******

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

*****

Have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness, but rather expose them. For it is shameful even to mention what the disobedient do in secret. But everything exposed by the light becomes visible, for it is light that makes everything visible.
- Ephesians 5:11-14

*****

Nevada
Sometime


A true secret is a lot like acid reflux. Once it enters your body, it makes it way down your throat and sits in your gut, roiling and boiling, constantly wanting to creep back up and out, burning its way to the tip of your tongue.

But there ain't no R-o-l-a-i-d-s relief to soothe secret reflux. And funny how "secret" is so close in spelling to "secrete"...as in to ooze out. Cause that's just what a secret wants to do.

Charles Spender swallowed down the searing juices in this throat. Smoking never was good for the stomach. He stared out at the desert around him. The underground complex was well hidden. You could walk right over it and never know it, unless you knew what to look for.

He had done a good job and he was quite proud of that fact. But, there was bitterness in that pride. No one else knew all that he had done. The steps he had taken. All the sacrifices he had made in the name of saving humanity.

It was fortunate he had the foresight to make his own plans. He had known there was a high probability for a breech in their security. And he had been the only one to plan for that contingency. When the breech occurred, he was ready. The others were not. And their hastily laid plans...those plans had been at cross purposes with his own. And those plans had been selfish. Not good for humanity.

So, he had taken the proper steps. And now he stood in the desert, alone with his sacrifice. What good was sacrifice if no one knew about it? Spender dropped his cigarette and toed it into the dry ground.

The burning fullness in his throat swelled again. He reached into his pocket for his roll of antacid, pulled out three tablets and fed them into his mouth. They were a chalky mint. He chuckled to himself. They had been able to put a man on the moon, but they couldn't make a simple antacid tablet that didn't leave residue all over your mouth. He grimaced as he swallowed. Soon, the medicine would do its work and tamp down his reflux symptoms for an hour or two.

And soon, he would be face to face with the two people left who would be able to grasp the magnitude of what he had done. True, once he had them in his custody they would never have the opportunity to share this truth with anyone else...but that did not matter. He just wanted the satisfaction of seeing their comprehension. He wanted to see their faces when they learned the truth.

For secrets and lies all eventually lead to the truth.

***
Somewhere

Racing down the highway in excess of one hundred miles per hour, Roberta felt as though she was trying to suck the entire world into her head through a straw. Damn tunnel vision.

*One one-thousand, two one-thousand. Keep your distance.*

Everything had focused down to two tail lights of a stolen Volkswagen Jetta. One used in an armed robbery.

*Breathe. Move your eyes right and left. Breathe.*

All she could hear was the crackle of voices on the radio and the strained roar of her Crown Vic engine. She was outdriving her siren quite handily.

The chase began to slow ever so slightly as the Jetta took an exit ramp off of the interstate.

"2 Adam Baker, he's taking the Manchester exit...headed north..."

"10-4, 2 Adam Baker, suspect is headed north on Manchester..."

The driver of the stolen Jetta punched it the minute he made the corner. Roberta followed suit, praying her brakes were still there.

"He's still headed north, passing Pinecrest Rd...traveling at a high rate of speed," Roberta radioed, proud of herself for remembering not to feed any potential law suits by stating their actual speed. She was very happy that it was the middle of the night which meant little to no traffic hazard.

She kept glancing in her rear view mirror, hoping to see the red and blue lights that would indicate she had some backup. Nothing yet.

As they approached the next intersection, the driver of the Jetta slammed on his brakes and tried for a left turn, but his wheels locked up, his angle was all wrong. Roberta jabbed at her own brakes, trying to keep out of the impending collision. Her tires squealed and burned, the car fishtailed.

The Jetta exploded in a rain of metal and glass as its passenger side hit a light pole. The driver, stunned, but too stupid to know better, jumped out of the car and ran.

"He's 10-50'ed at Randall and Manchester...he's bailing...headed between the apartments on the west side...I'm in foot pursuit!"
Roberta slammed her car into park and leapt from her car -- well, she got out as quickly as one can when your wearing a constricting Kevlar vest and a zillion pounds of equipment and ammo on your Sam Brown belt -- and gave chase.

As the suspect jumped a short fence, she saw the dark object in the suspect's hand...it looked like a 9mm. "2 Adam Baker, suspect is possibly 10-32!"

"10-4, 2 Adam Baker, attention all units, suspect may be 10-32," dispatch replied.

Roberta's heart was pounding, her lungs screaming for air as she jumped the fence.

She stopped and listened. There was no sound. It was dark back here between apartment buildings, away from the street lights. She drew her gun and approached the west corner of the first building carefully. She peeked around the corner quickly. No sign of movement. Just four or five dumpsters and a ten foot wooden fence. A dead end between the buildings. The suspect had to be there.

A door behind her opened with a loud bang and she swung around, prepared to fire...only to come face to face with four kids. They'd piled outside to see what all the commotion was.

"Get inside now!" Roberta hissed in a whisper as she turned back to the dead end alley. She kept one eye on the door to make sure it closed as the kids went back inside.

The best thing to do would be wait for backup...wait for K-9. She was prepared to do that.

But then it happened. The rear door of the building across the alley opened and an old woman walked outside carrying her trash bag. The woman was already rounding the corner into the alley.

"Stop!" Roberta yelled as she lunged out from behind her cover. The woman stopped, her eyes widening. She dropped the bag and ran back behind the building, but it was already too late. The suspect had seen his opportunity. Roberta was out in the open.

The suspect jumped out from behind one of the dumpsters and raised his gun.

Roberta had only one chance. She dropped to the ground and opened fire just as the suspect pulled the trigger. His shot went wild over her head. Her shot hit its mark, center mass, and the suspect was down. Gurgling his last breaths.

Roberta stood on rubbery legs and made her way toward the downed man. She kicked his gun toward the fence. She handcuffed him and rolled him onto his back. Then she grabbed her portable radio to call for an ambulance.

And that's when she saw him. One of the little kids. A little kid who hadn't listened to her command. A curious little kid who had stuck his neck out and peeked where he shouldn't. Just in time for a suspect's wild shot to him squarely in the chest.

"Oh, Jesus," Roberta whispered.

"2 Adam Baker, I need medics! Shots fired, suspect is down, and a civilian is down! Medics!" Roberta screamed into her radio as she ran, her legs seemingly mired in quicksand until she reached the kid's side.

There was blood everywhere. Dark, unforgiving, taunting blood. It stained the kid's blue cotton Pokeman t-shirt. The bullet hole sat right in the middle of the Pikachu's head.

Roberta ripped the shirt open and put her head to the kid's blood wet chest. The blood poured out of the wound like water from a hose. She couldn't detect any respirations...there was no heartbeat.

By now, several people had filtered out of the buildings... including the kid's friends. A painful wail rose as a woman, dressed in a robe and curlers, ran outside. The mother. She fell to the ground beside her baby's head.

"Marvin!" She screamed.

Roberta began CPR. When her hands slid in the blood, she moved them back and tried again. When the kid's bloody mouth filled her own she spat it out and kept going.

"One-one-thousand..."

Neighbors could see Roberta was trying to save the boy...they held the mother back slightly.

Where were the damn sirens?

More blood poured from the kid's chest. From little Marvin's chest. Roberta frantically tried to scoop up the blood and put it back inside his chest. It didn't work.

Marvin's eyes were glassy and dark. No one was home. Hope had left the building several minutes ago. But Roberta refused to give up...even when the witnesses around her had seen the truth. She pressed on.

A man nearby saw the dead suspect and ran over toward the body.

"You sonuvabitch!" And he began his own version of vigilante justice, kicking at the downed man. The dull thuds echoed through the alley and a hush came over all the witnesses.

"One-one-thousand..."

"You fuck..you killed him" Thud. Thud.

"Three-one-thousand..."

Roberta couldn't do anything about the man, even though he was her responsibility now. She looked imploringly at two of the bystanders. They could hear sirens. They nodded to her and ran over to restrain their friend before the other cops arrived on the scene.

"Breathe, damnit!" Roberta gasped.

Then latex-gloved hands were pulling her away...far away...someone was taking her gun from her holster...leading her to the ambulance...washing her face, her hands, rinsing her mouth with saline solution and hydrogen peroxide. She choked and coughed on the liquid.

More sirens.

And over it all, Roberta could hear the mother...could see her pointed finger..."You did this! It's your fault!"

Hands guided her into the police cruiser. She turned to face the driver...her sergeant. What should have been her sergeant...

The Dark Man's face beamed back at her, his white teeth reflecting the yellowed street lights. His red eyes tore through her.

"Someone's got a secret," he singsonged. "Someone's got a secret!"

She pushed herself back against the door, pawing at the handle, trying to get out...to no avail.

The Dark Man raised one hand and traced her cheek with a bloody finger.

"And I know it now, too, Roberta," he smiled.

**

"No!" Roberta screamed as she sat up in bed, sweat pouring down her face.

Matthew sat up, roused by the commotion. He began to cry. Roberta reached out and grabbed him, held him close, rubbing his baby sweat back until he hiccuped to calm.

She listened as his breathing evened out. That way she didn't have to think about how her own breaths were still strained and her heart still raced.

That way she didn't have to remember her secret.


*****
July 13
1100 hours
Interstate 44


The dead do not always reveal their secrets.

Scully wasn't exactly sure what she had expected to find, but she thought she would have found something. Perhaps it had been too much to ask for a huge neon sign dramatically pointing to a suspicious mark on all three bodies. A sign that read, "The Truth is here."

Instead, they had discovered nothing. Zilch. Nada. Campana had been the only one old enough to have a smallpox vaccination scar...and it was minuscule. There were no suspicious scars on their necks, no half-moon cicatrices on their backs.

She had volleyed several theories back and forth with Mulder, but in the end, that's all they were. Theories. Guesses.

They knew from Scully's own previous research that smallpox vaccinations had been used in the past to catalog people...but what did that mean for all of those born *after* 1977 when the last known smallpox victim died and smallpox was declared eradicated a short time later? Children born after the late 1970s were no longer vaccinated for smallpox.

So, if Mother Abagail's hint-filled dream revues were accurate and there had been more than mere natural immunity deciding who would survive Captain Tripps, how was it done? Had some substance been introduced into the food chain? No. That wouldn't be right...because then the survivors would have been found in clusters since families and towns ate from the same sources.

Perhaps it had been introduced via one specific food, one that not everyone ate or drank. Maybe it was in random Willy Wonka Bars or in every millionth Twinkie...or it could have been in the cheesy residue of Cool Ranch Doritos...

There was no way to know for sure. All they could do was make their best guesstimate. Some -- probably including herself, Mulder and Fluffy -- had been singled out and tagged for survival early on. And some had come out on the "lucky" side of the random draw. Somehow. Without her full autopsy accoutrement, there was no way to tell to which category Hoffman and his friends belonged.

She had wrapped all three bodies in white sheets and left them behind the wood pile at the Arch Motel. There had been no equipment or time to bury them. She had let Mulder talk her into the brief examinations of the bodies, but there was a limit to her patience when his health was concerned. She need to get Mulder away from the battleground and to a place with real medical supplies.

So an hour later she found herself trying to maneuver the motorcycle around all the ruts and potholes as they made their way west on Interstate 44. Since leaving the Arch Motel, they had passed few towns of any real size...and none that looked as though they had a hospital.

Scully was growing more anxious with each mile. Mulder's wound needed to be cleaned in a more sterile environment than what she had among the dirt and pine needles behind the motel. And they needed to find antibiotics...the temporary *dressing* she had applied wasn't good enough. To her amazement, it had taken Mulder a good thirty minutes before he had noticed exactly *what* she had used to staunch the flow of blood from his leg...

**

"Oh, my god, Scully...you used...I can't even say it..."

"Sanitary napkins, Mulder."

"And what are those flappy things?"

"They're called 'wings,' Mulder..."

"Oh. My. God." He couldn't even look anymore. "Please, Scully. If I suddenly get the urge to shave my legs and start having volatile mood swings...just shoot me."

"I believe that's exactly what got us to this point..."

Scully had noticed that he never dared to touch the *dressing* again. This from a man who had never left a bandage in place for more than five minutes in his life. She had carefully filed that handy observation away for future injuries.

**

Now Mulder sat in the sidecar, Fluffy in his lap. Both males were pretending their injuries didn't hurt. Except when they hit a bump in the road. Then they both grimaced...or, rather, Mulder grimaced and Fluffy snorted. And Mulder's face was several shades whiter than normal.

Scully kept searching for a blue roadside "Hospital" sign, but, so far the only interesting signs had been the billboards for Merremac Caverns..."Jesse James' Hideout - As Seen On TV's 'Real People'." Mulder had actually wanted her to stop and visit.

After driving for more than an hour, she finally saw something that gave her hope. A sign for the the town of Rolla, home of the University of Missouri at Rolla. There had to be a hospital there...more than likely a regional one with a well stocked emergency department. It was a mere six miles ahead.

The first exit didn't seem to hold much promise. Just a shoe outlet store in the middle of nowhere. But as they rounded the next bend, civilization was before them. She eased them up the steep exit ramp. She followed the large, blue "H" signs past the " affle Hous ," the Exxon and Delano stations, and the Dunkin' Donuts. They passed by the generic two story motels and the green-roofed Denny's...

Scully's eyes caught briefly on the large stone construction of St. Patrick's Catholic Church as they crested a hill and followed the sharply curved road...and she came to an abrupt halt as her eyes beheld something new.

Mulder and Fluffy sat up at attention. Mulder was pale and a bit weak, but he wanted to see why they had stopped. His gaze froze on the sight.

Mulder knew he had found his holy grail. Mother Abagail had been right. This was his sign. This was where they must stay and rest.

"I can't believe this, Mulder," Scully muttered. "Do you see that?"

Mulder smiled dopily and nodded as he stared at his miraculous sign. A dramatic, albeit scaled down, re-creation of Stonehenge. Created out of stone courtesy of some diligent UMR students.

"Luuu-cy, we're home! This is where Mother Abagail wants us to stay, Scully."

Scully gave her partner a concerned look, then rolled her eyes when she saw his goofy grin.

"Oh, brother. Let's find that hospital," she mumbled as she eased off the brakes and they continued down the road.

**
Phelps County Regional Hospital


Scully pushed on the defiant and non-functional sensored doors to the Emergency Room.

"You need a hand?" Mulder called from the sidecar. Fluffy woofed.

Scully shook her head. Like either one of them could do any better. A few more shoves and she was inside.

She nearly choked on the dead, stale air. It was dark as she moved away from the outside doors. She pulled the flashlight from her pocket and moved onward.

A few tears of sweat trickled down her back as she stepped over the bodies of two nurses. Their blue scrubs had turned brown with bodily fluids.

She breathed through her mouth in tiny inhalations. It was way too quiet in here. She passed the nurses' station. One man in a white lab coat sat behind the counter, his face flat against the computer keyboard. The little keys had become congealed on his face, his eyes were open, but black with blood. His throat was swollen like a boa constrictor that's eaten a horse.

Scully hurried past. She jumped with she thought something moved to her left. She took a deep breath. It was only one of the dividing curtains caught by a small breeze from the open doors. Right? There is was again, this time to her left.

Shit. I gotta get out of this place.

Everywhere she looked there were dead people. They had come here for help, but it had become their tomb.

Shit. Run.

She rushed behind the nurses's station and started grabbing supplies.

All the while, she couldn't shake the feeling that the dead were watching.

***

Rolla, Missouri
821 E. Pine Street
1245 Hours


The house was exactly what they needed. The huge "For Sale" sign out front was a good start. It had not been inhabited when the flu hit. Meaning no dead bodies waiting to party down. Scully had even found a front window unlocked. She crawled inside and was soon coming out the front door to help Mulder inside.

The furniture inside was sparse. An old, but still decent sofa. An oak coffee table. One recliner that pretended to be made of leather. And a beaten and subdued, faux bamboo standing coatrack from the Early WalMart Period stood in the corner. It would all do quite nicely.

Once she had Mulder settled on the sofa, Scully ran back and forth to the bike, retrieving their supplies. Then she moved the bike behind the house, away from easy discovery.

Then she got down to work.

"How's it look?" Mulder asked, making a point *not* to look at his own leg as she worked.

"I've seen worse, Mulder."

"Yes. But were any of them alive?"

"You were, Mulder. You must be feeling okay if you can complain and fidget this much..."

"Ow!" Mulder howled as she poured the water/hydrogen peroxide mixture into and through the wound.

Fluffy sat in the corner in some trepidation. He knew he was next on Dr. Scully's agenda.

"I know it hurts, but just be glad we found the hospital supplies. Otherwise I might have had to resort to the methods of Jesse James' day..."

"Do I even wanna know, Scully?"

"Well. With a through and through wound, if you were shot with a dirty ol' bullet and you wanted to make sure the wound was clean...you coated a cloth or handkerchief with alcohol and then you threaded it through the wound and..."

"I'm sorry I asked," Mulder moaned at the thought.

Scully coated the clean wound with a betadine ointment and then carefully dressed the wound.

Mulder behaved as Scully set up the coatrack as an IV stand, hanging a bag of D5 & 1/2 and a bag of antibiotic. He barely winced as she inserted the IV cathether into his arm. She removed the needle and attached the line.

The bag of antitbiotics was empty in thirty minutes and she quickly switched over to the dextrose/saline solution. Time to get Mulder rehydrated.

An hour later, Mulder was feeling much better. And now exhaustion had taken its toll on Scully. She could barely keep her eyes open. She had stitched up Fluffy's leg and he was sleeping happily beside the sofa.

Scully checked Mulder's pulse and, satisfied that he was no longer shocky, she removed the IV catheter.

Mulder watched her as she tried to clean up the medical debris on the floor.

"Scully. Why don't you take a break? Get some rest?"

"I can't, Mulder. There are things I need to do...I need to go find a store, grab some canned goods..."

But Mulder could see how pinched her brow was.

"You have a headache, don't you?"

"I'm fine, Mulder," she sighed.

"Well then. At least get your butt over here so I can take care of *your* cut," he remarked, pointing to his own brow.

She relented, handing him the betadine and a bandage as she sat at his hip. Mulder gently removed the bandage from her forehead and winced. Talk about a headache. He dabbed at the wound with the betadine and tenderly put on a new bandage.

"Good as new, Scully," me murmured as he leaned forward to place a light kiss on the spot.

But Scully was already asleep.

Mulder smiled as he leaned back with her until they were both reclined. He draped her arm over his chest.

She could explore the town tomorrow.

***

And the black crow circled the small town, keeping watch.