******

CHAPTER FIVE

******

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned.
- William Butler Yeats "The Second Coming"

******

Residence Of Margaret Scully
Annapolis, Maryland
Monday - June 22
1115 hours


If anyone had been on the street to listen, they would have heard the racing roar of a car engine and the whine of an overtaxed transmission as Dana Scully sped down around the last corner to her mother's home.

But everyone was tucked inside their own four walls.

***

Including Mr. James Freeman, the neighborhood busybody and the general bane of everyone elses' existence.

The man who regularly clipped his hedges so he could see into his neighbor's windows without so much as straining his neck.

The man who regularly watered his lawn just so he could keep tabs on all of the neighborhood children who would undoubtedly grow up to become serial murderers.

The man who regularly complained at every civic association meeting because someone had let their lawn grow a half an inch too long.

But, today, Mr. Freeman just didn't feel up to snuff. He lay on his sofa in his white undershirt and his brown plaid boxers with a can of Ensure by his side. He stared at the pile of kiddie porn magazines that he had removed from his secret hidey-hole.

He died the next day, a slimy mass of snot, pus and piss by a pile of smut.

No great loss.

***

Scully pulled up in front of the house, parked on the wrong side of the street and jumped from the car, leaving her driver's door open as she ran to the front door.

If Mr. Freeman had been watching, he would have called the police and demanded that the malfeasant parker be arrested on the spot.

The front door was unlocked and she burst through it.

"Mom??! Mom? Where are you?" She frantically screamed as she ran through the house, checking each phone extension, heading toward her mother's bedroom. She came to a stop in the open doorway.

Margaret Scully lay crumpled on the floor beside the nightstand, the phone pulled onto the pile carpet beside her. Scully froze. Was she too late? She was scared to move forward.

Then her mother's chest rose with a rattling breath. Scully let go of the breath she had been holding and ran to her mother's side.

"Mom? Can you hear me? I'm here...I'm here," she gently called as she caressed her mother's face. Margaret was burning up with fever.

This was not happening.

Then Scully heard a noise from downstairs. Was the ambulance there? Why hadn't she heard a siren?

"Agent Scully!"

Scully recognized the booming baritone. It was Walter Skinner.

"Up here, sir...I need help!" She called. She listened as he ran up the steps...taking them two at a time.

"Back here...in the bedroom, sir!"

And then, Skinner was at her side, helping her lift her mother to the bed.

"Where's the ambulance?...And what are you doing here?" Scully demanded.

"Scully," he bowed his head in frustration, "I couldn't get through. No one was answering at the emergency center."

"What?"

"The few times I didn't get a busy signal, all I got was a recording...I thought I better head after you to see if I could help..."

Scully nodded slightly as she digested Skinner's information.

"I have to get my mother to the hospital..." she stated simply.

"Then let's go...we'll take my car," Skinner replied. Then, before Scully could move, he reached down and scooped Margaret up into his arms. "Let's move."

And they rushed out of the house.

And Scully never noticed that her boss was flushed with fever himself...and that his own breath had begun to rattle through his broad chest.

******

Residence Of Mrs. Mulder
1115 Hours


Mulder closed his cell phone. It had taken several attempts, but he had finally gotten through to the Bureau's communications center. And he had been fortunate enough to speak with someone he knew, a young and very helpful woman named Holly.

Holly had told him that dozens of agents and other personnel had called in sick. The Bureau only had a skeleton staff...and those who were at work were all sick, too. Even she had a horrible sore throat.

When he had asked her about Scully, she had paused. Then she told him what she had heard.

That Assistant Director Skinner had flown out of the building yelling out that he was headed toward Annapolis to help Agent Scully...and he had collared two agents in the hall and ordered them to get an ambulance to an Annapolis house.

Mulder's heart cracked.

"Scully."

If only his mother had woken him when she had called earlier, even though he knew that he had been completely knocked out by his fever. He had only become coherent in the last fifteen minutes. Finally, the Tylenol and the many fluids his mother had forced upon him and in him had helped him turn the corner.

God. He needed to get up and go find his partner. But his body wouldn't cooperate.

He had to settle for punching the speed dial again.

******

Washington, D.C.
FBI Headquarters
Communications Center


Holly frowned as the line disconnected. She hated delivering bad news. Especially to Agent Mulder. About Agent Scully. She considered them both friends...they had helped her and defended her a few years before when she had been victimized by a psychopath. She hoped that Dana was okay. She knew that Agent Mulder would worry himself sick about her.

She reached for her coffee mug, hoping the warm fluid would help to soothe her own aching throat. She swallowed...hard. If she didn't feel better by noon, she would go home.

And that's what Holly did. She went home to her Fairlington apartment with her two cats and curled up under an afghan knitted by her mother in Iowa...and, twenty-four hours later...she died.

And even though a window was open and they could have escaped, her two loyal cats remained by her side.


******

Somewhere In Annapolis
1135 Hours


Walter Skinner held his breath as he swerved around another abandoned vehicle. The number of idle cars was increasing as the day progressed.

He tried not to look in the back seat where Dana Scully sat with with her mother. Margaret Scully was laying across the seat, and Scully had perched herself on the edge of the seat by her mother's legs.

He tried not to notice how swollen the sick woman's neck was. How the bruises had crept up the sides of her neck and under her jaw, following and seeking out all lymph nodes in their path.

He tried not to hear Scully's quiet pleading as her mother's breath wheezed in and out of her mouth.

He tried not to smell the aura of destruction that filled the car and the air outside.

And he tried not to let Scully see that he knew that they were fighting a losing battle. And, as he wiped his own nose with a handkerchief, that he suspected he would also fall during the oncoming siege.

God. Where was Mulder? Was he dying, too? No way. Mulder had defied death too many times. He should be here with Scully.

******

Residence of Mrs. Mulder


Mulder kept punching the speed dial on his cell phone, trying to reach Scully or Skinner.

And he kept getting the same recorded answer: "We're sorry, but all circuits are busy. Please try again later..."

******

Annapolis Community Hospital
1140 hours


Walter Skinner had tried to maneuver his car through the sea of people into the emergency room driveway. It was impossible. Waves of walking, sitting and laying sick and wounded littered the sidewalks, the pavement, and the lawns.

A man held a useless pressure bandage around his son's bloody arm...a gusher that spouted courtesy of using the power saw in the garage as a toy.

Two women huddled together beneath a blanket on a sweltering day...their faces green with flu.

A mother and father trying to hold onto their three children, all of them coughing, their eyes bleary and red.

A man laying on the pavement, his femur sticking up through his pants...what he got for not bracing his house painting ladder properly. His buddies had dumped him there and fled in terror when they saw the multitudes of dying people.

And there were hundreds of others who were obviously felled by the flu.

Why wasn't any of this on the news? No one said anything on the radio...there had been nothing on the television this morning.

Skinner pulled the car over as close to the curb as possible and put it in park. He left the engine running as he opened his door and stepped out. He leaned back into the car to speak with Scully.

"Just hang tight here for a minute...let me see if I can get some help," he began.

Scully had finally lifted her gaze from her mother and she was now surveying the scene warily.

"Keep the doors locked and the engine running...I don't like the looks of this. You do have your weapon, right?"

Scully's eyes widened in comprehension. Things here were liable to get nasty very soon. There were too many people...there was no way they could all get treatment. She nodded.

"Look...I'll flash my badge and see if we can get some help...but be ready for anything. They've already got armed guards by the door..."

Skinner hit the power lock button and closed the door. He slowly wove his way through the crowds to the doors. For whatever reason, the pushing and complaining throng recognized an air of power and authority that surrounded the man and allowed him to pass.

The guards eyed him nervously as he approached. They fingered the safeties on their shotguns and pistols.

Skinner pulled out his badge case and held it up for their inspection.

"F.B.I...I'm Assistant Director Walter Skinner. What's going on here?" He demanded, taking a gamble that these were the type of men that responded to a hierarchy of authority...they were used to a chain of command.

They did not relax their stance, but one guard spoke.

"Sir. We've been instructed to bar all entrance to this facility. This hospital has been placed under quarantine orders."

"By whose authority?"

"We received our instructions from the Hospital administrator. I was under the impression that he had received orders from somewhere else."

"Look, men. I have a sick agent in my car," he tried to reason, conveniently sliding over the technicality that Margaret Scully was merely related to an agent. "Please let me take her inside to get some help."

The head guard shook his head, although to his credit, he actually seemed remorseful...sympathetic.

"I'm sorry, sir. That's impossible. We cannot let anyone pass..."

"But she's sick, damnit!" Skinner's voice began to rise.

The guard lowered his own voice and leaned toward him, hoping no one else could hear...it would not be good to start a full scale panic.

"Look,sir. Even if we did let you in...there isn't anyone to help her. Nearly the entire medical staff has come down with this...whatever it is. And for whatever it's worth...*no* one has left this hospital for over six hours. But, I have noticed a change in the color of the smoke coming from the furnace...if you get my drift. If I could, I would leave....but most of us here have wives and husbands on staff inside...I suspect we'll all stay here 'til whatever happens happens."

Skinner swallowed the lump in his throat. He tersely nodded his understanding. "Good luck, then," he whispered and turned back to the car.

"Good luck to us all," the guard replied.

**

Scully had watched as Skinner approached the guards, but then her attention was diverted as her mother began to mumble something.

"Bill? Did you find the shirts I ironed?" Margaret rambled.

Scully grasped her hand tightly, trying to will her back to health.

"Mom? It's me. It's Dana...Mom? You need to wake up..." She begged, her voice hoarse with dread.

"Dana?"

Scully sighed with relief.

"Yes, Mom. I'm here..."

"Did you and Missy finish setting the table...your father will be home tonight..."

Scully bowed her head and laid it across her mother's chest. She prayed to God. She pleaded with him to spare her mother...she had never wanted to imagine this moment...she wasn't prepared to watch her mother die. Damnit! She wasn't supposed to have to go through this for another twenty years...after Maggie was old and thoroughly gray.

But, before she could finish her lament, her cell phone came to life.

She grabbed the phone from her pocket.

"Mulder?!"

The voice on the other end hesitated for a moment. "No, Agent Scully. This is Byers." Byers turned his head from the phone to cough. "We've been trying to reach you about the information you asked us to look into...."

Scully rubbed her forehead. The timing was miserable...but she did need to know what they had found...and she needed them to find Mulder.

"What is it, Byers?"

"Well...I can say we found some links for you...," he sighed, "But it isn't very good news..."

"Tell me something I don't know," Scully replied as she looked down upon her mother.

"But we can't discuss this on the phone...can we meet?"

Scully shook her head. "No...I can't. My mother is very sick...I'm trying to get her to a hospital..." She paused as she thought of a drop spot. "Can you drop it somewhere? Say, the "Eight Ball?" She spoke in their prearranged code. The "eight ball" referred to a particular coat rack in Mulder's apartment that had billiard balls as ornaments. The Gunmen would know to place their information in a secret niche in Mulder's closet.

"That's fine," Byers replied. "And I'm sorry about your mother...hang on for a minute..."

Scully waited as Byers held a muffled conversation with Frohike and Langly.

"Agent Scully...as far as we can tell, the one hospital that is still taking patients is George Washington University. If you can get into D.C., that is..."

"What do you mean, 'get into D.C.'?"

"They're closing off the bridges and roads. Virginia is completely sealed up...no one in or out. You can still leave D.C. and get into Maryland...but they won't let you back in...although they might allow an FBI agent with credentials to pass..."

Scully quickly digested the information. Her head reeled. This was too much too fast. How could things go from normal to hell in a handbasket so quickly?

"Thanks, Byers...and one more thing..."

"Anything, Agent Scully..."

"Can you try and get hold of Mulder for me? He's at his mother's house...and he was sick..."

"We'll do it, Agent Scully...just take care of your mother..."
Byers sneezed before Scully could thank him. She waited a moment.

"Thank you, guys...and good luck." She hung up, not knowing why she had made her last comment...but she had a chilling feeling that it might be a very long time before she ever saw the three again.

If ever.

******

Residence Of Mrs. Mulder


Mulder yelled in frustration. He had finally gotten a connection on his cell phone....only to find that Scully's cell phone was busy.

He wished that he could storm out of the house and pace the yard...to vent his frustration outside of his mother's hearing range.

But his body still would not let him stand. He fell back against his pillows and squeezed his eyes shut...trying to conjure up an image of Scully...one where she was completely well and safe.


******
Route 50
Washington, D.C./Maryland Border
Over the Anacostia River
1600 hours


Sergeant Tom Caldwell stared at the pavement that marked his post. This was a dirty job for a group of sick Army grunts. And it had been beyond weird to barricade a major bridge into the District. Something had definitely gone FUBAR.

He coughed and spat up the wad of gunk that left a miserable taste in his mouth.

One of his men called out. There was another news van headed their way.

He looked up to see the tan van approaching, it's little dishes and antennae sprouting from the roof. Damn. He was tired of these little shithead reporters pestering him simply because he was doing his job.

Of course, it helped that he and the boys had received orders to use any and all means necessary to stop these pricks. That meant he was judge and jury.

He smiled. The anger that had been building in his stomach had reached his head over an hour ago. He could actually hear the voices telling him exactly what to do to the next media mogul-wannabe that crossed his path and didn't show him the proper respect. Yessiree, indeedy-do! "Ten-hut!" and all that crap. He and his boys were ready.

The van stopped a mere ten feet from the barricade. A whiny little scrap of a man jumped down from the driver's seat. His cameraman sat in the front passenger seat...his camera already zeroing in on the unit.

Who the fuck did they think they were? Compromising national security like this?

Je-sus! His eyes rolled and he turned to his men and simply nodded. A big smile plastered on his face.

In perfect synchrony that would have made General Patton quite proud, the men raised their rifles and opened fire.

Eugene P. Smythe, fledgling reporter for Channel 7 news, who was only promoted to fledgling that morning because all of the regular reporters were out sick, was very aware of the first bullet as it twisted and bounced through his gut...snipping through intestines and dancing around his kidneys.

When he had dreamed of his big break in high school and college, he had never envisioned this. Not even when he pictured himself as a world renowned war correspondent. Of course, he hadn't pictured himself working in the mailroom of Channel 7 either...but that had happened, hadn't it?

The second shot hit a microsecond later...or maybe it was simultaneous with the third, fourth, fifth and sixth shots. Either way, it didn't matter. Cause the bullet behind Shot Number Two immediately and quite explosively removed the right side of his brain.

God. It just wasn't Eugene P.'s day. And he had never even gotten any airtime.


Sgt. Caldwell grinned in satisfaction as his men cleaned up the mess. That is, if dumping the bodies of the reporter and cameraman over the bridge and into the Anacostia River was cleaning.

They had just moved the van to side of the barricade when Sgt. Caldwell spotted their next victims.

A dark blue Crown Vic...and it looked like it had two occupants.

He grinned as his finger began to twitch over his trigger guard.

***

Skinner slowed as he approached the barricade. Something looked hinky. Maybe it was the news van at the side of the road...that was it. If there was a news van, where were the reporters and cameras?

He pulled over and parked about fifty yards from the barricade. Once again, he left the engine running.

Scully could see his concern. "What's wrong?"

Skinner kept looking ahead. "Agent Scully, I want you to climb up here now and get ready to take the wheel. Something is wrong here..."

Scully didn't hesitate to act. She recognized the tone in his voice and trusted it.

She slipped onto the seat beside him and he finally looked at her.

"I'm not sure what's going to happen...maybe nothing. Maybe they'll let us through with our credentials. I hope so...but, just in case. Be ready to haul ass out of here the minute I give you the signal..."

"But what about you, sir?" She protested.

"If things start going bad...," he paused. "Your duty is to get yourself and your mother to safety....Besides, I have a feeling that I'll be in the same condition," he motioned toward Maggie, "within a few hours. Just wait for my signal and do not hesitate to do what you have to do..."

For the first time, Scully noticed Skinner's pallor...the fever sweat on his brow...the rale in his breathing. A sadness enveloped her chest...the ache moved to her throat. He was quite possibly going to sacrifice himself for her and her mother.

She grasped his hand. Words seemed inadequate as she looked him in the eye. She hoped he could sense the gratitude, the friendship...the thanks...and the faith she had for him. She could remember every time he had come out of nowhere to back her and Mulder...the times he risked everything for them.

"I know, Agent Scully....Dana. Same here. But, hopefully, my radar is off and all will be well. But, if it isn't...make sure you find your partner and kick his butt once for me." He smiled as he squeezed her hand.

Then, before she could react, he was out the door and walking toward the barricade.

***

Sgt. Tom Caldwell eyed the man who dared to approach. And what was that the man was removing from his pocket?

But, unfortunately for Skinner, before he could display his badge, identifying himself...Sgt. Caldwell caught a glint of metal at Skinner's waist. It was a gun! This man was an infidel! He was going to trick them and kill them all!

"Gun!" Caldwell screamed....even as Skinner screamed out, "FBI!"

The men didn't wait for another word and they opened fire.

***

Scully could only watch in horror as Walter Skinner's body jumped with the impact of each round. He dropped his badge on the ground and his back hit the railing, and with one last blow to his shoulder, he was tumbling over the side and down toward the waters below.

There was nothing she could do for the man she had called a friend. The man who had saved her life...and Mulder's life...on more than one occasion.

The only thing she could do was follow his last instructions to her. She threw the car in gear, turned the steering wheel hard to the left and floored it. Plumes of black smoke exploded from the exhaust as her tires left their imprints in the pavement.

She could hear the staccato of gunfire as the soldiers turned their aim toward her. A bullet sang past her open window and she instinctively ducked lower in her seat, relieved that her mother was already laying down.

She ventured a glance in the rearview mirror, praying she wouldn't see a fleet of army vehicles in pursuit. And God answered her plea.

The soldiers had been instructed not to leave their post. They maintained their barricade, content that any threat she had posed was over.

But she was horrified to see that no one had even moved to retrieve Skinner's body from the river.

With tears threatening to blind her, she knew her only option.

She headed back to her mother's house.

***

Sgt. Caldwell surveyed the ground where his latest victim had dropped something. And some of his men accompanied him. His mistake.

Because they quickly saw the federal badge laying on the ground. They had killed a federal agent...a brother!

A mutiny arose and judgment was quickly passed.

Sgt. Caldwell's body was dumped over the railing, not far from where the FBI man had fallen.

No great loss.