Divinities Sequel to Foldback

by GVBW

Summary: While Mulder fights for his life, the Agents continue their investigation into a frightening, global X-File.

3. Chapter 3

Divinities Part III

(PhaHks Series)

by GeeLady (GenieVB)

Summary: While Mulder fights for his life, the

Agents continue their investigation into a

frightening, global X-File.

THIS BOOK IS NUMBER FOUR IN A FOUR BOOK

SERIES BEGINNING WITH "PhaHks".

TITLE: "DIVINITIES" (Sequel to "PhaHks/FOCUS/

FOLDBACK")

AUTHOR: GeeLady (GenieVB).

RATING: NC-17. M/S MAJOR ANGST, MATURE

language, violence, disturbing scenes, adult

situations.

SPOILERS: "FOCUS/FOLDBACK" by GeeLady (GenieVB). Various

X-Files episodes' & FF.

DISCLAIMER: The X-Files series, movie, characters,

are the property of Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen

Productions and the Fox Network. I don't want

any credit, fame or fortune from X-Files, I only want

to write about your show and characters to entertain

myself and others.

I drool stupidly for feedback.

SUMMARY: While Mulder fights for his life, the

Agents continue their investigation into a

frightening, global X-File.

hinking it about it for a few hours, Mulder had decided to drop

the idea.

It was a cowards way out.

It was selfish and hurtful and all those things that would mark him

as a disappointment to his co-workers. It would hurt his friends; betray

them; they would be horrified. In shock and angry. No matter how much

he desired to find an answer and no matter how much he hated what

his life had so quickly been reduced to, he really did not want to hurt

Scully or anyone else by such a pinheaded, ass-faced maneuver.

Mulder cried for a minute, wiped his eyes so no one would know and

lay back, so depressed he thought he might die of it. That would, at least,

solve the dilema and keep his conscience clear as well.

But reason eventually won out and he abandoned the idea, feeling, funnily

enough, still like a coward for not having the guts to go through with it.

Until he had a visitor.

Bill reminded himself as he walked up the stairs that he had never

really hated the man himself, just the things he stood for and it seemed

those things just did not include safety of friends and family.

Now Fox Mulder was paying for that. Maybe the price was a little high,

but then we reap what we sow.

Bill wasn't particularly happy that Dana had chosen to bring her partner

here to this mother's house.

He walked down the hall, passed the basthroom and approached his

old room.

This year, they were spending Thanksgiving at his mother's instead of Christmas

as was the usual practise. Margaret wanted it that way. She'd said she and Dana

would need the "quiet time together after Fox is gone."

Again, Mulder was put before the needs of the family. Bill didn't know who to yell

at about that.

Now this Mulder guy was dying right there in his old bedroom and that

gave him the creeps. Everything about the situation had a kind of unreality

about it. He'd never understood what his little sister had seen in the guy

because, other that being a crackerjack Agent, according to rumor the man

was a loon.

Bill softly pushed the door to his old room open and peeked in.

Mulder was lying on his back but head elevated a little by all the embroidered

cushions his own mother must have hauled up the stairs on her own and

fluffed under his head. Mulder appeared to be sleeping so he took the

opportunity to get a closer look. Dana had said (with an annoyed frown)

that no of course it wasn't contagious. But you just never knew.

The guy was asleep under the oxygen mask. He looked like shit.

He hadn't known what to expect really, he had never seen Emily

in her last stages of her illness.

He supposed he'd expected Mulder to be sitting up in bed with

a thermometer under his tongue and an I.V. maybe. Like a kid

playing hookie from school maybe.

That was naieve, he realised but it was the only vision that had

enterted his head.

What he had not expected was a whitewashed hollow cheeked

manaquin that almost but not quite passed for a human.

Still, Bill couldn't help but ask the question, even though there

was nothing awake enough to make any noise back but oxygen

pumps and stomach drains and even though the guy really couldn't

help being sick:

"You don't have any idea what you're putting Dana through, do you?"

"You don't have any idea what you're putting Dana through, do you?"

Mulder, only dozing, knew that voice. The higher-than-thou stiff

lippedness of it. The way it pointedly did not use his name when

it's words were punched out to fly at him like steel blades.

William Scully and no other. Brother to Dana. Older,

protective, subconsciously controlling and overbearing

bro'.

This man hated his guts.

When Mulder's eyes finally fluttered open - Bill Scully had

awakened him - Mulder saw the "I'm in the Navy" six foot two

inches of Dana's brother looking down with bullets in his eyes.

Mulder imagined Bill's finger on some hidden trigger, just itching

to blow him as far away from his sister Dana as his sister Samantha

was from him.

Mulder was in Bill's old room and Bill's old bed in Bill's mother's

house.

/"You are one sorry son-of-a-bitch."/. Mulder recalled the longest

sentence Bill Scully had ever offered in his direction.

Abso-fucking-lutely correct, Mulder thought as the oxygen mask

blew air into his nose every eight seconds.

He was a sick, sorry son-of-a-bitch.

Sorry he was lying there at all. Sorry as hell that, yes, he

was putting Bill's little sister Dana through some serious mental

and emotional shit.

But what was new after all?

And he was sick. Physically, about the worst off he'd ever

been in his sorry-sick-son-of-a-bitching life.

Sick and lying in Bill's bed in Bill's mom's house, smelling up

her pressed, country-fresh linen and the carpet. Lovely barf bucket

by the headboard. Generally, a stinking mix of sweat, bile, dried

bloody smears from where Mulder'd dug his fingers into his palms

whenever the pain came steamrolling around the bend, and the

indescribably effluent odor of his ulcered, herniad and now fissuring

stomach. There was crusted blood on his lips from coughing-up.

Bill noticed these things and hated Mulder for them. He hated Mulder, not

because the guy was such a bad sort, he wasn't. No, he hated Mulder

because whenever Dana's life was looking like it might take a good

turn, Mulder'd had somehow managed to fuck it up.

Like he was doing now, again. Yet Dana loved the guy. It just didn't make

sense to him.

Mulder wheezed from the bed and stared slack-eyed up at Bill. He'd

lost a whole lot in his life but knew Big-Asshole-Bill didn't give a shit

about that. All he cared about what what this was doing to Scully.

Suddenly it occurred to Mulder that he and Bill finally agreed on

something.

Mulder ahifted, feeling the comforting plastic bottle still tucked into the band

of his underwear.

Except Mulder did not want to agree with Captain William Slightly Running

To Fat But Otherwise Healthy As A Horse Mister More Successful Than He'd

Ever Get the Chance To Be Scully The Second, with the beautiful wife

and the gorgeous kids and the modern house in that new and really terrific

area of town.

Bill was speaking to him, now that he could see Mulder was awake

and semi alert:

"You btter not die. Whether I like it or not, understand it not, you

seem to mean something to my sister, so let me tell you something,

you dink for brains, you'd better either live or die real fast."

Mulder listened to Bill Scully's words, agreed with them, felt stirrings

in his gut, and then opened wide and let it rip as if he were a

firehose and Bill Scully the flames with all the nutricious veggetable

puree' that kind, sweet Margaret Scully had so painstakingly and so

lovingly spoon-fed him not one half hour ago.

Billy got it square under the chin and it ran downhill from there,

all over him.

Mulder fell back on the bed, gazing at the holy mess he'd made of

the man who'd hated him for years.

The room smelled inhuman.

"Fuck! Fucking son-of-a..." Bill Scully sputtered.

Mulder smiled then reached up one painful arm (Bill had no idea,

no idea at all, how much effort and pain was involved in that simple

gesture), and moved his mask aside. He wasn't smiling now. He was

crying because Bill Scully's words were, to him, oh so true. And

he cried because of the pain he was in and because he'd once again

messed up Margaret's carpeting and the bed. And he cried because he

didn't want this man to hate him but since he did, Mulder had taken

his bit of revenge, the only kind open to him excepting for the words

he said next:

"And you're ugly too, but don't worry, Bill, soon you'll get your hearts

desire and we can put this whole fucking feud behind us."

That tonight would bring his words to their fruition was almost spiritual.

Despite thas pain in his limbs and the embarrassment of crying in front of

Mister Navy Macho, Mulder was elated. It had been a vomit for the record

books. A puke made in heaven.

One for the road.

The little bottle had warmed against his skin and caused no discomfort

at all. Mulder replaced the mask, eased his arm down, and closed his eyes.

"Jesus." Bill, freshly showered and changed, muttered as he entered the

living room. Tara and Dana were drinking coffee together. Tara seemed

to be hovering a bit over his sister, perhaps doing her best at damage

control after he'd stuck his size eleven's in his mouth earlier.

"Dana. I'm sorry. I really am." He tired to be nice but. Just after being

sprayed with the man's stomach contents, it was damn hard.

"I know." Dana said.

He'd been forgiven, he realised.

Dana had come back and hearing the shower, her mother had explained

tyhat Fox "had had a little accident." Upon hearing the details, though, Scully

knew instantly that it may have been a calculated accident. She'd smiled.

How she would have liked to've been a fly on the wall to that event.

"Is Mulder okay?" Tara asked her husband.

He nodded. "I guess so, other than being a morbid basta-..eh.. guy."

Scully looked up at him. Her eyes were underlined in charcoal. "What

do you mean?"

"I think he said it to piss me off, guilt trip, I don't know."

"Said what?"

"Just that..." He wasn't sure of he should tell her. She knew of course,

that Mulder was dying, but he didn't think it would be good to remind

her of it. "It doesn't matter."

"Did he alk about dying?" She asked.

He nodded. "Sort of. He said our fued would be over soon enough. That was

just after he puked on me, the ass-..ahem." Bill, clearing his throat over

his almost fau pax and looking uncomfortable, walked into the kitchen

muttering "Mom. Any more coffee?"

Scully got up. "I think I'll just look in on him."

"Do you want me to come?" Tara asked kindly.

Scully smiled a little and shook her head, trotting up the stairs.

It only took her a moment of searching between the matresses to find them.

When Mulder awoke, she held them up for him to see. "And just were

your plans for these?"

Mulder saw his badly hidden booty in her fingers. "You have to ask?"

"How could you, Mulder? You were just going to check out, huh? Leave

me holding the bag, you selfish..." She cut off the curse word balancing

on the tip of her tongue.

"That's not what I want. I don't want to be here, Scully. I don't want to

end up tended like a baby and unable to wipe my own ass."

"It's been done before."

"I wasn't conscious of it then. I didn't see it coming down the road from

a long way off. With this I do. ENMS is going take me and make me

into some kind of half human/alien vegetable and then kill me. I'd rather

not be around to feel it happen."

"Well, you know what, I don't care what you want. How dare you give up?!"

"Scully, you know-"

"We know nothing at all. When I had cancer and there was virtually no

hope, Mulder, and you came along with your litle speech about "coming

out of this" and a kiss on the forehead. Well, now it's you and I am not

going to let you give up or take the coward's way out!"

"Cowards way?"

"You heard me. You don't like the ways things are right now? You don't

like being in Bill's bed or my mother's house..."

"-I didn't say that."

"But you're thinking it. Well, too bad. Live with it. Because I'm not going

to let you give up. Not yet."

He said nothing. Just wheezed under the damndable oxygen mask that was

chafing the bridge of his nose. Finally, "So that's it?"

She leaned over him, and waited until he relented and looked back at her.

"That's it. Another stunt like that and you'll be staying at Skinner's house."

He mentally cringed. "Jesus." It was a frightening prospect.

"I'm not kidding, Mulder. He offered, you know."

She saw him pale at the thought. Mulder liked and respected Skinner as a

boss and friend but Skinner had never lost that ability to intimidate, and

he had become an expert over the years at some major Mulder managing.

"I'll be good." He promised and she kissed his forehead.

"I will hold you to that."

Scully had a roll away moved into Mulder's room, much to his protests

about her not trusting him.

"This is for me as much as for you." She explained.

That night, listening to the machines pumping fresh, cool oxygen into

his stiffening bronchial lobes, listening to him moan in his sleep as

an occasional ripple of pain traveled through his body (he was too

drugged up to awaken but not so drugged that his brain did not register

it and try to snap him out of his stupor to repair the problem), Scully

spent the night staring at the celing, weeping silently every-so-often

and watching the white disk of a moon float across the sky outside the

bedroom window. It was on its way to the other side of the earth and in a

few weeks, it would shrink to a thin sliver and then be born anew to

start its journey again.

Scully watched it disappear in the slow pink light of dawn.

When it was gone, she realized that Mulder would never see another

full moon-lit night.

Mulder would die. The moon would be reborn.

How she hated God.

DIVINITIES, Chapter 3

Dinner was a silent meal eaten on a table filled with

bowls of guilt and shame.

Every night, each was worse than the last and it was

because, Scully felt, she could sit at a table and eat

substantial meat, morels she could feel under her teeth

and he could not. Remorse ate her up that she had the

opportunity to enjoy things he never would again.

Guilt bit her because her mother had worked to prepare

meals and do her best to take up some of the burden of the

crippling-ly ill man her daughter had brought home to die.

Shame that she had waited until he was dying before

bringing him home at all.

She, the daughter, had been hollowed out because of

this sick man. She, the daughter, was being punished by

God for loving an unbeliever.

Scully felt that she should not be enjoying and did not

deserve eating a meal with her family who still loved her

when Destiny the Bitch had decided that Mulder must

not have anyone. His old family was dead, his new only

allowed to stand by and watch him sicken more and more.

They stood with fear and guilt, keeping their eyes on the

clock of his body that was winding down to zero.

Scully knew they felt sorry for him and her but dealing with

their pain was delegated to someday. She had no palate

for it.

All things tasted alike to her. Food. Family.

All of it now had taken on the flavor of mere sustenance and

forms moving through empty space. Sustenance was simply

solids and liquids the body craved so it would not dehydrate

and die and her appetite for them had gone because they

demanded time and effort.

Family were mere strangers who looked upon her with pity

and she shunned their displayed care because they expected

acknowledgment and gratitude and she was too exhausted

to grant either.

The silence in the room reeked of sorrow and she was

responsible for bringing that home to them as well.

As the weight of things accountable crushed her shoulders

and her mind chastised her heart for any fleeting feelings

that perhaps Mulder was also in part at fault, that he was,

in some way, responsible for bringing this illness home to

them all, Scully felt eyes upon her.

Scully dropped her fork on her plate, looked up at her mother

who turned away reddening.

"Mom, it's okay." An effort made, hopefully it was enough to

divert their words and words piling up, dying to be said.

"It's not okay." This came from her left and her brother

Bill's mouth. "He should be in a hospital."

"Bill, please..." Margarete admonished.

"No. Dana..."

Scully turned her face to him with a softening in her eyes

but her body remained stiff and unyielding. She loved her

brother but needed to stand her ground with whatever she

had left. It was Mulder's ground too.

Bill spoke:

"I may not like the man but I don't like seeing what's happening

to him. And I don't like what it's doing to you. Have you looked

in a mirror lately? Have you looked at him? Really looked, I

mean? The man is dying. He's suffering. Last night, he woke me

twice with his moans,...it's obvious the medication isn't doing it's

job."

Scully could see her mother's face blanche at her son's stark

words. Did she seem that fragile to her now? That mere words

could penetrate the frozen landscape she'd made of her feelings?

Words bounced across it, barely touching, and launched them-

selves again into the stratosphere like tiny stones in the gale.

She couldn't nurture a thing.

But Scully heard them non-the-less. Took them in for what they

were, letters and syllables and strings of both, examined them

via her ears, and withing the lake blue of her eyes. She could

hear them and see them and knew Bill was right in his choice

of them.

However, though they held meaning they had no power over her.

If she allowed them to convince her, if she succumbed to their

rightness, Mulder would be ambulance away to a sterile

environment and into the hands of pain-killing needles and blank

stupor. It would be, in the end, his final journey, one not befitting

a man such as he had been, and he would be lost to her forever

in too many ways to calculate.

Scully could not allow that. She loved him. Surely to God, there

was power in that as well.

"No." She said quietly, looking at her brother whom she knew

deeply cared for her. "No, Bill. Mulder stays here. I refuse to

accept that he will die, not yet. We still have time. I know you

would do no less for Tara."

Her brother swallowed, pushed his plate away and rose from

the table. "Mom, will you talk to her?"

Scully looked across the left over turkey and empty dressing bowl.

Margaret looked back at her daughter, then rose and started

gathering dishes. "It's Dana's decision. There's nothing more to

say."

Scully's eyes teared in gratitude. On her way up the stairs with

Mulder's watered-down, pureed vegetable and turkey mush, she

stopped and hugged her brother Bill from behind. It seemed to

melt the icy feeling that had developed between them since

Mulder's condition had deteriorated ever so much more in the

last week.

Bill was frightened for Mulder, she realized, and for her love

for Mulder. Her determination not to quit despite all the evidence

that said she would be disappointed. Bill did not want to see

hr with her fists up, striking at the air.

/Little sis' isn't acting like the rational Dana he is used to./

Scully knew what he was thinking, loved him for it but said

nothing to dispel his fears. There were no words that would.

New Years Eve' was the next day. One year and four months

since Mulder's release from GreenLawn and Doctor's Petrillo's

invaluable care. Why had every Christmas been a hallmark of

either great joy or heart-stopping grief?

"Dana..." He started to say, helpless to understand but hopeless

in his concern and that he could offer her nothing to change the

course she was on. Not even render the well chosen words of

advice in order to turn her from it.

"Bill. It's his choice also. And I love him. I have to do this."

"Mulder." She smiled, half painted on and half genuine. Enough

to please them both. He did not see the lie behind her eyes.

"Mmmmm." He said, mocking the dinner she'd brought to him.

"Let me guess. Mush or mash?"

She took up the spoon and scooped a leveled measure. "Hey.

You're getting room service, here, don't knock it."

"You know, I am capable of feeding myself." He said while

opening his mouth, letting her slowly scoop the food in. Slowly,

so he could take his time swallowing.

Bit by bit it would go down. Bit by bit it would be digested while

little by little his stomach acid would eat at the open wounds in

its perforated lining. Little by little the food would be

incompletely broken down in his malfunctioning digestive track

and then be expelled in watery stools that Doctor Watts would

want to have examined.

Bit-by-bit they would know more exactly how little-by-little he

was dying. All the tiny ways his body was breaking apart from

the inside out would be recorded in tiny numbers and letters

in his file. Mulder's ENMS and his death was going to make

someone's career.

"Can't a girl have some fun? Now sit up."

"Nag, nag." He complied. She placed an extra pillow behind

his back.

Scully smiled and scooped more. She would feed him until

he said enough. There was no point in force feeding. In fact,

there was danger. His stomach, with its ulcerated fissures

laced with stiffening blood vessels, could endure no solids,

no pressure, no extra ounces at all.

"Any word on Caleb or his father?"

She shook her head. "I keep hoping Crazy Man will call." /Among

other things hoped for./

"Have the LoneGunMen send out word to their other chapters.

They're always whining about wanting to be in the action, let

them do some sleuthing. Maybe if they nose around enough,

they'll turn up something." Mulder suggested.

"Already done. Langley called this morning."

"And?"

"And nothing so far. He asked after you and assured me they'll

call the minute they hear anything." She reluctantly put the bowl

aside when he shook his head at the far from last spoonful. Half

a bowl three times a day was not going to keep his weight or

his strength level. "So relax."

"That's about all I've been dong for a week."

"Until your strength returns, that IS all you'll do."

"Then how about a Laptop and a dial-up? I can't just lie here,

Scully, I'm losing my mind."

"I suppose if I say no, you'll sneak out one day anyway, so

alright, that I'll arrange. Then you can talk to The guys yourself."

She stood, picking up the unappetizing remnants of Mulder's

dinner. "Anything so I don't have to hear another joke from

Frohike." She handed him pills and water and walked to the

door.

"Hey, Scully, how about a movie tonight?"

"Are you sure you're up to it?"

"Yeah, I'm strong enough for a date."

"Oh, really? Okay, but I get to choose. No action, no science

fiction, I've seen enough of that in my own life, and under no

circumstances what-so-ever, anything from your own collection."

"Party pooper."

Mulder's bi-weekly hospital trip had her pacing the

halls until Watts kindly suggested she get some coffee.

Crowded hospital cafeterias were not the ideal location

for quiet contemplation. When she left Mulder, at least

he was asleep. Their little examinations would go easier

for him and them.

Quiet is what she had been looking for but the hunger

pangs had argued a good case. Scully looked at the

remnants of her late afternoon lunch, one third of a

mushroom chicken burger and a few limp french fries

waited questioningly but her stomach was satisfied.

She was thinking about a second cup of coffee when

her cellular trilled in her jacket pocket.

"Scully." She said and watched the other people

consuming their food. Patients and visitors, a

doctor and nurse. The place was mostly empty.

"It might not just be the gifted." The voice on the

other end said hoarsely into her ear.

She recognized the gravely whisper of her informant.

"What?"

"I don't think...what I told you may have been incorrect."

"What was incorrect?" Scully stood and walked out

of the cafeteria, away from the ears of the curious.

"What do you mean?"

"The kids. It's not just the gifted, I think it could be others.

I think my daughter may be in jeopardy. You have to

help me."

"The only way I can do that is if you come in. Come

in and I guarantee your safety."

He was silent and she wondered if he'd simply walked

away from whatever phone he was using. "Are you there?"

She asked.

"Yes." He sounded ground up, in pieces.

"Come in. Come in and we'll do everything we can to

help your daughter and you."

She thought she heard him sniff. "I can't." Strangled

words, said because he had no choice but hating them

all the same. "I don't know who can be trusted anymore."

"Then why did you call me? Why call unless you want

help?"

"I can give you her location. And her name. Please...

understand..that if I could...come in...I would."

She felt sorry for him. She knew what it was to lose

a daughter. "I want to thank you for your help with

finding Caleb, for the tip, for everything."

"You're welcome. I'm sorry it didn't turn out better."

Scully took out a note pad and pen, "What's her name?"

"Sydney. She's dark haired, long hair, curly, about five

foot seven..twenty two years old now." He was crying now,

"I haven't seen her in ten years."

Scully scribbled the information. "You knew this was coming,

didn't you? You knew these mass murders were going to occur."

"Yes. I was with them once, remember? I got out."

"What do they expect to happen?"

"The War of God. I don't know if they're right but even if they

are, their way of giving God a helping hand shouldn't be

heartless, systematic slaughter. I couldn't be a part of that. I

wouldn't."

"Where do we need to go? Where are these kids?"

"The New Hope Evangelical Ranch. It's a dumping ground

for orphans, the physically and mentally challenged - unwanted

children, fetal addicts, HIV positive,..."garbage can" kids.

Children most of society consider a waste of resources. Humanity

isn't always humane even when they wear their morals on their

sleeves."

Scully had to agree, considering the doing of deeds of his former

"worshipers". "And your daughter is there?"

"She's one of the Guardians, she was always at risk from The

Group, because of her abilities. She volunteered to go there

and care for the less fortunate. But this place has come under

the attention of my former associates and I'm worried she may

be a target for elimination now, because of her betrayal. They

are nothing if not exacting in their demand for loyalty."

"Why did you tell me your daughter had left the country?"

"I told you. I didn't know who to trust. I still don't."

"Will you come?"

"It's too risky. If I'm followed, they'll know she's there for sure,

and they'll feel even more certain there's something special

about these children."

"Wasn't it risky to place her with any children at all?" When he

didn't answer, she left behind rebuking. "How did you find

out about them?"

"My daughter..Sydney...had a dream about them."

"A dream?"

"Yes. In it men called from heaven to men. And they went

out to meet together in a storm while the demons of hell burned

up in a fire. It sounds like religious symbolism and we have no

interpretation. Even my daughter doesn't. If it had been anyone

else, I expect I would have ignored it, but I've come to trust my

daughter's abilities. I won't speculate, I'm just afraid."

"We'll do everything we can."

"Please act quietly and go as soon as possible."

Scully could not imagine any Bureau operation being "quiet".

all they could do was try. "I promise we'll do all we can. When

will you call me again?"

"I don't know. I'm not well..."

"Please call if you need anything."

"Goodbye, Agent Scully."

He hung up and Scully let out a breath. She dialed Skinner's

direct line, informed him of her latest contact and returned to

Watts and her sleeping partner.

"What?"

She was dumbfounded. Numb because it simply wasn't possible.

Science rocketed out the window, shattering everything she

knew as reason as it flew.

The overhead fluorescent bounced off of Watts' forehead, adding

to the mind blindness he'd just conjured up within her by his

markings on paper chart via ballpoint pen. Cruel strokes that

had no mind or feeling in them, together summing up Watts' five

word update:

"A few days at most."

Scully returned to Mulder's room, walking like the dead. It was a

stupid expression. The dead don't walk, they were scrubbed and

stuffed into pretty boxes, dumped into the ground and buried

under six feet of dirt and gravel. They were gotten rid of, out of

the sight of those who would miss them.

Whole human lives reduced to an hour ritual and a big, big bill.

It was a Play put on for the universe. Or they were playthings for

unfeeling spirit creatures who had no idea what it was like to

see the grim reaper walking up your sidewalk.

The Death of Mulder. Once upon a time a great man was born

who fought to make the world a better place and then he died.

The End.

Scully had been unprepared to hear "a few days". A few weeks

she might have been able to deal with. But the prognosis for

Mulder's shortened life had just been cut by a week at least.

It was another nail in his coffin and, for her, in Gods. How dare

he create creatures with minds to conceive of eternal life and

then deny them any hope of it?

"That is what heaven is for." The nuns would answer.

But you had to go through death to get there and death for

some was no different as a roller coaster trip through Hell.

Wonderful incentive, Scully thought as she entered Mulder's

room and cast away God from her mind as she already had

from her heart.

Perhaps someone other than God would lend a hand, even if

she had to go to the Devil himself to find a path to Mulder's life,

so be it.

"These children were completely unexpected.

None of knew what the colonists were up to. How

could we?"

Speaking was a middle aged, balding man

who stood nervously by the cabin's sitting room

window. His eyes never stopped moving.

The players changed but the game hadn't until

now, he thought as he listened to the other man's

words and to his own disintegrating lungs. Even the

portable lung, carrying oxygen to his pin-holed

alveoli, couldn't repair a life time of scoffing the

Surgeon General.

Samantha Mueller murdered, her children

slaughtered. Even the Associates didn't know

why. Speculations abounded but the colonists

had left them in the dark.

His Helper, expressionless, stood back, silently

watching the discussion and offering no insight.

There had been no word from the Colonists for weeks.

Suddenly, without explanation, they had cut off

communications.

But the murders had not stopped and the Elders

were very worried. What about The Work? Was

it finished? Should we continue? Should we

side with The Rebels if one could even be located?

What do we do!?

The one who had spoken was a newer, younger member

who had signed over his millions to further fund the Project.

He especially wanted to know. It was, after all, money!

Cancer Man smiled to himself. He could almost read those

words in the mind of the younger member. He was too

inexperienced to know that money was nothing. Money

provided the means to forge ahead with the Project started

so long ago it seemed, back when they had all been young

and thought they had found the answer to the future of all

mankind. Young enough that they still possessed the arrogance

to make a decision, one that would forever radically alter the

quality of life of every human being across every continent on

the planet, without so much as a telegram to The White House.

Money did not mean life, it meant perhaps, if they were

lucky and did all the correct things according to plan, it

would help them attain a life of some sort. For themselves

maybe. For their children, almost certainly.

He himself had given up many things for The Project, the Work

Bill Mulder had had a hand in sparking and then spurring on.

But if it meant life for a few of the worthy, it was worth it.

Any sacrifice.

"We couldn't have known. Even my Helper didn't know." His

tasted fresh, cool oxygen with each inhale, blood with each

exhale.

"Maybe your helper knows more than he says." The nervous

man retorted, glancing toward the thick necked assistant

of the one they all knew as The Smoker. The old man's portable

oxygen tank made a hissing noise whenever the wrinkled

fossil took a breath. It was annoying. It made him restless.

"No one knew!" Smoker insisted. "The colonists have

broken our agreement with them. How were we to

know they were creating their own hybrids, their own race,

right under our noses?" Cancer Man coughed.

"Well, what are we going to do about it?!" Nervous Man

asked.

"This other Group, whoever they are, might be solving the

problem for us."

"You heartless old skeleton, they killed your own daughter!"

He made an attempt to sit forward, anger welling in him,

but unable to complete the movement, fell back, cursing

his weakness. "We have all had to make sacrifices! What

family I have left is all I am concerned about, as you should

be. Now's the time for all men to look after their own."

The others, all silent until now, seemed to fade in strength

compared to the old one who had been with The Project

since the beginning. Few of them liked him, but there

was no doubt the old guy demanded their respect. One

of their other older members spoke:

"He's correct. The Work is all but finished. We have all

made our...arrangements...in the event of something like

this. It's time we took our families and called and end to

it."

The meeting broke up. Men in all manner of business

and casual dress filed out the door into the night. Cars

and trucks were started and a convoy of vehicles left

on a road that winded down from the mountain to the

highway.

In the cabin, the oldest surviving member of the Consortium

sipped tea brought to him by his Helper.

Helper watched as his In Charge lifted the cup to his

thin lips and drank. And drank again.

Satisfied, Helper took the cup and arranged a pillow

under the old human's neck.

He returned to his place and watched.

Cancer Man felt tired and leaned back in his chair,

letting his head fall to his chest.

So tired. Some sleep would revive him.

"Samantha.." Cancer Man mumbled in his stupor. "Fox,..."

He dreamed they were dead and regretted it. But they

were free of whatever was upon them. The storm. The

End.

Dreamed. "...yes, yes..." Their deaths had served a better

purpose.

His grandson would live. Something would survive. Not

everything would die. "Caleb.." He said as his heart stopped.

Through trees that shaded him from the cool,

yellow star, he carried his burden with methodical,

even steps.

Odd sensations. Dirt under his feet, sun on his face,

the odor of grass and pine. A dead human over

his shoulder.

They had death as well, but theirs was simpler -

instantaneous decomposition.

Three hundred and twenty-one shovels of dirt later,

he dragged the trussed up remains of his former

In Charge to the six by three by four foot hole.

The old man would have finally succumbed to his

bodies disease, so it was no betrayal to have spared

him a few extra hours of struggle.

His own kind did not bury their dead.

But this had been a human and required a hole. He

knew of their death rituals and that they believed

in a deity and mouthed offerings during their significant

life events.

Such as at death. But he was unsure of the words

and so made himself content that burying the corpse

was enough; a gesture of respect out of their many

years together in The Work.

His peers might provide him with a new assignment

or they might not.

The Work was so close to being completed, another

In Charge was unlikely. He had not been able to

complete his In Charge's last request. The Watchers

were being murdered by a rebellious faction of humanity

but that trouble would soon be over. The invasion was

imminent.

Nothing else needed to be accomplished. Even the puzzle

of the unusual human offspring was no longer a particular

consideration, although they would still be watched

where possible, because The Time was nearly complete.

The body slowly disappeared under black soil and rocks

as he scooped and dumped.

He stood, stretched the body's confining muscles and skin.

At the cabin, he gathered up only those things which

would have provided the human authorities with

information about The Work. Removing fingerprints

or accessories such as clothing was unnecessary.

His In Charge was dead, his body buried a mile away

under shrubs and soil, there was nothing left of him for

the authorities to find. They would trace the fingerprints

and look, yes, but evidence beyond that would not be

uncovered.

Soon he would return to his people, his part in The

Work that had spanned seventy-five years, finished.

He had done his job and if he could feel the human

emotion of gladness, he would have.

Outside the cabin, the night sky became bright cobalt

blue.

It was time to leave.

Scully found the cabin, north of Augusta, as she had

before.

The door hung on one hinge, like a torn lip, the

hardwood, at one time waxed to a shine, was strewn

with leaves, cans and debris that had been scattered

by animals from inside cupboards left open and the

all the litter of the forest floor that the wind had blown

in.

She walked through the abandoned rooms. The occupants

had left in a hurry and there was linen lumped on an

unmade bed, now peppered with animal droppings.

Cobwebs hung in the corners of the room and in between

the panes of the broken windows, as if the insects had tried

to repair the human damaged glass.

The stove still had on its surface, sitting in their proper places,

blackened, oily pots. Grease was smeared on the stainless

steel counter.

It had been 6 months and the forest had reclaimed the

structure almost completely.

"You won't find him."

Scully spun, gun drawn. Stared, mouth open. "You?" A

strangled whisper, after finding her voice again.

"He's gone."

"Where?"

"Dead. He wouldn't have been able to help anyway."

"Of what? What did he die of?"

"I don't know. Everyone guessed though. Cancer probably."

"What are you doing here, Krycek?"

"I heard you were looking for him. I heard Mulder is sick,

maybe dying. I was surprised that day at the school, to see him

again. As shocked as he was to see me I'm sure. When did he

get back?"

She kept him in her sights, not dropping her barrel for a second.

"I'm surprised you don't know. Didn't Cancer Man give you all

the dirty little details?"

She hoped not. She hoped Krycek didn't know that Mulder had

suffered a breakdown and spent all those months in therapy

bringing himself back from the brink. She hoped Krycek knew

nothing at all. Nothing, that is, but one very important thing.

The one thing she wanted. "You know what's wrong with him,

don't you?" She said, testing his knowledge.

He shook his head. "No. If you came here looking for the

antidote, you've wasted gas. The alien virus, if that's what he

has, has probably mutated anyway. Even if I did have the Anti-

viral, I doubt it would cure what he has."

"I thought you said you didn't know anything?"

"You've been talking to one of our former members. Word gets

around. I know about Emily. I know Mulder's sick like she was."

Scully's countenance faltered, as if someone had pulled the

stopper from her heart and her hope was pouring into the void

that had opened beneath her, Mulder and life funneling away

like so much sand.

"Mulder isn't supposed to die. It's not right. He didn't do anything

to deserve it. He wasn't even abducted, he wasn't part of the

experiments!"

She wanted to shoot the man before her, make him - make

somebody - pay for what was happening to Mulder. Make

someone else suffer like he was suffering.

"Mulder was protected because of who he was." Krycek said,

on his voice just a hint of envy.

She swallowed her grief, kept control because she wanted

an answer from him. "What do you mean?"

"I thought you knew. Mulder does."

"Knew what?!" She shouted, suddenly furious, her finger

tightening on the trigger. If Krycek noticed, he didn't show it.

"Mulder's mother and Cancer Man, they...knew each other.

A long time ago."

"That's a lie."

"Come on! Didn't you ever notice the resemblance? I saw it right

away. Why else would the old man have protected and helped

him for so long?"

"He tried to kill Mulder!"

"Don't be naive'."

She wanted him to shut up. Mulder was not tainted by that

sickening old man and if he was dead, the world was a better

place for it. "Do you know where I can get the Anti-viral?!"

Krycek watched her trigger finger. "No." May as well be honest.

He came here to do that, speak some truth, but it was probably

too late to be redeemed in her eyes or anyone else's.

Scully suddenly hated Krycek more than she thought she could

ever hate anyone. He represented all that had come before,

all the rotten tricks and disgusting lies. All the needle points of

pain and hurt that had finally resulted in the gaping red wound

inside her: Mulder's impending death.

"You've changed sides again, Krycek." She sneered. "You're

killing babies now." BIG MAN! her sarcastic voice cut. "Why?

Not enough sadistic satisfaction in slaughtering those your own

size, you son-of-a-bitch!?"

Krycek breathed fast, in and out. "I'm - we're doing what

has to be done! For the human race! Don't you see what's

about to happen, you stupid bitch?! We're about to be snuffed

out!"

Scully asked again but believing him or not would be something

she'd decide later. "So why are you killing children? Families?

Why are your pals committing mass murder, huh? Who are

they? And what are the God's children dying from?"

"I'm with them because what they said made sense. We're

ridding the planet of the "watchers", the Infected ones Cancer

Man's people put in place to watch the kids. The kids are special."

"Special how?!"

"I don't know! They don't tell us everything, but I've seen what

they can do, I saw what Gibson could do. The kids are the key

and we have to have control or-!"

"I have the gun, Krycek, and don't think for one second I won't

blow you away unless you tell what I want to know!" She

screamed at him, knowing she sounded almost crazed. Good,

maybe he'd be afraid enough of her desperation to speak. "What

did Cancer Man want with these kids!?"

"We thought the kids were alien-human hybrids put in place

by the aliens themselves. We,..they,..Cancer Man, the Elders,

thought the colonists had betrayed them and the Work by

starting their own hybrid breeding program behind their back.

Breeding hybrids right under their noses, from within. Some of

us came to the conclusion that the Elders were nothing but

pawns, that they were just being humored to keep them in

line until Invasion. The colonization had already begun

decades before." He lifted his chin. "But a few of us got smart."

"Did you?" She meant it as unflattering and it found its mark

in his reddening face.

"Yes! We found others, another group, who were looking far

ahead, who seemed to know more, who had different ideas

about what was happening. I didn't agree with all of their

ideas, but I agreed with their solution. Not to work with

the aliens but wipe them out, one by one if necessary and

that meant starting with those who were infected. Those who

were being controlled by the Black Oil.

"The Mill-...the group I'm with used the knowledge I brought

them to further their work against the aliens - what they call

The Evil ones, the Dark servants, they had a dozens names

for the Infected. The labels don't matter. But somebody had to

take a stand."

"But the God's children were never touched. Why did they die?"

He shook his head. "We don't know. They were always dead

before we got to them. Every time. The Elders thought maybe

the aliens were killing them somehow, to deprive us of using

the hybrid kids against their plans for further invasion."

"How convenient that sounds. What else?! What happened to

Gibson Praise?"

"I don't know! But he was one and not the only one."

Krycek was lying. Or he was crazy and telling what he thought

was truth. Or he was telling the truth and if so, the truth was

crazy. But it didn't matter. She alone could not stop any alien

invasion. Krycek's companions were impotent. Powerless. If

aliens were on Earth's doorstep like Mulder (and now Krycek)

asserted, then they'd been there a long time and possessed

the power to do as they pleased.

Humanity would go the way of the buffalo. Wiped out.

But one more thing before extinction. "Where is Caleb?

Samantha's other son?"

Krycek shook his head. "I can't tell you. I'd be killed. He has to

be protected."

She took careful aim at his left eye. "You'll be dead anyway."

He stared back but his brave defiance weakened. "You don't have-"

"-GODDAMN IT!-.." She forced her voice into calmer tones, "I hate

you Krycek, but other than that, I have no personal vendetta

against you. All I want is for Mulder to see Caleb. That's all.

Mulder needs this. Just this one thing."

She stepped closer, ensuring that when she pulled the trigger,

she'd be close enough not to miss and the back of his skull

would be blasted clean away. No margin for error. "Lie to me

Krycek and I swear I'll kill you."

He heard her and understood, maybe not for the first time,

that for Mulder, she would do it. Anything.

"So Mulder is dying? It's not just a story?"

Scully's hand trembled. "Shut-up!"

Krycek's expression was neutral, his voice was almost remorseful.

"I'm sorry. I can't help you. I can't help myself either. And despite

what the group is trying to do, it's probably too late to protect

these kids. We think the invasion is well under way. It's too late

for any of us now."

"You're a liar."

"Believe what you want, Agent Scully. Caleb is with his father.

Mueller. We don't know where. But I think you already knew

that much."

He turned until his back was facing her and paused, as if waiting

to see if she'd shoot him in the back.

After he left, Scully stared at the door a long time until in the

distance she heard a car engine start up and wheels spinning

on gravel.

Sinking to her knees, she let her gun fall to the floor with a soft

thump, letting it fall where it may.

Light from the late afternoon sun poured through the door, across

the worn two by sixes and over to her. She could feel the heat

from it near her. But its light did not touch her skin or even the

hem of her jacket, now coated from the neglected dusty cabin

floor. She shivered.

Cold like the dead fall over the hard clay on the mountain came

over her. Frozen solid fear in the pit of her stomach, just like it

happened to the heroines in the adventure novels she kept piled

on the night stand beside her bed. She didn't know that it really

happened that way.

Scully had felt fear often. Felt dread and terror and it has

always been a hot emotion, a thing that moved her to action.

Even her cancer had stirred fight in her. Even Emily, though a

terrible painful loss never to be forgot, had not frozen her in

place.

It had not made her ice-covered and lifeless.

Mulder would become that cold in his urn. She'd be the one

to pick it out. Choosing style and engraving. Decide the location

for a memorial. Chat with his distant relatives whom she had

never met and never would again. Strangers who did not know

him.

"I hope all will be well...I cannot choose but weep, to think

they should lay him i' the cold ground. "

She was going mad.

Shivering there on her knees in a tumbling down old house

in the hills, quoting tragedy to no one.

Words had no meaning anymore. They accomplished nothing

except to dry the throat.

And words - lies or truth - spoken for their own sake were cold

on her skin.

Like her father and her sister and her daughter were cold.

Words sounded and ended.

Like Mulder's father and Mulder's sister. Like, soon, Mulder.

With that cold, colors and normal body warmth had faded again

to black and white and ice water, just like years ago. Like the

time when Mulder had been taken and brought back somewhat

physically intact but insane.

She could do nothing for him then but send him away to the

doctors.

But no cure was forthcoming this time. Krycek the liar had told

her so and it was tragically ironic that she found herself believing

him. Why would he lie?

She knew the truth and the truth had not set her free but enslaved

her in it's pain. Truth itself was a liar.

"But. This. Cannot. Be." She said aloud.

Beyond the broken door her God was silent from behind his

brilliant sun.

Scully drove steadily for several hours on autopilot.

It was soothing in a way, just seeing the highway

appear before her out of the dark in her headlights,

where nothing was visible beyond their beams.

Cancer Man was dead. Krycek was off fighting his

version of Armageddon. She didn't even hate him

for it, he was too sad a reality for her to hate him.

She could feel sorry for him almost now. Feel sorry

for a double crossing, lying murderer. Forgive him

in his sin.

But she couldn't render to God the same compassion.

God was supposed to be beyond the need for anything.

He was powerful and if he wanted to, he could end

it all. Every terrible thing, all pain. Death. He could

end death if He so choose. Why didn't he?!

Highway disappeared and street lamps lining

suburban roads appeared. Buildings grew from

points in the distance and whizzed be her eyes

as blurs.

A steeple appeared, taller than the homes surrounding it

with their shiny cars parked in driveways and darkened

windows.

She pulled in.

"Father? Are you there?"

"Yes. It is late my child. Have you some to confess?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Scully could see the shape of the

Father through the cross-crossed wooden slats. It obscured his

features, making him into a faceless man. Like the words in

scripture made God just another character in a book.

Why did there have to be such separations? "No. No, but I do

have a question."

"Yes?"

"Why does God allow evil?"

"Evil has always existed. God battles it, as should we."

"Why does God not win?"

"What evil have you encountered? What brings you here?"

"The human kind of evil. Perhaps something more. Do

you believe in angels, Father?"

"Of course."

"So, if there are angels, there are also devils? And there

must also be Satan, isn't that what the Church teaches?"

"If you are a catholic, you must know these things."

"I've read about them, but that doesn't mean I believe."

"Yet, you question."

"Yes. If there is God, if there is a Good, why must there be a

bad? A creature, a spirit who is the enemy of God?"

"It is a basic Christian belief that the struggle will always exist,

even if it is only within ourselves, until we achieve the reward."

"That sounds like a riddle. I have one for you."

"Go ahead."

"Satan is the head of Evil. He is the master of the underworld.

The one who oversee's the punishment of evil-doers for all

eternity."

"Yes."

"Who sends them there?"

Scully waited for the priest to answer her. When he didn't, "Is

it not God who sends the wicked to hell? So isn't Satan an

agent of God. Is

he not God's helper? Does that make sense to you?"

"The way you say it, it does not."

"You know what, Father, I don't know anymore what is evil or

good. Sometimes I don't see a difference."

"Do you pray?"

"I used to."

"Why not now?"

"Because a friend of mine is dying. He's dying because all his

life he fought against evil. Those who would hurt others in order

to save themselves by making dirty deals with terrible men,

deals agreed to in darkness."

"It is not always obvious who is the winner in a struggle for

life. Sometimes life moves on. Sometimes the life is a spiritual

one."

"Is it? I'm no longer convinced there is a heaven, or even a

hell. But I can say this much for certain. There is evil in the

world, and God should do something about it."

"He will child. He will, in his time. In his way."

"That sounds like an excuse."

"Does it? Do you believe in the President of the United States?"

"Yes, of course."

"Have you ever met her personally?"

"No and I know what you're trying to say, you're trying to reason

that just because I have never met God, that is no reason to lose

my faith in his existence, but that is not the same. Ms. President

can be seen on television. There are eye-witness accounts of her."

"As there are of God. And though there are no pictures of him,

since he is a spirit, that is not so unusual."

Scully did not say anything. She was angry. It was an anger that

came from nowhere and every part of her too. It had no origin, it

seemed, and nowhere to focus but this priest sitting in the wooden

confessional. Though she did not lash out with it, Scully reveled

in her anger. She needed it, it gave her a sense of power and

will. She did not answer him.

"Let me ask you something." The voice of the priest said.

"All right."

"Does Lady President call you when it's time to make decisions

that will affect the entire country, even if they are decisions that

will affect you in ways in which you do not approve?"

"No."

"But you believe that God should call on you."

Scully felt her anger reach the rim of her understanding until

she felt weak with fatigue and helpless in ignorance.

"No." She began to cry. "But why doesn't he ever answer me?

When this is the only request I have ever made of him? I would

give my life for the answer."

"You mean for your friends life."

"Yes."

"Perhaps God has something more in mind for him. Or for you."

"It's not fair."

"I'm sure Jesus Christ felt the same way at times. Even he asked

for the trial to be removed from him, yet, he said to God: "Not

as I will, but as you will."."

"I know." Tears flowed silent and steady. Her heart ached but it

was a better ache than before. It was almost, very nearly, good.

"I want him to live."

"Have faith, child. Sometimes, it is our only weapon."

"Are you well?" Scully's mother asked as she stepped

inside the house.

Scully nodded but quickly changed it to a head shake when

she saw her mother's disbelief.

"He's dying and I can't do anything."

"He knows you love him."

She nodded. She'd said it. Often enough she hoped,

resolving to correct it if it proved to be inaccurate.

That thought became hope by the time she reached

his bedroom and heard the respirator going full.

Hope became a vacuum expanse by the time

she swung the door open.

The vacuum threatened to suck her into its void

by the time she reached his bedside.

In perhaps a few days at most, she'd be visiting

him in a far more public place with grass under

her feet instead of carpet.

Love and not grief won when he opened his eyes

to look at her. Something good stood up inside

for the time being and gave her the wherefor all

to smile and take his bone-thin fingers in her own.

"Hi."

He cracked a smile in response.

She knew it was especially for her because it

hurt him. Nothing now was free, he paid for each

movement of living with pain. Each moment

exacted a price.

"Skinner's arranging a task force to the New Hope

site. There's a chance some of the "special" children are

there. We may learn something new."

"You told me."

Scully nodded. It was a "Oh? Yes, that's right. I did,

didn't I?" nod. Words and movements designed to replace

rooms far too full of uncomfortable despair

"Are you all right?" He asked

He'd seen inside her; her carefully sculpted hope

collapsing in upon itself, she guessed.

What eyes that see!

She nodded to him anyway. If you're going to lie, try to

make it a convincing lie. "Yes. I'm okay. I was just

thinking about how much I love you and how little

I've mentioned that."

"Enough." He wheezed. "Plenty."

She looked at their entwined fingers. Her small,

flesh colored and his thin, white, nearly bloodless

appendages looking like the fingers of his "Greys".

Soon into death he would travel, an alien in a alien place.

In living experience and in current state, he knew and

was becoming something very like them. Mulder had sought

for aliens all his life for many reasons. Now there was one

growing inside him, making him over to suit itself.

Talk about close encounters.

"Mulder..." she couldn't speak another word. Shivered

but felt his heat. It was warmer than the sun outside

his bedroom window which she'd driven all night long to see

once more.

"I know, Scully." Gasping. Tightened his grip. To anyone

else an almost imperceptible increase in pressure, but

she felt it.

"I,...I..." She wanted to speak and make the words mean

something. Something great and powerful and everlasting.

Words that would change the way people viewed the world

and everything in it.

Sayings that would find Cancer Man in his grave and slap

his face.

Utterances that would reach up to heaven and convince

God that Mulder was worth saving. Prove that he was the

only and last thing Dana Scully would ever ask for and if

He would only grant her this, she'd serve Him with total

humility and the deepest sanctity forever and ever, Amen.

And they would be true words.

"It's okay." Mulder assured her from the other side of the

wall of his suffering. "It's okay."

She saw her tears fall and wet both their hands. Spoke

those words in brief.

"I,...I wanted to marry you."

Margaret Scully watched the three strangers file through

her living room, and without being obvious, tried to make

heads or tails of Dana's companions.

Her daughter took up the rear, instructing where they should

turn once they reached the end of the hall. "Just left, Langly,

we'll work there."

Margaret understood. Her husband's old den had a large

comfortable easy chair where Fox could lay back and rest

without too much discomfort but still be present and participate.

Langly was a tall, thin fellow in T-shirt and jeans with a buzzed

blonde 'do and wearing Lennon type eye glasses.

Following him after stopping to introduce himself with a hand-

shake was a much older, balding man in glasses who appeared

to be in poor health. He seemed very pleasant.

Dana's third and last visitor impressed her the most. A clean cut,

well dressed office type, she surmised. Probably a family man

as well.

"Close the door, Frohike, will you?" Mulder asked.

He did so and asked "How are you, Mulder?"

"Fine." Mulder and endured a kind shoulder squeeze from his

friend.

Scully seated herself in her dad's old cushioned desk chair while

Byers sat in a hard one next to it. Langly just leaned against the

wall as was his habit.

"So?" Scully opened the informal meeting. "What do you have?"

Byers spoke:

"Nothing new. The media's already made the connections, they

know these child murders are occurring in other countries, it's

all over the news. Interpol, CSIS, FBI, CIA, NSA, the British Secret

Service, the DCGA, the Japanese, the Russian fragments and all

their agencies, are all trying to find the hub of the God's Children

Spree Killers, the "Millennium Makers" or whatever they call

themselves. No one's had any success."

"We even had an inquiry about the approaching year, 2010,

sent out to every apocalyptic group or doomsday sect we

could think of to see if there was some kind of religious

significance to it. Nada."

"Hell. We even had some astrologers in and other than I

should be dating a Libra, the couldn't tell us a thing."

Frohike said, then added, "Scully, what's your mom's birthday?"

"Forget it Frohike." She opened a file folder and said to them all,

"Well, it seems to have no historical weight either. 2013 might

have, it'll be the 100 year anniversary of the start of World War

One, but that's it."

"Crime is down." Mulder said. "Nations at present are mostly at

peace, the Big Arms Race was over long ago, rumor has it

Saddam's got cancer, Pakistan and India are still chilly but not

bombing each other, we haven't had a whole-scale civil slaughter

in any third world nation for the last six years, there seems to

be nothing happening anywhere to explain why suddenly this

previously unknown "Glory of God" Club would start killing

families."

"I don't think the reasons for any of it are cut and dried." Scully

said.

Mulder sighed. "Crazy doesn't mean a person can't be intelligent.

Religious doesn't mean goodness."

"I didn't say it did. But they might be suffering from some kind of

mass delusion."

"World wide? Why isn't it affecting others? Why only the God's

Children Murderers?"

"I don't know."

"I don't think this has anything to do with God." Mulder dismissed

the idea.

Frohike seemed to sense an argument building and asked "Why

these kids? Are these kids like Gibson was? You never told us

what happened to Gibson, Mulder."

"We don't know, but my opinion is Gibson was part alien. Or he'd

been altered as a child. Abducted and genetically manipulated,

that's why he could read minds."

"They tried to kill him, Mulder."

"No. they tried to study him, control him. Maybe Gibson was a

failure. I think that's why they're after these kids. Maybe these

kids are the successes. They put Oil infected control subjects in

place or infected parents already present to watch the kids, to

retain that control."

"Then why are they dying or being killed?"

"I don't know. These religious fanatics are obviously well

organized and maybe they recognize, somehow, what's going

on. Maybe their solution to the world's woes is to remove the

"tainted"."

"They seem too well organized to be crazy." Scully said, still

stinging from his comment.

"Look at John List, a family man, an accountant who stuck to

routine and who, verified by the testimony of friends and co-workers,

worked to effect a normal American family life - who wanted things

to be "nice". But one day he wakes up and decides the answer to

all his troubles is to brutally murder his ill and alcoholic wife and

then his three children one at a time, afterward lining up their

corpses in a row like popsicle sticks. Why do we believe that

madness must by definition also mean chaos? Can't there be

orderly, methodical, even logical, insanity?"

Scully bristled. "I think that it does not always clearly manifest

itself, yes. I think sometimes it comes in disguise and fools us

all."

The room was suddenly very uncomfortable. Langley, Byers

looked at the floor, the walls. Frohike made himself occupied

with the goings on outside the room's one window. They looked

anywhere but at the two other occupants whose mutual tension

was as thick as cheese.

Bluntly, "Do you think I'm crazy?" Mulder asked her.

She was shocked. "Where did that come from? You know I

don't."

"But I believe aliens abducted me for eight years. And I believe

that now, we're seeing aliens on the verge of an invasion. I think

these kids are tied to it. I think it's been planned for decades

and someone has to try and stop it."

"Do you think I'm crazy for not believing that, Mulder? Am I

crazy for thinking that maybe, just maybe God does have a hand

in things and even if aliens are about to destroy all human life,

He will have something to say back to them? That they could

also be a creation provided with free will and that He might

stop this himself?"

An interruption in the way of Margaret Scully halted further

words momentarily. She apologized, carrying in a tray loaded

with cups filled with coffee, saucers, cream and sugar and a

plate of squares. Byers went to take the tray from her.

"Thank-you's" issued from the group as she nodded and left,

closing the door again behind her.

A few minutes were spent doctoring up cup. Frohike helped

himself to two of the cocoanut topped confectionaries.

"Frohike." Scully said in protest.

"I know, I know. I've decided to ignore my doctors advice for a

few minutes. Let an old man enjoy a few pleasures." He took a

bite. "These are incredible. What else is your mother good at?"

Amused, Scully shook her head and gave up.

Mulder didn't take a coffee or anything off the plate. He'd had

his morning meal, barely recognizable as food if he remembered

right. Yellow mush that tasted vaguely like bananas.

Scully had brought her meal to his bedroom and after, he'd felt

well enough to join her in the T.V. room. The morning had been

spent just enjoying each others company.

He wanted to repair the damage and looked over at Scully. She

was staring at her coffee cup. She looked sad and it was because

of him.

Their eyes met when she looked up and a private word was

exchanged. It said they were each sad, each sorry, each wishing

for things to have turned out differently. It said love and plenty

of it.

Mulder nodded to her, the gesture made to once again draw

the others into the conversation. "Scully has a right to her

own opinions on this, but we're working together toward the

same goal."

"Yes." She added. "We're just working from different mind

sets." She addressed the group, and then just Mulder smiling,

"When have we not?"

To all:

"I believe something is going on, something big. But, personally,

I'm also trying to keep a faith that the very worst will not be the

outcome, no matter what we do or are unable to do. Don't

worry guys," She said to the three Gunmen, "Mulder and I all

right," To Mulder, "aren't we?"

Mulder nodded.

"Then let's get to work. "

Scully took the floor once more. "All we have is what my

informant has told me, which is still, I remind you, somewhat

questionable. He can give us so little concrete information

and nothing that targets any one individual, so he is almost

a dead end. The names he gave us of some of the members

of his old clan turned up possibles but the information is a

decade old and it could be a dead end."

Byers reported. "I did a web search. There are organizations

that call themselves the "Millennium Children", people who

believe they were abducted from the womb, taken to the

"mother ships", "altered" - made into geniuses the reasons

for which they can't say, then returned to the womb for

normal birth.

"There are chapters who also think that they have or still

have somewhere,a twin who was the abductee, removed pre-

natally from the mother and taken to the aliens ships, the

other twin being left behind as the "control subjects". That

ties in with Mulder's theory to some extent."

"Except they're not abducted to be made into geniuses. They're

test subjects for the aliens, for their breeding program or the Black

Oil infection-" Mulder added.

"Those people are deluding themselves, guys." Scully said.

"They desire something beyond mediocrity and, based on

a dream or a sense of "incompleteness" or "invasion" that

could be explained by anything from a lack of iron or a

rhinovirus, they decided that they must have been abducted

and they are now super humans endowed with superintelligence

or talent and the main liners of the future. There is nothing

scientific to support their claims."

"There was nothing scientific to support mine." Mulder reminded

her.

Scully didn't look at him, biting her too wuick tongue.

"anyway, there's been no sign of the Black Oil in any of the

dead children." She said. " And none of this goes any where in

explaining how those children who are found dead died. None

of them showed trauma of any kind. Not even raised adrenaline

levels in the blood."

"But it does explain Sam's child."

"We all want to believe our children or our family is more

special that the rest, but it's just one theory." Scully answered but

didn't look at him. The case had become a web of threads that

did not lead back to each other but simple away. Each dead

family added to the unbelievable. None of it made sense. Nothing

fit. Nothing answered to normal avenues of scientific investigation.

"Where does your friend Krycek fit into all of this?" Langley asked.

"He was never anyone's friend." Mulder said. "And we don't know

yet, but he's one of the baby killers."

Byers cleared his throat, "Back to the reason why. The only thing

happening in the world seems to be a lack of newsworthy

events. the "why" just isn't clear."

"Krycek knows. We need to find him." Mulder said.

Scully had not mentioned her encounter. It had been held for an

entirely different purpose, but "I doubt he knows much." she said,

just to stave off the pangs of conscience over her secrecy about

having gone.

"We have our chapters on it, everything we know about him.

So far, zip." Langley said.

"Scully, what's the word on Caleb?" Mulder asked. That was

what was most on his mind. The case itself had gone world-wide,

whoever was doing the killings, it now seemed far more

important to stop them than to know all the reasons behind why,

other than the why might eventually lead them to the culprits.

But Caleb.

Caleb was personal.

Scully seemed distracted.

"Scully?"

She looked up at him, as if she not heard. "I'm sorry, something

Byers said made me think of something. It's nothing."

But she had aroused Mulder's curiosity. "What?"

All their eyes were on her now.

"That the only significant "Event" is that there is none. No wars,

no uprisings, things seem good. It...uh..reminded me of

a passage in Luke 12:40, "she quoted for them, "at a day you do

not think likely, the Son of Man cometh."."

"You think God is behind all this?" Mulder asked.

Scully pursed her lips. "No, but I think it's interesting that something

this wide reaching is occurring now, when things seem fine. When

there seems to be no catalyst, that such a world-wide and obviously

organized group would see now as the time for action. What is

it about this time, about now?"

"They're religious fanatics. For some, that's all they need: The "call

to serve" ." Mulder said and shifted, even the padded chair was

growing uncomfortable.

As if to apologize to Scully for his flip comment, he addressed the

group, "Scully and I think differently on the possibilities of why,

whether angels, demons, aliens or just bible thumping zealots

suffering from mass psychosis, families and children are being

murdered. It has to be stopped."

The groups silence was an agreement and a sign the meeting

had come to a close.

Mulder sat forward and started to rise with the help of the cane

Margaret had kindly provided. Frohike moved to help him up

but Mulder waved him off. He looked embarrassed. "I have to go

take my doc's-" He nodded in Scully's direction, a humorous

twist on his mouth, "one hundred and one pills."

He limped out of the room.

When Frohike was sure he was out of earshot, "He looks bad, Dana."

She nodded. "He is."

It seemed to pull Frohike's face down, hearing it without any

punches pulled.

"How long?" Byers asked. They all knew what he meant.

She stood to follow Mulder and they trailed after. "Uh...days.

That's what Watts said, but science has been known to be wrong."

If they were shocked to hear her say it, it wasn't evident on their

faces.

But they were all thinking the same thing. Days if Mulder took care.

But they all knew he wouldn't.

Frohike stopped her, letting the rest file passed and down the hall.

"If you need any help with anything,...uh,...arrangements,...you'll

call me? Us?"

His hand on her forearm, his kind offer, his gentle words almost

broke the fierce control she'd been practicing since the hospital

yesterday. With eyes watering, she lay one hand one his arm and

both stood there, two old friends in grief for the cherished third.

Lip trembling, she nodded.

Then, with Frohike right there, being so honest with her, so caring

about Mulder, she wanted to share something more. "About Krycek.

There's a place I went. Someone I had to ask something..."

Frohike frowned, then understood. "You went to see him. Cancer

Man."

She nodded. "But he wasn't there. Krycek was. Don't tell Mulder but

Krycek knows nothing that can help us."

"Or if he did, he won't say."

"Yes." She sighed. "Mulder's already dying, and so will more children.

What could he have told me that would have made any difference?

Even if we knew everything about them, I doubt we could stop them."

"You could have been hurt."

Scully shook her head sadly. "Mulder's dying Frohike. They wouldn't

need to punish me anymore than that. There's nothing I have that

they already haven't taken away."

Skinner assigned her to lead the Infiltration Team

on New Hope.

They were here to find and protect Sydney Black,

daughter of Frank and Catherine Black.

Catherine Black, the mother who had died during the North

West Outbreak by her own hand.

Frank Black who had lost himself inside a frightening

doomsday Sorority. Frank who had embroiled his family

in something that ultimately caused him to destroy them,

wither in death or separation. Frank who had put his trust

in his religiously guided millennium seekers who believed

one effective method of eradicating evil was infecting the

populous with a prion carried virus that killed in seconds;

one that caused its victims blood to cease clotting and all

blood carrying vessels to break down and leak like wet

rice paper.

It was a well conceived virus that brought a truly biblical

vision to life before the horrified stare of any unfortunate

observer: the sufferer bleeding from the mouth and eye-sockets,

as even the capillaries on the tongue and in the eyeballs

broke down, eventually spilling their fluid out onto the face.

A very effective method of eradication. But one from men,

not from God. Distributed by men who had cast their deadly

bread upon the waters and then took measures so it would

not come back to them.

A very terrible way to die, but at least it was quick. ENMS

was agonizingly slow for both victim and those who in horror,

had to stand and watch.

These diseases were death for men by men because their

brand of destruction murdered the innocent while leaving

the guilty to walk the earth.

It would not always be so. If God was love as the Father's had

taught, it could not be.

Scully had looked up a passage in her leather bound Bible,

the very old one her mother had given her at age eight, and

which she'd had lovingly and newly inscribed with her

name in gold lettering:

Zechariah 14:12, "...And this what will prove to be the scourge

with which Yahweh will scourge all the peoples that will actually

battle against Jerusalem: There will a rotting away of ones flesh,

while one is standing upon ones feet; and one's very eyes will

rot away in their sockets, and one's very tongue will rot away in

one's mouth."

The God's Children Killer's had used a man's invention to praise

God and to control those who did not. Or those they felt who did

not believe such particulars and in the way in which they approved.

The evil among men seemed to dwell within their ranks.

Another method of controlling - in this case - their own members

was to generously provide the antidote for those members,

with or without their consent. Not the members families, just the

members.

Scully recalled Frank's face, her informant, Crazy Man. The

loss of his family had driven him insane, she was sure, but not

too insane to tell the truth. Craziness didn't mean liar.

Spiritual didn't mean unscientific.

Spooky didn't mean unreal.

Did the God's Children Killers know about Sydney and The New

Hope Evangelicals?

Protecting the children was the right thing to do, that's

what they were here to do. Which children among millions?

and Why them? were impossible questions and best left to

posterity or God to figure out.

If only the Evangelicals had not denied them entry onto the

property.

"This is a place of God. We are peaceable, tax paying citizens

caring for children no one else wanted and we are, by the way,

legalized in every way. Permission is denied. Even if the Devil

were bold enough to show his face here, do you think God would

not have an answer?"

So had preached the woman on the phone to her, vehemently

denying the F.B.I. access to the property or the children.

"Has there been a report that the children are being neglected or

abused in any way?" The woman had astutely asked, and with

Scully's answer in the negative, she'd finished, "Then there is no

reason for you or anyone to disturb the tranquility of New Hope.

I'm sure if you've done your background check on us adequately,

you'll know that we are registered as a free-standing Church of

God and a place of sanctuary and as such, have every right under

the law to refuse you entry. Men of war and weapons of death

are forbidden here."

And that had been that.

Scully knew her duty, she wanted to help this man Frank

Black save his daughter whom he claimed had been one

of these special children. Scully wanted to save these kids.

She wanted to do the right thing.

But the last thing she and the team wanted to do was let the New

Hope's know that the F.B.I. was at least watching the property if

not stepping feet on it. Spooking the New Hope's would not be a

good idea.

The task force had no idea of the true nature of New Hope: who

they were, how they operated, whether they themselves were

innocents and in need of protection or if they were another self

righteous, Waco-like paranoid cult just waiting for any reason

to show their godly devotion by opening fire upon the law

enforcers of men.

Caution was the word.

Mulder was at her mothers and after arguing fruitlessly about

leaving him behind, with conscience burning with

guilt, Scully' had decided to sedate him.

"I'm sorry, Mulder. You can't be in on this one, you're not strong

enough for field work anymore."

He argued back. Coughed and spit up blood and argued some

more.

"I have a right to find my nephew! Not as an agent but as a human

being! He's the only surviving member of my family, Scully! Don't

make me sit here while Sam's only son is murdered! You have no

right to drug me up Scully! No right!"

She had ignored his protests and nodded to the day nurse who

held his arms while she'd inserted the needle.

Three dozen agents in black body armor surrounded New Hope.

It was a non threatening place. A one two story house, a dozens

smaller cabins, a corral where some horses dozed in the early

morning sunrise. A cow barn.

There were no fences, no watchtowers, no fortifications

of any kind. Scully crouched low next to Skinner. They

were close to what appeared to be the main house. Through

her field glasses, she could make out lace curtains in the windows

and white wooden chairs on the veranda that wrapped the entire

structure.

"This place looks like a summer Bible camp." Skinner said.

"All this fire power seems almost profane." He nodded in the

direction of the house "That's where the children most likely are."

"Probably. It might also just be the cook house, where the

camp counselors stay and where they all eat. These other

cabins," she pointed, "could be sleeping quarters."

The task force had looked over aerial photographs of the site. No

unusual activity had been detected. Reports from the neighboring

town said that the place was benign and appeared to be exactly

what it stated and nothing more. Even a check on taxes revealed

complete and up front reporting to the I.R.S..

"What do we do first?" Skinner asked her, though procedures

had already been laid out.

"We wait."

The sun had been up no more than forty minutes before all the

children, talking and giggling among themselves like hungry kids

do, were filing into the main house accompanied by their guardians

to, Scully guessed, sit down for breakfast, as frying bacon could be

smelled.

Things were quiet for a time.

If the place was a haven for aliens or angels, nothing was

surfacing to mark it.

The sun had traveled for another hour before more movement

could be seen in the camp. A woman wearing a simple

dark dress came out the front door of the main house carrying

a bucket. She walked to a well in the center of the small,

fenced yard and pumped its handle, filling her bucket before

re entering the dwelling. Before long, the odor of fresh coffee

reached their nostrils.

Skinner's mouth watered. "Bacon. Coffee. I should have had

breakfast."

"Well, you never did listen to your doctor much."

"So why start now, Doctor Scully?" He joked, exchanging looks

with his prettiest agent and remembering past times spent with

her in ways closer than they were now. Memories, he decided,

better left in his head.

"I don't know, I'm beginning to think my informant really is just a

wacko. Unless I've lost my instincts, there's nothing unusual going

on here that I can see."

"He was an F.B.I. agent."

"So was Duane Barry, look how that turned out."

"Well, my ass is getting sore just-"

A voice on his radio interrupted:

"Sir. We've got company."