Later that day...
"Who wants spaghetti and garlic bread for lunch?" Maggie Scully asked her grandchildren.
"Me!" They both chorused.
"Ok." She said with a fond smile. "Emily, why don't you take your brother out into the yard to play while I cook?"
"Sure, grandma." Emily told her with a smile. She and William got their coats and boots on, and went out to play in the late season snow. Cold snaps were more common up north, but occasionally the weather down that way cooperated to provide a child's winter dream once more in April. Last night had been one of those times, and they'd gotten an unheard of eight inches of snow.
They tromped happily to the middle of the yard, occasionally throwing handfuls of snow at each other and giggling. Emily really did mean to look after her brother, but almost two-year-olds are unpredictable. Especially ones like William.
Her back was turned to him for just a few seconds as she followed a weather- confused squirrel with her eyes. It seemed rather surprised to be out in the snow, when just two days before the ground was bare. "Look, Will, a squirrel!" She called to him.
"Icicle." She heard him say softly. She whipped around, sure that he couldn't have gotten back to the house that quickly. The biggest icicles she'd ever seen were hanging from the roof.
One of largest of icicles was already on its way to William when she called for him to get out of the way. Part of her mind insisted that icicles couldn't hurt anyone, but this one in particular reminded her of a sword.
There was a look of joy on his little face as it fell, pleased that he was able to make the object come to him, from where it was hanging all the way up on the roof. He tilted his head back to get a better view of it coming down. Then it hit him, knocking him off his feet.
Emily was already halfway to him when it skewered him. His eyes fluttered when she said his name, which is the only way she knew for sure he wasn't dead. "Hurts Em!" He cried in anguish as she crouched down next to him.
There was already so much blood...the snow beneath him was already covered in it. She felt faint as she looked at the icicle that was stabbed firmly through his belly. It was bigger around than Will's forearm. "Grandma!" She screamed, forgetting that her grandmother was at the opposite end of the house. "Grandma!" When she didn't hear Maggie coming she screamed " Help!" instead, hoping that to attract a neighbor's attention. She stopped yelling when William stopped crying.
"Come on Will, wake up." She pleaded with him, he was so pale and still. When that didn't get any results, she tried slapping his cheeks gently, like they did on the TV shows, that didn't help either. The snow was growing redder beneath her knees, and she became convinced that he was going to die before anyone helped him.
Unbeknownst to Emily, Maggie had heard her when she'd switched to screaming "Help." She abandoned the food, and rushed out the door. Her heart caught in her throat when she saw the blood pooling under her baby grandson, and her granddaughter kneeling over him, asking him to be ok. It was at that moment she witnessed a miracle.
Emily grabbed William's wrist, wondering how you took someone's pulse. Something jumped under her fingers, so she began to feel a little less scared. You have to get better, she willed him, gritting her teeth and closing her eyes. It felt warmer to her suddenly.
Maggie was at that moment three feet away from them. In one instant she could clearly see where the icicle pierced William's jacket, and was imbedded in ragged flesh in his poor little belly. When she blinked the icicle was falling away, and the color was returning to his face.
"Grandma, he's hurt." Emily howled, not noticing at first that William was struggling to sit while Maggie tore off his coat, which was covered in blood. She lifted his torn shirt to get a better look at his belly.
There was a scratch. It was fairly deep and caked with blood, but there was no ragged, torn skin, and nothing that would account for the blood their boots squished in. "Oh my God..." Maggie breathed. It was impossible.
She carried her squirming grandson while leading her sniffling granddaughter into the house, wondering if they could salvage their lunch; wondering how she was going to explain what happened to Dana and Fox.
The dead cow was so cold that frosty steam rose off of it as they all peered down at them. Scully's expression was one of detachment, and Barry's was one of interest, but Mulder and Doggett looked a combination of disgusted and horrified.
"I uh..." Mulder began in a slightly strangled voice. "I don't think this is the work of aliens." He'd been expecting a cow with out eyes, perhaps slightly flayed. The dead cow they were looking at wasn't like that. One entire side of it had been torn apart, as if it had angered the Hulk.
Scully and Doggett were about to reply to Mulder's assessment, Scully to say it was always unlikely that aliens were involved in their cases, and Doggett to protest that aliens didn't exist, but Barry spoke up first. "Of course not. The thing that did this is an ordinary earth creature."
Doggett shot the little man a surprised look, but Scully figured his idea of ordinary was probably different than theirs, given he was a cyptozoologist. "Which ordinary earth creature?" She asked impatiently, as she looked at the shards of what had once been ribs.
"I has many names-"Barry warmed up, managing to sound nearly as pompous as Mulder did in lecture mode, but squeakier.
"Names like what?" Doggett cut him off. He didn't feel up to a lecture, not while standing in front of a slowly defrosting bovine.
Barry's face filled with reluctance, and Mulder shot him a sympathetic look. He knew what it was like to know that most people are unlikely to believe your theory. He just had more practice at accepting it - he hadn't asked Barry his age, but he pegged him at no older than 27.
Taking heart from Mulder's sympathy, he stopped looking so sheepish. "Like Bigfoot."
Doggett covered his face with his hands, and Scully just sighed deeply.
Mulder, on the other hand, looked excited. "Really? I haven't heard of them being carnivores. "
"They're not." Barry explained. "They're omnivores like you or I."
"Actually," Scully corrected him. "I think Mulder might be a carnivore."
Mulder smirked at her. "If you don't like the menu choices on my nights to cook, you could offer suggestions."
"Like you'd listen to them." She muttered.
"Maybe if it was pasta based and I thought the kids would ea- "
"Could we get back to the cow please?" Barry asked, looking annoyed for the first time since they met him.
"Please." Doggett added. "Not that it isn't fun to listen to you bicker."
"Are we going to be able to see this bigfoot of yours?" Scully asked snidely.
"Possibly." Barry replied, either missing her unpleasant tone or ignoring it. "But not for a couple of days. The cows are always found on Saturday morning."
"Why Saturday? "Doggett wondered.
"Oh, that's easy." Mulder told him. "There's never anything good on TV Friday nights." Then he winced, because if looks could kill he would have keeled over on the bisected cow.