*****

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

*****


"Diana's words came in the same matter-of-fact tone. 'Well, it's important that we learn the most effective and efficient methods to be used against them.' The woman reached into another cage, then grasped a large, fluffy guinea pig. As the terrified creature squeaked and struggled, she opened her mouth - wider, wider - her jawbone seemingly dislocated at the last second, and she lowered the frantic animal between her lips."
-- "V" by A.C. Crispin


*****

Somewhere North


The man sat just to the side of the road, his palms splayed against the ground. The afternoon sun burned into the earth and he felt the warmth reverberate from his worn fingertips to his aching shoulders.

He had been on walkabout. Most men did walkabout to have dreams and visions. He did it to escape them. It wasn't working.

He'd lost his family long ago. At least he thought it was a long time ago. Recent history had made time subjective. He did know that they were gone before the Superflu took everyone else. And now, when he tried to picture their faces, he wasn't sure if he remembered them as they really were, or just just how he *thought* they were. He even had to say their names aloud from time to time, just to remember. He was not sure of his own name now. And it wasn't terribly important anymore. Names were only important to differentiate you from others. Others were few and far between.

When the flu had hit and everyone around him was dropping like wasps in a cloud of Raid, he had tried to catch it. He had carried sick folks to the hospital. He had lugged the earliest bodies to the overstocked morgue. He had made it a point not to wear gloves or a mask. The sick had sneezed and coughed their phlegmy last breaths upon him. He was covered in green and yellow snot and germs. Yet he had survived with nary a tickle at the back of his throat.

His life since then had been an exercise in aggressive carelessness. Outright suicide was out of the question. His old beliefs still ran too deep. Along with a promise he had made to someone special long ago. So, he had placed everything in the hands of fate. When faced with either one hell of a mountain route or a "kind to grandmothers" level plain, he took the high climb. He drove motorcycles that had seen better days at high speeds across highways littered with dead cars filled with dead and rotting people.

And inspite of his "man is an island and a neutral country" policy, he had interfered with more than one yahoo who had grandiose plans of raping and pillaging. Armed yahoos.

But, for whatever reason, he had always emerged unscathed. Mountains were climbed. Highways were navigated. And the yahoos were all dead, courtesy of Smith and Wesson and Glock. Life's a bitch and then you live.

The would-be victims were always sent on their way. Away from him. He rarely spoke. One of the women he rescued had dubbed him "Clint Eastwood." He preferred John Doe. It reminded him of Gary Cooper. Several of the women had asked him if he would go with them to Nebraska or Colorado. He had simply walked away.

Oh, the Old Woman had talked to him in the middle of the night. She had called him by his old name. But so had the Dark Man. He had tried to block both of them out of his head. Valium had helped for awhile, but soon he was having to up the doses to reach success. The doses were getting too high. Then came the booze. But bourbon had made the dreams worse. The Dark Man always came when he drank bourbon.

So he chose the simple road of ignoring it to make it go away. When the Old Woman called him to Nebraska and Colorado, he went north. When the Dark Man summoned him to Nevada, he headed farther north. Now he was traveling in circles. For some reason, perhaps some embedded patriotism, he hesitated to cross the old border into Canada. He bounced north, then west, then south, then east, to north again.

He had no idea where those circles would lead him.

***

Dana Scully sat just to the side of the road, her fingers splayed across the guardrail that stood between her and a most precipitous drop down the green and rocky mountain side.

It was a long way down -- and a long way up. The problem was, as she turned around to glimpse the peak above, she had no idea which way she had been headed. She didn't have a car or a motorcycle. How had she gotten here? And where was here? There were no highway marker signs in sight.

The only sound was the wind. No birds. No insects. The sky above was an odd color of fiery red -- like an angry sunset. The clouds seemed to be unnaturally stretched across the horizon. The heavens seemed low, close to the earth. It was enough to make her feel claustrophobic. And very alone.

She looked back over the rail, scanning the area for anything that might pinpoint her location.

"Nice view, huh?"

The man's voice came from behind Scully. She spun around, her hand automatically reaching toward the gun she always kept near the small of her back. But her hand came up empty as she faced him. Her gun wasn't there. She raised her hands into a defensive position, her feet shifting on the ground for better balance.

"Whoa! Take it easy," the man exclaimed, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender. "I come in peace," the man tried to joke.

Scully looked him over from his brown haired head to his boot clad toes. He appeared to be about thirty-five years old. He wore a brown bomber jacket and blue jeans. The frayed cuffs of his denim shirt stuck out from under his jacket sleeves. His hands were tanned and weather beaten. But his finergnails were clean and well-manicured.

"You can't be too careful these days," Scully stated cautiously.

"No, you can't," the man agreed.

"So," Scully continued, "You won't mind if I ask you stay right over there."

"No problem, ma'am. I'll just sit right here." He sat down on the guardrail, some ten feet away from Scully.

"How'd you get here? I didn't hear you," Scully asked.

"Oh, I'm just hoofin' it. Breakin' in these boots, so to speak," he answered. "Where you headed?"

Scully was not inclined to answer him. She glanced back down the mountain side. Something wasn't right. She didn't know this guy. She was supposed to be with another.

"I just came from down there. Not much to see. I'm headed to the top now," he tilted his head into the sun, facing the mountain summit. "Got to be better up there."

Scully didn't respond.

"By the way," he continued as he stuck out his right hand, "My name is Ron Banner."

Scully appraised him once more. She didn't move to shake his hand, but she did acknowledge him. "My name is Dana."

"Nice to meet you, Dana. So. Wanna join me on the trek to the top?" Banner smiled invitingly.

Scully hesitated. Something was gnawing at her gut. "No, thanks. I think I need to stay here for a bit."

"Whatever for, Dana? There isn't anything here for you."

"I think..." Scully stammered. "I think I'm supposed to be somewhere else. Someone else should be here..." She bit her lip, fearing she had said too much.

"Are you sure? I could use some company on the way up..."

"Yes. I think I'm going to head down there." Scully was uncomfortable. Her head was beginning to hurt. Right behind the sinuses.

"Oh, Dana. I'd think you want to go up. Why go down where you've already been. I thought you were more adventurous that that." His voice held disappointment. But it wasn't the kind of disappointment a friend or parent would show. The kind that wants you, expects you to be a better person. No. This was the pout of a petulant child.

Scully shifted uneasily. She hadn't told Banner that she had been at the bottom of the mountain already. *She* didn't even know that. She began to back away from him. "No. I think I'll be going now. You can go ahead and climb to the top if you want."

"No. I think you should come with me," he said as he stood up and walked toward her.

"Stay back!" Scully warned. Her heart began to race as she stared at his face. It was transforming into someone else. As if a facade on a building was chipped away to reveal the true nature of the ugly structure beneath. The pieces kept falling away. *Banner. He said his name was Banner. A banner is a flag. Flagg is the Dark Man.* "Oh my god," she mumbled as she comprehended the sick joke.

He jumped forward with lightning speed. There was no time for her to prepare her footing. He held her arm in a vice like grip.

"Time to climb, Dana," he sneered, his face a bright blood red. "I think I've been patient enough!" And he began to drag her toward the uphill roadway.

"Get away from me, you son of a bitch!" Scully struggled back. She kicked at him, but he deftly avoided her feet. Then she fought back with gravity, becoming dead weight as he dragged her. When his grip relaxed slightly as he tried to adjust his hold, Scully seized the opportunity. She swept her right leg into the back of his knees, knocking him onto his back.

Scully scrambled back, trying to regain her balance as she stumbled to her feet. The blood pounded in her head with a frantic, painful rhythm.

"Scully!"

She spun around, looking for who was calling her. Was it Mulder? Her vision was fading. Her hands flew up to help her find her way. When they hit something hard, she realized she was back at the guardrail.

"Scully!" the voice cried again.

"Mulder!" She frantically called. "Mulder!"

Flagg was upon her in a heartbeat, grabbing her around the waist. She wrapped her hands around the guard rail and refused to let go.

"Now, now, Dana. That isn't playing fair. I just wanted to show you..." he began to tug with forceful jerks..."the...nice...view!"

But Scully kicked him in the kneecap on his last tug. He growled in anger as he released his hold upon her. She tightened her grip on the rail even as she raised her right leg to kick Flagg in the face.

Flagg was ready for her, but his rage had gotten the better of him. He grabbed her leg midair in an iron grip and bellowed as he heaved her into the air. "You bitch!"

Scully felt herself rise up and over the guardrail. She was falling end over end, down the mountainside... She closed her eyes as she waited for the inevitable. "Mulder!" She screamed with her last breath.

Flagg's chest heaved with each breath as he looked over the rail, realizing what he had done.

He threw his head back and roared.

***

Boulder Clinic
August 23
2000 Hours


He lifted his head from the chair back and spoke.

"A lot's happened this week, Scully Let's see. What haven't I told you? We covered my brand new scar...told you that I think that guy Brad has the hots for Susan. Oh! Did I mention that Fluffy has a new friend? Glen's dog Kojak made it to town the other day. Just walked in out of the blue. He was all beat up. Had to walk the several hundred miles from where Glen and Stu and their gang had to leave him 'cause they couldn't get him on their motorcycles...but, wow. He honed right in on Glen. Amazing. Dick Ellis is thrilled to have a dog for a patient instead of another FBI agent."

Mulder gingerly leaned forward in his chair and lifted Scully's hand from her bed. He slowly traced each of her fingers, memorized each line on her palm. Such pale fingers. Such strong yet fragile hands.

"C'mon, Scully. It's time to wake up," Mulder spoke softly. There was no response.

He slid back in his chair with a slight grimace. His sweatpants were better than jeans, but the waistband still cut into the stitches from his appendectomy. The discomfort was a constant reminder that all of this was real. Not some nightmare.

It had been nine days since Dick Ellis had carved him open. Nine days since Scully had collapsed, covered in her own blood. He had awoken a few hours later, expecting to see Scully's face beaming over him, expecting to see her raise her eyebrow and hear her warn him not to pull any more stunts like that again. But Susan Stern was there instead.

His fingers drummed against the bedsheets in an ever quickening rhythm.

Dick had rounded up several folks in Boulder who had the same blood type as Scully. Even without all of the fancy equipment they'd had in Washington, D.C., he had been able to stabilize Scully within a few hours.

A "real" people doctor had arrived in town the next day. George Richardson was an older man, full of down home bedside manner and plenty of valuable experience. He had taken charge of Scully's case from a relieved Dick. George expected Scully to wake up anytime now, explaining that her body had been saving energy to heal itself and that's why she was still unconscious. But the news still wasn't good.

His right knee bounced as his agitated heel tapped on the floor.

She wasn't going to get much better. All they could do was put the equivalent of a small bandaid on the large evil that invaded her body.

It was a miracle that Scully had survived this long. He fingered the cross that he still wore around his neck, sliding it back and forth on the chain. Damnit. Mulder wanted another miracle. He surged out his chair, ignoring his side, and leaned over Scully, his hands on either side of her shoulders.

"Damnit, Scully. Wake up! Scully! We did not come this fucking far just for you to give up in the middle of bum-frickin' Colorado. Matthew is out there and we still have to find him! Wake up!"

The door burst open and Susan Stern and George Richardson barged into the room. Fluffy stuck his head inside from his sentry post in the hallway, but did not want to face a loud Mulder.

"Mulder, what the hell are you doing?" Susan ordered, her hands on her hips.

"Hey, Doc. Susan. Maybe you can settle an argument here between me and Scully. We both agree that you shouldn't drink out of the milk carton because you leave germs. But, can you take a swig from a bottle of Listerine?" Mulder asked sarcastically. He was drained from his outburst and his long vigil. He pulled himself up from the bed and shuffled back into his chair. But he still kept hold of Scully's hand.

Susan looked to George for guidance.

"Mulder, you're exhausted. You need to get some sleep," George gently stated. Susan moved over to the bed and straightened the sheets, checked the i.v. lines.

"No. I'm not leaving," Mulder stated as fact.

"There's a bed just down the hall. I've got it all ready for you," Susan offered.

"No."

They were at a stand still.

"It's pointless to argue with him," a small voice whispered from the bed. "I should know."

"Scully?" Mulder's voice broke with relief.

There was a flurry of activity as George and Susan manuevered around Mulder to check the condition of their now aware patient. Fluffy bounded in with an excited bark but Susan deflected him from the bed with a straight right leg block to the side.

"How are you feeling, Miss Scully?" George asked.

Scully blinked her eyes a few times to clear the film of coma-induced sleep and focused on the new doctor with some puzzlement. For a moment, she wasn't sure if she was truly awake or if she was in some strange dream...where people weren't what they were supposed to be. Then she saw Mulder hovering over her again. She calmed.

She cleared her throat before answering. "Water would be good," she rasped and licked her parched lips. "And some Listerine, if Mulder hasn't gotten to it first," she added as she squeezed Mulder's hand.

Mulder jumped into action and poured a cup of water from the pitcher on the bedstand. He stuck in the straw and bent it to an accomodating angle. With his free hand, he helped Scully lift her head so she could take a much appreciated sip. She lay back again, exhausted from the simple effort.

"Where is Dick?" Scully asked, her eyes closed.

"This is George Richardson, Dana. He came into town last week and we're lucky to have him. He was chief of staff at his community hospital in Green Valley, Arizona," Susan explained.

"We're gonna take good care of you, Dana. And you've got some friends here that have been mighty impatient for you to wake up," George informed her as he looked pointedly at Mulder and Fluffy, who was now laying in the corner of the room.

"What happened?" Scully asked.

"You had another...episode, Scully," Mulder answered.

"Luckily, Fluffy was there and got everyone's attention so we found you right away," Susan added. She didn't mention the fact that Tom Cullen was so upset that he tried to hide in broom closet after he found Dick. For some reason, he had thought that he was the cause of Scully's illness. But Dick had convinced him it wasn't his fault and had gotten the man to go and help find blood donors for Scully.

"Dick Ellis gave you a transfusion and lots of fluids...got you stabilized. He did an amazing job considering the lack of working equipment and supplies. We did manage to get the x-ray equipment up and running and took one series..." George let his voice taper off. He knew that Scully was a doctor.

"I can guess what it showed," Scully whispered.

George shook his head in frustration. "I'm sorry we don't have more sophisticated equipment in running order. And it's going to take time to train people to use what we do have."

"It's okay, Dr. Richardson. I understand. There's not much you could do anyway." She paused and looked at Mulder. "We've been down this road before," she added before sucuumbing to a series of weak coughs.

When they subsided, Mulder handed her a kleenex to wipe her mouth.

"We had to intubate you for a little while so I expect your throat will be a bit scratchy for a few days. But, you need your rest now, Dana," George said, raising his hand to stop Mulder before the younger man could say anything. "Your visitors can stay as long as they let you rest. I think they'll be good medicine for you."

Mulder gave the doctor a look of thanks.

"We'll get some ice chips for you in a sec -- we're the only ones in town with ice, so use 'em -- And I'll have someone bring you some dinner in a little while. We need to get some food into you, bring your energy level back up. Eat as much as you can, okay?"

Scully nodded. George and Susan started for the door. "Now, get some rest," George instructed. "That means no talking, Mulder."

"Thanks, Doc," Mulder nodded gratefully.

The door closed and they were alone.

"Hey," Mulder said as he caressed the back of Scully's hand with his thumb.

"Hey," she responded.

Mulder leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

She smiled, but a second later her body jerked with a start as she remembered. "Mother Abagail! Have they found her?"

"No," Mulder shook his head. "There's no word. They stopped the active search two days ago. It was just too much of drain of man power. And Mother Abagail's note made it pretty clear she didn't want to be found."

"But..."

"Later, Scully. Rest now. I'll fill you in on everything later."

"But how are *you* doing?" Scully insisted, trying to see his side through his loose shirt.

"I'm fine, Scully. No complications from surgery. Just a little sore. Rest. Now. I'll be here when you wake up and we'll talk more." He leaned over and pulled the bed sheets up to her shoulders, tucking her in. Then he leaned over and kissed her again.

Scully's eyes slowly closed. She had so many questions, and she wanted to tell Mulder the fuzzy details she remembered of her strange dream, but sleep descended upon her like a sea of fog, its waves washing out all thought.

Mulder relaxed in his chair with a tight smile, finally taking time to acknowledge to himself that his side was, indeed, sore. He pulled his blanket from the back of the chair and draped it over himself. He was careful to make sure that he fell asleep facing Scully. His breathing slowed and deepened as he got his first real rest in over a week.

Fluffy remained in the corner. He was relieved to see Mulder and Scully both sleeping peacefully. And he was satisfied that the young man who always smelled mean, Harold, had not been back to the hospital. The threat level was down -- for now.

Fluffy let his head drop down onto his paws. He took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh. He needed to stay alert, but he also needed some rest. This might be the best chance to sleep. There were friends just outside the door. Yes. He would sleep. But he would keep one ear open.

***

August 25
2200 Hours


It had been a busy week for Harold Lauder. Tonight, he sat in his dark living room, reclined on the couch in his boxer shorts, a can of Coors in his hand. A nice warm beer after a hard day's work. He let out a small belch. He frowned. Even his burping ability could be seen as weak.

Never mind. What he lacked in noxious fumes, he had made up for in other ways this week. Woo boy, had he.

His first success had been at the town meeting on the eighteenth. In front of some six hundred spectators -- a number that suprised even him -- he had shocked the hell out of Mr. Stuart Redmond when he proposed that Stu, Fran, Nick, and their cronies be elected as the Town Council. He hadn't insinuated himself onto the committee as he knew Stu had expected. Instead, he had thrust himself forward as a good and upright citizen of Boulder. Eat that, Stu!

He took a swig of beer. And grimaced. He had never liked beer. Never understood anyone who did. It was nasty and bitter and had a habit of getting caught in the dam of his throat. But, he thought as he took yet another drink, such were the things you did to try and fit in. And he was doing just that for the first time in his life. It was a confusing feeling.

He had joined the least popular, yet the most respected committee. The Burial Committee. The name was merely a euphemism. It should have been called the "Go into every building and find all the leaky, disgusting dead people, haul 'em away, and burn 'em before everyone dies of disease Committee." Not many people stayed on the committee for more than one day. Harold kept going back each morning. Which meant he and the other regulars had formed some kind of bond. He wasn't used to that. He needed to shrug it off because he couldn't go down that road anymore. He had to keep focused on his plan.

Randall Flagg had helped Harold cross another line that week. "Cross" another line... Harold laughed. Nadine Cross, an older woman, had shown up at his doorstep. She was all dressed up and ready to be of service. Harold had shortly thereafter received the first and most amazing blowjob of his life. He was a man now. Granted, apparently normal sexual intercourse was a no-no -- according to Nadine -- but Harold didn't have a great problem with that. As long as the blowjobs kept coming. He had always been better at receiving than giving.

He lifted his right arm and flexed his bicep muscles. Amazing. Hard work had a way of filling a body out, even if the owner still did have a penchant for PayDay candy bars during times of stress. For just a moment, he had a fleeting thought of remorse. In a perfect world, Fran Goldsmith would look at him now and fall at his feet. And Harold would have given her the world. He dropped his arm. The world wasn't perfect, and he had already made his pact with the devil. There was no turning back now.

And he could hear the clock ticking above his head. Someone was getting suspicious. He had seen signs that someone had been snooping inside his house. Luckily, they hadn't found his journal. The one he kept hidden behind a loose rock in the fireplace. The one that expressed his true feelings for everyone in Boulder. But the fact that they were looking was warning enough. He had a short list of names on his burglary suspect list. Stu, Fran...and the FBI agents. He would need to take some decisive action.

Harold Lauder knew his time in Boulder was running out.