Waiting In Motion (9/10)
by mountainphile
mountainphile@yahoo.com
MSR, NC-17
Header and Disclaimer info in Part 1

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Scully mobilizes them with the proficiency of a drill
sergeant, snapping out orders with unconscious, accustomed
authority.  They scramble to obey.  From her limited foul-
weather stores Ruth supplies rain gear, a first aid kit,
another flashlight, and several old blankets for the rescue
attempt.  Carl, with Skeeter tagging at his heels, hustles
for rope.

"This jacket'll be a mite loose," Ruth apologizes, "and it's
the smallest I got since you're still too big to fit in
Skeeter's.  And shoes or boots... sorry, but I just can't
help with that."

The two pockets are sizable, perfect for carrying essentials
into the forest.  Scully stops at her room for the cell
phone, hesitating over her weapon because of the weight
factor.  She decides at the threshold to strap it on.
Several large coils of rope are already nestled in the back
of the truck when she emerges.

Within minutes she's clinging like a squirrel to the
passenger's seat while Carl bounces over the rutted road
with practiced ease, the old pickup truck lurching to avoid
deep puddles and debris the storm has left in their path.
The engine's roar competing with the thunder, he brakes,
picking out the fork that leads them onto the alternate
route.  The road here is noticeably rougher, narrower, and
their progress slows to an interminable crawl, punctuated by
the lightning's dull flashes.

"There it is," he mutters suddenly, pointing with his chin.
With little room to park, he wrenches the steering wheel and
manhandles the truck into a sloppy K-turn, coming to a halt.

Scully grapples her way down from the seat of the truck.  A
deluge of rain hits her, causing her to stagger slightly
before picking her way to the car with quick steps.  Her
hands press along the cold hood of the vehicle as if
examining a patient's chest, seeking signs of warmth, of
life.  There is nothing, the hard finish only wet and cold.

On the inside of the windshield the "X" is thrown up in
haphazard, asymmetrical fashion, just as Carl described it.
Her throat constricts at the image of Mulder tearing the
tape with his teeth, leaning against the hard ridge of the
steering wheel in order to affix it to the inside glass.
Her mind races to ascertain his purpose.

The "X"... a symbol he's used over the years to signal a
contact or mark a location.  She can't help but flashback
seven years ago to a similar rainstorm, one during which the
radio garbled unintelligibly, lightning flashed, and their
car gasped and slowed to a crawl on the wet road in
Oregon...

Her exultant partner yelled through the rain about lost
time, rejoicing over the giant spray-painted letter he'd
previously marked on the asphalt the first time they
encountered the phenomenon.  She remembers checking her
watch, unwilling to take such a spectacular leap of faith,
choosing instead to refute Mulder's connection between
missing persons and bright lights, loss of power and lost
time.

And later, puzzling over the strange ashy dust she'd scooped
into her pocket from the forest floor...

It went untested, of course, since all evidence had been
immolated in short order by the suspicious fire at the
motel.  Confiscated, destroyed, snatched away -- always the
same thing.  Damn it to hell, all she's ever wanted was the
simple, unencumbered truth and the freedom to prove it.  And
right now she needs to find out what's happened to Mulder.

The car door is unlocked and nothing on the driver's side
raises suspicion, except perhaps his makeshift attempt at
tidiness.  A plastic tarpaulin is thrown over the seat to
save the upholstery.  Mud clumping on the floor mats shows
he's been elsewhere in his search.  She sees no scorch
marks, no dust or unexplainable powder.  Nothing except a
few shattered sunflower seed shells that have tumbled into
the crease between the seats.

Before exiting, she thinks it wise to slip her duplicate key
into the ignition; a turn and the car purrs to life, the
lights and electrical system intact.  She glances at the
car's LED display, then down at her watch, frowning at the
discrepancy.

Distant lightning flashes, but she can't allow it to hinder
her progress and purpose.  Not now, with Mulder somewhere
out in this wilderness.  Bowing her head, she takes a deep
breath and commands herself to maintain control, while the
mountain thunderstorm rages overhead.

Slamming the door, she pats the two deep pockets that hold
her equipment and pulls out the cell phone one more time.
It couldn't hurt to try again.  As before, nothing.  The
receiver produces only static in answer to the urgent
calling of Mulder's name and she knows they're losing
precious time by putting off the inevitable.

She beckons to Carl and moves to the other side of the car,
where the road ends and the steep curbside drops.  Here the
topography is erratic; the mountain falls away from the
road's edge in uneven, jutting mounds of rock and tangled
growth that tumble into the duskiness of late afternoon.
The storm has left its signature in the piled swaths of
shattered boughs, in the brownish mortar of mud that drains
from the roadside to coat the rocks and underbrush with
viscous shellac.

"What's below us?"  She shouts to Carl over the rain's din
and points toward the shadows of the ravine.

Even short careful steps are precarious in the snarl of
debris and she finds herself cursing that she doesn't have a
pair of shoes that are more substantial and equal to the
challenge.  Never again, when traveling with Mulder; all
contingencies must be considered.  Her inches-high heels
sink into the soft, muddy soil like fingers probing deep
into edematous flesh.  She wonders from what place in her
mind that analogy springs and the sensation sickens her.
Lifting her feet, she pulls away with brusque determination.

Carl's tall shape looms at her side, staggering over the
hazardous footing, with a length of rope from the truck
draped over his forearm.  It's evident he hasn't understood
her question in the incessant roar of rain and thunder and
he leans forward like a tree bent by wind, shaking his big
head.

"Mulder said there were caves around here -- possibly
sinkholes.  Is that true?"

He nods, the streaming water spraying from his chin.  "Yeah,
pits an' holes.  Limestone deep in the ground washin' away
all the time.  Sometimes open up right under your feet
before you know it's there," he says next to her ear.

"Then we've got to look.  What's the best way down?"

The man wears an expression of horror.  "Hold on!  This rain
is worse than I ever expected.  An' you can't make it down
there in those shoes.  It ain't safe, Miss Scully.  Rocks
and mud slidin' right out from under us as it is."

"There's no time to waste, then."  She feels flushed,
suffused with the reckless fever of desperation.  Her hand
grasps the rope, jerking on its free end.  "I'm tying this
around me, Carl.  Do you hear me?  I want you to hold this
rope and lower me down so I can have a look.  I mean it.
The car is a marker and he's here somewhere."

She sees Carl Malone's basic goodness and chivalry strain to
its limit, rebelling against her command.  A gentle family
man, it's no surprise that he wants to protect her from the
elements and possible danger, but the sheer outlandishness
of the prospect itself seems to daunt him.  He puts out a
large, plate-sized hand, arresting her pull on the rope and
engulfing her wrist as he would a child's.  "You're one
crazy woman to try somethin' like this --"

"And it's obvious I can't belay someone your size -- or do
this alone.  So, do I have your cooperation or not?"

What a bizarre picture they must make, she thinks.  Standing
inches apart under the trees, shouting to be heard in the
roar of the downpour, hoods over their heads and rain
jackets coursing water.  He's basketball player-tall with a
name to match, wide-eyed, looming over her in the growing
dusk.  She's dwarfed beside him, a bonsai to his sequoia and
fiercely resolute.  Strands of wet auburn hair pasted to
pale cheeks, ankles and pant legs smeared with mud, shoes
melting into the soggy earth beneath her feet.  Mulder would
be amused by the ludicrous disparity and grin, eyes
sparkling, lips toying with an ever-present sunflower seed,
his head shaking gently...

At the mental glimmer of her partner's face, she breaks the
handhold with a sharp recoil and cry.  "Goddamn it, Carl!  I
need your help to pull this off and we have to move now!
Are you with me?"

Lightning rips the forest, pouring light into Scully's
startled face.  She curses again and shuts her eyes,
grimacing against the onslaught that threatens to steal both
her breath and her ability to function.

Focus... ohgod, focus...

She chants to herself until Mulder's face swims into hazy
view behind her squint, enveloping her in the quiet,
quizzical depths of his gaze.  She almost feels his hand on
her face, calming and tender, almost hears his whisper,
infusing her with strength to fight and overcome.  After
several deep gasps she keeps the numbing effect at bay and
surfaces from the waves of stupefaction, the edge of her lip
smarting.  Her tongue dabs it and tastes blood.

She opens her eyes to see Carl tossing a length of rope
around a thick, moss-covered tree trunk.  Then he moves
toward her to loop an end around her waist, bending to tie
it with the quick, powerful dexterity and knowledge of a man
comfortable with knots and certain of their capabilities.

"This here's a pretty long rope," he grunts as he works.
"If you get into trouble or need to be pulled up quick, just
yank on it real hard, so I know what to do.  I'll be
checkin'.  One yank, you're okay.  Two yanks, you found him.
Three, an' I pull you up like a flag on the Fourth of July,
no questions asked."

She'd like to hug this redwood of a man, but chooses instead
to check the stiff length encircling her middle.  It's thick
as a man's thumb, rough and bristly against her fingers,
with a tight twist.  Doubtless it will chafe her ribs when
gravity drags her full weight against it, but the rain
jacket should add another layer of insulation.  Waiting is
no longer an option; afternoon fails them and Mulder remains
in jeopardy.  Nodding vigorously at the instruction and
squeezing the huge hand in wordless thanks, she turns to
step into the yawning abyss of the mountainside.

Descending the seventy-degree incline, Scully's grateful for
specific realities in her life, past and present.  Grateful
for the natural agility and strength that has been hers
since childhood, when she summoned pride and swallowed fear
to imitate her two gregarious brothers.  In doing so, she
discovered within herself a large reserve of stamina and
grit, determination and courage.

Dana Scully, the tomboy.  It served her well during the
Academy's physical training and defense courses, raising
more than a few eyebrows when her small size masked the
potency hidden beneath cinnamon hair, lips that gathered to
a thoughtful pout, and a taut young body.  She met the
requirements, then strove to exceed them, intent only on
accomplishment and excellence.

In present time she's grateful for the most simplistic of
gifts -- that the shoes she's wearing, though woefully
inadequate, are the tighter pair, hugging her feet in the
wet bramble and mud of the ravine.  She dare not lose a shoe
and risk bare soles along this rocky descent.

She's grateful for Carl's cooperation and massive, bulldog
arms holding this lifeline above her.  For the blessed "X"
Mulder left on the car's windshield, proclaiming his
whereabouts and implying the possibility of another
supernatural discovery.  His attempt to reassure her, as
he's wont to do now, even in his absences.

"Mulderrr!"

She no sooner screams his name than the wind snatches it
into oblivion.  Where in heaven's name is he hidden?  It
rests on her expertise and ingenuity to somehow locate him
in the dusk, clinging to the hope that he's uninjured and
able to signal to his rescuer.  Wiping rainwater from her
eyes, her anxious gaze darts along the tumbled wet fall of
forest growth, deep-green and unrevealing.  Ankles scrape
against rock and broken twigs, wobbling over the unsteady
terrain while the rope gouges her sides with its tight
roughness.  Already it's too dark to see clearly with
unaided eyes and she fumbles for the flashlight, holding
onto her lifeline with the other hand.

The rope scrapes across her ribs with a sudden, tooth-
grinding jerk and the flashlight leaps away, beam bobbing as
it tumbles into the underbrush.  "Shit!"

Blind to what's enfolding below him, Carl is keeping tabs on
her progress as promised, feeding out rope and monitoring
response.  She returns his signal with a single tug, then
bends to reach for the errant flashlight, exhaling with
relief when her fingers touch, then curl around the cold
metal base.

The light arcs and diffuses in the haze.  She concentrates
on deeper depressions in the topography, which may be gaping
maws into the earth... or simply nothing at all.  Virginia
is a far cry from Florida, but slipping unawares down a
mossy wet hole is the last thing she wants to revisit,
especially in this storm.  If she were to examine the cases
she and Mulder handled over the years, how many
investigations have led them into the depths of a forest?

Too many, she decides.  With Mulder she's experienced flesh-
eating bugs, vampires and shape-shifters, flashing molten
light poured from the sky... Mothmen, the shallow graves of
children, mysterious beams that pulse and beckon, bones and
decay unearthed from the leaves... Only a sampling of cases,
to be sure, with Mulder at her side to later reinforce and
validate each fantastic phenomenon, each dubious
recollection.  To qualify the often-unbelievable field
reports they nudge across Skinner's desk.

And then there are events that skirt her conscious memory,
things she doesn't quite remember.  Experiences that cause
her to question not only her own perceptions, but also those
of others.  One of these she later learned from Skinner via
Mulder -- that for the space of a night she hid her own
singed and traumatized body under the trees with the other
survivors of the firestorm at Ruskin Dam.

She shakes her head to clear it of old demons.  Thunder
clutches the treetops and shakes them; the rain continues in
maddening drizzle, painting her eyelashes and face with
moisture.  Taking a deep breath of the humid air, she opens
her eyes to the sky...

A beam of light hovers overhead.

It grows larger in size and intensity and descends like a
gigantic humming floodlight, blinding her eyes and forcing
her to squint and avert her face from its brightness.  Her
heart pounds, the blood throbbing in her temples.
Searchlights from a helicopter?  Surely not a rescue team --
before she disappeared down the road with Carl in search of
Mulder, Ruth would have discussed the option of phoning for
outside help.  Then what is it?

In an instant the rope goes slack and her stomach plummets
as she tumbles backward down the rocky, leafy incline.  It's
over in three terrifying seconds and she finds herself
wedged halfway underneath a stony outcropping, flashlight
still clenched in her hand.  Hasty inventory reveals scrapes
and bruises, but no bones broken.  Shoes clinging to both
feet.  Thank God for small favors.

Her next instinct, for whatever reason, is to hide -- and
quickly.  Wedging herself deeper under the overhang of rock,
she feels the still-slack rope dig into sore ribs and hopes
that Carl is safe and at his post somewhere above her.  At
the same time she intones a desperate prayer that his
vigilance won't yank her suddenly from this refuge.  She
lies pinned, held at bay by the predatory force that
searches overhead.

Pulsating airwaves make the fillings in her teeth come
alive.  Tremors seize her, preventing her from drawing a
full breath of the heavy electrified air.  Or is it the
trembling of pure terror?  Whether from fear or memory of
Mulder's account, she slides a hand to the back of her neck
and presses hard against the tiny scar in a feeble, vain
attempt to hide from detection.

The beam of light grows in length and breadth as the humming
quivering probe moves across the gash of the ravine like a
luminous knife blade.  From her hiding place, Scully watches
it comb through trees and foliage, licking over rocks and
any surface that it encounters in its inexorable sweep
toward her.

Not more than twenty feet away, a deer stumbles upright from
its pocket of shelter.  It gives a funny, guttural "baa" of
fear as it thrashes in the deep fall of leaves and
vegetation, seeking escape from the marbled beam.
Mesmerized, she sees its eyes glow incandescent before the
animal's head and shoulders shake and it begins,
inexplicably, to levitate.

Something must be terribly wrong with her vision, with her
equilibrium and perception, she gasps to herself.  In a haze
of unbelieving horror she watches the captive animal rise
into the air like a lunatic marionette, trembling.  Its
limbs and body are helpless, twitching, treading water in a
bizarre staccato dance.  As if waiting, yet in motion...

... Haunting memories seep back.  Images of a bridge at
night.  Silent hands raised in entreaty, faces rapt and
glowing in a swath of light and floating ash.  Then, of a
cold white table illuminated, surrounded, the whirring drill
and silent screams of fear and pain --

The deer falls.  Its sides heave as it lies in the deep
undergrowth.  Scully's not certain if it's wounded or
stunned or simply recovering its breath when the beam of
light resumes an insidious advance toward her side of the
hollow.

Beyond all expectation, she feels the length of slack rope
twitch along the ground.  Not now, she prays.  Oh God in
heaven, please, not yet... She stills the trembling of her
body, holds her breath and the bristling rope tight against
her ribs.  The knife blade of light pauses above -- as if
with intelligence -- then passes on, tripping across the
protective lip of rock over the mossy roof of her hiding
place.

The bright wave passes slowly onward and fades into the
forest.  Light explodes like a flare, blinding her again,
then just as quickly disappears.

A curtain of indistinguishable darkness re-drapes the
dripping forest.  She hears a scrabble in the distance, the
mushy sounds of retreat, and knows the deer has fled.  With
cautious uncertainty, she eases her body out from underneath
the stony shelter.  Shaking her head, the edge of the rain
hood drips water into her eyes and she stands up to get her
bearings and still her heart's pounding.

Another jerk around her ribs nearly steals her footing and
her breath.  Carl, it appears, is back at his post.  Her
ribs burn from the sawing friction and the gouging pressure
of her weapon.  Stabilizing herself, she responds with a
pull on the rope to signal to her faithful grounds man that
all is well.

Progress seems easier now.  The steepness levels out and
grows flatter in the dark trench of the mountain hollow.  As
she plays the flashlight's beam before her, she spots
erratic movement in the distance.  Set apart from the swirl
and eddy of the wind is an object swaying to and fro.  Not
yet close enough for the small beam to be effective, a
sudden crack and flash of lightning electrifies the sky over
her, throwing the thing into stark relief.

It looks like a ragged flag knotted at the end of a very
long and flimsy stick.

Edging forward toward the moving signal, her flashlight beam
connects, whetting expectation, feeding hope.  She's drawn
to the edge of a gaping, rocky hole in the forest floor from
which the stick protrudes.  On it hangs Mulder's tee shirt.
She cries his name repeatedly, reaching out to grasp the
thin limb bowing from the weight of its sodden burden,
shaking it with desperate hands.

"Scully?"  His voice emanates from the bowels of the earth,
faint, unbelieving.

"Mulder!"  On her belly now and oblivious to obstacle or
pain, she crawls to the hole's edge, small rocks and debris
dislodging inward despite her care.  "Are you injured?"

Quiet reigns and the steady pounding of blood in her ears.
"Are you okay?  Mulder, answer me, godammit!"  She swallows
her uncertainty, straining to hear any sound from him within
the dark hole.

"Welcome to my nightmare."  His words rise, hollow and
distant.  "And better watch that first step..."

"How are you?"

"A little scuffed... and cold as a witch's tit... "  He
laughs and now she detects the hypothermic tremble in his
voice.  "Yeah, I'm good."

"I'll be the judge of that."

"Scully... "  He pauses and she closes her eyes to better
hear him, struggling to catch his next words in the din of
the pattering foliage.  "Did you see it?"

He's still the Mulder she knows and loves, ever searching
for the supernatural, for the alien equation that eludes and
frustrates him.  Working quickly, she stands to untie the
saturated rope at her ribs with fingers that are stiffened
from cold and exertion.  The knot is stubborn, eating up
precious time, but she directs a stream of encouraging words
down into his underground prison.

"Hang on... we're going to pull you out of there."

"We?"

"You'll see soon enough... "

She tosses the free end down to him.  Prostrate on the
sodden leaves and brush, she lays her face against her
forearms, welcoming the cool raindrops that slip unchecked
down and over her cheek.  As Mulder secures the lifeline
around his own body, she sits up against the jagged rock
wall behind her to give two hard yanks on the heavy rope.

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END (9/10)
Waiting In Motion
by mountainphile