Peirson and the SEAL team charged through the doorway to the hanger as though the very demons from hell were chasing them. And for the life of him, Peirson wasn't sure whether they were or not.
He dropped instinctively to the deck as a small caliber round whined past his head. His team dove to the sides, save one man. He chambered a round into his grenade launcher, and snapped the weapon to his shoulder. The wide barrel fixed immediately on the overturned tables before them.
"Don't shoot, dammit!" There was no mistaking the woman's voice for any but Dana Scully.
Pryce stuck his head over the barricade, his blank mask bobbing slightly, "Sorry."
The team didn't even pause, nor did Peirson. To a man they charged over the tables and around them as though they ceased to exist. And as far as being possible threats, they had indeed ceased to exist.
"Quick. We're evacing right now." He grabbed the harness holding Scully's air tank, and pulled her to her feet. "Let's go."
Scully spun about, frantic. "Mulder? Where's my partner? Mulder?"
Still holding his rifle, Peirson grabbed her shoulder to get her attention. "He and the El-Tee are stuck, and they're coming up the other platform. Now come on."
With that the dark shape of a Blackhawk helicopter appeared over the edge of the landing platform, its low fuselage coming about. The roar of the engines and high whine of the propeller blades blocked out nearly all noise as the helicopter settled down on the deck.
The SEAL team and USAMRIID doctors surged forward, with Scully and Peirson caught in the middle of the hanger. She didn't know what to do. She wanted to run for the helicopter, for the protection the soldiers offered. But she couldn't just abandon him, no matter what Peirson said.
It was in that moment of taut hesitation that chaos descended.
The loading bay at the base of the oil rig connected all four platforms together. The gaping room sported flats of supplies, and yellow forklifts rusted by the sea air. Well oiled chains hung in black loops from pulleys along the roofline. Condensation and oil dripped in thin strings to rank black pools on the deck. One full side was open to the ocean, with only two sea doors to seal the space. It was not enough to let the sea scrub the decay from the air.
The dank hold was illuminated by the light gray of the impending dawn. It clawed through the narrow slit left between the doors, and spilled out over the shattered boxes Mulder and Quiddis ran around. If they crossed the hold, and if the power lasted here, they might be able to ride the cargo lift up to the third level.
They would not need to ascend into the warren of hallways above them.
Quiddis moved quickly and silently, his heavy boots seeming to whisper in counterpoint to the hammer falls of Fox's own steps. The lieutenant kept his own pistol out and ahead of him, level with his navel.
Fox was never more acutely aware of his own defenselessness as he was then. The rubber suit retained about him a sticky heat that left him panting from exertion. With each step his hand bled out along the front of the P3 suit, and it burned painfully under the pressure of his other hand. His lungs were tight as he bit back the hoarse coughs that might give their position away. Instead he whirled about as they ran, searching all the corners of the room.
It wasn't until he saw the first of the small, ovoid objects on the floor ahead that the skin on his arms and shoulders crawled in alarm. Uniform in shape, they were leathery, and wet with ooze. All were empty, the tops open like fetid petals.
His eidetic memory prompted him with the image of the alien as it descended from above, landing behind Quiddis. He looked up, and froze. His heart clenched inside him, and chills washed over him as he tried to accept what he saw.
The lieutenant drew up short as he realized Fox was no longer beside him. He halted, his gun swinging about for prey. Inside his mask, Quiddis' brow furrowed in confusion. Until he realized that Agent Mulder was looking up.
He looked up, and gasped in terror and revulsion.
The steel beams that comprised the apex of the bay had been encased in a green-gray resin, sculpted into rounded patterns. And as parts of this alien sculpture, the crew of the CGC Prometheus had been embedded in the matrix. Their puffy white deathmasks screamed down at the two men, the silent white eyes too dim to be seen from the ground. But their limbs were snapped, bent backward along their torsos to accommodate their shapes into the alien pattern. They had been jammed into the spaces in the roof, and cemented in place.
And to a man, all had fist-sized, bloody holes in their chests. With a jolt of nausea akin to a physical blow, Quiddis realized that the liquid falling about him and Mulder was not water and oil. It was partially congealed blood and mucus.
Quddis dropped his pistol, and clutched at his chest as he drew choking, gasping breaths. He doubled over, desperately trying not to vomit as the tears flowed from his eyes. Suddenly he was aware of the liquid around his feet, and the sour, salty taste of his own bile.
Fox ran over to Quiddis, and unsnapped the hood from the lieutenant's head. His fingers slipped in the blood from his own wound, which burned like fire as he feverishly worked the air hose connection. Mulder's right forefinger refused to close around the catches, so he pried at them with his left hand. Finally he managed to yank the hood from Quiddis, who was still sucking air in.
When the stale, putrid air first hit him, he heaved. Quiddis grabbed the nearest crate, and emptied his stomach until only acid burnt its way up his throat. Then he felt his stomach lunge painfully into his throat as it tried to clean itself further.
Mulder wasted no time in sweeping up Quiddis' gun, and snapping the safety off. He couldn't hold the weapon in his right hand, and so cradled it in his left. Revolted, Mulder turned in silent circles, not sure if he was watching for an attack or just trying to accept what he saw hanging above him. His head hurt, and the vertigo that accompanied his seasickness returned along with the sense that he was no longer connected to his own body.
Mulder shook the sensation off. "Quiddis?" He got no response.
"Lieutenant? You still with me?" He couldn't afford to glance at the man for fear of overlooking the stealthy approach of a glossy shape.
"Talk to me. Now." Mulder didn't look down as he grabbed Quiddis' mask from the floor, and tucked in into the belt of his suit.
Quiddis gasped, "Shit, man. Oh shit . . . "
Mulder had seen this in the Violent Crimes department, and in studies of some war veterans. Sometimes even the most hardened of people can be shaken to their very core. For some it is the sight of a child's broken body, or a face too similar to a loved one. Sometimes it's just a thought, a smell. Sometimes it takes a nightmare.
Fox grabbed Quiddis by the arm and pulled him upright. Mulder started running across the bay, the lieutenant complying with his insistent tugs. But if Fox let slack his grip, Quiddis slowed down. Fox pushed Quiddis ahead of him, and leaned in close enough to the man that he could smell the vomit.
"If you don't move, we'll die here! Me, I want to see the sun again, so move!"
Perhaps it was the thought of dying in the stinking dark of that hold, or the thought of sunlight that propelled Quiddis. Perhaps it was the armed man waiting for him, bleeding. Whatever it was, the lieutenant blinked, and started running.
"This way!" Quiddis pointed to a small, open sided elevator that had been left six feet off the ground.
They ran across the sticky deck toward the hydraulic lift set into one wall of the bay. The lieutenant got there first, and pulled both his regulation sealed gloves off. Discarding his air tank, he chinned himself up to the level of the platform, and rolled onto it.
Mulder turned around, looking for motion. He saw none, and knew that it did not mean safety. He thought momentarily before engaging the safety on the pistol and hurling it to Quiddis. Then he grabbed the elevator platform and tried to pull himself up.
His right hand burned and slipped. Mulder could feel the red hot blood roll from his hand toward his elbow, tickling him. His full lips locked in a grimace, it was all he could do to try and drag himself partway up. Then the lieutenant grabbed his left elbow, and hauled him onto the platform like a dead weight.
Mulder dragged himself into a sitting position, and clutched at his hand futility. His eyes burned from the effort it had required not to cry out. Instead he let his wracking coughs envelop him, his lungs burning.
Quiddis clicked the scratched and dirtied green button, and the lift jolted into motion upward. He picked up his pistol, and tried to ignore the warmth of Mulder's blood on the grips.
A dark shape fell from the edge of the hanger doors, and drove Hadat into the deckplates. In absolute silence it grabbed the soldier by the arms, lifting him from the deck. Its fanged mouth opened, and the inner teeth sprang out, tearing a hole through the man's suit and head.
In a panic, the next man over unleashed a full volley from his CAR-15 at less than two meters. The creature dropped the decapitated body, and was knocked backward in a spray of green blood.
The soldier dropped his weapon as he staggered backwards, his screams echoing through the hanger. He struggled with the smoking suit, which bubbled and hissed with the acid. His companion dropped his rifle and fought to get the P3 gear off in time.
The pilot's radio call came in strongly, "What the hell was that?" From only meters away, he had seen the thing go down in a tangle of sinewy legs and tail, its teeth gleaming in the predawn light.
Scully dragged Peirson to the ground next to her as she snap fired her pistol at another creature that fell from the ceiling. The thing had dropped down where they had been standing a moment before, and now the horror towered over them, clear drool sliding from its fangs.
Scully's chest closed in on her as she saw for the first time what had killed the crew here, though it some analytical part of her mind she recognized the second set of fangs. Those, she realized, were what had made the wounds on the bodies. Still shocked, she snapped her hand up, and started firing. When her first shots merely glanced from its hide in a shower of sparks, she shot its feet out from under it.
Peirson unlimbered his rifle and brought it up as the alien pulled itself erect. He rolled over on top of Scully, and jammed the muzzle of his M-16 into the creature's belly before triggering a short burst.
The monstrosity was kicked backwards, sprawling in a heap nearby. Its tail lashed briefly as it arched its back. Then the floor gave way beneath the onslaught of acid, and it dropped from sight in a gray-yellow cloud of vapor. Scully winced at the shrill squealing and burning sizzle that accompanied the alien's demise, only to find Peirson choking on top of her.
"Damn," she whispered as she fought the smoke to pull Peirson's suit from him.
He kicked wildly, his choked cries turning to screams as he tore the zipper on his suit halfway open. Dana saw the rubber was falling apart, and red foam bubbled up past the gleaming white of bone on his chest.
She tore the tattered remains of his fatigues off, leaving his still intact mask on. The spray of acid had eaten partially through his rib cage, and his shrieks died out as he went into shock. Doctor Scully stanched the blood with her gloved hands, oblivious to the gunfire around her.
Several aliens had leapt from concealment in the roofing, and a pitched battle now raged across the hanger floor. The things moved quickly enough to transform themselves into sinister blurs in the darkness. All that was seen was their smooth bounding motion, as long claws stretched out for the SEALs.
The team had retreated to the lab, and now the creatures had cut them off from the helicopter. The ear-numbing rips of automatic weapon fire cut off most talking, and with Peirson unconscious, little strategy remained.
The small runoff grate next to Agent Scully snapped upward, and spiraled away across the deck. Two alien hands, elongate and clawed, rose up from the hole, and levered an oblate alien head upward.
Dana gasped. It moved through the narrow opening like Eugene Tooms, flattening itself and pulling. She grabbed Peirson's rifle, realizing that the barrel was corroded and smoking.
She grabbed Peirson by the harness, ignoring the flashes of gunfire, and pulled him away from the alien. By the time she'd moved some fifteen feet, it had emerged from the conduit, and crouched on the deck. A razor-tipped tail coiled over its head, and its claws grasped convulsively at the air.
The grenade launcher slung under the rifle seemed intact to Dana. She pumped a round into the chamber, hoping it worked like a shotgun.
The alien pounced as she fired.
Col. White used a disposable plastic pen to push the sample into a plastic bag. There was no way he would touch the thing that he'd found on a dissection tray.
It was a flat, hand-like organism with eight legs, each resembling elongate fingers. But where a wrist should be, there was only a long tail, contorted in death. The ghastly part was the 'palm' of the creature, a surface covered with vestigial gills, and ruddy-colored soft organs.
He had no idea what the damn thing did, and didn't care. He simply sealed the biohazard bag like he'd been shown, and clipped it to his belt. There it bounced next to similar bags containing the medical and captain's logs, and a vial of blood.
The generator had maintained the lighting in the clinic, but the discarded bodies had already discolored. Their blood pooled like curdled milk about the floor, and the smears along the wall hardened to a deep brown in the silence.
For all the slices of hell the Colonel had seen, or been party to, this small rig was by far the worst. The rec room he'd past had looked entirely normal, save for the spray of russet blood across one white wall. And the charnel smell was nauseating inside the claustrophobic enclosure. But it was the sensation that eyes followed him from room to room that had retracted his scrotum in fear.
As he swept the countertop clear and placed a thermite charge next to the alcohol containers, some lizard-like portion of his mind screamed danger. And he trusted his instincts more than any man he'd ever worked with.
Quiddis stopped the open lift at the second floor, rather than ascending the last twenty feet. He just could not bring himself to pass within feet of the Prometheus crew. As it stood, they were hung far too close for comfort.
"What are you doing?" Fox's voice was raspy from the smoke, and he was too light headed to project much noise.
"I'm sure not getting closer to that . . . whatever the hell it is." Quiddis gestured toward the collection of bodies.
"You get out here. I'll meet you on the next level." Mulder didn't look up.
"No chance. You're coming with me." Quiddis cranked open the door, and examined the shadowed hallway.
"Nice thought. You give me a hand up?" Agent Mulder was pale, and the blood-wet hand Quiddis grabbed was cold and clammy.
"Let's go. I'm driving." Fox tried to chuckle as the lieutenant hefted him to his feet, but instead he drew a hissing breath as his wound was pulled open.
Quiddis dragged Mulder ten feet before the Special Agent collapsed. The lieutenant felt his throat, and noticed Fox's hands shaking. He was lapsing into shock, and quickly. On a hunch, the lieutenant felt the soft plastic that covered Mulder's suit with the back of his hand. In the darkness, the blood slick was as black as night.
The wound on Mulder's hand was bleeding out, he realized. He'd been pouring out his life blood across the suit as he ran. And now he couldn't run any farther.
Quiddis stripped off his own P3 suit, and kicked it across the hall. Underneath, he was as lean as Fox, but wearing a thin camouflage blouse and togs. He snapped the clasps on the blouse, tossing it carelessly to the ground.
"Damn. Damn. Damn, damn, damn!" He hoped there weren't any viri on the rig.
His eyes flickered nervously up and down the hall as he whipped his undershirt over his head, and wrapped it about Mulder's hand. The lieutenant looked more closely as he tied the cotton shirt about Fox's hand, and saw an exit wound at the base of his palm. The agent bit down on his lip, but his eyes were still clear when he looked up.
"Done." Quiddis tossed his open blouse on, and retrieved the pistol. "Now get up."
"Nice bedside manner. 'Gotta introduce you . . . to my partner."
"Great, save it for later. We're going back to the elevator, man"
The M-203 grenade launcher did indeed work like a shotgun. An enormous shotgun.
Dana gasped as the recoil kicked her to the ground. The rifle tried to leap from her grip, but she knew to let it rise only to her shoulder. Her stomach hurt from where the rifle butt struck her, and through the smoke and her tears she could not see where the alien had gone.
The wind from the helicopter's rotors swirled aside the cloud of cordite, revealing a smoking hole in the deck metal. The blast had hurtled the creature twenty feet before killing it. And despite her intense dislike of hunting, she grinned ferally at the smoking remains.
She chambered another round into the launcher with a swift pump of the grip, and returned to dragging Peirson aside.
Soun joined her, the Steyer impossibly large even against his own size. Each took a shoulder of the downed man's suit, and started dragging him. Scully looked up, but could not see Soun's expression though his darkened mask. She imagined he was as pale as she.
The team swept the hanger, searching for more creatures on the prowl. The Blackhawk pilots kept unsteady eyes on the roof of the hanger. They could not yet believe what they'd seen.
Which is why the men in the helicopter never saw the glistening forms rising from beside them. Two shapes bounded effortlessly over the railing on the far side of the landing platform. The pilot's mercifully short scream echoed with him as the first one dragged him back over the ledge.
The copilot spun in his armored seat, only to find a second demonic face grinning at him from where the pilot once sat. In one hand it clutched the frayed end of the pilot's restraining harness, while the other splayed six long fingers across the cockpit instrumentation. The fanged mouth opened to reveal a second set of salivating fangs.
In blind panic, the copilot grabbed the red double loop between his legs, and yanked hard. He'd seen the firefight nearby, and although he had no idea what the hard black thing next to him was, he knew what it could do. So he triggered his ejection seat.
The explosive bolts kicked the helicopter propellers free, sending them tumbling out horizontally. Soun and Scully flattened themselves, Dana tossing herself across her patient. One of the thirty foot long composite blades slashed through the back wall of the hanger, tearing the stairwell apart.
No one had time to determine the course of the other blades, for the top of the Blackhawk fired up and back in a burning hiss, and the copilot's seat rocketed into the air on a pillar of white fire. His arm and leg restraints had dragged the pilot's limbs in close to his body, but the force of his arcing departure bounced his head about on his shoulders, knocking his breathing mask free.
The graceful curve of the chair was spun off kilter by the vicious black form drawing itself up to the eyes of the bound and helpless pilot. It seemed totally oblivious to the emerging parachute as it grabbed the copilot's helmet. Then the two fell beyond the range of anyone's vision, into the sea.
Without the helicopter blades to weight the engine, it seized and locked, its dying whine mixing with the heavy sounds of ball bearings destroying themselves. The team was left to stand there, staring at the denuded chopper, its ejection system sending up a stream of smoke into the dawning sun.
White grabbed the examination table to brace himself as multiple explosions rocked the oil derrick. There was a particularly apt Farsi curse he'd learned once, something about having interesting friends, that flashed though his mind suddenly.
The SEAL team was far more effective against these creatures than he'd been led to believe, and now White realized that he was out of time.
He abandoned his small detonator charges on the counter top, his bomb setting plans forgotten. Now he had to get off the rig before the Navy strike team brought the roof down upon his head.
The quickest way down to the moon pool was the small lift that ran down to the loading bay. The sample bags bounced against his hips as he padded quickly toward the corridor. White banished all but thoughts of survival as he rejoined the war zone.
No fear, no remorse, no concerns. Just his raised weapon, and the path to the loading bay.
Mulder lay still on the dank metal grating of the lift, his breathing slow and shallow. His face was sallow, and beaded with the sweat that wet his dark hair and gathered on his eyebrows. Quiddis was locked into a tight shooter's stance over Fox, his camie blouse open over his thin dark torso and his pistol before him. But he took no note of Mulder's condition, for his eyes were locked with morbid fixation above him. Where the lift carried them closer to the remains of the Prometheus' crew.
A crewman's snapped arm dangled downward at them, its desiccated fingers caught in a claw of pain. The gray-white flesh clung loosely to the thin bones of the hand, reminding Quiddis of a dozen horror films.
Allah, he prayed, get me out of this, and I promise I will never watch a John Carpenter film again. Ever.
The lift halted with a short screech of metal and a sudden lurch. The hand was within arms reach of Quiddis. And now he was close enough to see the face in the shadows beyond the body, partially entombed in the murky resin. Never had he seen a more pure expression of mortal terror, for the boy's lips had pulled back from the teeth, and the eyes had clouded over as the body screamed eternally in death. Quiddis shivered, and jumped as the lift door opened on its own.
Quiddis whipped about, dropping to one knee near Mulder. The figure in the doorway was silhouetted by the light from the corridor as it snapped a weapon to its shoulder. Suddenly it pitched over backwards, cutting lose a brief burst of small arms fire over the lieutenant's head as it fell.
Quiddis pounced, his loose blouse flapping as he pinned the form's wrist with a booted foot. His weight trapped the man's MP5 uselessly against the ground. Now visible in the dim light from the hall, Quiddis saw that it was Glad whom he had trapped under his gun. He also noticed that it had been Mulder's left hand wrapped around Glad's foot that had pulled the man off balance. The lieutenant decided to keep his pistol trained on the man he knew as Glad.
"Thanks Mulder. So, dead man," Quiddis turned his attention to Glad again. "Wanna try explaining the warm welcome home?"
"You surprised me. You going to let me up?" Col. White sounded keyed up, and embarrassed. He sounded flawless.
"Yeah, next week. What are you doing here?" Sweat ran down the young lieutenant's face.
"My job. We don't have time for this now lieutenant. It's time to get moving before we get bagged." In the faltering light of the medical level, Col. White's eyes were unflaggingly honest, almost beseeching as he talked.
"Drop the gun." The lieutenant's voice was shaken, unsure. He adjusted his grip on the gun, conscious of the sticky blood on the grip. In reply, the Colonel dropped his machine gun, and spread his fingers wide.
"Happy? Good, now let's get out of here. I got a baby girl I kinda' want to see some more." White wished he could take his eyes from the lieutenant in order to check out Mulder. He knew the Federal agent wouldn't be this quiet if he wasn't hurt badly. But he did not know if it was enough to insure he'd complete his mission.
Quiddis felt the chill, wet air of the rig against his skin, and it suddenly struck him that his back was turned to that hideous mass of human bodies. He felt with chilling certainty that eyes were upon him, watching him. Looking down, he could tell that Mulder was unconscious, or nearly so. As a soldier, Quiddis knew how limited his options were.
He stepped to one side, and held out a tanned hand for Glad. "All right, lets get out of here."
Col. White stood up slowly, and casually picked up his gun, holding it nonchalantly to the side. He smiled warmly at Quiddis, concern in his eyes. "What happened to Mulder?"
"He's lost a lot of blood on the way, sir. I don't know what to do." Quiddis was damn uncomfortable. He'd just been interrogating a superior officer at gunpoint, and now he was reporting to this man, his shirt open, exposing broad tanned muscles. He was scared, alone, and wanted his team badly.
"You're doing a fine job son. Now, let's get to the catwalk quickly. You take Mulder, I'll take point. Move!" The Colonel knew how comforting orders could be in the middle of a crisis, and he used that fact. He could not let them realize where he'd been going, and he couldn't be sure of killing Quiddis without being wounded himself. He would have to distract the younger man, and take him down quickly. So he set out first, keeping his back turned to the SEAL. After all, wasn't he so much more trustworthy that way?
Quiddis took one of Fox's arms and one of his legs in hand, and hefted the agent over his shoulders. Fox still wore the dark rubber contamination suit, and its large size made it difficult for him to hold on to the thin man inside. He had to holster his pistol before he could get Mulder up onto one shoulder.
"I'm ready to go!" he called out to White.
"Yes. You are."
Scully snapped into motion first, still dragging the limp and bloodied form of Peirson toward the remainder of the team. Soun was right with her, taking the fallen man by the legs, and lifting him clear of the deck. In short order, the SEALs had the wounded and able men gathered together amidst the smoking rubble that had been a hanger.
The group of weary men left standing amidst the carnage were mute with shock, and Dana did not need for them to remove their masks for her to know what their eyes said. The sea is a deadly lover, and all who go to her know that perhaps her embrace will be the last they know. And no one becomes a soldier without the knowledge that their art is one of killing, and it is an art that demands to be washed in blood. But even amongst these sailor-soldiers, what they had seen had stripped away too much certainty, too much safety. That they stood alive in the end did not matter, for the sun rising bloodshot across the sky was now a distant thing.
No more a yellow light in the sky, but a red star. A reminder that things lived elsewhere. Things whose knowledge of killing matched our own. Things that terrified them.
Dana had neither the time nor the inclination to deal with all of this right now. Instead, she had to get these people off the rig, and back to a competent medical facility. And she had to find her partner, whom she was still cursing mentally.
"Will somebody get on the radio and hail the Elliot?" As one, the seven men left standing turned toward her.
"That's a great idea, lady. But it ain't going down." Soun adjusted the sling holding his rifle alongside him before unsealing and removing his mask. Underneath was a broad, brown face and glittering black eyes.
"What? We need to get Peir- people off this rig." Scully could smell herself inside the suit, and the sound of her breathing was driving her mad.
"Yeah. But Lt. Quiddis has the radio, and he still hasn't joined the party." Soun stripped himself of his gloves, and tossed them to the deck. Behind him the rising red sun lit the men in blood, and revealed the high clouds to the south.
Dana blinked under her mask and assessed her situation. Mulder and Quiddis were trapped somewhere down in the hold, and they carried the only radio large enough to reach her uncle's ship. Then she counted the men out under her breath. In a corner, Dr. Whitman was trying to suture Major Pryce's scalp wound. Five SEALs were left standing, and Peirson was their only wounded teammate. There was no trace remaining of the other SEALs or Dr. Hadat. Peirson moaned faintly.
Dr. Scully ran to the nearest medkit, and carried it back to the wounded soldier. Kneeling down, she stanched the flow of blood, which was small. The acid had cauterized the wound. Dana played fast and loose with the antibiotic shots and gels, as she wrapped his ravaged chest in yards of gauze.
Inside her slick P3 gloves, Dana could barely wind the gauze. After a few more passes, she ripped her gloves off and tossed them across the deck. Scully didn't have time to hunt through the wreckage for surgical gloves, so she just prayed that Peirson had been judicious in his private life. Working with her bare hands in the cold dawn air, she managed to hold Peirson together, his blood hot on her hands. But she knew what would happen to him without immediate emergency care.
Still kneeling, Scully slumped back until she rested uncomfortably on her feet. The heavy boots bit into her backside through the rubber suit, and her breath had begun to fog up her goggles. Additionally, her shoulders were raw from the weight of her air tank. At a glance, the gauge on her wrist told her that she had twenty minutes of air remaining.
Dana struggled to pull her air tank off, and then stripped the mask off with it. The chill sea air hit her sweating face like a blow, and she closed her eyes. She sucked the air in through parted lips, and the crisp smell cleaned out her lungs. She wanted desperately to push the auburn strands of hair from her face, and take out the tight ponytail from her hair, but the blood on her hands precluded that. Mulder, she thought, where the hell are you?
Opening her eyes, she realized that no one had moved. All the ranking officers were wounded or missing, and now all eyes dropped on her. She looked down.
Peirson lay crumpled across the oily hanger floor, his suit and fatigues in tatters. Crimson stains spread slowly over the white bandages wound about his chest. But his mask and air tank remained on him. Dana didn't have the energy to unstrap them. Besides, the bandages wound over the air tank's straps in several places.
Looking back up, Dana again met the gaze of the team. Slowly, one by one, they pulled their masks off. Apparently, they were all convinced that this was not a viral problem.
"Okay. We need to be looking for the Lieutenant and Agent Mulder." She locked her gaze with each man briefly, her eyes ice blue.
Soun stepped forward. "The Lieutenant ordered us to wait here."
Agent Scully let a hint of anger creep into her voice. "Lieutenant Quiddis didn't anticipate losing the helicopter. We need to get out of here before that storm," Dana pointed to the gathering clouds on the horizon, "hits the rig."
All the men cursed softly under their breath. Whitman looked panicked as he started blinking rapidly at the sky.
"I take it you have a good idea?" Soun unlimbered his Steyer and rested its length against his own square frame.
"Yes. Whitman and two others stay up here with the wounded. Everybody else comes with me to go find the Lieutenant." And Fox, she said only within her own mind.
Mulder tried several times to grab Quiddis' beltloops as the SEAL ran. He was hanging upside-down over the soldier's shoulder like a duffel bag, and as weak as a kitten. His head was pounding in time with his racing heart, and his sight wavered in and out as they moved. To exacerbate the problem, Quiddis carried Fox through pools of light and shadow, down shattered corridors the federal agent hazily remembered.
The only thing that kept Fox conscious at all was the certainty that Glad was nearby, and that Quiddis trusted him. For Mulder, it was one thing to trust the SEAL team. They were soldiers, first and foremost. For them, the duty was to protect their country from foreign invaders. But Glad. . . Undoubtedly he felt he served his country. But Fox wondered just who Glad thought the enemy was.
The waves of nausea and vertigo that washed over Mulder held him in check. Weak from his loss of blood, Fox couldn't summon the energy to make a commotion. And the Lieutenant was too focused upon his objective to take notice of Fox's soft motions. The SEAL was entirely oblivious to the danger he was carrying them both into.
As Fox watched yet more gray hallway blur before his eyes, he resolved that he'd wait. He'd outlast Glad, and beat him at his own game. Agent Mulder swiftly lost consciousness.