Everything Changes
Pt 4: Other Eyes
July 29, 2000
Cat: Skinner angst/X-File
Post Requiem piece-- Finale Spoiler
Disclaimer: We don't need no stinking disclaimers!
Authors note: My best stab at matching an episode--
at least until the addition of Robert Patrick to the cast.
So, with the exception of that occurrence, this still remains
my attempt at paralleling Chris Carter.
Everything Changes:
Everything Changes
Pt 4: Other Eyes
Foresight Institute
San Pescadaro, New Mexico
There were white flashes of light, but the man drew two circles on the lined notebook paper, and added a third larger below the two. He carefully filled the crude circles in with black ink.
There were faces, glimpses of expressions etched with pure terror; faces with deep cuts separating features-- claw marks. The man sketched a spire, then another and another until he was pleased with the rough design of what looked like a castle on his paper, and beside it he wrote, KINGDOM.
It was a battle; men screamed as the shapes came out of the dark. Brutal attacks never seen coming, but there had been anticipation; they had heavily armed themselves, the man had seen the flash of the weapons. He drew a track on the paper, then added a bullet-like shape to the track, writing the letter M below it.
The man saw hollow men, their bodies turned husks, with great maws torn in the chest cavities. He watched organs dissolve, feeding a shapeless being that pricked at the bodies of man from within--
Shaken, the man took a sharp breath, and fumbled his pen. Wiping the perspiration from his brow, he left the pen where it fell on the floor; he'd done enough. He'd made a good show of his gift—for appearance sake at least. He'd tried to tell them before, and they had stared then shunned him. No more…
He stood, running his fingers through his receding hair, and headed for the door of the small session room.
"Steven?" the woman sitting outside the room said, sounding surprised to see him. She turned fully from the desk she was seated at, her hand extended. "That was quick."
Steven smiled broadly as he handed over the notebook paper. "Yeah," he said, adding a nervous and weak laugh.
"I'll make sure Dr. Hine gets these as soon as possible," she said and smiled. Steven nodded and started for the exit. "Oh, wait, you forgot your name on your session notes," the woman called him back.
Steven turned, half laughing and looking self-conscious. "Mm, Sorry about that," he said, and glanced at her name tag, "Evelyn."
"You wouldn't want someone else taking credit for your work, now, would you?" the woman said as he scribbled his name in the top right of the paper.
He looked at her a moment, straightened and said, "maybe."
With the outside within view, Steven pulled his cigarettes out with a shaky hand as he headed for the terrace that overlooked the canyon. He could already see the smoke on the horizon, it was thick and black, blotting out the pure rays of mid-day sunlight. It was miles away, there wasn't an immediate threat and there had been no evacuation called yet, but he knew there would be soon.
His skin pulled into goose flesh as he pushed through the glass door onto the terrace, the heat of the day engulfing him greedily. He took a long draw on his freshly lit cigarette, feeling a chill run through his body, heedless of the day's high temperature being near ninety degrees.
Steven leaned against the rail that stretched the length of the terrace, gazing out over the rolling hills that gave way to mature mountain, watching the black smoke billow and drift in the distance. He took comfort in the stillness of the air, and the cocoon of soundlessness. He closed his eyes and pushed away the images that haunted him.
There were footsteps behind him, someone coming out onto the terrace. He didn't look back; there was no reason to invite a badly unwanted conversation.
Keeping his eyes shut, Steven hunched his shoulders as if they would shield him, making him invisible to whom ever it was coming outside.
"Why do you suppose everyone hates me?"
Steven cringed. Exhaling, he lifted his head and looked at the man who had leaned on the rail next to him. "I don't know, Boyd," Steven said, mocking sincerity, "maybe it's because you're the son of the devil."
Boyd nodded his head, deliberately taking in the scenery to avoid Steven's bold gaze. "You hate me, too."
"I wouldn't go that far," Steven said, turning back to the scenery, taking another drag on his cigarette, "I just don't give a rat's ass about you."
Expelling a dense plume of smoke from his mouth with a exaggerated his, Steven straightened and flicked his cigarette up into the air, sending into a high arch before it tumbled out of sight into the canyon below.
"Hey! Are you crazy?" Boyd exclaimed, throwing himself against the rail to look over the side in total horror.
Steven grinned. "I just might be--"
"Miser!" Shouting and waving a piece of paper before him, an angry man in round wire rims and a checked shirt came unexpectedly out the glass doors. "Just what the hell is this Mickey Mouse shit?" He held the paper up mere centimeters from Steven Miser's face. "You think this kind of shit is funny?"
"No, Dr. Hiney," Steven answered, maintaining his aloofness, "I think it's hysterical."
"You're viewing Disney World?" Boyd said, and laughed as he took the paper from the doctor to gawk at.
"It's Disneyland. There's a difference, you know?" Steven mocked Boyd's high-pitched voice, snatching the paper from him.
Dr. Hine snatched the paper back from Steven, crumpled it in his fist and began shaking it in front of the younger man. "You've got to stop this, Miser," he declared, his face only slightly less red than it was when he first came out the door, "we're going to lose what little funding we've got left if you don't shape up and start getting serious again."
Steven nodded, looking down at his worn black boots. "Sure," he said, low and gruff. "I know. I will."
"Excuse me, fellas," a young man drew their attention to the door, "you might want to see this on the news about the fire."
When they entered the sloppy lounge most everyone was settled around the television, where the newscast was already in progress.
"... Over fifty separate blazes are burning in the area and the threat of thunderstorms could only cause more..." the news anchor reported, "The fire, set to clear underbrush in Cibola National Forest, has so far consumed over eighteen thousand acres."
"That much this soon?" Boyd said and was immediately hushed by others in the room.
"... National Park Service officials are working in conjunction with the National Weather Service to assure timely evacuation reports in case of wind shifts that could cause a change in the fire's course. Currently winds are mild and moving in a northerly direction--"
Cheers and hoots sounded throughout the Foresight Institute lounge, obliterating the rest of the report. Steven winced against the rejoicing, watching the television as a video began to run; it was of a rag-tag procession of vehicles and people traveling along a road. "Shhh!" he urged everyone to quiet down as he moved closer to the television.
"... Despite the distance and remote chance of the reservation being in danger of the Oso Cibola Canon fire, residents of the Alagorde Navajo Indian Reservation are opting to temporarily relocate of their own accord. The Alagorde Reservation lies south of the major concentration of the blaze by approximately twenty miles, near San Pescadaro."
"That's right out here," someone in the room said. The statement broke the silence that had fallen over those in the lounge.
"... The National Interagency Fire Center estimates this fire season to be one of the worst since 1996 and possibly reaching that of 1988, when over five million acres burned in the West. Due to stretched resources and extreme fatigue setting in, the Pentagon has ordered soldiers from Fort Hood, Texas and Camp Pendleton, California to assist in fighting the fires currently raging in four Western states."
"Jesus, they're bringing in the army?"
The question was just the first of a furious volley that rolled out from those closest to the television. Everyone was turning to one another, excitedly chattering, and a sense of anxiousness settled on the motley crew of staff and project members.
Steven Miser inconspicuously drifted from the lounge, not wanting to participate in the eager discussion of the current events. His senses were already overloaded and he only wanted peace and quiet. He wanted to consider nothing, clear his mind and fill his thoughts with the white noise of a shower.
"Steven?"
He stopped and slowly turned, his shoulders slumping a degree lower than he normally held them. A blonde man with a sharp smile casually approached him in the hall.
"Dr. Brooks, long time no see," Steven said and offered a thin smile.
"If I were paranoid I'd say you had been avoiding me, Steven," Brooks said and broadened his smile.
Steven glanced at the digital camera in his hand. "A new toy?"
Brooks nodded, looking at the camera thoughtfully. "As a matter of fact yes," he said, leveling his gaze on Steven. "A new toy for you." He offered the camera to Steven, and he took it slowly. "I want you to work with it, just like before."
Steven looked at the device thoughtfully. "Yeah, like before," he said, almost inaudibly.
~~~~~~~~~~~^^XXXX^^~~~~~~~~~~~~
They were geeks, he was a suit-- a narc in their eyes, perhaps. They'd been in each other's company only a few times, always in times of necessity or adversity, but these unions were never quite companionable. Did they trust him, blame him or suspect him of duplicity?
Skinner had to set aside concerns of what the Lone Gunmen might think of him, he needed their help. He'd been cut off from Bureau resources he'd taken for granted for far too long; he needed information and he had only one avenue open to him now.
Having knocked at the door, Skinner prepared himself in the dank landing outside the Lone Gunmen's hermitage; what kind of a response he was about to receive escaped his imagination. Frohike had been amiable at Scully's apartment, but there had been time between now and then. Scully could have turned to them if she had seen Krycek lingering in the hall outside the OPR meeting.
A sudden muffled round of turning locks and rolling tumblers sounded from the other side of door. After a final crack and click, the door came open a few inches. Frohike peered up at Skinner from beyond a chain lock, his eyes pooling with anxiety.
"I don't know the code word," Skinner said finally, after the moment had drug out long enough for him, "so you might as well shoot me or let me come in."
Abruptly, Frohike shut the door and Skinner heard the chain come off its latch.
The door came fully open and Frohike poked his head out to peer into the dark hall, looking left and right. "Where's Scully? Is she all right?" he asked anxiously.
"Yes," Skinner answered, pressing past the man to go inside. The apparent bells and alarms his presence set off didn't surprise him, he'd never been here, and it must have been beyond comprehension that his first visit would be with out a chaperone.
"Has something happened?" Langley asked.
"What hasn't happened?" Skinner grumbled stepping inside. He stopped short, looking around with surprise at the bulk of equipment that had been packed into the cramped quarters.
"I could think of a few things," Frohike grumbled back as he secured the mind-boggling array of locks on the front door.
"Where's Scully?" Byer's asked coming in from another room, looking confounded by Skinner's presence.
Skinner swept his gaze between the three men, chewing the decision of who to address first. He settled on Byers. "She's gone to New Mexico."
"New Mexico?" Frohike repeated, "what's there-- Is she onto something about Mulder's disappearance?"
"I don't know, maybe," he answered, his voice tight.
"The media darlings have labeled the disappearances as model cult activity preceding mass suicide," Langley announced, crossing his arms over his chest.
"I know," Skinner replied and stiffly glanced between the three men, working his jaw pensively a second. "What do you know about the Foresight Institute?" he asked them.
The three men exchanged intrigued and curious glances.
"The FBI doesn't have files on Foresight?" Byers half laughed, clearly amazed.
"I'm sure they do," Skinner grumbled, irritated with the obstacle course of questions being rifled at him since before he came through the door. "I just don't happen to have access to Bureau resources at the moment."
"You got canned?" Frohike gasped.
"I didn't get canned--" Skinner broke off before his voice rose to a full shout. He exhaled, shifting his tone and focus. "What about Foresight? I can't even get an address for this place."
"The Betty Ford Clinic meets the Psychic Friends Network," Langley said
"Foresight is a privately funded splinter of the DOD and CIA's psi spy program's of the late 1980's and early to mid 90's," Byers began to explain, "the red headed step child of the Intelligence community, remote viewing, abandoned as a useless means of gathering intelligence. In spite of ex-military personnel taking it under their wing, intrigued by the apparent powers of perception some of the people involved in the program exhibited, Foresight has become a magnet for troubled, yet gifted individuals."
"Scully told me that several of the members were part of MUFON, that they were abductees," Skinner said, and felt as if he was trying to sort it all out as he explained.
"Better not tell Foresight's director that," Langley remarked, going to a nearby computer where he sat down and began typing at the keyboard.
"Why's that?" Skinner asked turning back to him, but it was Byer's who filled in the missing piece.
"MUFON's opinion of Foresight is cynical to say the least," he told Skinner, grimacing.
"Foresight lost a lot of credibility along with their funding after the hooha surrounding the Institute about five years ago," Langley chimed in, "when the director, one Whitney Brooks, went public with the Hale-Bop companion photo on the Art Bell national radio show."
"Bell got blasted by the press for being part of the cause of the Heaven's Gate suicide," Frohike added, blowing his breath out in disgust. "That was just the start of the smear campaign that forced him out of broadcasting. A damn shame, too, my nights are never going to be the same again."
Skinner squinted, pain pricking at his temples, feeling as though he'd just had a jig-saw puzzled dumped out before him. "What was the companion?"
"Here," Langley motioned for him to come to the computer, "check it out."
Skinner looked at the photograph on the monitor; it was an image of bright spots, some more brilliant than others, but he could not discern what it was he was supposed to be seeing. "What I am suppose to see here?"
"There," Langley pointed at a slightly less blurred spot of light, "that's the companion."
Skinner squinted and winced, leaning closer to the image, but still seeing only a blob of light not unlike any of the other blobs in the image. "It's another star," he said, finally, unimpressed.
"To the layman," Frohike said, assuredly, "but there isn't a star in that area of space, and any astronomer could tell you that in a matter of moments with a good astronomical mapping program."
"Shortly after Brooks went public with this image, it was positively identified as a doctored copy of a photo a professor of astronomy from University of Hawaii had taken a year earlier," Byers explained.
"Brooks recanted and claimed that he'd obviously been the unwitting victim of a highly organized disinformation campaign to discredit Foresight," Langley said, bringing another image up on the monitor.
Skinner saw a more distinct shape of a comet, trailed by a pronounced Saturn-like object.
"That's the picture that threw the frenzy into high gear," Frohike announced. "Rumors brewed and the a full blown battle broke out on the Internet and spilled onto the air waves like a nasty rash."
"Brooks still insisted on Bell's show that several of the remote viewers associated with Foresight had detected that this object was a space craft." Byers shrugged under Skinner's skeptical stare. "But it was later rumored that one of the remote viewers, Steven Miser, had seen more than what was being reported. Mankind's end, by way of biological particles in the comet's tail."
"Alien engineered pathogens," Langley said, "meant to rid the earth of humans once we passed through the meteor shower about a year later, starting in Africa and spreading faster than anyone could do anything to stop it."
Skinner was feeling uneasy, downright nervous. There was too much information and none of it seemed to be helping him much or making much sense for that matter. "Why Africa?" he asked, focusing on a reference that, amazingly, seemed obscure to him.
"Dramatic effect," Byers answered, and paused with a shrug, "Africa is commonly held as the cradle of humanity, the birthplace of human race. Perhaps, Miser meant to suggest an irony, the means of our eradication would begin where it initially began."
"This rumor along with the photos, is said to be what pushed Heaven's Gate over the edge, taking his followers on the magic bus ride to dirt land." Frohike said.
"Was this picture also identified as a fake?" Skinner asked.
"No," Byers answered, "this companion is a star. Astronomers identified it as SAO 141894, distorted by the telescope optics used to take the picture."
Skinner studied the image; his mind was trying to organize and connect, while his attention drifted over the object lingering in the comet's trail.
Far-fetched and extreme, of course it was-- if Skinner hadn't seen what he did the night Mulder went missing. He found himself accepting a great deal more of the implausible than he ever would have, but it wasn't gospel, the lone gunmen even seemed skeptical about all of this to a certain degree.
Skinner felt that there was something significant to all of this and sensed a sudden unfathomable impetus. He turned to Byers and asked, "Where in New Mexico is Foresight located?"
~~~~~~~~~~~^^XXXX^^~~~~~~~~~~~~
Highway 128
East of San Pescadaro, New Mexico
Approaching the Army roadblock Scully's feeling of discomfort stepped up a notch. She had been the only car heading West bound on 128, while the eastbound lanes of the highway were jammed with vehicles that were packed heavy with passengers and belongings. Now, seeing the Army, her concerns escalated about the risk she might be taking.
Had the wind shifted, she wondered and slowed the car. Had the fires swept into the canyon ahead, forcing an evacuation?
An Army soldier dressed in fatigues started toward Scully's car in a jog. "Residents only, Ma'am," he called to her before he was half way to the car.
Scully held up her credentials. "I'm an FBI agent," she announced.
The soldier squinted at the badge and identification card. "And you're doing what here?" he asked, unimpressed.
"I have business with the Foresight Institute in San Pescadaro," she answered, having to shout to hear herself over the roar of a heavy truck rumbling by. "The fire isn't a threat to that area from what I've heard."
"The fire is a threat to every area, Ma'am," the soldier declared, and Scully wished he'd stop calling her ma'am. "It hasn't come near the Pescadaro canyon but those people seem to think it will." The soldier gestured toward the parade of vehicles on the eastbound lanes. "You'd be putting your self at great risk driving in there."
"Fire's the least of the risks I've taken," Scully murmured, scanning the eastbound exodus.
"Pardon me?"
"Never mind-- Listen, I can handle it, trust me," she assured the soldier. "I have to get to the San Pescadaro, immediately."
Allowed through finally, Scully hadn't traveled far on the highway before it bottlenecked from three down to one lane that wriggled through the hilly pass It was separated from the eastbound lanesby brushy hillside and dusty outcroppings of rock and gravel. There was still green clinging to the trees and brush, but the grasses had yellowed like hay along the hills, ripe for fueling the fires.
All it would take was a shift in the winds, Scully uneasily thought as she headed deeper into the canyon. She refused to acknowledge the second thoughts tugging at her, whispering to her to turn back to Albuquerque. But Scully couldn't turn back, she felt impelled to continue on in spite of the imminent danger of the fires, she felt that there was something here-- someone even, who would lead her to Mulder.
She'd been driving about fifteen minutes when the road split into two opposing lanes once more; she saw no other cars until the rusted and battered pickup sitting at a drastic angle on the side of the road. A group of men were standing around the truck, watching as another labored to change a back tire.
Absently, Scully eased up on the accelerator as she approached the vehicle, her eyes drifting over the faces in the group of men. Her attention was captured a man standing among the others, staring back at her through the windshield with graphite-like eyes set in a pitted and creased face. Draped over his shoulders, the man's hair was long, and streaked with silver-- he looked like Albert Hosteen.
Scully caught her breath in that instant that she mistook him for man.
This man on the roadside wasn't Albert, she assured herself with another sidelong glance at the group-- one that nearly caused her to collide with a van pulling off a side road. Braking hard, Scully held her breath as the passenger van swept past the front of the rental car with centimeters of clearance. The driver laid on the horn and kept going; hell bent back down the road the way Scully had just come.
Scully was shaken, but more than that she was angry with herself for not paying attention. She wasn't paying attention to the right things, she thought again and glanced around herself noticing there was a signpost on the roadside.
She leaned forward, reading the rather small and completely inconspicuous the sign, "The Foresight Institute." Her eyes drifted along the thick white arrow on the sign, pointing her directly up the road the passenger van had sped from.
Exhaling, Scully pushed away thoughts of phantom natives, and collected her composure as she turned onto the side road. It ran nearly a half-mile through shady groves of mountain ash and seemed to wind forever, cutting through more shade trees that finally broke and allowed Scully her first look at Foresight.
It was adobe on the grand scale; the complex was built into the hillside, with a massive deck that stretched out over a shear drop into the canyon below. The place looked more like a ski resort out of season, pristine and patiently waiting it's lodgers of the coming snowy season, but the current scene was far from lighthearted lodgers. There were piles of luggage and nap sacks were staggered throughout the drive like cairns while people hurriedly packed themselves and their packs into the two passenger vans sitting in the circular drive- like the one that Scully had just missed on the road.
The Institute was beginning an evacuation, and the decision to flee had obviously been a sudden one.
Scully parked and got out, half running across the drive toward the entrance, and wondering if there would be anyone left to talk to-- or if there would even be time.
Before she reached the tiled steps leading up to the massive oak doors of the building, Scully caught sight of a man who seemed to be in charge of the vans; he was calling out instructions and gesturing to people in exaggerated motions of his hands, directing them to the vans.
Scully hurried over to him. "Is Dr. Brooks still here?" she asked, out of breath and a little light headed. She wanted to think it was the altitude, but she knew it was probably something more.
"Dr. Brooks has gone," the man declared, giving her a quick, frustrated glance. "Who the hell are you?"
"I'm Special Agent Dana Scully," she pulled her badge and identification out and held it up so the man could see it, but, again, he only gave it a cursory glance. "Is there anyone from Dr. Brooks' staff still here?"
"Me, James Hine, glad to meet you--" he broke off his own statement and tramped towards one of the vans, "you full?" he called into the driver. A moment passed and Hine nodded, stepping back as the doors slammed shut and the van pulled away quickly. He turned back to Scully, his brow creased and glistening with perspiration. "I don't know if you've noticed but we're trying to conduct an evacuation here."
"I didn't know-- I've been trying to contact the Institute since yesterday," Scully began to explain, hesitating as the man impatiently gestured for her to walk with him to the building, "uh, I left several messages on the voice mail but none of my calls have been returned."
"Our phones have been out for the last two days," Hine said briskly, then mocked an apologetic tone, "it's the fires, you see."
"Where has Dr. Brooks gone?" Scully questioned, trying to match the man's frantic pace.
"He's gone where everyone is going-- out of here. I don't know what business you've got here, but I think it can wait for a better time than this."
"I came to talk to Dr. Brooks about several of the members who are registered with MUFON," she said, and they suddenly stopped just inside the doors.
Hine squinted at her from behind his round spectacles, in disbelief. "What?"
"I believe these MUFON members could possibly be in danger."
"Danger? Really?" Hine mocked intrigue then pointed the pencil he was carrying at Scully, "I don't have time for this, and neither do you. I suggest you get back in your car and head out of here as fast as you can."
"And take some of my people with you, will ya- God knows I don't have enough vehicles," he added and started to turn away, but Scully caught his arm.
"Do you know of any MUFON members still-- that haven't been evacuated yet?" she asked him.
"I don't know about anyone here being with that band of hacks," he said and shook her hand off his arm. "We encourage our members not to affiliate themselves with other organizations that could be considered a conflict of interests-- not to mention an embarrassment. If any of our associates are registered with MUFON, they certainly wouldn't make it known."
"Would this discouragement also have something to do with MUFON's not so discreet opinion of Dr. Brooks and the work done here at the Institute?"
Hine rolled his head back, exhaling in exasperation. "I don't know what their opinion is, nor do I care—An utlra-paranoid organization with a hair trigger ego IS the least of my concerns right now, all right? I've got to get over a hundred and fifty people out of here in three vans that I can almost stuff twenty five people into at a time-- I can't stress how busy I am."
"Can you tell me where everyone is going-- I need to talk to the members," Scully persisted, pacing the man again, "I believe that there's certain individuals here, that may be targeted in a mass abduction."
Hine stopped short and turned to glare at her. "From here?" he asked, and Scully nodded. "Are you--?" Someone shouting interrupted Hine's question; she and Hine turned to see a young man hurrying into the foyer. "Dr. Hine, oh thank God, you've got to come look--"
"What is it?"
"The fire-- It's on the ridge," the man excitedly said, panting, "we can see the flames."
Scully followed Dr. Hine trough the building and out onto the terrace overlooking the canyon where a small group of onlookers had gathered. Flames were visible on the ridge and on the hillside below, licking at the trees and swallowing the dry ground cover with insane speed.
Panic belched up out of the group of people on the terrace, then spread as quickly as the brush fire. Indistinguishable shouts and cries rolled through the crowd as they tried pushing through the doors and back inside, while still more were trying to get outside to see the fire- drawn by either disbelief or stunned and mindless fascination.
Hine and Scully moved in unison, attempting to bring some order to the mayhem.
"Stay calm. Don't panic!" Scully called out the standardized phrases, then saw a slight woman, matching her own stature, stagger back from the press of people at the doors, her face blooded-- hit perhaps by a door as others tried to come out onto the terrace. They'd given her no chance, and Scully knew they wouldn't give her one either.
"Back off!" Hine shouted forcing his way to the front of the mob scene. He angrily motioned for those inside move away from the doors, shouting again, "get back--Get back! Get away from the doors!"
As soon as the door was clear the rush began and everyone from the terrace poured inside, making a mad dash for the lobby and the van still parked outside. Fear of what was about to happen outside gripped Scully as she was pulled along with the stampede through the lounge and halls; there was only one van left sitting outside, there was going to be Pandemonium.
The sky was growing darker from the smoke, turning the day to night as ash and smoldering embers began to rain down the Foresight facility, turning it into a chaotic scene of biblical proportions. There was just the one van, and it was ready to pull out when people rushed it, banging and screaming at the doors and windows. Someone had managed to get the front passenger door open, but just then another van came up the road, returning empty from where ever it had deposited it passengers in a hurry.
The vehicle had hardly stopped before people were trying to pile into it, flinging the doors wide open and cramming themselves in on top of each other. Scully heard people whimpering and shouting, even crying out in pain as others crushed them, but the thickening smoke was obstructing her view.
Scully's throat and eyes were burning when she turned back to look at the hillside, she could see spires of flame tearing through the billows of smoke at the edge of the terrace, licking the rail and creeping over the ledge of the canyon.
Needing no further prompting, Scully started for her rental car, discovering there were already people trying to cram themselves into it while others were looking around and shouting, demanding the owner of the vehicle come forward.
Scully hesitated, glancing around for Hine, perhaps he could help-- It was just then that it seemed like the whole world exploded in a flash and boom that blew everyone sideways. There was a whirl of hot air on the back of her neck and suddenly, Scully felt herself lifted into the air, as if someone or something huge had shoved her from behind.
She hit the ground like a stone, face down, the wind knocked from her sending a puff of dust up before her. Scully was inches from a car, she could see the tread of a tire and the tiny pebbles and sand stuck in the grooves-- Was it her car? She wondered, hearing people screaming and a steady roar from behind her.
Scully tried to turn and look back, believing she could smell burning hair, but before she could she felt herself being dragged by someone she didn't recognize.
"Come on-- help me," a man grunted from her side as Scully was hoisted to her feet. Her legs were weak, and she was still trying to gain her breath from the fall.
There was a shower of debris raining down over the entire area, ash and embers drifted in her vision as she came to her feet unsteadily. Everything was a blur of activity, of the man with her now, Scully caught a glimpse of gaunt features and a shock of dark hair before her attention went to the ball of fire billowing over the roof of the Foresight Institute. There must have been fuel tanks at the back of the facility, she thought, feeling her legs trying to buckle under her.
"Come on! Come on!" the man was shouting at her now, dragging her to the car, "keys? Where are the keys?" he was demanding of her.
Scully realized she'd been holding them before the explosion but they were gone now, knocked from her hand. She began to look around at the ground, dazedly.
"Oh, Christ," the man exclaimed, raking his fingers through his hair anxiously and started looking around at the ground. He fell to his knees, searching under the car a moment before he all but threw himself under the rental, retreating quickly with the keys in his hand.
Before Scully could register movement she found herself in the passengers seat of her own car, a strange man beside her behind the wheel, cursing as he struggled with the keys and ignition. The engine roared to life as he turned the right key and gunned the motor-- Scully lurched forward as the car flew into reverse.
Something hit her window and she looked up to see a man with panic stricken eyes pressed against the glass, pleading to get in. "Stop," she told the man beside her, "stop, we can't leave without taking others."
"We can't--"
"We have to!" Scully shouted back at him.
The man bellowed, slamming on the brakes. "All right!" he screamed, seething.
Three men and a woman made it into the car before the driver decided to kick the car back into gear; Scully recognized the woman, she had been the one on the terrace with the bloodied face.
They had hardly enough time to shut the doors before they reached the road leading away from the property, flames dancing through the short grass and brush on either side of the car.
"We're not going to make it," the man driving whimpered, nervously glancing at the rearview mirror and wincing.
"We will-- Just drive and don't look back," Scully said, but the man at the wheel had no time to respond. Without warning, from around a bend on the twisting road, another passenger van suddenly appeared and was coming straight at them on the narrow path--
Scully opened her eyes and stared at the car lying on its roof just a few feet from where she was on the ground, listening to the constant and steady crackling and popping sound all around her. There were shapes in the car, heaped on the roof, but no one moved.
She could see through to the other side of the car on the ground, where another body lie heaped on its side. Scully wanted to move, there were people injured, but when she tried to move darkness engulfed her visions, pulling her down into a deafening roar of white noise— like that of a thousand voices speaking at once.
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End: Aug. 18, 2000
Coming... Pt 5: Hístsíñóm
Everything Changes: Part 1
Everything Changes: Part 2
Everything Changes: Part 3