Tandem
Chapter 10
Note: George Atkinson is the Second Elder on the X-Files, played by the late, great George Murdock…
George Atkinson walked into the solarium, eyes on Jack McCoy. He had spoken with CGB Spender just a few minutes ago, and the Smoking Man's orders had been clear.
Mr. McCoy must be made to remember all of what has been done to him.
"We've hurt him enough!" Atkinson had protested.
Ignorance, in his case, may be blissful, Spender had countered. But, in the end, he must learn what we have done to him, what he is…
Atkinson sighed. Second Elder in the Consortium, he had access to tools even the rank-and-file members did not; including the little thing he stuffed into a pocket.
He didn't want to make Jack McCoy remember what they had done to him. He had seen the video-tapes, and even the tapes showing what was done to complete strangers was harrowing.
Seeing…that…done to a dear friend, though…
Atkinson sighed again.
The Smoking Man was right.
Jack does need to know what we did to him, and he needs to know why…
There hadn't been a choice…
So, the…Memory Suppressor in his pocket, George Atkinson walked into the solarium.
The solarium was apparently Jack McCoy's favorite room in Atkinson's house, and he could understand why…
McCoy sat there, eyes closed, bathed in solar radiance…
In spite of himself, and the hurt he was about to inflict on his friend, George had to smile…
"You like it here, kiddo…"
"Yeah…" McCoy sighed. "It's…peaceful."
Right now, Jack McCoy reminded him of a cat lazing in the afternoon sun. Atkinson sighed again as he brought out the suppressor.
"Look at me, Jack," he commanded. Jack opened his eyes with a sigh. The thing, turned on, began to emit a high, piercing whine, a light blinking rapidly on top.
Abruptly, McCoy's pupils dilated, his breath catching as his body went rigid.
"Jack," Atkinson ordered. "I want you to remember…El Rico, and everything that came after…"
Jack McCoy sat there for a minute, breath hitching, body twitching. Then, he collapsed. George Atkinson caught him as he slid from the couch, and eased him down to the floor…
November, 1973
On his bike, Jack McCoy relishes the feeling of pure freedom, the bike's power as it screams down the road, wind whipping at his clothes, his jacket streaming out behind…
Light…brilliant…blinding…
McCoy's hands lose the handlebars as the bike skids out from under. There is impact, followed by darkness…
Jack McCoy opens his eyes to brilliant light. He can't move. He's strapped down on a cold slab, strapped down by wrists, elbows, ankles and knees.
Spider-thin fingers take his bike helmet off. Other hands roam across his body, hands with scissors. The scissors quickly cut his clothing-jacket, shirt, jeans, even underwear-away, and now Jack is naked, pinned down on that cold slab.
A hand grabs McCoy's head, none too gently, forcing him to look up.
At his captors...
He can't stop the whimper of terror from escaping.
Bodies too skinny for their height, heads too big for the bodies, and the eyes…too big for the heads, and too…too black to be real…
Terrified, he tries to pull free of the restraints….
Those spidery hands touch him again, one hand grabbing his jaw, turning his head left to right, as if testing the articulation of his neck.
Another hand settles, palm down, on his bare chest, pressing gently upon ribs and belly.
A blink later, and Jack McCoy, naked, strapped down upon the cold slab, is alone. He can hear the whirr of machinery, tries to locate the sound. He can't move, his head seemingly caught in a vise. He peers upward, the only direction he can look, and there it is…
The drill…
Eyes gone wide in terror, forced to watch as the drill descends…
Huddled against the couch, head resting on George Atkinson's shoulder…
Jack McCoy remembered…everything…
Them…Their eyes…their hands…
McCoy curled up, tears choking him.
It had been a rape, of sorts. Nothing even remotely sexual about the assault. But, naked, strapped down like that, pinned down like an insect…
They had…violated him…tubes…lab instruments…in every part of his body…
But the worst part of all was the knowing…
George…
White-hot fury sizzled through Jack McCoy.
"You…gave me to them!"
Atkinson sighed as McCoy pulled away, anguish in his eyes.
"Yes," George nodded sadly. "But we had no choice, Jack…"
"No choice?" McCoy clutched at the couch, tried, unsuccessfully, to pull himself up.
"No…choice?" he spat. "They tortured me! They…raped…me!"
"Yes, Jack. I know what they did to you. I…saw."
"You…saw," Jack stilled, sat there, crouched by the sofa, eyes disbelieving.
"Why?" he demanded.
So George Atkinson told him.
Everything.
The Alien Colonists, the Rebel Colonists, and the Project.
"No…" McCoy sat there, shaking. "That's not possible!"
"It's true!" George grabbed Jack's hand. "The Project was our attempt to guarantee our survival in the coming Alien Holocaust."
"They drilled into my head, George, into my brain. What…Project could possibly justify all of that?"
"It was our attempt to create true Human Alien Hybrids, Jack. Hybrids capable of surviving the coming Alien Plague. And we succeeded. In spite of everything we tried to slow the process, in spite of our attempts to fail, we succeeded. Not just once, Jack. We succeeded twice, two different people. You remember Cassandra Spender?"
McCoy nodded fearfully.
"She's…one of them?"
"Yes, Jack…" Atkinson sighed again. "She's one of our two successes. But, it's our second success that concerns me now."
The grief in George's eyes made Jack McCoy quail deep inside.
"Me?" he whispered, dreading the answer. George nodded sadly.
"Yeah Jack…" the older man said. "You."
"No…" McCoy shook his head. "I can't…I just can't be…that."
"But you are, Jack," tears in George's eyes and voice. "You are a Human Alien Hybrid."
"Prove it!" McCoy struggled to his feet. "I'm betting you can't."
George stood too, eyes full of sorrow.
"Give me your hand, Jack," he held out his own hand. McCoy stood there, staring at George's hand.
"You betrayed me," he whispered, tears clawing up the back of his throat.
"I did," George agreed. "But you wanted proof."
Reluctantly, McCoy reached out, his right hand brushing against George's hand. Sudden pain exploded in his right palm. George had slashed his hand with this little pen-knife.
"Son of a b-"
McCoy's curse died in the back of his throat. He stared down at his bleeding right palm.
Green…
Green blood welled from the wound. Horrified, McCoy watched as the wound began to close, right in front of his eyes, shrinking until it was gone, leaving unbroken flesh, and a crust of green grit…
McCoy's legs collapsed under him as he stared at his hand, at the proof he had so cockily demanded.
"I'm not…human…" he whispered, still looking at his hand.
"No, Jack…" George admitted. "Not entirely."
Dazed, McCoy looked up. It was dark outside now, evening. He didn't know what to do.
"Why?" he asked. "Why do…this?"
"To save as much of Earth as we can," George laid gently hands on McCoy's shoulders. "You and Cassandra are the New Humans of Tomorrow; designed to survive the Alien Holocaust."
"Adam? Claire? My friends at the Courthouse, and the 27th?"
"No, Jack," George shook his head. "Everyone else will die. You and Cassandra are to be the New Life."
"It's got to be stopped!" Jack tried to get to his feet again, but George stopped him.
"It's too late, Jack. They're taking Cassandra to El Rico tonight. It starts tonight."
"It?"
The Holocaust, kiddo. It starts tonight."
"It can't be stopped?"
McCoy believed him. But that meant…
The world was going to end.
Tonight.
Adam…Claire…
"They're going to take me again too, aren't they?"
"Yeah…" George nodded, tears in his eyes.
McCoy sighed.
"I'd rather die…" he muttered.
"Jack?"
"Help me end this, George," Jack grabbed the older man's hand. "It needs to end. I need it to end."
"Kiddo…" McCoy felt George's arms go around him again, hold him tight.
Then, George Atkinson stood.
"I'll be back,"
He returned about five minutes later, a gun in his hands. He held it out to Jack McCoy.
Jack looked at the gun, took it.
I don't want to do this…
The front doorbell rang, startling McCoy.
"Emil?"
"No," George was startled too. "He called earlier, said he was delayed, might not get in until closer to midnight. I told him he can just let himself in. I mailed him a key."
McCoy stood, hiding the gun in the waistband of his jeans, the light sweater over his shirt hiding any trace of it. Rosita had the evening off, so it was George who answered the door himself, McCoy following him out into the foyer…
And everything happened, all at once…
The door flew open, knocking George Atkinson to the ground, and Jack McCoy stood there, paralyzed by terror.
Three men had entered, and their faces…
Faces like melted wax, eyes, ears, noses, and mouths, sealed…
One bent over George, as the older man struggled to his feet, a small stick in his hand, and George…
His body burst into flames, anguished cries rending the air…
God…
McCoy stood there, and it never even occurred to him to use the gun poking him in the ribs. He'd never fired a gun before…
The three men moved forward, and Jack McCoy…
Every man has a limit, and McCoy had reached his.
Too much horror, in what he had learned about himself, and now, in seeing George Atkinson's death.
He fled, blind terror giving him an adrenaline burst of speed.
He ran to the back of the house, out onto the back lawn, aware of them right behind, and, if they caught him…
Jack McCoy didn't want to die, and certainly not like that.
Not by fire…
Bullets shredded the air around him, and it seemed the Men with Melted Faces also had guns. But the bullets all missed McCoy, and he continued his headlong flight, away from the carnage…
The ground gave away under his feet, and he tumbled, head over heels, hit the ground, and rolled back to his feet.
McCoy was out in the wild now, brambles tearing at his clothes, hands, and face.
They had burned George Atkinson…burned him to death…
Tripping over roots, stumbling over rocks, McCoy continued to run in blind terror. A chasm opened up before him, and he tumbled yet again, breath smacked out of his lungs, stars exploding inside his skull.
Concrete…
He was lying on concrete.
"Watch it, asshole!" a car horn honked indignantly. "Get off the fucking road!"
Jack McCoy hauled himself painfully to his feet, gun still poking his ribs. There was what looked like a bus stop on the other side of the busy street.
McCoy limped across the street, ignoring all the car horns and curses thrown his way, aching from head to foot.
His eyes darted about the well-lit area, searching for…
Men with faces like melted wax…
He shuddered at the memory of George's death, hope a bus would turn up soon.
A Greyhound Bus turned up, bound for New York City; and McCoy had just enough cash in his wallet to buy the ticket. He wearily laid his head against the window as the bus began to move.
Going home…
The feel of the gun, against his ribs, reminded him of…everything.
I'm a danger to all of my friends…
Jack McCoy didn't want to die.
Adam…Claire…
He closed his eyes, let the rumbling of the bus lull him into something approaching sleep.
He would deal with…it… when he got back to the City…
Home…