kind now look angry and pleading. "So that's it, huh? We just sit 
here and wither away while hope is still out there?" 

I wrap my arms around her again. "No, Dana. We stay here and live 
and keep the hope with us. By the time our kids are grown, there 
won't be a threat anymore." 

"But I want them to grow up out there! Where they can feel the 
sun on their faces and know what freedom is!" 

"They will know! But why risk ending their lives before they even 
get a chance to begin?" 

Her face turns white, and her argument dies in her throat. "Mul-
Mulder?" she says with eyes wide. 

My heart jumps into my throat and pounds like a psycho's drum 
solo. "What!?" 

"I think it's time."

27.

Oh crap. 

"Uh, Scully, you're the doctor! What do we do?!" Adrenaline turns 
my blood into molten lava; I'm as active as a hyperactive 
hypoglycemic three-year-old on speed. Boil some water! Get ice! Find 
a cigar! Oh why didn't I pay attention in health class?! I feel as 
though my skeleton is trying to leap out of the rest of my body! 

Luckily Scully keeps her head. "Go into the linen closet and get 
some towels," she barks through gritted teeth. "Then get me some ice 
from the kitchen." Her fists clench and she gasps in pain. "I need 
you to go to the lab and get some painkillers, and bring the first-
aid kit, too." She looks deep into my eyes, hers filled with a mix 
of agony, joy, and sympathy. "I know it's going to be hard for you 
to go in there, but you have to." 

I kiss her quickly on her forehead, which has broken out in a 
hard sweat. Driven by chemical demons, I race through the compound 
to find towels and ice, both of which I give to Scully and record 
speed. But my steps are slower as I approach the medical bay. Are 
their bodies still in there, or did Father move them? How can I go 
in there and see them? God help me! 

I near the doors. Step into the room. The glass barrier is still 
cracked. I spy Krycek's bloody handprint on the inner glass panel. 
Oh no, they're still in there! I can see her lying, green-brown with 
death, on the floor, him beside her, and above them both the body on 
the examining table. 

Bile rises in my throat and tears brim in my eyes. I have to turn 
away. What can I do? Scully needs those supplies. My kids need them. 
But I shudder at the thought of going in there... 

No. I will not let fear rule me. I turn back toward the glass, 
eyes fixed straight ahead, not down, never down. I make it to the 
tween-room, all the time forcing my feet to move. Time is of the 
essence. I sidestep Krycek's bio-suit, still lying in a heap on the 
floor where he shed it. And then I'm in. The acrid stench of death 
invades my nostrils, and I fight to keep my legs moving forward and 
my lunch not moving up. Oh God, Sammie! You look so small, so 
young...why you? I would have gladly done the autopsy. Oh why you!? 

I can't help but feel like a grave robber as I pull the first-aid 
kit off the wall. But the painkillers and needles are on the other 
side of the room, across the ocean of dried blood. I cannot describe 
the overwhelming fear that washes over me. For the first time in my 
life, terror paralyzes me. I am weak. 

NO! Not when my children are concerned! Fatherhood coils in my 
legs and propels me across the crusty brown puddle. I pull the drugs 
from their shelves and am off and running. Running as I did when I 
was little and the big kids chased me home from school. Running as I 
did on dark nights when shadows were monsters and light was life. 
Running from the Bogeyman. Running from my own mortality and choking 
on my own fear. 

28.

A month came and went, but my joy hasn't diminished. My two 
beautiful children, my son and my daughter, grow more beautiful with 
each day. Scully is more radiant than ever; her pregnant-lady glow 
gave rise to the luminescence of motherhood. When I look into her 
eyes, I see my own euphoria reflected tenfold. I never though I 
could love anyone as much as I do my family. How to describe this 
feeling except to say it is indescribable? The human language is too 
restrictive; a word does not exist. Not until one experiences such 
mirth can one truly understand. 

Oh they are a joy to watch! We roll around on the floor with them 
as though we ourselves are small again. Their laughs are infectious, 
their smiles shining with the life of a thousand moons. Such happy, 
happy children born into such a sad world. Even as my heart is 
aflame with rejoicing, sadness weighs on my spirit like the bill 
after a feast. Will they never see the sun? What of their days of 
sandlot baseball and picnics on the beach, of playing tag in the 
park and hopscotch in the sidewalk? A youth stolen before it begins. 

The Cancerman has appeared only twice since their birth: once to 
give Scully a hug, shake my hand, and deliver a bag of goodies and 
diapers for the children, and a second time to tell us that the 
quiet apocalypse had reached its end. Save the protected few, not a 
single soul now walked this empty earth. 6 million people, 
gone...millions of years of evolution wiped out in a blink. All that 
survive are cockroaches and a handful of starving humans. 

After delivering the dreadful news, we have neither heard nor 
seen the shadow of The Shadow. Perhaps he cowers in some forgotten 
corner of these catacombs. Perhaps he went out into the deserted 
world to crush the last of humanity. 

But he lives; of this I am certain. The world needs evil in it. 
Without darkness there can be no light. Without evil there can be no 
good. The two survive on each other in cosmic symbiotism, playing 
games with the galaxy in ways too vast to understand. Vying for 
control, arranging the chess pieces; he is but a pawn to the greater 
forces, as are the rest of us. 

And as I stand here with one arm around my beloved and my 
daughter and the other one holding my son, I know that our role, 
while small, is still important. My son, with his mother's eyes and 
fiery hair - though cursed with my nose - is destined to be a 
fighter for good. My daughter, who shares my hair and eyes but who 
is blessed with her mother's nose, will fight alongside him. The war 
will continue. 

We will go out into the new frontier. We will find the saved 
ones, the rest of humanity. And we will prosper. Mankind will 
continue. These children are our hope, a new beginning. The second 
dawn after a cold and lonely night. The first of many new children 
who will grow and reclaim the earth. 

And so we name them Adam and Eve.