Four

A campsite

Tennessee – August 2005

Mulder stared up at the stars as he lay in his sleeping bag. He did not have a pillow, and he could feel the sand underneath his head and amongst his hair, through his beard. The day had been hot, and he was sweating inside his enclosure. Still, he did not dare lie on top of the synthetic, padded fabric; if he did he would be covered in sand and dirt by morning. And if the wind got strong again he would need the bag to bury his head in.

The sky above him was black, and he guessed it was around midnight. The witching hour, he thought. He managed a soft smile at the daydream that phrase conjured, the image of he and Scully on a case about witches, her looking at him like she did when she thought he was gullible. Then again, he reasoned as he squinted at the stars, hadn't he asked her to marry him over a case about witches? He had, he remembered.

'I was hoping for something a little more helpful,' she had replied. He had only been teasing really, but he remembered it all so easily. He had struggled to displace his photographic memory where Scully was concerned, but after a few weeks underground it had just gotten too hard. He needed to think about her, to remember her. In a way it was preparing himself for what he was hopefully on his way to find. They had come so far already. They couldn't turn back now, could they? Would he really be outvoted come morning? Would they really force him to turn back, and if they tried, would he let them?

Mulder sighed as his eyes drifted over the stars. If his baby sister Samantha was up there, forever fourteen and watching him, she would be shaking her head with shame, her brown eyes wide and wise, loving but disappointed. Disappointed in him.

He was disappointed with himself. It had been somewhere in the vicinity of two months. After storming out of the house feeling claustrophobic and pissed off with his partner, he had caught a bus to the nearest interchange and bought a ticket south-west. In his last communication to Mulder, Gibson had mentioned he would have news shortly, and in his haste to get out of Virginia Mulder had spontaneously decided to take him up on his offer.

It was something the old Mulder had done many times on the X Files; heading off on a whim with only the hope of a scoop. Only he had not invited Scully along for the ride.

The sun had been setting by the time Mulder got off the bus at his destination. He had been away from home twenty-four hours, and the edge of the argument had worn off after the first four. He knew he had to call her and tell her where he was. He needed to apologise for picking a fight when she had just worked a double shift and was obviously exhausted.

Remembering her face and posture as she had arrived home only to be met with his frustration, Mulder felt like a prick. Of course she was going to argue back. After that long at work he should never have expected her to sit there and take it while he criticised her habit of taking on too many hours at the hospital. The sorry thing was Mulder had deliberately picked his moment because she had been weak. He had wanted a fight. He had wanted an excuse to storm out, to get the hell out of the tiny, little town they lived in.

And she had given it to him, almost too easily. As though she had been able to read that need in him right from the start, as though she was too exhausted to fight harder to keep him. In the end, she had let him go.

Mulder had known that rare allowance came with a condition; he was to return and suck up to her for a while. It was almost a pattern with them and one he was comfortable with. Except he had not returned, and there would be no more sucking up.

He sighed again, more deeply, remembering the shock at seeing Gibson standing at the bus station as he got off. Gibson was barely twenty and at full height stood not much higher than Mulder's waist. He was shorter than even Scully, but he was a strong kid mentally and that made up for his lack of physique. Mulder had been stunned to see him, and had approached immediately. Gibson had been glaring at him with his arms folded; it was a defensive posture and an angry expression Mulder had never really seen in the boy.

'Gibson, what are you-'

'I'm about to board another bus,' he had answered, cutting Mulder off. 'You're coming with me.' Gibson's stern, extremely unhappy tone had invited no further comment, and Mulder had followed him mutely to the ticket station, watching him purchase another one way ticket further south-west. 'Hurry up,' Gibson huffed once the tickets were in his hands. 'We can't miss it. I'll explain on the bus.'

Gibson had waited until the bus was rolling before turning to Mulder, who was sitting in the window seat. He had wanted the aisle but Gibson had flatly refused. The feelings of disquiet were becoming more sickening with every minute the young man made him wait for an explanation. Gibson was more than just frustrated with him. He was furious.

'You almost missed me,' he seethed once they were away from the bus station. 'You're lucky I heard you. What are you doing here?'

'You said you had something to tell me in your last email.'

'That's an excuse,' Gibson told him, reading his mind. Sometimes Mulder thought it was pointless to actually answer any of Gibson's questions, but it would be rude not to, and it was a measure of Gibson's respect for Mulder that he bothered to ask. 'You had a fight with Scully,' he stated seriously.

'Yeah, I was gonna call her-'

'Phones are out all over the place,' he interrupted. 'You can't call. She doesn't know where you are?'

'No,' Mulder mumbled, frowning. 'Is that why you're pissy? Because we had a fight?'

'You should have stayed,' Gibson growled. 'I didn't tell you because I knew you and Scully would be safe there. You know the truth. I know you have provisions. Where we're going now, I need to help the friends who don't understand.'

'What are you talking about?' Mulder had asked, watching Gibson stare at the analogue watch on his strong wrist. He had long arms and large hands for such a little dude, which led Mulder to believe either he was a late bloomer or that the experiments done on his brain over so much of his early life had somehow stunted his physical growth. Some sort of chemical imbalance wasn't out of the question either, considering the junk DNA active inside him that remained inactive inside everybody else.

Gibson politely ignored all of those thoughts and concentrated on what Mulder really had to know.

'They're coming early.'

He only needed three words, and it was enough to make Mulder want to throw up. No wonder Gibson had given him the window seat, he realised. It was in case he tried to stop the bus and go back. He had sucked in a sharp breath. Surely he could make it back. He had to get back home. He had to be with Scully when 'they' came. He had promised her. He had promised her his soul in 'that' moment and he HAD to get back.

But as usual Gibson had a way of bluntly telling him how it was, and Mulder began to comprehend the consequences of his decision to leave for more than just a few hours.

'You would never make it back in time. When we get to where we're going, we'll only have an hour to find them.'

'I need to call her.'

'You can't. Phones went down last night.'

'Last night?'

'In preparation,' Gibson had explained. 'I didn't know it was happening until then.'

'I need to go back,' Mulder had whispered, panic rising in his chest and quickening the beat of his heart. Gibson merely shook his head. 'I promised her we'd go together.'

'You won't die,' Gibson told him. 'Not if we make it on time.' He had decided then that Mulder didn't need or want any more information, and he stopped talking.

Mulder had been content to look out of the window of the bus as the stars as they appeared in the darkening sky.

'Will I see her again?' he had asked after Gibson declared they were almost there. The boy had stared at him, serious and grim.

'No,' he had answered simply.

No. Inside his sleeping bag, Mulder let the word repeat inside his mind as his eyes shut to stop the tears. One managed to trickle sideways down his face towards his ear. He opened his eyes again, struggling to clear his vision. If he just focussed on the stars, it would be all right, he told himself. It would be all right.

Or not. It would NOT be all right. Because though he was not alone at the makeshift campsite, he was more alone than he had been since the minute before the moment when a pair of high heels had alerted him to a distinctly feminine visitor in the basement of the FBI Hoover building. His new partner. Sent to spy on him. She had become his protector, his lifeline, his believer. She had believed not always in his theories, but always and without question in him. The plan to use her against him had backfired. She had been his best friend, and in the past few years his lover. The woman that he loved.

The woman that he loved that he had left to confront the alien invasion all by herself.

Mulder sat up in the sleeping bag and leant forward over his outstretched, long legs, clutching his head in his hands and shaking it. He HAD to stop thinking about Scully. He had to, he had to. What if she was gone? What if she had died? It had been two months. He had seen the bodies. So many bodies. Those human remains reduced almost to ash. Soon they would be a part of the earth once more. Within months the only evidence of human colonisation would be the cars, the buildings, the roads not yet destroyed.

At least in this part of the world, he reassured himself. At least in THIS part of the world.

Mulder had been surprised when the bus had pulled into their stop a whole five minutes early. He had both expected and dreaded delays, but the roads had been quieter at night and though confusion over the telecommunication problems would have spread, mass panic had not yet ensued. Gibson took it all in his stride, solemn and determined.

The night air had been cold as Mulder towered over Gibson. His breath had fogged in front of him and he had pulled his bare arms tight around his broad frame. He regretted not rugging up more before leaving the house, just as he still regretted not taking his cell phone, and taking his wallet with his credit card. If he had left without it, there would have been no point getting on even the first bus. He would have just walked around the block a few times, then gone home and worked through his frustrations with Scully.

Instead of being warm in his bed, he had been walking down a foreign, suburban street with Gibson, who seemed to know where he was going without referring to any maps.

'You been here before?' he had asked. Gibson had nodded.

'They invite me at Thanksgiving.' Mulder had smiled then, wondering who they were going to find, to attempt to save. Gibson had always been welcome at his own home, but had stayed away on purpose. Communicating via the occasional email was one thing, but Gibson and Mulder both knew that other people knew where they were and who they socialised with. To be seen together was potentially dangerous, even if it was for an innocent holiday celebration. Not even Scully's mother came to visit.

In truth, Mulder had not seen Gibson in the flesh since the night he had escaped from the military prison where he had been held, tried and sentenced to death. It had been strange to be in his presence after three years, but at the same time familiar. It was always familiar with Gibson. He was so steadfast and reliable. He disliked mundane chit-chat. He knew Mulder as well as Mulder knew himself, so Mulder was only ever uncomfortable around him when he was uncomfortable with himself.

Just as he had been walking along the streets at night, watching Gibson obsessively checking his watch, thinking about what Scully would be doing. He could not remember whether or not she was rostered on to work. He thought she'd had a rostered day off, and she was only supposed to usually work during the days, but perhaps she had picked up another emergency night shift, or maybe she had stayed back late at the office.

Or maybe she was at home worrying because the phones didn't work and he had been gone for more than an entire day with nothing but the clothes on his back and his wallet.

'I am such a wank,' he had mumbled. Gibson scoffed, just ahead of him.

'No arguments from me,' he shot back. 'But stop feeling sorry for yourself and move faster. They're your friends too.'

Gibson had refused to elaborate until they had happened upon the right street. Then he had broken into a run. Mulder had purposefully slowed his long stride so that he tailed Gibson. He had barely been puffing by the time they reached the house, but Gibson had taken a few seconds to calm his breath before banging on the door. Lights had been on inside. It had been late, but not past his own usual bedtime.

The rustle of a nearby sleeping bag alerted Mulder to movement to his left, but he remained hunched over with his head covered, silent and still. He knew who it was. They wandered off into the distance towards their allocated toilet area and returned a few minutes later, crouching beside him. A warm, soft hand landed on his shirt-covered shoulder and squeezed.

"Are you okay?"

Mulder decided he had to say something otherwise she would worry. He lifted his head and turned towards the voice of Monica Reyes. Her dark brown hair had grown past her shoulders and was loose and as greasy and sandy as his. Her brown eyes were black pools in the night and they glistened with the sheen of unshed tears. Her lips quivered and Mulder thought she might have been awakened more from a dream than the need to relieve herself. He nodded at her, pressing his lips together and managing a pained smile.

"Just thinking about John's face when he opened your door," he mumbled. Monica broke into a smile and chuckled, her hand drifting away from his shoulder. She nodded.

"I don't think mine was much better."

"You feeling okay?" he asked, concerned at the lack of colour he suddenly noticed in her olive skin.

"Yeah, just a little queasy," she conceded. "I should lie down I just, were you...thinking about Dana?" Mulder pressed his lips together more tightly and nodded just once, his eyes glazing over as he looked away. Monica's hand returned to his shoulder for another comforting squeeze.

"When did Gibson say we were voting?"

"In the morning," he mumbled. Monica nodded thoughtfully. "It's okay I...Maybe John's right. We're so far over schedule. Maybe since we're about halfway we should re-evaluate and maybe, maybe it was stupid of me to suggest another vote. Maybe we should just go back."

"No, it wasn't stupid at all," she assured him in a serious whisper. "John's just worried about me. It's my fault we've had to take this last month so slowly, but I'm doing better now. Mulder, wanting to go back...That's not stupid at all. As you said, we're already halfway. Why turn back now? It will take a few more weeks to get there and then longer to get back. I...You can understand why John and Gibson are against it, can't you?" Mulder nodded. "If we go any further, there's no turning back for a long while."

"I know," he whispered. "I can go alone."

"No," Monica insisted, gripping his shoulder. "That is not an option. Mulder, my vote is with you, okay?"

"Monica," Mulder sighed, tears of resignation stinging his eyes. "No, it's pointless. It's just...I'm sure she was at work. She wouldn't have, she...She's probably dead."

"What's the rush?" she asked. "There's nothing to say we have to be south by a certain time. We have all the time in the world left, really, the way Gibson tells it. We will find her. We'll find out what happened to her."

"I can't drag you all on another selfish quest."

"Mulder what if she wasn't working?" Monica pressed. "What if she's alive?"

"That's what I said about Samantha," he mumbled. "I don't know if...I could stand to see Scully all burned up. I don't know if I want to."

"What happened between this afternoon and now to make you doubt what you want?"

"I don't doubt what I want," Mulder assured her softly, confidently. "I know exactly what I want. I'm just not sure I could deal with the alternative. I don't know if I can live without her. It can't be the end, not the way we left it. It's not right."

"Maybe not," she pondered. "But sometimes life doesn't end the way you thought it would." Mulder swallowed heavily and nodded. That he understood.

"You should go back to sleep," he urged, not wanting to dwell on all who had been lost to him in his life, in Scully's life.

"Okay," Monica agreed, stretching up on her knees and leaning forward to press her lips briefly against his cheek. "Try to sleep Mulder." He nodded even though he knew it was useless. Her tenderness was touching, but it would not be enough to put him to sleep.

xxx

The sun had barely revealed itself over the tops of the distant buildings when Mulder awoke from what could only be described as a disturbed nap. The lightening sky was all it took to wake him and he was not surprised to see John already digging through one of their bags of supplies for food and probably the little shaving kit and mirror he carried, which he still used obsessively. Mulder couldn't be stuffed with all that. John Doggett was a morning person, through and through. Mulder was not as alert first thing, at least not without coffee, which happened to be in short supply since his world had ended.

Funny that, he mused dryly, clearing his throat to get John's attention and lazily waving. His expression was not happy and neither was John's. They'd had a major argument the previous day. Only Monica and Gibson had prevented it becoming a full-on fight. Sharing two months worth of close quarters with one mind-reader and two ex-colleagues who happened to be happily married and expecting their first child was not on Mulder's list of 'happy things to do before I die'.

He felt claustrophobic. It was actual claustrophobia, not the poor excuse for boredom he had experienced in Virginia. In the past two months, the first spent in the confines of a small, overcrowded basement, he had drowned and he was still drowning. He was smothered by grief and the attentiveness of old friends who had never really understood what he and Scully had. No, Mulder corrected. What they still had.

John and Monica were the example of what Mulder would never have, and on top of the knowledge he would likely never see Scully again it was bordering on too much. Monica understood and he was grateful for that. Gibson also knew, and kept the conversation neutral and focussed. Nobody left Mulder alone for any great length of time. He was not allowed to carry any weapons or maps, and he was under strict orders not to wander off.

Like he was some three year old on a leash and they were scared any minute he would break free and do something stupid. Mulder had already BEEN stupid. He'd had enough.

John brought over a bottle of water and plonked himself onto the sand. He was wearing worn jeans, as they all were, and a scruffy blue button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His light brown hair was short and straight, the stubble still on his cheeks was specked with grey, and his blue eyes were as clear as a freshwater stream. They were a lighter shade of blue than Scully's, Mulder had determined. They made it very difficult for John to get away with lying, so it was a good thing he was an honest bloke. Up front, ex-NYPD, ex-army, ex-FBI. No fuss, hard working; qualities Mulder appreciated in a buddy, though he and John had not always been on the friendliest of terms.

"Thanks," he muttered, accepting the bottle of water and taking a long drink. It was John's silent way of apologising for using Scully to hurt him. "How'd you sleep?"

"Think I prefer sleeping indoors," John teased, earning a chuckle from Mulder. "Nice to have some fresh air though. See the sky." They nodded together in agreement and watched Monica sit up and rub her forehead. Mulder knew it was routine. She pulled her hair back with the tie that had been wrapped around her wrist, and it was not because it was hot. It was so that she didn't throw up all over it. True to form, after a minute of quiet contemplation, she stood and very calmly walked as far away from the group as possible, before kneeling carefully and throwing up into the sand.

"Guess that's my signal to get up," Gibson grumbled from the comfort of his sleeping bag. John reached his foot forward and gave the bag a gentle kick somewhere in the vicinity of Gibson's backside, and the three men shared a laugh.

"You all right Mon?" John called from his seat. She lifted a hand and waved him back. At the start she had wanted him close, her nausea frightening for her, and in the past month she had been tired and unwell, but more lately she seemed to only throw up the once and she preferred her space while she did. The rest of the day she was fine, and she was nowhere near as weakened as she had been. John knew she was deeply embarrassed but Mulder and Gibson had been good about it; neither of them really cared as long as she was otherwise healthy. John was grateful that was the case, but five months in, he was starting to stress about their predicament, and where they would be and who they would be with when it all went down, when they actually had to 'have' a baby.

"Was Dana very sick?" Mulder asked suddenly, gesturing towards Monica with one hand and scratching his thick, brown beard with the other. John chuckled.

"Yeah," he replied, shaking his head. "Although I think it was partly psychological. You know with uh, all the confusion about how it could've happened, and uh, you not being there." Mulder hummed, wincing as Monica cleared her throat rather loudly. It was so silent around them that noise travelled much farther. Mulder knew if he shouted it would echo, perhaps even for a mile. Not even a bird flapped its wings in the early morning sky.

Nobody said any more until Monica returned. After rinsing her mouth she managed a few sips of water and retrieved her packet of crackers, holding them in her lap as she sat cross-legged on the sand. At the start they had cared about the sand, but after just a few days outdoors it seemed pointless. It was all over them, and nobody was concerned with appearances. Not after spending a month in a tiny basement with three other people.

"You gonna eat?" Mulder asked. Monica winced and shook her head.

"Not yet," she managed, clearing her throat more softly. "But I feel good. So...Let's not waste time."

"All right," Gibson sighed, taking the lead. Sometimes he thought it was funny the three adults in their late thirties and forties, all former law enforcement, looked to 'him' for guidance. He had only just turned twenty. But he knew that in that moment he held them together. He had made the decision to protect them all, and he knew none of them really understood the scope of what had happened, or what they would face in the future.

"Here are the options," he continued. "I'll explain it again just so we're really clear. Firstly, again, you all need to understand that we have to move south. Originally we set out to get to Virginia, and we said it would probably take six weeks. So far we've spent approximately four weeks and we're only a little over halfway. Now that Monica's stronger, it might only take a couple of weeks to get there. However, if we turned back now there are places we can go where you will be able to survive but they're south of the border. There are other people there, there are doctors there." He stared pointedly at Monica and she looked away nervously. "The destruction there is minimal."

"Would we be enslaved there?" John asked.

"Some survivors like us were expected. I think provisions exist there for life to co-exist. Not like here. Here it is barren. It's like...a giant resource mine, all stripped away. It will be like this everywhere in this country, and the cities are worse. Mulder, that's what I found out, that I thought I might tell you. I won't know for sure until we get closer."

"Was there a virus?" Mulder asked.

"Not the same one you're speaking of," Gibson answered. "It killed everyone above-ground, but it's gone now. It won't come back now they're here. I knew you had an underground reinforced bunker built. I knew John and Monica only had a cellar. That's why I needed to make sure they were safe more than you and Scully."

"How far into Mexico is somewhere like you described?" John asked. "Somewhere where there are other people?"

"It could be a few weeks further south of the border," Gibson estimated. "Maybe another month. The first option we have is to begin moving south today. We would be recanting on the promise we made to Mulder to return with him to Virginia to search for Scully, but even if we turned back now the later stages might be slow-going, with Monica pregnant. But I think we would be with others by the time she had the baby. The second idea-" He paused to sigh. "Is to continue to travel north-east to his home, to investigate the whereabouts of Scully."

"And how long is that again?" John asked warily. "You said a few weeks?"

"Up to a month there if we set a slow pace," Gibson emphasised. Monica rolled her eyes and Mulder had to hide his smirk behind his hand. Gibson watched them both seriously, not visibly reacting to either of them, preferring to continue. "Assuming we find her there, in whatever state, we would then need to move south. It would take just as long to get back if not longer, seeing as how we would be so tired. We might need to stay in Virginia a couple of weeks to rest."

"Is there any real urgency for us to get across the border?" Monica asked curiously. "You said yesterday there wasn't."

"Not exactly, no," Gibson conceded. "But the sort of round trip we're talking about, on foot, means by the time we get to any civilised area you could be close to being due. You might even have the baby just with us. You need to think about that."

"I have thought about it," she replied defiantly, sticking out her chin. "I vote Virginia."

"Monica," John sighed, shaking his head.

"It's Dana Scully," she retorted, not giving him a chance to go on. "My 'condition' has nothing to do with it. I'm healthy, I can walk."

"Yeah 'now' you can walk, but what about in three or four months time?" John pressed. Monica turned to stare at him.

"She is my friend," she hissed seriously, tears filling her brown eyes and deceiving the residual resistance evident in her expression. "If it was me I know Mulder and Scully would do the same for us. I know it John. We need to check."

"Four months of our lives, maybe five, to 'check'?"

"Are you telling me," Monica whispered, her eyes widening and searching John's for some kind of reaction. "That if it was me, if there were things unsaid between us, if there was just a chance I survived, even a good chance that I was dead, you would walk away? Could you walk away from that John?"

John sighed. He hated when she searched his soul with those large eyes. She was not stupid. She knew exactly what she was doing and she knew he was helpless to it. It was not because she had some unseen power over him, and it was not because he was weak. It was because she was right. It was the same way she had convinced him to vote for Virginia in the first place. If the roles had been reversed, he would have insisted on going back for her, and Mulder was not even insisting. He had been the previous day, but now he seemed resigned to whatever fate they all chose for him. He sat silently, his hands clasped together, too involved in his own thoughts to even bother fidgeting.

"Mulder," John urged. "What do you want to do?"

"Doesn't matter," he mumbled without looking up. John turned to Monica and saw her brushing sudden tears from her eyes.

"Yes it does Mulder," she insisted. "Yes it does matter. Look me in the eye and tell me what you want." Mulder sighed, reluctantly raising his head and staring into her face. Her cheeks had more colour and he softened at the sight of her brushing them self-consciously, drying any tears that had spilled.

"I want to see her," he answered, his voice low and cracking. His vulnerability seemed to strengthen Monica and she sat up straighter and pinned Gibson with a serious glare.

"My vote is for Virginia," she repeated firmly. Beside her, John sighed.

"Me too," he groaned, sounding pained to admit defeat. Monica stared at him in shock and he shrugged helplessly. "I would want to see you too," he sighed, shaking his head. "We'll...we can manage with the baby as long as nothing goes wrong and it doesn't-"

"May I please interrupt?" Gibson asked politely, his voice deep but not as deep as John or Mulder's. "Can I present a third option?"

"Thought you said we couldn't split up?" John asked.

"No," Gibson corrected. "Say we all go to Virginia, and find evidence of Scully's survival, but no Scully. What then?"

"Does everyone know to go south?" Mulder asked hopefully.

"Did you know to go south before I told you?" Gibson shot back smartly. "Unless the survivors are with somebody who knows of the plans they will not know and will most likely survive as scavengers for as long as that allows. My point is that if Scully has survived and ventured outdoors... She would most likely be long gone by the time we get to your house."

"Or she could still be there," Monica stated optimistically. "Mulder said they had supplies down there to last a year."

"Mulder will want to search for her."

"No," Mulder assured him. "No, I could come back with you."

"I don't believe you," Gibson replied. "And neither do they. How long would you make them stay while you searched?"

"I could probably canvas the town in three days," Mulder promised quickly. "Five at most. If we can't find her by then, then...We can go. I swear it." He held out his hand towards Gibson and stared him down with the most honest expression he could manage, making sure just one thought ran through his mind.

I promise. I promise. One week. I promise.

Gibson's eyes slid to Monica and John and they both nodded their consent. He knew he had been out-voted. It was not that he didn't want to try to find Scully if she was alive, it was just that the probability that she was alive was so slim compared to the real chance they all had at a semi-decent future if they could just cross the border. They had wasted so much time already. Instead of moving forward they were taking huge steps backwards.

But if Scully was worth that to them then he would help, and he would help wholeheartedly. He had always liked Scully; she had always trusted him with all of her thoughts, the good and the bad. She was, or had been, a very good person, and he knew better than anyone else how badly Mulder loved her. If they found her alive it would be a miracle. If they found her dead Gibson knew Mulder would prefer to die there with her.

Staring at his outstretched hand, Gibson slowly extended his own.

"Virginia," he declared. "We leave immediately."