******

CHAPTER TWENTY

******

I feel stormy weather moving in
about to begin
Hear the thunder
Don't you lose your head
Rip off the roof and stay in bed...

...Humidity is rising
Barometer's getting low
According to all sources,
The street's the place to go
Cause tonight for the first time
Just about half-past ten
For the first time in history
It's gonna start raining men.

-- "It's Raining Men" Two Tons Of Fun (aka: The Weather Girls)


******

31 miles East of Ludlow, California


It was just like her dream. Her nightmare.

Roberta stood on Interstate 40, astride her bicycle, and stared at the rocky, infertile horizon to the east.

There were crosses. Lots of them. And she was certain that they were not empty. They weren't ads for some church and they weren't markers for fatal car crashes. Not unless a fleet of tour buses had crashed there.

Her dream had been a premonition. Evil lay ahead. And there was no way she would go forward. There had to be another way...a safer way around.

She pulled out her Rand-McNally Pocket Map and thumbed to the right page. There was her answer...only a few miles back to the west. She even remembered the dry, dusty exit.

Route 127...or at least she thought it was 127. It was hard to tell. Whatever it was, it led north to Interstate 15..."The 15" as everyone in Southern California had called it. The pathway north to Mecca. They would head back to the exit.

She looked over her shoulder to check on Moses. He was sleeping peacefully. She sighed and blew a few sweaty strands of brown hair from her face. She was actually happy the kid was too young to understand what was happening.

And she was determined to get him to the old woman in Nebraska. Somehow, she knew all would be set right when they got there.

She put her feet to the pedals and made a U-turn.

They headed toward Las Vegas.

******

Richmond, Indiana
July 8


There are some things that go beyond inevitability.

A ball dropped from the Leaning Tower of Pisa freefalls until it hits the ground...Stanley finds Dr. Livingston, Rice Krispies snap, crackle and pop, Bartles sits on the porch with Jaymes, Laverne schlemiels and schlomazzles with Shirley, and a run-on sentence eventually ends with a period.

Maybe it was the painful uncertainty of Scully's health. Perhaps it was the ferocious wind that still threatened to pick them up and scatter them together to the four corners of Indiana and several other Midwestern states. Or it could have been precipitated by the pounding adrenalin in their veins from staring at death one more time...and, perhaps, outdistancing it again for a brief moment. The need to affirm just how alive they both felt when surrounded by so much destruction.

Neither of them were sure who set it in motion, but neither of them questioned, analyzed, or regretted it when it happened. For it was meant to happen.

As the wind howled, their lips met.

The raging air around them was filled with creamers, salt shakers, fake antique Burma Shave signs, and Hashbrown Casserole dishes.

And Mulder and Scully kissed.

The closed metal vent in the flue above them heaved and sighed against the air pressure.

And Mulder's ears pounded with the blood from each pulse as Scully's fingers dug into his hair, his neck... And even that roar faded as her mouth devoured him.

If they were going to die, this was the way to go. Mulder was positively certain about it.

He had no way of knowing how long it lasted. But eventually, air became a necessity.

And when they pulled back, breathless, the roaring had stopped. The wind had stopped.

The only sounds were the steady beat of a cold rain and the pained groans of the wrecked building that surrounded them.

They were still alive.

Flashes of bright lightning illuminated the area as Mulder looked down upon his partner.

He tenderly brushed the hair from her face, letting his fingers trail lightly down to her chin. Then, without a word, he stretched over toward the opening of the hearth and peeked outside.

It was safe to venture out.

He rolled off of Scully and moved outside, offering her his hand to help her out. Scully slid into the open, wincing once or twice at the movement.

As she stood, Mulder's hands moved over her, brushing her off...checking her for injury. The whole time, Scully watched him, examining him for any signs of damage.

They both had some new bruises and fresh cuts...and their clothes were a more than a bit sooty and wet, but they were both in one piece.

Finally, Mulder laid his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eye with a smile.

"Did I ever tell you, Scully, that Cracker Barrel is my favorite road stop?"

With a raised brow and a knowing smile Scully responded, "No. But I can certainly see that it has its charms..."

She lifted her hands to his face and guided him toward her...their eyes closed as their lips met....

And the golden silence was pierced by a frantic, but distant bark.

"Fluffy!" Scully started.

They both turned toward what had once been the kitchen area. It was a disaster.

Glass and rock popped under their feet as they made their way under, over and through fallen rafters and two-by-fours until they reached the main kitchen.

Fluffy continued to bark, but it was muffled.

"We're coming, boy," Mulder called. He pointed toward a battered steel door...what had been the walk-in freezer.

They worked quickly at removing the debris from in front of the door. A few minutes later, Mulder threw aside the last impediment and wrenched open the door.

Fluffy promptly bounded out and jumped up on Mulder, his large paws thudding against the surprised agent's chest, his tail waving at a hundred miles a minute.

The dog was obviously in one piece.

Scully peered into the walk-in with a chagrined look. "Why didn't we think of coming in here?" she asked.

Mulder wrested himself from Fluffy -- which meant the dog was free to assail Scully now -- and peeked into the tiny steel room. Yep. Scully was right. The dog had more sense than he did...but then again...

"I dunno, Scully...our place had some high points," he rumbled in the most suggestive voice possible.

Scully, much to his shock, grabbed him by the collar and pulled him inside the room, "Get in here, G-Man."

Mulder was fully prepared to perform whatever service Scully wanted, doggie witness or no.

He was sorely disappointed when Scully let go of his clothing and proceeded to shake out her wet hair.

"If nothing else, it's dry in here...and I'm tired of rain, Mulder. And I'm ready for bed."

Okay. She had a point. And they were definitely less than hygienic at the moment. Some things could wait. Sleep could not.

They rummaged about until they had several large cardboard boxes that they could break down into floor mats. Mulder dug his way back out to the motorcycle and was very happy to find that while the cycle was trashed, most of their belongings were still intact in the "saddle bags." He pulled out their packs and returned to Scully.

After a quick and modest change out of wet clothing, they all settled down on the floor.

Except this time, Scully was firmly wrapped in Mulder's arms.

And Fluffy was quite content to schmooze his way under Scully's arm.

As they drifted off to sleep, Mulder made sure to mutter, "Don't get used to that spot, dog. I have other plans."

Fluffy grunted and went to sleep.


******

Now laughing friends deride tears I cannot hide
So I smile and say "when a lovely flame dies, smoke gets in your eyes

Smoke gets in your eyes,
Smoke gets in your eyes

-- "Smoke Gets In Your Eyes" by Otto Harbach and Jerome Kern

*****

Somewhere in Nevada


He walked down the long corridor, past each yellow-white light...beacons placed exactly twenty feet apart and eight feet from the ground. They were ordered and neat...just as he had planned this entire operation.

He looked at his watch. Only fourteen hours more. He needed to rest first...then he could concentrate on their first outside excursion since the "main event." The plans were set, the maps were drawn, the route was chosen.

It was time to take a gander at what their...his operation had wrought. And if they just happened to pass by a 7-11 or a Costco warehouse store with several dozen cartons of Morleys...well then, so be it.

He lit another cigarette as he turned the last corner before his office...and he stopped cold.

The soldier who was assigned to stand guard over his domain was gone. The door was ajar.

He approached the door cautiously. He knew that there was no way that the guard had gone inside. And there was no way the trained man would have left his post willingly. But, intruders from the outside were an impossibility, were they not? After all, he had designed the high-security system himself.

He stopped just to the side of the door jamb and listened, willing his heart to slow its loud beating within his chest.

"Well. Don't just stand there...come on in," a man's voice called out laughingly...invitingly.

The man took a drag from his forgotten cigarette and pushed the door open. He left his right hand in his pocket, comfortably gripping the steel of his Walther PPK, his finger notched inside the trigger guard. He hadn't survived this long by being stupid.

And as the door swung inward, he saw the visitor through the ever present fog of smoke.

The dark man sat behind the smoker's desk, his booted feet resting atop reports, maps and blotters. He wore a shit eating grin.

"Sorry about the mess," the Dark Man said as he gestured toward the corner. The guard lay on the floor in a bloody heap, his eyes burned out, his chest cavity a giant weeping wound. "He just didn't seem to want to understand that I wanted to see you."

The smoker tried not to wince. He stared at the Dark Man, trying to formulate a plan...something he was normally quite accomplished at doing.

"Who are you?" he asked calmly. He had seen worse death than this.

"Oh! Excuse my manners. Randall Flagg is the name...but I understand you've been mistaken for me once or twice. Ironic, isn't it?"

"What exactly is it that you want?"

"Me? Nothing. Nothing at all. But, I do have something I know you'll want..."

"I doubt that very much," the smoking man replied with his usual bravado.

"Don't be so quick to dismiss me, Jimmy Boy...that *is* your real name, isn't it?"

"Jimmy Boy" cringed. No one. NO ONE knew that.

"Oh! I forgot," Flagg tsked. "You haven't used that in over forty years...last name you used was Charles Spender, wasn't it? So. Charlie. Are you listening now?"

"Yes." Spender's voice was low and choked. His cigarette had turned foul. He dropped it to the ground and stepped on it, snuffing it out.

"Good. Very good. A wise decision. Almost as wise as your decision to let go of that pack of Morleys in your pocket."

Spender was stunned to find that his Walther PPK had vanished. Instead of the comfort of deadly steel upon his skin, he felt the familiar cellophane boxed weight of a new pack of cigarettes. He quickly pulled the pack from his pocket and stared at it in disbelief. His bowels tightened to a pucker factor of ten as it began to dawn on him who was before him...what *he* himself had unloosed.

Randall Flagg paid no attention to Spender's surprise and continued his speech.

"First let me deliver some bad news...A certain two FBI agents survived your little plague. Of course you knew that would happen, didn't you? And they suspect you are alive and will undoubtedly want to come after you...but maybe this is good news?

"I'd say you need some leverage when they turn up...something to help you be done with them once and for all...or to allow you to use them as you see fit...that was your original plan for the woman, wasn't it?

"I just wonder what that leverage could be..." Flagg's voice trailed off with a particular lilt that showed he knew he held the trump card in this game.

"Obviously you know..." Spender tried to keep a stone face. He tried.

"I understand you're about to make a little cigarette run...nasty habit those cancer sticks..." Flagg pointed to the smoldering butt on the ground.

"And if I am?" Spender cleared his throat, he could feel the bile in the back of his throat, his stomach was turning...and he knew who was causing it. Unconsciously, his left hand dug into his suit pocket in search of a Certs.

"I suggest you head here," Flagg pointed to the map on Spender's desk. "There's a woman who is traveling with a child not her own. She calls him Moses...but that's not his real name...kinda like you, huh? I've *arranged* it so they will pass here..."

"Who is the child?" Spender bluffed with his best nonchalant tone.

"You sure you want to know?"

Spender's eyes narrowed. "What's your price?"

Flagg laughed. "Price? You sold yourself a long time ago...You're already owned. You just go here and do what I say. You'll get what you want and, at the same time, you'll be removing a potential thorn from my side...ridding me of a pesky nuisance. I'd call it an even deal."

"What's the child's name?"


******

Richmond, Indiana


Mulder stared at road before him. It was dark, but the horizon to the west still held fingers of light.

He shuddered in the cold wind. But as he wrapped his coat around himself tighter, he was bumped from behind. Before he could spin around to see what hit him, he was buffeted from side to side as two long, endless lines of people walked by him. He was trapped between the unbroken threads.

He tried to speak to them, but they were unhearing...unseeing. They trudged in an infinitely slow march toward the west. Their pale faces were unlined...their dark eyes were rimmed with red. Their clothes were black...

It was a funeral procession.

Mulder began to run, desperately searching for a break in the lines...any way out. He ran for miles, unable to stop, for when he did, the people pushed him toward the west.

He fought his way east, but the tide still pushed. Until finally, exhausted, he fell to his knees and buried his face in his hands.

"Get up, Fox!" cried Mother Abagail.

Mulder looked up and he was no longer on the dark road. He was in a green field, surrounded by warm sunlight.

He staggered to his feet, looking for Mother Abagail.

"Where are you?" he called as he spun around.

"Right here, child," she softly called.

Mulder turned and she was suddenly standing before him, her knotted cane firmly in her right hand and planted in the soil.

"What's happening?"

She lifted her cane and tapped him on the foot. "It's a warning, son. A wake-up call to you...tellin' you what lies ahead."

"I don't understand..."

"You and Dana must get moving. You mustn't stop for anything or anyone...Do you understand this ol' woman?" Her eyes were crystal clear as they bore into him.

"I don't know..."

"You remember these words. No one. You stop for no one. HE can appear as a helpless babe...a woman with child...an old man in crippled pain...but it's all a LIE. It's his trap. He knows your weakness. You stop for no one until you see me. Is that clear?"

Mulder nodded mutely. What the hell was going on?

"If'un you don't listen...it will be the life of Dana and what she holds dear..."

"I understand!" Mulder suddenly shouted...Mother Abagail knew his weakness, too.

"Remember," her voice faded...

**

And Mulder bolted awake.

And Scully and Fluffy slept peacefully.


******

Somewhere in Nevada


Charles Spender waited for an answer to his question.

The Dark Man smiled a fetid grin and answered...

"The child's name is Matthew Scully."