Chapter 7: Men of Doomsday

107 Marilyn Drive

Brenda, Maryland

May 6th

10:43am

Fox Mulder lay on the metal table, still as death. His face registered no pain, no emotion, deep in a sedated sleep. A doctor was bent over at the waist, stitching a wound above his left ear. Another doctor stood off to the side, monitoring Mulder's vitals and the EEG machine. At the far end of the room, next to the curtained window, a geneticist with scraggly gray hair squinted fiercely at the petri dish on the counter, preparing a culture. A row of Erlenmeyer flasks sat before him, the liquids inside them reflecting light onto the countertop.

Casey watched nervously from the corner of the attic. The white lights left no shadow in the room, and he worked unsuccessfully to hide his discomfort from his uncle. He glanced over at the Cigarette-Smoking-Man, at his straight back and expressionless face.

"What did they just do?" he whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

"Brain cells. Neurons," the Smoking Man answered, not turning his head. "To be transplanted into your aunt to cure her of her illness."

"Can you tell me what she's sick with?" Casey asked curiously.

"Brain disease," the Smoking Man said curtly.

The doctor finished up with his suture and reached for a bandage on the tray. Casey bit his lip.

"I thought you wanted him for information," Casey said timidly.

The Smoking Man frowned slightly. "That, and his brain cells," he said simply.

"He's not going to be affected, right?"

"Of course not. He'll sleep off the drug and be told that he had a little accident at the doctor's office."

"Well, when you get what you want from him, will you send him back?"

"Why? So he can hurt someone else?"

Casey sputtered a little. "Well, no. No, if he's going to continue…But what if his colleagues come looking? I mean, you never know. He should be sent back as soon as possible."

"We already had this conversation."

"Yes, yes, but his partner…she'll come knocking on my door…" Casey stopped, realizing that he should have kept his mouth shut.

Lips tight, the Smoking Man seized his nephew by the elbow and pulled him outside and onto the stairs.

"What do you mean, she'll come knocking on your door?" he demanded.

Casey paled. "Uh, well, uh, you know, if she digs a little…"

"Digs a little? Into what? Please tell me you didn't do something stupid." The Smoking Man's eyes narrowed with menace.

"No, no, I did nothing—" Casey began weakly.

"Don't lie to me!"

"S-Scully, sh-she came to tal-talk to me yesterday…"

"She found you? How?"

"I-I-I don't know." The Smoking Man's eyes bore into his. "Honestly, I have no clue!"

The Cigarette-Smoking-Man sighed. "Tell me everything you did. Everything."

Casey took a deep breath. "I, ah, registered with Wolfenstein. I played, like you asked me, and they made fun of my name…called me a French flower—"

"LeFleur?"

"Yeah, yeah—"

"LeFleur?" the Smoking Man spat with a mixture of anger and incredulity.

Casey nodded stupidly.

"You used a real name? Are you so foolish as to use a real name? Did you not think that it could be traced?"

"I…I…It's my mother's maiden name…I didn't think anyone would…" Casey defended himself, shaking in his shoes.

"Any name can be traced! Especially one so personal! How—get out of my house!"

Casey trembled uncontrollably. He opened his mouth, but the words died in his throat at the glint in his uncle's eyes. His jaws snapped shut with a clunk and he shuffled hurriedly down the stairs.

The Cigarette-Smoking-Man watched his nephew stumble in haste and laughed maliciously. He retrieved a cell phone from an inner pocket and dialed quickly.

"Kill him," he said without expression. Failures, all of them, he thought wearily. He turned back to the attic door, without a trace of the emotion he had shown minutes before. Dependence is the highest weakness…

State Department

May 6th

10:40am

"What? What?" Ronald Davidson asked at the top of his lungs. He crossed the room in three strides, reaching his team even before the door slammed shut.

"Well, sir," someone began. "Agent Mulder is in Mr. Spender's house. At first we thought that he was sick, as a part of his plan. Then, here," a finger traced the outlines of the three doctors on the frozen screen, "we've got three doctors performing a surgery on the side of his head, what looks like an operation on Agent Mulder's temporal lobe—"

"All right! We expected that! Tell me something I don't know!" Davidson interrupted impatiently.

The young man, Michael, stepped forward. "Uh, sir, something you didn't think would happen…I think the operation was successful…"

Davidson turned to face him. "Successful?" he asked slowly, enunciating every syllable.

Michael squirmed under Davidson's gaze. "Y-yes sir. Uh, they have a dish full of the stuff…"

Davidson spun on his heels and stomped to the door.

"Keep watching," he threw over his shoulder. "I want somebody at the monitors at all times."

His team nodded feebly.

Davidson shut the door behind him. He took a deep breath, staring at the ceiling. He walked down the halls and entered his office, heading straight for the telephone.

He hit the speed dial and waited.

"Yes?"

"Take him out. Don't play with him. Find the tissue and bring it to me. I want this done soon, but do it clean. Maybe tomorrow. You know the rest."

"Yes."

Davidson replaced the phone in the cradle. Spender would have his head, but he could not risk the cells. They were his. His, and only his.

Green Oak Lane

Brenda, Maryland

May 6th

11:02am

Scully licked her lips anxiously. He will be there, she droned inside her head. Her need to speak with Casey throbbed heavily in her stomach. Mulder was in danger; she knew that much. The Smoking Man and the almost inhuman senator could mean only one thing—schemes.

"Damn it!" she exploded, slamming her fist on the steering wheel. "You're a fool, Mulder," she said aloud.

As she neared Casey's house, she saw Casey's Camry driving in from the opposite direction. She sighed inwardly, relieved. She parked on the curb by the mailbox and walked up the driveway, a greeting readying itself on the tip of her tongue. Casey stepped out of the car, trying to smile. His arms hung tense at his sides. His shoulders shook with fear. He lifted a foot. The smile wavered. His foot descended back toward the pavement. Before it landed fully on the ground, a tangible force sent his body reeling backwards. His knees buckled, his back slumped, and his elbows splintered on the concrete. He lay with his cheek against the warm surface of his driveway, waiting for the sound of the gunshot.

Scully jumped at the crack of the gun. Her senses remained at a standstill for a tenth of a second; then her medical training clicked into place. She hurried to Casey's side and saw a pool of blood gathering beneath his body. She gently flipped Casey over onto his back and ripped open his shirt. A massive wound pulsated in the middle of his chest, oozing blood from the hole where the bullet had passed through. She tore a piece of fabric from her blouse and applied pressure to the wound, breathing raggedly through her mouth, praying that Casey would live. She called an ambulance with bloodied fingertips, leaving scarlet stains on the sleek silver surface.

The man withdrew the gun from the parapet. Gray eyebrows bunched together, angry. He took out a phone and called his boss.

"The redhead is here," he said. His words were clipped, wrapped in a slight Mexican accent.

There was a pause. Then: "Leave them. Fix it later."

A/N: I hope it's not confusing. :-/ If it is, let me know, and I'll explain a little in the beginning of the next chapter. Did you like it? I'd really like to know what you think! :-)