He should have grabbed Will and fled the moment he caught the keen-eyed stare of the unfamiliar but all too familiar man at the grocery store. But that life was behind them, right? It had been ten years since their last encounter, and he had almost grown complacent. Almost.
The suspicion is there, despite the time that has passed; he thinks it must simply be part of his programming to be wary of everyone outside of his immediate family. By the time he catches sight of two black cars trailing at different distances, he knows, and his knuckles go white on the steering wheel.
"Is your seatbelt on?" He asks sharply, not taking his eyes off the cars in the rearview mirror. Will gives him a wary glance, unsettled by his father's tone.
"Yeah. Dad, are you-"
Mulder digs in his pocket for his phone, handing it to his son in the passenger seat.
"Call Mom," he orders. The black cars are getting closer. "Now. And hold tight, okay?"
Will nods, scared, and dials his mother. His free hand goes to the door handle, gripping it tightly. He trusts his father enough not to question this.
The Explorer speeds up, and the two black cars match it, now weaving through the sparse traffic to follow single file some fifty yards back. Mulder mutters a curse under his breath, chancing a glance sideways at his son. Will turns wide eyes to his father, then glances at the speedometer on the dash; they're approaching 90.
"She's not answering," he says, looking out the back window to see what his father keeps glancing at in the rearview.
"Dad, are those cars following us?" His voice is small and scared.
"Come on, Scully," Mulder mutters determinedly, ignoring Will's question. He kicks himself mentally for not reminding her to clear out her phone's full voicemail. "Keep trying, she'll pick up."
Will tries again, and the call still rings endlessly, not letting him leave a message. A third try, and the black cars are almost on them. Mulder's heart starts to race; they're too far outside of the city now, if he slows or tries to turn, their pursuers will be on them. But he has no choice; the further they go out into the country, the further their chances of escaping shrink. And out here, there are no witnesses. His foot presses down even harder on the gas, and from beside him he can feel Will's frightened gaze.
"Yes, Will," he says quietly, his voice tight. "They're following us. And short of some kind of miracle, they're going to catch us."
He takes his eyes off the road for a brief moment to look to his son. Will looks pale and scared, but his eyes are round and trusting as he looks up at his father. Mulder desperately hopes he is deserving of that trust.
"If that happens, I need you to run," he says firmly, watching Will's face. "The moment this car stops, I want your feet on the ground, Will, and I want you to run as fast as you can. Find help if you can. If not, hide and keep calling Mom. But don't you dare try to come back and find me."
"Dad-" Will chokes, sounding nothing short of terrified now. Another glance in the mirror shows the lonely two-lane highway empty behind them but for the two black cars, who have now spread out to pursue side by side. When they get close enough, which will be in a matter of moments, they'll spread out further to flank him, Mulder knows.
"Promise me, Will," he orders, his voice harsh with desperation. "I need you to get to safety. I'll follow as soon as I can."
He looks to Will for confirmation, and after a moment, Will gives a shaky nod, looking close to tears.
"I love you, kid," Mulder says hoarsely, biting his lip against his own crippling fear. "Everything is going to be okay, I promise."
To Will, this sounds very much like one of those lies that parents tell their kids when they're scared shitless, too. He wants to argue, to tell his dad that he's not going to leave him behind, but the words won't come out. He wants to ask who is following them, and why, but he knows they're out of time. The black cars will be on them in seconds.
"Dad," he chokes again, but it is all he can manage. Mulder takes one hand off the wheel to reach across to him, briefly taking his hand and squeezing it tightly.
"Reach under your seat, Will," Mulder commands quietly. "There's a small case, I need you to pull it out."
Shaking, Will does as he's told, and he knows what's in the box before he opens it. His heart pounds horribly in his chest.
"Hand it to me, please. Carefully."
He does, the smooth gunmetal cold against his shaking fingers. Mulder takes it from him, tucks it beside his seat where he can reach it. The black cars are creeping up on either side of them.
"Hold on tight, buddy," Mulder grimaces, then slams on the brakes. Will grips the door handle so hard he hears his knuckles crack, and then he's lurching forward, the scream of their tires on the pavement blocking out all other noise or thought.
The Explorer lurches, swaying across both lanes, but then steadies, and Mulder is just able to swing them around without rolling the vehicle. They fishtail some more before straightening out, and Mulder guns it back towards the city. Behind them, the two black cars are distant, struggling to turn around without crashing into one another.
Panting and shaking, Mulder glances to the passenger seat, where Will is in a ball, his hands over his head.
"You're okay," he promises shakily. "Just hold on." Will nods, not lifting his head.
When he looks back to the road, Mulder pales. A third black car is approaching from the direction they are now heading in. With the two now gaining again from behind, they're trapped.
"Shit," Mulder mutters desperately. "No, no, no."
The third car is almost on them, and Mulder brakes, heading for the shoulder, trying to pass it, but at the last second it lurches towards them.
The crash is deafening, metal tearing and glass shattering all around them. Will screams, but it is lost in the cacophony of other sounds. He keeps his hands locked tightly over the top of his head, curling into as small of a ball as possible.
In seconds, it's over, the Explorer lurching to a halt in the ditch, the crumpled black car sideways on the opposite shoulder.
"Will!" His father's voice comes over the ringing in his ears, sharp with fear, and then a hand is at his shoulder, shaking. Mulder peels Will's hands away from his face, then unbuckles his seatbelt. For a moment the only thing Will's senses register is the hissing of the airbag. The sound of cars approaching is distant, but rapidly getting closer. From the other crashed vehicle comes a shout and a groan.
"You're alright," his father promises shakily, and Will finally opens his eyes. The left side of Mulder's face is covered with blood, and Will gasps, nearly recoiling.
"Dad-"
"I'm fine," Mulder says quickly, though there is something in his voice that is decidedly not fine. "You have to go, Will, now!"
He leans over, reaching across Will for the passenger door handle. The Explorer had come to rest in the ditch with a heavy list to the right, and the moment he pulls it, the door falls open, and Will has to grab onto his father to keep from falling out.
Mulder shifts in the driver's seat, unbuckling his own seatbelt and letting out a sharp cry, his left arm falling limp in his lap.
"Will," he groans desperately. "Let go of me and run. Find somewhere to hide and call Mom. Please!"
It's the 'please' that does it; Will has never heard his father beg like that, never heard that kind of raw desperation from this man he'd always thought of as invincible. Grabbing the cell phone, he drops out of the open door and tears off through the tall grass on the side of the road, not looking back behind him.
He has barely been running a minute when he hears the screech of tires, then men shouting behind him. Two gunshots crack off, then two more, making Will flinch, a terrified sob tearing up his throat as he runs.
There are woods ahead, but he knows that they won't be enough to hide him if the men from the cars chase him. Terrified that they might already be right behind him, he runs faster, sprinting through the tall grass towards the trees.
His foot catches on something hard and Will goes sprawling, landing with such force that for a moment he can't breathe. The ground beneath him is soft and muddy, and for a moment he is tempted to just stay down; the grass is tall, they might not be able to see him down here. He's small- small enough that curled up in a ball, covered in mud, he may go unnoticed. All summer, he had hoped for a growth spurt before starting middle school, but now he's glad it never came.
He stays there, panting, for a moment. But then he thinks of his father, the desperation with which he had commanded Will to run, and he drags himself up, now muddy and scraped, and tears off through the field once more.
Finally, he reaches the treeline, and in the shadows of the emerging spring leaf cover, he feels marginally more safe. Ducking behind a thick trunk, he peers back towards the road, squinting at the cars for movement.
"Come on, Dad," he whimpers breathlessly, eyes fixed on the Explorer. His dad had a gun. Those four bullets could have been all it took, one for each man. There were two in each car, Will figures, and the ones from the car that had hit them are already dead or injured from the crash. So four bullets would be enough. His dad is invincible. Right?
But then Will thinks of the blood on his father's face, the way his left arm had gone all limp when he'd tried to move it, and suddenly doubles over, vomiting into the bushes.
He's not dead, Will thinks fiercely, his head spinning. He can't be.
Closing his eyes, Will reaches, feeling for his father at the edges of his awareness. He's never done this on purpose, so he can't be sure that it works. Regardless, he feels nothing.
He'll wait another moment, anyway, watching. And then he does see movement in the grass, some 30 or 40 yards away. But the man making his way through the tall grass is not Fox Mulder, and Will puts a hand over his mouth to hold back the terrified sob that bubbles up.
Will turns, running once more. He trips again, twice, sobbing harder, because he knows the men from the black cars are going to catch him, and he knows that his dad is gone.
Ahead of him, a small wooden shanty stands between two trees, spray-painted with crude camouflage. A deer blind, Will realizes, and though he knows his pursuers will see it as well, he can't run anymore, and there's nowhere else to hide.
Ducking under a spiderweb that stretches across the corner of the door, Will huddles on the ground inside the structure, quickly pulling out his father's cell phone. With shaking hands, he dials his mother again, but it rings and rings and rings, and when he looks back at the screen, there is no service.
"No," Will moans, trying again. This time it doesn't even ring. "Please, Mom," he chokes, clutching the phone like a lifeline. Then he has an idea, and opens a text message.
It's Will. I'm in trouble. Someone followed us from the store. There was an accident, and Dad told me to run. I don't know if he's okay, but I know they're going to catch me. Please help. I love you.
By the end of the message he's crying again, shaking so hard he can barely type. He hits send, then puts the phone back in his pocket, knowing it won't go through until he's back in range. One little bar, that's all it will take. So he gets up and walks out of the shanty. Somewhere off to his left, he can hear faint voices and the snapping of twigs as his pursuers search.
He just has to get back to the road. If he can do that before they catch up to him, his message may make it to his mother. At this point, it's his only hope. Past the small patch of woods, a tall fence marks the start of some other property, too tall to climb; he has run as far in this direction as he can. To his right, the ground slopes before turning into a swamp, and to his left, the men are searching for him. The only way out is back the way he came.
Carefully, he starts moving again, his eyes on the ground before him to ensure he only steps on the soft leaf litter, making almost no noise. He ducks behind trees whenever he can, his heart pounding so hard it seems to be leaping into his throat with each pulse. The whole time he focuses desperately on his mother, willing her to receive his message and come find him. He doesn't know how to activate his 'psychic distress call', as his father had once called it, but he concentrates on her as hard as he can, praying that something gets through in case his text message doesn't.
He has almost made it back to the treeline when one of the men shouts from off to his left; he can't hear exactly what they're saying, but he can tell by the urgent tone that they've spotted him, and breaks into a run again, hurtling back out of the woods and into the field.
He runs as fast as he can, his breath fast and hot in his lungs. A sharp pain starts in his side, but even still, it's not enough. He doesn't look back; if he does, and sees them, he might be sick again. But he can hear them shouting, and after a moment he can hear their heavy footsteps, crashing through the tall grass behind him.
Hands grab at his arms and Will screams, thrashing and struggling to pull away. They're too strong for him, though, and drag him to the ground, kicking and yelling the whole way.
Mom! He thinks in utter panic. MOM!
A sharp prick comes at his arm, and suddenly his limbs are stiff and sluggish, the struggle going out of him as he fights to simply stay upright. A low, wordless moan of fear escapes as he slumps to the ground, darkness creeping in at the edges of his vision, and he realizes far too late that they've injected him with something, something to make him sleep.
"Mom," he slurs, not having meant to say it aloud, and then the world before him slips away into blankness.