DISCLAIMERS: They all belong to Chris Carter and Fox. I want nothing. Don't sue.
RATING: This chapter is PG-13, The only problem here might be the language. The series would still carry an R
SUMMARY: Chapter 1 - Scully's story begins. Scully is forced to attend a get together where she finds familiar faces meeting with powerful strangers in this initial post-colonization conference. The soirÈe proves interesting and informative for everyone as secrets are revealed, lies uncovered, traitors exposed and punished, lost friends found, and before the party ends there is, of course -- the unmasking.
FILE THREE - The end draws near, and each person must choose which part they wish to play in this the final act. Each person decides their own destiny, but no one's fate is their's alone.
CATEGORIES: Post colonization, Alternate Universe, MSR, Angst
SPOILERS: We leave CC's universe completely toward the end of the 6th season.
FEEDBACK: Dev1025@uswest.net
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Sorry for the delay in starting this last part. Real life demanded my attention for a bit. The universe in these files doesn't blend well at times with this one we exist in. I'm hoping there'll be no more problems with me splitting my time between worlds and this story will progress with at least one chapter posted each week. Any and all prayers, chants, good luck charms and/or talismans sent in this direction for the purpose of assuring smooth sailing through this final book will be much appreciated and faithfully used.

*****

"Then Ananias went to the house and entered it. Placing his hands on Saul, he said, "Brother Saul, the Lord Jesus, who appeared to you on the road as you were coming here, has sent me so that you may see again and be filled with the Holy Spirit." Immediately, something like scales fell from Saul's eyes, and he could see again...

...Ananias said, "The God of our fathers has chosen you to know his will. He chose you to see the One who is right and to hear Him speak. You will speak for Him. You will tell all the people what you have seen and heard. Now, why do you wait?" Acts 22: 12-15

*****

CHAPTER ONE

FWM Tapes
Mid April, 2003

There's been traffic on Highway 1 for the last week or so. Several times a day, I've been hearing what sounds like trucks. We now know what it is. The round-up has started. Since yesterday morning, each time we hear the low rumble of what Skinner scouted out as being military transports, I'm hustled off to the old root cellar that Wagner used for his "survivalist pantry".

It's getting old, running and hiding like this. But, I'm an illegal, so there is no choice. At least not while we're here at Sky Watch. We're going to have to leave our humble abode, today or tomorrow, at the latest. The decision to leave came after Skinner's last run to the settlement center to get supplies. He returned much earlier than expected, but his explanation of short lines for the not even worth the trip ration allotment he'd received made sense to me.

I realized within the hour that something was up. The unannounced disappearance from camp of both my companions spurred my search which led me to the picnic area that the abandoned ranch had once leased out for parties. I interrupted my friends secret conference, surprising them with my unexpected appearance. I suggested that this get together should now become a meeting to discuss our future plans. My words were more than a bit heated, fueled by my painfully stung pride and bruised feelings.

It hurt that they had been trying to keep the news Skinner had learned in town from me, but I understand. In many ways, though, comprehending the whys of their attempts to shield me from such matters creates an agony which is much harder to live with. Still, the balm is knowing the most important truth --they care.

I'd overheard what Skinner had learned from the rumor mill grapevine that runs through the innumerable lines in each of the settlement centers. The decision to leave this place, our home for so long, is not by choice. It is a necessity. It seems life imprisonment in a camp is no longer the punishment for those who associate with illegals. If my friends are caught hiding me, they will be executed beside me.

(Sigh) Scully has been reading the files. She has agreed to add her story to our record of the time since "the end", but she told me she'd rather do it orally. This is strange, because she won't talk to ME about any of her journey or our months apart. I had Skinner acquire a recorder like mine for her so she can dictate her tale. Maybe this will help her deal with whatever is troubling her.

Tape Ends
-DKS-

You want this on tape?

MULDER: (His voice slurs with rapidly approaching sleep.) I want you to tell me everything, from when you left 'til now.

Mulder, you're talking 8 months. I can't tell you everything that happened the entire time we were apart...before you go to sleep...on one tape...

MULDER: Summarize...(Pause, a loud sleepy yawn. The sound of him burrowing his face against my neck.) Just hit the highlights right now, before I go to sleep...I want to hear the sound of your voice...I've missed listening to the sound of your voice...

So I put you to sleep? (Softly) You want a bedtime story? This year wasn't exactly a bedtime story, Mulder.

MULDER: (Sighs) Just talk to me...

Well, since I don't feel like singing... Mom used to be the one who told the bedtime stories. Stories from the Bible...

MULDER: Oh, save me. I've been cooped up with Reverend Walt all winter.

Sh-h-h, he'll hear you. (His laugh is muffled as he once more nuzzles against my neck. I smile and idly play with his thick, soft hair.) Okay,no Bible stories...well, sometimes she'd tell us about the lives of the saints.

MULDER: Your mother was very strange, Scully. Talk about your nightmare material.

(I find myself chuckling at the memories.) Well, there were a few that weren't too bad. And we did get the edited versions, but I can't say they brought sweet dreams. Ahab, now he could tell a story. We heard the classics from Ahab.

MULDER: Melville isn't exactly soothing fare...but then again he's probably less violent than Grimm's Fairy Tales and a hell of lot less mind numbing than that singing, purple dinosaur (another yawn).

Well, I loved the myths, the epic heroes. Zeus was Bill's favorite. I think he just liked the way he kept eating and vomiting his children. (His chuckle is a soft whisper against my neck. I can feel his long body slowly relax and melt against me.) I loved to hear about the muses and the charities...the Horae and the fates. You remember the story, Mulder? Clothos spins the thread, then Lachesis measures it, and Atropos cuts the thread...(His soft uhh-huh lets me know my spoken lullaby is working. I'm now talking more to myself. For myself.)

It was a good system, I guess. A logical system. It worked for countless millennia, but then the world tilted. I left and the skeins became tangled. I was wandering in a tapestry where I felt lost. I grasped at the threads, but found myself dangling by loose ends. I could no longer fully see the pattern being woven into destiny's cloth. Without you my future held no form or fashion. But now, wrapped in your arms, I feel I've found my place in the design that makes up this fabric we call life. (Pause, for I must enjoy the sight of his face; at last more than just a memory.) And so he sleeps...I'm sorry I left you. It will never happen again if I can help it. It is still forever, Mulder. I promise...

(Machine off)
-DKS-

Well, we've left Sky Watch. It was just getting to 'hot' to stay. Sooner or later the bounty hunters from the Fort Collins settlement area would have caught me. We were pressing our luck, staying as long as we did.

We buried the files there in the root cellar. We made a time capsule out of a one-drawer cabinet and now we're on the road. We've camped just over the Wyoming border, at the base of this hill that my companions tell me is topped by a huge, wooden buffalo. They also informed me that the land where we've pitched our tents was a buffalo ranch before the fall. I have a problem with choosing this location as our base of operations. The lumbering beasts have kept their distance up 'til now but -- well, they never looked this big in the movies. And they didn't smell this bad, either.

Scully and Skinner have decided that I am to hold the fort during their little larcenous excursion tonight. It stings that I am neither needed nor wanted, sans powers, on this night raid, but I've held my tongue. I don't want to distract them or give them something more to worry about before this endeavor. I do remember how the last one turned out. I feel we were lucky it ended as well as it did.

So while they plan, plot and prepare...I cook dinner. "They also serve, they who stand and wait." Yeah, bullshit. I hate fucking waiting. I always have. I feel useless and...whiny. Shit. Well, I guess I have a choice here. I can stay in camp, waiting, and pissing and moaning. Or I can use my powers (long pause) and run the risk of killing my friends, or at the very least, driving them away when I turn into some kind of megalomaniacal Luke Skywalker on an endorphin rush.

(Pause) While they're gone, maybe I'll listen to the tapes Scully made about her last year's adventure. She finally finished two of them. It'll pass the time, while I wait...

End Tape
-WSS-

Shall I start this "Dear Theophilus"? No, I guess Skinner has already taken on the role of Paul. So, who might I be in this little post-apocalypse passion play that we're staging? I do know, Mulder, my love, that YOU have been cast in the role of 'savior'. Whether you want the part or not, it looks like you are destined to play it.

I guess I arrived at that particular conclusion during my sojourn in the wilderness. During the long, cold months I was snowbound, I spent quite a bit of time thinking about everything that has happened. So much of what has come about seems to be the fulfillment of prophesies.

Before you ask, I did winter with a tribe of Mormon survivalists (laughs). I can just see your face at hearing this news. But this former skeptic now believes, 'there are more things in life...' I know there are more, Mulder, so much more. I've said it before; it's an inexplicable world. I've found that God does have a sense of humor and an extremely over-developed penchant for the absurd. You wanted my story, Mulder? Well, it's probably time you know what happened...

Mom and I were packing for the flight to Colorado when they arrived. The bell rang, so Mom hurried to open the door. Two extremely nervous, dark suited, young men stood on the porch, guns drawn.

"Dana Scully?" The taller of the pair inquired of my stunned mother.

"No, two doors down, " Mom answered, her discreet giggles soon becoming loud, braying guffaws at the rookie goons' crestfallen expressions. You know how I laugh when I'm nervous and how some things that most 'normal' people think are strange, horrible or frightening just tickle my funny bone? Well, it's a trait I inherited from my mom. She confessed a short time later that she just had to see the look on their faces at hearing they had the wrong house. Maggie Scully does have a bit of a cruel streak.

The shorter, dumpy one quickly glanced down at the note clutched ever so tightly in his sweaty hand. Seeing that the numbers written there matched those above the entry, the embarrassed kidnapper snarled, shoving my mother inside.

They wanted me to go with them. They had been sent by C.G.B. Spender. At first I was puzzled by the fact that our old nemesis sent such obvious incompetents to collect me. After a while, due to my ignoramus kidnappers' loose lips, and a little deductive reasoning on my part, I realized that CSM was a little short on help. Fowley had disappeared without a trace. Krycek, I soon found out, was in Colorado. All the other heavyweights he normally called on to do his nasty bidding were otherwise occupied with the million and one last minute chores which come with managing a successful alien takeover. Apparently, judging by his final selection, the goon pool was shallow at this point in time.

I grabbed my coat and motioned for my mother that we needed to go with these unkind gentlemen. I didn't fear for our safety. Curiosity is what made me wish to accompany the pair. This is when I first discovered that, somewhere, somehow, someone had caught Spender off guard. The two men spent the next twenty minutes arguing over what to do with MOM. Apparently she wasn't on Cancer Man's guest list. I assured the thugs that my mother would not present them with any problems if they left her at home unharmed.

Fortunately, they had at least an ounce of brains between them for they did as I asked. They must have reasoned that since they had me for a hostage, Mom had a reason to behave. Plus, they knew, in less than two hours local, state and national law enforcement would be dealing with the fear and panic that were certain to occur after the news of the alien coup was made public. So who could my mother call that wouldn't have their hands already more than full?

This is why I have hope that my mother is safe, Mulder. I was able to give her a business card with Jack Hart's toll free number on it. He'd been setting up that new office in Virginia Beach, remember? He didn't plan on returning to Cancun until September. And Morrie was with him. If anyone could have gotten Mom out before the riots and burning started, Jack could. Right? I have to believe I'm right. Two hours remained before the announcement, and most of the worst of the trouble didn't start in the cities 'til that night. So she could be safe, huh? Oh, God. (Pause while Scully composes herself.)

I was finally led out to the prerequisite black limo and blind folded. I do believe my captors were taking their instructions straight from "The Men In Black Kidnapping/Hostage Handbook". I guess it's just not written in the manual that an operative should not talk about the best route to reach his destination while his prisoner is sitting in the back seat.

Our three hour drive put us at our destination. I was led, still blindfolded, to the room that was to be my holding cell. I was sequestered in this tiny, windowless prison until the following morning. My stay wasn't uncomfortable; my lodgings were equipped with both a serviceable cot and a nice, reclining lounger. While there was no way to shower or bathe, the minuscule bathroom's sink did offer hot water. I was given towels, wash cloths and soap at my request. Twice a cloth covered meal tray was brought to me by a young, spit and polish Marine. There was even a little motel style refrigerator in the back corner, filled with bottled water and various sodas. I was given all the comforts of home. I was driven mad by the wait.

(There is a hitch in her voice as she continues.) Sixteen hours is an eternity to have nothing for company but your thoughts. I knew from the conversation I'd overheard from my oh-so-inept abductors that I was being held at some resort in Ocean City. I knew that this tourist spot was a headquarters of sorts for those we've always called THEM. I knew the clock had run out. I knew the end had begun. Cloistered there in my neat, well stocked cell, reality first began to blur while I dwelled on what might be happening outside the four walls that surrounded me.

We'd read Wagner's files. Studied them earnestly with the hope they would educate us as to our enemies' plans. Mulder, you know there was nothing there, among the speculation and rumor, that could have prepared us for what actually happened. The planned takeover was only the catalyst for the destruction that followed. The "Visitors'" only ignited the blaze; the fear and panic that fed the fire was purely human nature. They had counted on humanity to aid them in their cause. We didn't disappoint them now, did we?

Mulder, I failed this test, too. My own descent began in that very room, that very first night. The endless hours of waiting and imagining unveiled the flaws deep inside me. These fine, tight breaks in my character soon spread and widened. I splintered, shattered into a million tiny, bitterly sharp pieces. Oh, I've found bits of myself, here and there, as I made my way back, but what has been pieced together is tainted. When I gaze at my reflection, "she who returns my stare" is someone I no longer know. The image is distorted, hopelessly askew.

(Long pause) Mulder, I'm not the person you think you see.

(Machine off.)

-WSS-

*****

I'd forgotten this feeling, Mulder. Peace. The warmth of contentment. Funny, nothing has really changed in the world, from that time when I was out "there", cold and alone. I know THEY still rule. I'm aware that mankind has reverted, been reduced to an existence governed by the survival of the fittest. We are surrounded by violence, shadowed by death and must accept and deal with the truth that the entire human race is teetering on the edge of total obliteration. Yet...

You and I have just whiled away the night, (yes, that IS Venus there, proudly announcing the birth of a new day) mixing soft, whispered conversation, with tender kisses and heated passion. I rise from this bed you made for us beneath the planter's moon, and slip away to answer nature's call. When I return, I smile, listening to the sound of your low, sated snore. I relish the sweet, simple normalcy of this moment and I realize, I'm happy. This surprises me. I'd believed that was something I'd lost forever.

*****

The door to my prison finally opened at 5:20, the morning of August 10th and Alex Krycek glumly motioned for me to follow him. His normal, smoothly handsome face was marred by a frown, and the dark circles beneath his eyes were testimony to his lack of sleep. We walked through the dimly lit hallway, neither of us venturing into conversation. I hid the desperation and fear that had consumed me during my lonely incarceration, grimly setting my shoulders to walk as tall as I could beside him.

We took a service elevator, silently riding up to finally stop on the penthouse floor. No bunkers or basements for these conquering despots. The door slid open to a "top of the world" luxury suite, complete with a wonderful panoramic view of the morning sun rising over the blue-gray ocean. The sliding patio door was closed. The huge room was befouled with a haze of cigarette smoke. C.G.B. Spender stood near the wide glass expanse, busily talking on a cell phone as he watched the day begin.

I was quietly ushered over to him and a smile creased his craggy features. Not wanting to return his greeting, I focused on the lit cigarette almost burned down to the filter. He held it casually between the middle and index fingers of his right hand. At that moment I noticed the brown nicotine stain that discolored the digits. I watched as he absently lit another of the brown and white sticks off the smoldering butt of the first. I was still mutely staring, mindlessly enraptured by the rituals of his habit, when I suddenly realized he was speaking to me.

"What?" I murmured, meeting his fluid, gray gaze. The vertical lines cut into his jowls as he half grinned. "I asked, Ms. Scully, to what do we owe this pleasure?"

"You brought me here, "I mumbled, surprised and confused by his query. Try as I might, I couldn't quite disguise the muddled daze that lack of sleep and recent events were causing in my mind.

The crevices deepened; he smiled. "We are puzzled as to why you're here on the coast, Ms. Scully, and not in your usual place - -by Mulder's side."

"I was visiting my mother," I stuttered, attempting a disinterested shrug that didn't come off as casually as I'd planned. "I needed some time away from...with all that's happened."

He stared at me, suddenly somber, searching for the truth of my reply. He sensed I was holding something back, knew my hastily blurted excuse covered only surface intent. Fortunately, his ego didn't allow him to question the intelligence he'd acquired concerning your condition, or that the bits of knowledge he'd gathered detailing our lives in Colorado could possibly be suspect.

Did he choose to read my answer as a reluctant admission that my 18 month long death watch duty to my former partner had finally taken its toll? That must have been what happened, for ever so slowly, the lips stretched into a grin and the flinty eyes locked in to hold me. "Your timing is to be admired. Must be the luck of the Irish, wouldn't you say, Alex?"

Krycek muttered something in answer, too low for me to decipher. Spender either had heard the younger man's reply or wasn't really interested in what Alex thought because his cold study never left my face as he spoke. I couldn't break the contact, I could find neither the energy or the focus to even begin to try.

That's when I knew, Mulder, that something had happened, back home in Colorado. I sensed something was wrong. With you. A tingling dizziness rose from this surety and I swayed. Only the cold, hard grip of Spender's hand on my arm kept me from falling.

"Take her to the couch and I'll order her some food. They're not due until eight. I don't want her to look this shaky when they arrive."

The words buzzed softly in my ears. I was ushered to a soft, cushiony sofa and made to lie down. My eyes shut of their own accord, and my captors' voices were a low drone in the darkness. I didn't have the strength to fight. I must have slipped off to sleep almost instantly.

Alex Krycek woke me, gently shaking my arm, and I numbly accepted his help to sit. A plate of Belgian Waffles garnished with fresh strawberries sat on the low, glass and gold plated coffee table before me. I ate without hunger, hoping the sustenance and black coffee would clear my head and give me strength.

I was on the last few bites of waffle when the expected visitors arrived. I tried to stay interested in my meal, but I couldn't help a quick glance up when the company entered and greetings were exchanged. My breakfast was forgotten when I spotted the tall, brutally muscular man who had entered with the crowd. It was the alien who held me hostage for your "sister".

My heart pounded in my chest as I reasoned that since this "man" was actually an extraterrestrial in disguise, his companions might well be the same. My blatant stare caught the notice of one of the group, a slim, graying man in his fifties, but I quickly returned my gaze to my food. Spender ushered his guests over to the sitting area near the patio.

I eavesdropped on the conversation, hearing most of what was said. The discussion was, for the most part, about how successful their plans were proceeding. More than an hour passed, during which my presence was generally ignored, except by the visitor who had met my eyes. Mulder, he could have been Paul Newman's identical twin, but younger. Each time I glanced over, I found him watching me. His bright, blue gaze radiated extreme pleasure that I was there.

Finally, giving a nod to me, he spoke in a voice that was smoothly articulate; the accent hinting of time spent on magnolia covered verandahs, mint julep in hand. "I'm assuming he's in the bedroom since she's here."

A hushed silence followed his statement and all eyes focused in on Spender, including my own. The air seemed to leave the room when I read his expression and stood up to hear what he had to say, not even realizing I'd gotten to my feet.

"There was a problem," Spender explained, his voice low. A solemn mask of sadness was slipped on to mold his leather features to the proper degree of distress. I found myself inching closer to hear the news. "Apparently Wagner was a lot more like his father than he knew. He fought back. Patriotic delusions."

My gaze was drawn to the visitor when he spoke. "Just get to the point, Charles." The request sliced through the tension filled air with sharply honed ire, wielded with a much practiced, acutely accurate precision. "He's dead, am I right?"

"There was a fire..." Spender's excuse began its rebirth, but died quickly when the cold, blue fire seared it to ash. With a deep sigh, eyes on the floor, he nodded the truth.

When stars die, they implode. Their vast energy crushes them inward on themselves and the brilliant light blinks out. All that is left is a void. A black hole. A dark nothingness.

*****

Voices blurred and blended, muffled by the roar of the blood rushing through my veins. I was paralyzed, standing frozen to my spot behind Krycek. My body, my mind, my emotions were deadened, dulled by shock to a self-defensive, half-life that I mutely prayed would last forever, because I knew the pain would be there for that long at the very least. I felt crushed and the world slowly began to tilt with this weight.

Weakly, I placed a trembling hand on the back of the chair to steady myself. Paul Newman rose from his seat at seeing me sway. The others in the room followed his lead. As creatures cloaked as men rushed to gather around me, I felt smothered by their closeness. They stole what little air I had left in me. With frightened panic, I fought their grasping hands, stumbling away from their worried concern. I found myself backed against a door, and I slid down to the plush, carpeted floor when my legs finally gave way. The group gathered in a tight semi-circle; all eyes centered on me as I buried my face in my arms to muffle my tears.

The voice broke through my misery and confusion with a sharp, electric surge. Shock at hearing him in my mind brought my head up with a jerk. Though I searched the faces of those around me, I knew from the start, the soft whispers were not coming from anyone here. It was a young voice that spoke to me. The small cry was hauntingly familiar.

"Gibson?"

A quicksilver laugh assured me my guess was correct. Mulder, I think the mind link you and I share is what made me so receptive to the boy. Gibson, while very adept at receiving others' thoughts, had never succeeded in sending until that very moment. His relief and joy at finally being able to communicate filled me, and I couldn't help my smile. It didn't go unnoticed.

"Ms. Scully?" Blue Eyes leaned closer to me, tentative, cautious. His cold study still somehow reflected a concern for my sanity.

I suppose he had reason to fear my mental state. I hadn't exactly shown that I was coping too well with recent events. It had been plain to see from the start. I'd been nothing but frayed nerves and splintered psyche. The way I'd reacted when I overheard the rumors of your death had been a wonderful illustration of an unhinged, human female.

I chose to ignore them all. Ducking my head, I closed my eyes and concentrated on listening to the boy. Words were tumbling from him, a long pent up flow that overloaded the weary, wounded synaptic processors in my brain. Numb, close to shock in my grief, I received only about half of what he was telling me. It was more than enough to make me lose my smile. The sobs began in earnest as I heard of yet another child, used, abused, destroyed by the evil that stood not two feet from me.

Gibson effortlessly read every nuance of my mind, even as he told his tale. It wasn't long before he stopped, pulling back from me at realizing just how his painful self-history was effecting me. Mulder, they'd left him little more than a vegetable, kept alive by machines. But the worst part was, his consciousness still thrived. He wasn't mindless, far from it. It was like what had happened to you, but so much more frightening, because he had been fully cognizant from the start; there was no hope for release. For over four years he had existed in that nightmare, alive, but not alive.

I attempted to recover from what I'd learned of his tragic history and pull my wits about me, all the while feeling his comfortable presence there with me. He was waiting, watching, politely studying me with his mind as one would contemplate another when having a "normal", mundane conversation. I felt his gentle probing, but wasn't offended by it. It was no more obtrusive than a concerned bystander's visual assessment.

It was enough though, to inform him of the reason for my grief. He quickly informed me of the truth.

"He's not dead!" I gasped aloud, stunned by this joyous revelation. My eyes popped open and I jerked, bolt upright. I vaguely noticed the crowd that watched me take a step back in unison at my surprised reaction.

Had I not been in such a turmoil, I might have registered Gibson's question as to why I had not realized the fact that you'd survived. You see, Mulder, he had sensed our link, so it puzzled him that I had even questioned your demise. He knew that connected as we are, I would, of course, immediately know of your passing. I guess this information did lodge somewhere in my subconscious, because later it would prove to be my lifeline.

Looking about, noticing the eight sets of eyes that so intently studied me, I couldn't help the grin that came with my newly discovered knowledge. Slowly, I pushed up against the door at my back and made it to my feet. I caught sight of C.G.B. Spender's puzzled gaze and gave him a triumphant smile.

"You didn't kill him. He's still alive, you black lunged bastard!" I laughed at the fear that sprang into those cold, gray eyes.

Gibson had told me all. I knew now that the handsome, blue eyed one, with the morphed, movie star's face was the head of the project. The leader cut a glance to Spender at my accusation, but remained silent, waiting and watching.

Our old nemesis sputtered. "What are you talking about?"

My grin grew even more bright as I simply whispered, "I know." Silence blanketed the room. I suddenly knew what had to be told. "I know who is behind this door."

I watched as a half circle of faces grew pale. They seemed to float before me as I began to quote, "And there came a voice in the wilderness...saying, 'He who comes after me is mightier than I... He will baptize you all with the Holy Spirit, and with fire.'" I turned to the Cancer Man and felt power when he seemed to shrink at my gaze. "You can't get rid of Mulder, you son of a bitch. He IS the one. Don't you see that?"

Krycek stepped forward, his complexion the color of ash, his eyes brightly beseeching and desperately grasped my arm. "You know I tried to help him."

I listened as my oracle told me this was true. "You helped," I nodded, allowing him the crumbs his act deserved.

"You know all this?" the leader asked calmly, catching my attention; holding me with his searing, sapphire stare.

"The boy is a prophet and you have him behind this door. He knows. He sees. That's why you feared him. You know who he is. You know why he's here." I paused and let the truth come into me. "Spender brought him here, in this condition. You were angry it had happened, but still, it made it easier for you to control him and his power, didnít it?î

A low, whispered swear was flung from the area behind the leader, instantly drawing the room's attention. We watched a light glimmer cross the Cancer Man's face as understanding of a truth was born. It brought first a dark frown, then slowly, a resigned smile broke through the dusky cloud of anger.

"I suppose this is my cue to demand a bowl to wash my hands," Spender chuckled wearily. He stepped over to the handsomely cloaked alien, his eyes filled with resigned betrayal. "You see, I've always told you I was only here to serve your will. I didn't lie now, did I?" His laugh was soft, dipped in bitterness.

The leader twisted in scorn, his disgust perfectly expressed by his evenly voiced, but archly clipped, British tones, "You chose the part you wished to play. We never requested these acts of you, Charles. It was your own desires that drove you to do what you did."

I followed the alien's sharp christaline glance as he mutely signaled the muscular visitor we'd met so long ago. The drama continued to unfold before my wide-eyed, stunned watch . The huge, brutally constructed guard slipped quickly, soundlessly, behind C.G.B. Spender, his arm raising as though to strike the unseeing, unsuspecting human.

A small, sharply exhaled sigh parted Spender's lips, and he pitched forward, hitting the carpet with a muffled thud. A tiny, dark red blotch stained the back of his white collar. Every eye focused on the still form, lying upon the gun metal colored carpet in what resembled, in it's stiff formality, the military stance of attention. His face was buried deep in the plush pile.

The only thought that rambled about in my weary, shock befuddled brain was an idiotically absurd observance. I kept repeating to myself, over and over that Cancer Man was truly dead because I knew he couldn't breathe carpet.

"Do you want to see the boy?" the leader asked softly, breaking through my almost mindless haze.

I reeled myself up to a somewhat coherent lucidity in order to nod that I did wish to see Gibson Praise. Together, his hand firmly on my elbow to guide me, we entered the next room. His burly guard made to follow us, but was halted by a stern shake of the older 'man's' head; then the door swung shut behind us.

End Part 1

Chapter 2

Both Skinner and Scully are sleeping right now, so I can speak freely. They returned safely, early this morning. I'm thankful. Their safety is what counts most. But their mission can't quite be counted a complete success. The settlement pharmacy was a cracker box, easily broken into. It was guarded by only one disinterested human. The reason for this is what brought Scully home almost in tears, and created the worried frown that puckered Skinner's high forehead. The shelves were almost bare. My larcenous companions returned all but empty handed.

All they got for their trouble was less than a month's supply of Tegretol. Holding Scully, trying to will her to rest, I attempted to reassure her, but the anti-seizure medication is the one I need the most. This is the truth. I have to confess, I DO fear the certainty that soon, after this small supply runs out, I'll have to face a future plagued by Grand Mal seizures (pause).

Scully does have a back-up plan, however. My partner, the former skeptic, is now placing all her hopes for my mental health on the homeopathic remedies she procured from Cheyenne's leading black-market shaman, Diane Perry, formerly of the Dancing Elephant Apothecary. Not only is this herbalist's witches' brew warming my belly as I speak, but my head is aromatically doused with a mixture that Scully was led to believe is chiefly frankincense. The erstwhile religious connotations aside, I do know the spice has been shown to have soothing effects, which is why it has historically anointed far more illustrious brows than mine.

So, once again, my partner and I are left to cling to four words. That simple phrase that once greeted us each morning we spent together and was the last image to catch my eye when I shut the door at night. I never asked, the last time I was there, if the wall was still papered with my little office homily. Maybe I'll make it back one day. If that city still exists. If that building still stands. If that credo adorned piece of pop culture still hangs; yellowing now, tattering at the edges with age. I suppose I'd just have to find a way to update it, though. Or maybe Scully should do the chore, since she's the reason for this revision of the classic credo. A quick cross through the I, making the change to declare -- WE want to believe.

It is all coming down to life being nothing more than a matter of holding on to the faith that we will survive living through it.

Dana K. Scully
Tape 1 (cont.)
April 2003

The soft, muffled hitch of the door clashed with the low, rhythmic hiss of the respirator. Making my way to Gibson's bedside I watched this oddly out dated looking machine force life into the frail, pale body of this child become prophet. I stared mutely at the thin face, searching for the boy I remembered. I found little for my efforts. The ravages of this near death existence had whittled away at the softly rounded, healthy essence of youth I recalled. I could still picture, by simply shutting my eyes, that glowing, vitally alive boyishness that his limbo imprisoned existence had stolen.

Even stunted and twisted by this forever sleep, his body had stretched and lengthened. Gibson would have been tall, Mulder, maybe taller than you. That his condition left him little more than a skeleton, covered by dry, pallid skin, couldn't hide the heft and breadth of his bone structure. Had things gone differently, the fates been more kind, Praise might have adorned a uniform on one of your favorite teams. What I wouldn't give to be able to sit and watch you watch him play.

The light touch of cold, smooth finger tips on my arm brought me back from my bittersweet wanderings. I once more found myself pinned by the frigid heat of those piercing, bluer than sapphire eyes.

"No matter what Spender claimed, we meant to bring you here for your safety. For HIS safety." He nodded to a screen behind me, and I silently took in the foot of another bed. The dark, hulking shapes, muted by the thin, white partition, hinted that they had prepared for Mulder's arrival, assuming that his condition was similar to Gibson's vegetative state.

My sleeping prophet affirmed my assumption that the alien leader's altruistic claims were genuine. As far as they went. If closer scrutiny for deeper motives were not pursued. "I'm going to question Alex now. The question, "what is truth?" is usually the only query he gives an honest reply to, and that answer has never been the same twice, the entire time I've known him. Can you persuade our young friend to aid me in discovering what actually happened out in Colorado. I think this truth might be one we both need to find."

I nodded at Gibson's mental agreement to help, my stomach tightening with anticipation of what promised to be a painful report. That you survived the initial firestorm had been confirmed by my psychic friend, but the details of your condition and what had happened to many of our beloved friends was yet to be revealed. My instinct was informing me, though, the tragedy that unfolded yesterday had touched every corner of my life.

Alex Krycek limped into the room. This was a Krycek I'd never witnessed before. No blustering facade of anger, no toe-nail clicking, dart and dodge sidestep prance. That I was viewing the very same frightened shock in those usually gleaming eyes, that I knew could be read in my own, stunned me.

His first words were neither a whine nor an excuse. They were murmured in a low, weary tone that made me believe him even before my oracle truth-sayer confirmed that his tale was gospel.

"I went to get Mulder, her and my family. You'd promised me their safety. That was the deal. That's what you promised. I fell for it and everything fell apart. It's that simple. That's what happened. The people who went with me weren't mine. They were his men, following his orders.

Mulder was standing out front when we got there. I'd no more than gotten out of the truck before they started up a full fledged assault. The first round they fired hit Mulder in the head."

My twin gasps were in rapid fire tandem, almost a hiccup. Krycek didn't notice that the first came after his thoughtless betrayal of your somewhat less than comatose state. The leader did, showing no surprise at this newly uncovered knowledge. A slight flickering glint in those gemlike eyes was all that betrayed that he'd heard. My second exclamation came with Alex's news of Mulder being shot.

A slight grin danced across the young former agent's lips with my response, "It wasn't bad. Just a crease. I don't think he even really blacked out all the way. Bullets just bounce off old Super-Mulder's skull, right? I went over and subdued him. I could already tell that everything was getting way out of control. I didn't want him killed by accident. I didn't have a clue how bad it was going to get.

I'd just gotten Mulder down, flat in the dirt, when I heard the shot's. They'd already pulled my Dad outside. I'd seen them dragging him. I looked up at the loud black-cat sounding pops and wound up watching while they killed my father. He danced. Actually did a kind of a Mr. Bojangle¼s kick-slide-step, his arms jerking like he was conducting his own funeral march. He didn't hit the ground 'til they stopped shooting.

I don't think Dad even knew he was dead åtil he fell. I could see his eyes. They reminded me of when Anna died. He walked around forever with that exact same look, Scully. It was wonder. It was sad wonder. That shit this foul could actually happen. Then, when the ringing silence grew loud, he collapsed, his eye's closed and that's when I finally heard Kami. She was screaming. A piercing, spine shattering wail. She'd seen it all, too.

I was so shook up I almost fell over when Mulder gave this huge, grunting shove. He didn't really even make it all the way up before they blasted him down. The bullet tore straight through him and I actually felt it whiz by my own belly. I thought I'd been hit, but I guess it was just the way his side just exploded. I sorta stumbled backwards not knowing who'd been hit, if his blood was mine.

Kami shouted his name and lurched at us, flying. Then she was hit, God, I don't know how many times. I'd stopped hearing by then. All I saw was the blood. She stopped mid-flight and flopped right on top of Mulder. She died, her eyes were two moons of surprise. I don't think dying before she was old enough to legally drink had been part of my little sister's plans."

Krycek¼s monotone narrative of horror halted instantly, no preamble. I read surprise in his now glittering eyes. And pain and anger and fear and resentment. A virtual smorgasbord of emotions swirled in the liquid depths of his grief.

"Why would I have done this to my family? I gotta ask you, Tipton. Why would you think I would have gone there and done this? I know what you think of me, both of you. But I...I wouldn't have...not this. I could have screwed him over without batting an eye. God, I stole from him, betrayed him, lied to him, disappointed him...but...not this."

I felt my throat tighten. I shut my eyes. I hadn't ever wanted to see this side of the man. It made it real. But we can't always get what we want. Ha, Mulder, you're rubbing off. I'm quoting classic rock songs. Except do I feel compelled to list my source? Rolling Stones - Jagger/Richards. And to complete the quote, "But if you try sometime, you just might find you get what you need. "

That is true, because when I chanced a quick glance up at Alexi, his eyes still glittered but not with tears. They glistened with an angry belligerence. He'd won his battle for control. He was right. Never let them see you hurt. I gave a silent cheer.

"I got them to start the fire at the front. In my old room upstairs. They'd hauled everyone down to Dad's basement. Ha," His laugh was bitter. "Not the house¼s basement, Dad's basement. It was always Dad's basement. Fitting though, wasn't it? It was his grave, too. His funeral pyre." The words came quicker, his anger at the unwanted emotions fueling the explosive, guttural discharge of heated rage.

"I saw Mulder was still breathing. I knew I couldn't do much for him. But I tried. It's just that, I didn't trust the others and I sure as hell wasn't going to die for Fox Mulder. Maybe, I would have had guts enough to fight for Kami. Or to lay it on the line for Dad. I don't know. It's just everything was happening too fast. It was over too quickly. But, too late lasts forever, ya know? Fuck, I hope you know, I don't know.

I made sure Mulder found the stairs. Told him it was the only way out. The kid claims he made it. So I guess he did. I don't even know why I stuck around and helped Mulder in the first place. Maybe it was my same old self-serving shit. Maybe it was to protect my ass. I did tell him to make sure, if he ever met up with you, to tell you I'd helped. Maybe.

But, you know? I think a lot of it was because you lousy mother-fuckers just flat piss me off. Who asked you to join our party. You're like that crasher, you come uninvited and don't leave even when you've worn out your welcome. God you make me so sick. You wanna be like us so much, you'd even fuck with your genes, but you haven't got a clue who we even are.

You stupid, brain dead, sorry excuses for a first contact from the final frontier, you can't even figure out what it is you want from us. Except to take over our planet. Well, I think this world's about as fucked up as any place your ever gonna find, but you know, you deserve it. I'll tell you what, if there is a God, I know he's gotta be as pissed off as I am over what you've done. And I'd sure hate to be you when his payback comes."

The handsome, placid faced visitor digested Krycek's venom mutely, his bland mask of inscrutability not slipping for a moment until suddenly, but with mind numbing slowness, a smile crept out to melt the facade. "I think that'll be all, Alex," the morphed Paul Newman¼s sunny grin made his face glow, but those twin sapphire beacons froze the warmth before it could escape.

A veil passed over Alex Krycek's face; he turned on his next heartbeat and quietly left us.

"I do believe he told the truth for once," the leader murmured, sotto voce, a faint English accent surfacing to color his words. "Perhaps the boy could give us an update, though, on how your partner fares. You think?"

I numbly turned to receive Gibson's answer, but oddly, this time, I sensed the boy's will rise up to cloak his reply.

"He says he's hurt, but still alive. Someone's helping him. But...but..." My answers were lying there in the fog that thickened and swelled as I probed. I had to know, I had to see what had happened to you. I leaned over the still lifeless form, curled in twisted rigor on the foam mattress and began to beg, "Gibson you have to let me see the truth. I have to know, please. Let me see him."

The desperate shield of protection fell and he allowed me to see your suffering. I recognized who it was who had aided you, but fortunately, I had enough wits to hide this knowledge. Gibson let me sense Skinner, and I was flooded by an overwhelming hopelessness that shredded my heart. Remember, Mulder, he only stayed to bury you.

The leader read my grief, and in his courtly manner allowed me a carefully watched solitude. I never told him what I'd learned, but 50 years of study had taught him well how to interpret the many, varied faces of human emotions.

"Well," the word dragged out, becoming almost southern when it drawled on. A question skittered across my weary brain. Having watched the leader¼s somewhat theatrical personality, I couldn't help wondering whether he had chosen an actor's face because he'd already possessed a thespian¼s style or if his smooth, always playing to his public manner had been cultivated to match his chiseled, movie star profile.

The fact that he might have chosen another familiar face which could have covered both his dramatic flair AND his politician like, manipulative ways struck me as funny, and I softly chuckled. A bit of comic relief always clears both the air and brain cells.

Realization slapped me hard across the face. Suddenly I knew that all my host had ever offered, every expression, gesture, each gracious, mannerly utterance that had been formed by those full, almost sensual lip was no more real than this form he'd crafted to hide behind. That he'd morphed himself into an illusion of a man, that pleased the eye and pleasantly lulled the senses, did not make him a real man. He was a revised children's story come to life. I'd unmasked the alien in humans¼ clothing.

I stared at the alien, trying to fathom the supposed kinship I shared with this entity, searching for some slight vestige of familiarity. If any two human beings, from any two separate countries, were given a quick surface exam by another life form not familiar with our own, no matter how different their respective cultures, beliefs, languages or superficial appearances might be, both would be instantly cataloged as belonging to the same "kind" with the notice of one certain familiar marker.

Finally I knew what I needed to see. What would allow me to know, that our genetic family tree aside, whether or not, this visitor was my brother. If this creature who'd assumed a human name, Tipton, according to Krycek, and a human's form, had a human's heart.

"Let me see you smile," I whispered softly, making him strain, to lean forward in order to hear my request.

Butch Cassidy instantly appeared before me, flashing that honest, eye crinkling grin which announced that nobody with a smile like that could be a 'bad guy'. I didn't buy his performance.

"No, let me see your real face. I want to see E.T.'s smile." I flashed my own pearly whites, showing him how simple that one small expression was to make. My mother's oft repeated homily played over and over in my head while I waited for the leader to grant my request. "A frown takes three times more muscles to make as a smile, Dana Katherine." The alien never removed his mask.

Long, silent minutes slowly slipped by before he spoke, using his best stiffly British tones. "You're free to go, Ms Scully. I suggest you search for your family now. Your Mother is near, or so I've been told. Colorado is far away and a long journey alone would be dangerous during these tumultuous times. I'm afraid, even if you reached your destination safely, unhappiness would be all you would find. Still, it is your choice. Good luck, whatever you decide and God speed."

I stared into that face, willing the mask to slip and reveal the truth, but all I saw was the same calm, handsome lie. A faint, dry rattle came from the breathing corpse's chest and a shrill, beeping alarm brought the leader¼s aid. Within seconds the warning ceased and the alien moved from his patient, strolling to the exit. He opened the tall, heavy door and stood in the portal, patiently waiting for me to say my good-byes.

I headed over to kiss the cool smooth forehead of the endlessly sleeping boy then glanced up to see the leader still stood at his place in the doorway, the picture of calm, polite patience. I gnawed at my lip as I studied my host, dwelling on the fact that beneath the pleasant, gentlemanly facade was a thief. Not ten feet from me was the being who had stolen mankind's future; a sadistic monster who tortured the innocent, a remorseless murderer who planned his day around the genocide extermination of an entire planet¼s population.

This was the leader of a species who had chosen to recreate themselves into a life form that could watch, for four long years, the suffering of a boy who once had a smile that rivaled the sun, and never dream of offering him peace.

The alien never expected me to do what I did. How could he? Until I'd actually initiated that spur of the moment act of violence, I hadn't known I was going respond to my rapidly building rage in that manner myself.

The fact that I was standing next to the loud, wheezing respirator/torture device made destructive vandalism possible. I simply turned, then gathering every bit of strength I could muster shoved against the heavy box, making it tip over. It landed hard on its side, the cacophony of metal crashing against tile-covered cement made me jump. I'd been surprised

I'd been able to accomplish the task. Popping glass rained upwards from the explosion like destruction of the machines¼ inner workings, bouncing across the linoleum with tiny tinkle clicks. The instrument board gave one last sizzling discordant cry as its electrical circuits fried, then died.

The patient that had been held prisoner for so long, simply ceased to function. I believe his death came when all the various wires, tubes and connectors from the respirator and every other device and medical aid ripped free from where they'd been fastened. At long last, the youth was unfettered. Every other supplemental aid had been attached to poles and hooks which had toppled along with the respirator.

No blood flowed from his many and varied life substaining wounds. Gibson Praise died instantly; breaking the tethers had been the key to his final release. He passed on, without a sound, not even a sigh.

Mulder, I pray, but I've yet to hear an answer. It's always the same - A cry, not for his forgiveness for my sin or even a plea to understand my motives. All I ask is he grant the child, at long last, the peace he deserved.

I walked out of that suite, took the elevator down to my freedom, and began my long journey. It has been almost a year since that day. I lived with my choice, but one question still haunts me. Tipton, the leader, was the picture of contentment when he let me pass. So, whose will did I ultimately serve, when I murdered Gibson Praise? Will I ever truly know, Mulder? So I pray.

End Tape 1

 :

FWM TAPES
May 2003

We've settled into a cabin in Wagner's Big Thompson canyon. The fact that this huge, hardly roughing it, retreat is so far from any of the front range cities made it our first choice in preferred "hideouts", but we had no idea how deserted this area had become. The little mountain resort village of Estes Park is a ghost town. In the almost two weeks since we settled in, we've not seen another human being. Apparently everyone cleared out last August, as ordered, and any stragglers either didn't survive, or gave up their places during the long hard winter.

The area is now, on this warm, sunny late spring day, the picture of the preverbal "promised land". It has beautiful scenery, plenty of fresh water, and an abundance of food and other supplies for my companions and I to salvage from the surrounding abandoned cabins and the businesses in town. We feel safe here. I think it's one of the few places left that could afford us that comfort.

Scully's using the Estes Park Branch Library to educate herself in homeopathic medicine. Also, Estes Park was once a haven for seekers of "New Age Knowledge" and back to nature health advocates, so there's no lack of reading material. Main Street boasts no less than a dozen shops which stock what she needs, so the naturalistic treatment of my mental problems has not suffered with our move.

Seriously, it does seem to be working and with fewer side effects than the so called real drugs I'd taken those for four years since my original injury. I feel, and I never thought this word would be associated with me, normal. The Tegretol made me a little dull, four years ago, but I think I've long since overcome that. How I am feeling right now is how I used to feel. Complete with a touch of insomnia. But I don't care. It's wonderful.

I love it here. I hope this is where we can stay. Let the world go on without us. We'll watch out for us. Skinner and Scully don't actually believe I mean this, when I tell them how I feel. They both are going to make a little recon trip down to Fort Collins. To try one more time to get the medication for my seizures. That's the one remedy Scully doesn't trust to her witches brews.

They've promised to be careful. And if the run turns out to be as unsuccessful as the Cheyenne one, they're going to make one last ditch effort and try Denver. So, I'm actually going to be left on my own for a couple of weeks. Surprisingly, they trust me. My health, both mental and physical has been so superb as of late that, will wonders never cease, they both believe I can take care of myself for two whole weeks. Imagine.

They're due to leave day after tomorrow. Scully still refuses to discuss what happened after the fall. I tell her we need to talk. That she needs to share her troubles with me. She tells me she can't right now. She says we'll talk later. When I've heard the whole story. That I still need to hear the next tape. But she wants me to wait until she and Skinner leave to start listening to it. And we'll talk when they get back -- later.

End Tape
-WSS-

End part 2

Chapter 3

My mother has a saying for every occasion. Little nuggets of wisdom slip twixt her lips as easily and frequently as other mortals draw breath. I believe it's her genteel southern upbringing that results in this oftentimes entertaining, sometimes maddeningly clichÈ, font of philosophical pearls. The entire time I was living this next part of my tale, my memory was haunted by her quotes. They drove me crazy, these homilies, constantly repeating inside my head, but I do believe they kept me going. Actually, crazy isn't too bad a state to be in. It's a lot better than some parts of Texas that I've visited. In the world that I found outside that penthouse suite, sanity was not necessarily needed or particularly wanted.

One particular saying could be the epitaph for the first month of my journey. I'm sure you've heard it, Mulder. I know you've lived its stinging truth.

"That which does not kill us, makes us stronger."

*****

I stumbled through the huge, gold plated revolving door, out into hot, bright afternoon sunlight with only one thought in my head. I knew I had to get 'away'. In which direction that destination would lie had not broken its way through the fog that blanketed my mind. I felt the fact that I was standing on the dark maroon carpet, feeling a soft, salty scented breeze meant I was one step closer to 'away', so I allowed myself a whispered sob-sigh of relief.

My comfort was short lived, cut instantly to the quick by the slow moving, black limousine that pulled to the curb in front of me. The leader's bodyguard unfolded himself from the driver's side. He casually strolled around the long front end of the sleek, ebony vehicle, opening my door; his smug, silent grin carved in cold stone.

"I'm to offer you a ride home."

I took it, Mulder. A ride to my mother's, of course, was what he offered me. But it was the first step in the long way home.

*****

The three hours passed in silence, my driver not being a conversationalist by nature. It seemed to me he felt speaking to humans was beneath him. The scenery that passed before me, framed and tinted a stormy gray by the dark glass, grew increasingly surreal as we approached the city. My stomach began to tighten and burn, when I began to notice the smoldering wreckage of vehicles, businesses, even whole neighborhoods. Our pace slowed to a crawl while we picked our way through the snarl left from the chaos of the previous evening's insanity.

The brick columns announcing the turn into my mother's subdivision stood in silent sentry to the violence that had occurred in this upper middle class haven of retirement homes and young, urban professional's castles. Destruction to the houses on Marmac Drive had leap-frogged indiscriminately. My mother's house still stood.

I tried to exit the car even before it had stopped rolling, rushing up the walk, hoping against hope the door would open and I'd see the face that has always calmed my soul. My step slowed when I noticed the heavy, front entry way door was ajar, its brass knob knocked totally askew and the locks broken.

I turned helplessly back to the street in disappointment to see that my escort continued to watch me, his chiseled grin still in place. He was just smiling, leaning against the obscenely long front fender, simply smiling at my distress. I whirled and went inside, slamming the door defiantly behind me.

He probably enjoyed that most of all, Mulder, because the ruined frame made it slowly creak back open.

*****

It appeared Mom left in a hurry. Too many lights remained on. She always kept just one burning when no one was home. A Navy wife never wastes. Anything. Her exit had to have been in sudden haste. The question that kept my tears so close to the surface was, had she abandoned her home of her own accord, or had she been taken? A multitude of signs, so clear due to my training, told me others had been here. Almost everything of value, from television to knickknacks had been unceremoniously stripped from their well remembered places.

Had she left before, with Jack as I hoped? Or had the looting vandals visited while my mother was still there? I made it to her back, second story bedroom. It was torn apart. A tornado of wanton destructiveness had exploded, searching out my mother's widow's boudoir for illicit booty. Her bottom dresser drawer had been emptied. All that remained were Missy's and my catechism veils, we children's graduation tassels, and a pair of my father's white gloves.

I try to take a meager thread of hope from the fact that her wooden Lane keepsake chest was gone, knowing if she had time to take but one thing it would be this satin lined wedding gift. In it were those priceless treasures, baby teeth, locks of hair, my father's medals, a pressed flower from their first date, a rose saved from the blanket spray that had been atop Missy's casket. But I know this was also the hiding place for Ahab's sleek, black Walther PPK.

My evening was spent in a vain, pitiful cleanup that constantly stalled out when I would burst into tears. I'd come across some part of my childhood, my family, that I knew was going to be left behind when I also abandoned that last of so many homes. These things, these insignificant material possessions, were what my mother used to make each new place familiar to us as service brats. They gave us comfort, in our gypsy existence, and trivial though they were, they were the outward, but still important, tie that bound our family. It's silly, I know. But they're gone now. Just like my family. I finally collapsed on Mom's wide, lonely bed and thankfully fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

A soft, slightly cool dawn brought me awake, and I stumbled downstairs. I blundered about in the semi-darkness, mutely acknowledging the fact that sometime during the night the neighborhood had lost that last vestige of modern civilization -- electricity. A sage scented candle was my light while I rustled up that first, after the fall breakfast, of S'more toaster pastries and warm diet cola, grinning at my mother's empty nest, junkfood junkie larder. We never had S-more Poptarts when I was a kid. (Were they even invented then?)

That I was caught by surprise goes without saying. That I was unprepared was inexcusable. I had just sank down into the swivel breakfast nook chair, munching on my cardboard tasting snack when a sweaty hand slipped roughly across my mouth. I was lifted backward, my canned pop and chair tumbling over as I fought the strong, unyielding arms that pulled me to the carpeted floor.

There were three of them. I never saw their faces. Whether it was from the early morning gloom or my frightened, mind numbing terror, I don't know. The first time, one held my arms, another kept my screams muffled and the third unzipped and removed my pants. The sound of my underwear being ripped off made my frantic kicks grow more wild, but all it brought was laughter. I can't tell you what methods they used when the other two took their turns. I only heard their laughter.

I told myself it didn't hurt. It was done smoothly, almost effortlessly, with very little violence, except for the act itself. Except for a few bruises and abrasions, I was relatively unharmed. I was lucky. The sheer difference in size, strength and numbers probably saved my life. We both know what might have happened. I was lucky, Mulder. Very, very lucky.

*****

I didn't hear him enter. Fortunately, neither did my attackers. Surprise, not skill, is what made his rescue work. He'd never fired a gun before. The fact that his weapon had a hair trigger and he had been able to get so close also was on our side. And God was watching, Mulder. The way he sprayed that kitchen, after shooting that last one that was on me in the head; God and or his angels, or someone kept me from inadvertently becoming the accidental victim of my brave, slightly less than sharpshooting hero.

He told me later, he had heard me scream, while checking his boyhood home for signs of forced entry. He'd entered just as the round robin rape had shifted in what I suppose would have been the final dance. He'd been surprised they had not noticed his approach. He assured me, each time I made him repeat his recollection of this final act which so satisfied my vengeance, that daylight had arrived and the breakfast nook was filled with bright, summer sunshine. I'd thought it was still dark.

I didn't register that the man on top of me was dead until it was all over. I'd just assumed he'd finished. I never even heard the loud, ear shattering gunfire. My ears rang with the sound, but I was oblivious to everything save the relief that my attacker was quick in performing his task. I'd opened my eyes a slit and saw a man's face. I shut them instantly, preparing for a repeat of the cruel medley. The heavy weight was lifted off me, and I took a deep gasping breath.

"Doctor Scully, are you okay?" A soft, deep voice, shaking slightly with emotion, came from near my feet.

The question struck me as funny, considering the circumstances. I tried to laugh, but the sound that came out was a halting hiss, like someone letting air out of a tire. I brought my hands to my face, gagging when I found the blood and gore that covered me, congealing now to a sticky, fetid smelling mass. I rolled to my side and retched, weakly bringing up Poptart and Pepsi, further staining my mother's powder blue indoor-outdoor carpeting. I finally opened my eyes upon feeling the warm touch of something being spread across my lower body. This reminder of my semi-nakedness finally brought the tears, and laying my face on my arm I began to sob.

Nothing came out. I remembered you, Mulder. How after your stroke your cries were trapped inside. The flood just came that much harder. His feet made a shuffling, scraping sound as he quietly bided his time while I collected myself. He had a very long wait.

*****

He was the neighbor's boy, Brodie Johnson, that my Mom was always talking about. The 6 foot tall, strapping young resident was hardly a boy anymore. Brodie had journeyed all night from Massachusetts General to check on his Mom after hearing the news of the alien's strike. He'd tried to call, but the phone service, from what I'd heard had been the first public utility to go. Whether this was a planned part of spurring the panic after the coup or just came as a result of the deluge of frightened people trying to contact loved ones, is something I guess we'll never know. Maybe I should have asked Mr. Tipton? Remind me, next time we see him.

He'd led me, after he'd finally spurred me to get away from that place of carnage, to his family's home next door. I'd followed him mutely, my mother's dining room table cloth wrapped sarong-like around me, while we made our way out the back and through the neighborly break in the hedges. Guiding me like a mindless child, he'd helped me remove my ruined shirt and got me into a downstairs shower. He didn't leave my side until I began to frantically scrub at removing the blood and brain matter which stuck like glue to my face.

The hot water tank held its heat long enough for me to strip away the filth that had splattered me when the last man's face had exploded. It had long since turned to an icy, stinging spray before I felt clean enough to exit. Shivering, teeth shattering from more than just my frigid cleansing, I wrapped a towel around me and stepped out. My host had left some sweat pants and a huge bulky sweater. Judging from the size, they were Mrs. Johnson. The woman was actually one of the few adults I know who was more height challenged than I, but bearing five children had made her girth decidedly more rotund.

It was the dog days of summer; but somehow, Brodie had anticipated the chill that enveloped me. That's when the die was cast. My young hero had taken on the role of my protector, my knight in shining armor. And I... I definitely was equipped to play the damsel in distress.

I was able to offer Brodie a crumb of information that gave him a little peace of mind about his mother. I knew, practically the whole neighborhood had been informed, that she'd left the day before the takeover to be with her eldest daughter, for the imminent birth of what was to be a granddaughter. I believe her ninth grandchild.

Over the next two days that we stayed at his mother's a friendship was borne. It grew deeper out of loneliness and necessity. I confess now, Mulder, that I fell in love with this kind, gentle young man. I feel that I've betrayed you. Not because of what happened, not for what was, but because of what might have been. Had things not gone the way they did, I might never have returned to you. I almost broke my promise. Our forever could have ended because my fear made my faith falter, and I sought the comfort of someone else's love.

*****

Captain Keanon Johnson was killed in Beirut in 1984. Brodie had been 7, the middle child of five and the only boy. Though he'd never cared to learn to use them, he'd been bequeathed his father's gun collection. We left Marmac Drive before dawn, August 13, 2002, armed to the hilt, for our cross country journey to Colorado.

They left four mornings ago. After a lifetime of being a loner, I've hardly drawn an unaccompanied breath in four years. I've discovered, these past four days, I no longer like being alone. I don't think it's my vision problem, or the shadow of my epilepsy; instead, I feel that solitude has stopped being my best friend. I guess I've just become a social animal.

Chores keep me busy during the warm, daylight hours. Nights, however, stretch out endlessly. I'd put off listening to Scully's tape, telling myself that I'd hold off until I absolutely needed to hear the comforting sound of her voice. Truth be known though, because of her reluctance to let me listen to it in her presence, I'd deliberately avoided the task. Last night, boredom and the longing for some semblance of companionship, broke my nervous resolve.

I curse myself now, for my insistence that she recount her story. I've forced her to relive things that were best left buried. I wish she were here now so I could tell her this or at least offer some belated comfort.

Fuck!

Tape end
-WSS-

Brodie's '79 Malibu Station Wagon had seen better days and was a gas hog, but when it died, just outside of Columbus late that first evening, we were stranded. We'd been lucky and hadn't even known it. The trip between those two cities normally took 8, 9 hour at the outside. We'd spent 15 long, grueling hours picking our way through deadlocked traffic and detours. But we'd been moving, making progress. That all ended alongside a ditch on State Highway 37 in a huge puff of gray-black smoke and a lurching, metal grinding snarl.

Brodie climbed out, popping the hood on his way through the door. I sat in tense silence, watching the pale halo of light flickering this way and that, until my patience could take no more and I hopped out to join him, my bare feet finally cooled by the damp grassy shoulder.

"What's wrong with it?" I queried, staining to see the barely lit motor.

His tilted, wide mouth grin almost made my heart stop. If you had a younger brother, he wouldn't have looked more like you than Brodie did at that moment. The faint stirrings of attraction I'd been experiencing for two days were finally made clear in my head. I'd known it went deeper than appreciation for his kindness, his saving my life. His eyes shone brightly at finally getting a smile out of me.

"Well, did you check the decompression lines from where they run from the carburetor to the manifold?" I asked leaning once more to peer inside.

"AH, no. Where are they? What are we looking for?" HE bent at the waist, watching closely to see where I was motioning.

"Fuck if I know." I chuckled, giggling that much harder as he popped erect, startled by my surprise. "Got you, Brodie."

His deep baritone laugh floated on the warm summer breeze and he slammed the hood shut, "Well, what now smart ass?"

I nodded to the grassy glade on the far side of the ditch. "I guess we grab our weapons and set up camp for the night. In the morning we'll hit a store but it looks like it's Slim Jims, Fritos and Gatorade for dinner."

"God, how'd you know? My favorites."

I'd moved into the back seat and began passing him the most necessary and portable of our gear. "Well, if you carry the heavy stuff, I might share my ding dongs with you."

"You're too kind," he chuckled, swinging the bedroll over one shoulder and a duffel bag filled with weapons and ammo over the other. I watched his struggling stumble-run into the wide, shallowest part of the ditch with a smile.

*****

Our next two days travel went smoothly, the slower pace of making the journey by åshanks mare¼ gave my young companion and I time to get to know each other better.

I laughed when Brodie mentioned that physically, I was not the former Special Agent Dana Scully M.D. he'd pictured after listening to my mother's tales about her crime stopping, "secretly saving the world", MIB daughter. A not quite 5 foot 2, slight, freckle faced red-head didn't fit the image he'd built in his mind's eye. He'd expected a young, beautiful, silver tressed, statuesque Valkerie, but had gotten a soon to be middle aged, leprechaun.

The orange glow of a glorious summer sunset was tinting the sky when we stumbled up to that glass fronted convenience store just outside Lafayette, Ohio. It was early evening of August 18, 2002. Traveling, we didn't know of the decree, or that it was now being enforced. All we knew was that we were hungry.

Our cash funds were sorely depleted. Brodie and I had discussed this problem on and off all day, deciding that at the first good sized town, a visit to a pawn broker would be in order. When that source ran dry, we both figured picking up odd jobs would not be beneath us. Not if we wanted to eat. The neatly typed missal, taped to the front of the now stripped to the wall chain store let us know that our near empty pockets no longer mattered. In order to get food we would have to register. The nearest designated settlement center was London, 10 miles south. It was to be the first of many nights Brodie and I were to collapse into our sleeping bags with growling stomachs.

In the beginning, it was just a faint buzz. No, that's not really it, maybe it's better to say it was a soft, hissing roar, the sound of the ocean, in a sea shell. Since we were traveling downhill, from Cheyenne southward, I put it off to altitude somehow affecting my odd, rebuilt sinus/inner ear network. I was still believing this theory when we were traveling up Big Thompson Canyon, knowing the elevation was once again climbing. By then it had grown louder, a low, blurred hum, white noise that I continued to ignore. Once we settled in the cabin, sometimes there'd be sudden blasts of talking, almost as if I were receiving a radio station that would slip in and out of tune. I'd stop to listen but all that came through the murmuring babble were blaring, pixilated snatches of crackling gibberish.

The night I first deciphered it was a voice, that first time it spoke to me, was right before I made the tape where I told about Scully and Skinner's trip. This was part of the reason for the sour gloominess of my mood that evening. I never mentioned that I had this schizophrenic like episode because I chose to believe it was a one-time occurrence. They were making the dangerous journey on my account. I didn't want to worry them needlessly. And I didn't want to believe that I might be showing the signs of my latent mental illness again.

This voice inside my head is growing louder, more insistent, each day. I'm taking my medication, the herbal remedies, using the oils, just like Scully prescribed but this constant jabbering in my brain is driving me to distraction. I've been having trouble sleeping. My stomach is so twisted in knots what little food I choke down won't stay. My nerves are frayed to the point I can't concentrate for more than a few moments, so what needs to be done is never completed.

And now, for the second straight day, the rains have been pouring down in a torrential sheet. I hear the river swelling, feeding off this deluge to overflow its banks and I'm terrified. Not for myself. This area, and the cabin atop a fairly steep hillock, is not where the water would most likely flow should it escape.

Every few years, the myth claims it's a century, these glacier fed streams and rivers become canyon carving walls of destruction. It begins with a long, wet winter which changes the rock filled rivers from smoothly flowing to white water as soon as the warm weather starts the snow to melt. If a mountain-born rain stalls out, dumping the storm atop the bald, treeless peaks above timberline, disaster occurs. There's nothing to stop the run off, and a flood is born.

Thirty years ago this happened here, in Big Thompson Canyon and the 100 foot high wave washed away almost everything that lay from just below Estes Park to the plains. This is how my friends would return home, if that first larcenous raid is successful. This disaster might have already happened. It was dark, angst filled thoughts like this that probably triggered my seizure last night.

I never saw it coming. I didn't register the sensory warnings of the aura because of the lightening. I might not have mentioned it in these files but often, I am assaulted by the sharp, stinging odor of ozone, just before the onset of a Grand Mal.

All I remember is carrying an armload of firewood, loudly cursing the fact that because the distance of the wood shed is so far from the cabin, two thirds of every bundle I'd carried yesterday had been soaked. I recall standing by the fireplace, working the chill from my bones. The next thing I knew I was sprawled out on the floor. My head was throbbing, my belly churned with a sick rolling nausea, and every muscle in my body ached. I desperately needed a clothing change and a warm bed to sleep away the effects.

I've lost all track of the days that have passed, so I've no idea how long it will be before my companions return. If these symptoms continue to escalate I'm fearful of how they will find me when they return. I'm trying to remain calm, struggling to hold on to my sanity, but I don't know how much longer I will be able to fight.

End Tape
-WSS-

End Part 3

Chapter 4

Brodie and I talked until almost dawn that night, camping in the field next to the gutted store. Lafayette was almost a ghost town already, that first day after the laws were passed. We were to see many such deserted hamlets on our journey, but that first one was the most disturbing. It was proof that our new rulers had already positioned themselves so that they controlled every aspect of our lives. To them, we are nothing more than cattle, to be herded about and fed like animals, the chip in our necks our brands. Our destiny can only be slaughter once our purpose is served.

I explained to my companion what I knew about the aliens and their plans. I talked about you. Though I didn't go into details about what I'd heard of your fate, Brodie read the fear in my expression. Manners kept the young man from making me commit to whether I believed you were alive or dead, and even if he'd asked, I'm sure my answer would have varied, depending on my mood. Still, as the days passed and August faded away becoming September, the friendship born of chance and necessity changed.

I avoided looking into the young man's soft, brown eyes because of what I saw there. The hollow emptiness inside me begged to be filled, and I feared that even a glimpse of those heartfelt emotions would be too tempting to resist. Was it love? What is love? A hunger needing to be fed? Loneliness banished with the touch of a hand, a glance, a smile, a kind word of caring? Can love be given to a second one without betrayal of the first? Since that one act was not completed, is your trust in me still alive? Tell me these things, Mulder. Ask yourself while I'm gone, and have the answers waiting. Please. Because they've plagued me these many months, and I've never found them, but I weary of the guilt.

I almost lost Brodie that night we camped outside Indianapolis. It was the day I first met the new enemy and he wore a human face.

****

From the time we first joined forces, until that evening in early September, Brodie and I were rarely out of each other's sight and never out of earshot of one another. It was pure chance that circumstances had separated us that day. My companion had devoured an entire bag of dried apricots during our travels that morning. From noon on, he had been paying the price for his greediness. I'd remained at our campsite, deciding that offering him some privacy during his painful purge was a kindness that transcended our rule of safety in numbers.

What drew me to search him out, after dusk had turned to a dark, moonless evening, was pure instinct. I'd heard nothing amiss. I simply finally decided to wander into the suburban forest that backed the rest area because I felt an intense need to find my traveling companion. I remember thinking to myself how odd that I was moving so wraith-like through the underbrush and autumn leaves, making scarcely a sound as though I were some native scout. As it turned out, my silence was a God send. I spotted the group of twenty odd predators gathered round my young friend the moment I emerged from the trees. They had him on his knees, his Celtics tee-shirt ripped, torn and bloody. He'd fought. The dark rivulets running from his damp, matted hair were mute testimony to that fact. His face glistened with sweat and blood from his ill-fated battle in the glow of the SUV headlamps that spotlighted the drama unfolding center stage in the park's clearing.

A cumbersome looking man with dark, porcine eyes shadowed by a Neanderthal brow, had a huge, filthy hand twisted in his hair, jerking Brodie's head back to expose his neck. The beast had a knife in his hand, the long blade's lethal, jagged edge poised ready against his skin. My scream was loud and guttural, cutting through the night. It gave the enemy pause. It saved Brodie's life.

My first shot struck home, and the man toppled backwards, the weapon spinning high into the air in a vanishing arc against the high-beamed glare. Brodie fell face first to the ground as two more of his captors crumpled from my fire. We might have lost this fight then and there. We were outnumbered two to almost two dozen, but the staccato pops of hidden allies firing made more bodies fall. The remaining mob jumped into their trucks and fled in a cloud of dust. The night swallowed up the glen as I made it to my friend's side. I felt him trembling with relief as he sagged against me; my tears

finally coming when his familiar embrace pulled me close in thanks.

They'd been after his chip, Mulder. They'd wanted to kill him for his mark of the beast. To slit his throat and claim their prize. Only those of us who have it are allowed rations, and some of us are greedy. The more chips, the more food. Simply affix the purloined metal marker with adhesive over your own, (or use a friend who has yet to be branded) and your food supply could be limitless. The aliens never check us that closely, they just wave their scanners to read our codes. And we humans all look alike to our captors. If they suspect this scam, well...they want us to kill each other. Survival of the fittest, remember?

The sound of footsteps broke up our sobbing reunion, and Brodie somehow found his flashlight, focusing the bright beam on the unknown strangers who approached us.

Tape off
-WSS-

FWM Tapes
(Exact date unknown)

Two days ago the rain let up, offering me a short respite from the soggy misery. I ventured into Estes Park to Scully's favorite New Age/Health Food store to see if I might replenish my pharmacy. My shopping was, of course, done by smell, but I believe I got the correct herbs and ointments. I did, however, forget this recorder in my haste to leave because the storms had returned. I arrived back at the cabin, a soggy, shivering lump of teeth-chattering misery. The sky had darkened to force me into my world of absolute blindness, and I discovered I'd neglected to bring in any wood for my fire during that brief dry spell. Silently cursing under my breath I plunged back out into the deluge, not even bothering to don my coat, reasoning I guess, that staying half frozen and drenched suited my mood.

The distance to the shed had never seemed longer. The odor of ozone assaulted my senses, and I actually felt my hair stand on end from the in the air. The flash of bluish white, hot light and the deafening, ear ringing clap came simultaneously. The blast knocked me from my feet. My firewood rained down upon me as I sprawled out, flat on my back in the mud. I felt each piece of kindling hit, but I was too numb from shock to move. A flicker of orange light was what finally brought me up from my daze. I pushed myself to sit, and through the haze of my less than satisfactory vision, I saw the light of the burning cabin. Our cabin. Our home.

"I'll be a son of a..." The stream of obscenities that poured from my mouth as I got to my feet would have made any sailor, any sailor's daughter, blush. When they slowed to a trickle, when my anger abated, at being left shelterless in the storm, it took the last bit of my energy to keep from sinking back to the ground in desolate tears. That's when it struck me. The bright flames flickering before me had not changed. They still burned with the same heatless intensity they had since I'd first noticed them. A stunned, awe-spurred expletive tumbled from my lips. "What the fuck?"

I stumbled toward the light, all the mysteries of this illumination rising up to swirl about in my head, making me dizzy. Almost no heat radiated from these flames. They burned steadily, unaffected by the torrential rain. I could see the reddish-orange fire...how could any of this be?

"Mulder, don't get too close, you'll get burned." The warning came from the cabin. A low, masculine sounding voice tugged at my ear, pulling me closer until I finally felt the warmth.

My stagger toward the strange, flickering flames was halted when a dark shape tumbled down from above, landing in the inferno with a resounding crash. Searing embers danced up, singing me, making me lurch backward. I landed hard on my hip with a huge splash.

"You never listen, do you? This isn't just special effects here, Mulder." The tone was patiently chiding, like that of the parent of an errant child.

I squinted against the rain, pushing myself up to sit. The wet, soft mud beneath my hands felt real. The cold, stinging downpour made my body shake, my teeth chatter, and if this was all a dream it was one of the more vivid ones I'd had in years. At least that I could remember. But I knew it couldn't be real. A disembodied voice, my vision of the cabin almost clear, not to mention the fact that I was seeing hues that didn't even reside in my memory. Red, orange were just words to me. I remembered once, believing I'd seen the brilliant colors of fire, but that had been the delusions of a dying man.

"I'm losing it," I moaned, rubbing at my eyes. I didn't care about the muck I smeared across my face, not when my sanity was unraveling more with each passing second.

"No, you're not losing it, son," the vision corrected. "Sorry about the theatrics, but this is the only way I could think of to get you to pay attention. You see, I really need to talk to you."

"Why?" I asked. I had an idea what was coming, though. Delusions or not, why else would God want to talk to me except to tell me that He had something major planned for me to do? From what I've heard, He doesn't make house calls unless it is an emergency.

"You got the picture, Mulder. This is a job offer of a lifetime. " A heated breeze blew from the fire. It was Him, giving a soft, warm chuckle. "You're going on a mission from God."

I joined in the hilarity, cackling like a mad man. I didn't like my house laughing at me, better it was laughing with me. The absurdity of this conversation was moving me to hysterics. I watched the fire before me, seeing something almost perfectly for the first time in four years. It was a miracle. It was insanity. The fact I was freezing to death because I now had no home made me just that much more upset. "You burned down my cabin, God. A bush, a bush would have worked just fine, don't you think?" I don't know when the tears began, but my voice was breaking when I asked this question.

"I've been trying to get through since you were in Wyoming, Mulder. I was desperate. You just kept ignoring me."

"I ignored you because I thought I was losing my mind," I cried, trying to explain.

The silence stretched out, and I used this respite to get up from the icy puddle where I'd been sitting since this all started. Once on my feet, I felt a little more in control. "So it was you I heard? So I'm not crazy?"

He laughed again. I studied the flickering light, felt the comforting warmth. "Well, no. No more than you've ever been, Mulder."

"And those times before, after the accident, when they all thought I was crazy...it was only you trying to communicate with me?"

I backed away from His tangible, roaring chuckle. "No, son. You were definitely crazy then."

I always knew God had a strange sense of humor. We wound up having a nice long talk. I just wish He'd stopped the rain.

*****

"They say if you talk to God it's prayer. But if God talks to you, it's schizophrenia." ~ Fox Mulder.

It's always so wonderful to expound on a subject, then have what you say come back and bite you in the ass. One of these days I might learn to keep my mouth shut, but I doubt it.

My 'vision' totally destroyed my shelter, all my clothing, and medication, and every bit of the month¼s supply of food that Scully, Skinner and I had stored for my time alone. Most of my larder was just canned goods and such, but that's about the only thing that I can prepare without burning or making otherwise inedible with my lousy cooking skills. I was cold and coatless. I wound up catching a chill. I think this was the start of some kind of trial in the wilderness that He's putting me through. I just hope he doesn't plan on it lasting for 40 days.

The next morning, I ventured back into Estes Park and recovered my recorder, but it wasn't until now that I've found the time to report my message from Him for the files. He's kept me fairly busy these last couple of days, telling me everything that I need to do to save the world.

It turns out that the severe weather that has plagued the planet since the takeover has been God's way of slowing the colonization plans down until He and I could get together and come up with some way of stopping mankind's gray-hued cousins.

"Why me?" was of course my first query.

"Mulder, you volunteered," was His reply.

"What?" I choked, not remembering this event. My memory isn't what it used to be, but I knew that I surely would have remembered something about offering my services to a God I had always denied existed. "When?"

"When I needed a savior to be born. You do tend to rush in where Angels fear to tread, son." We were in Scully's favorite shop, 'Sunrise' when this talk took place and

the massive front plate glass window rattled with his laughter, "Now, of course, I'm not going to hold you to this, if you've changed your mind. But, you need to know, you are our best hope."

Before I had a chance to open up what might have been a lengthy debate on destiny, karma, reincarnation and plagiarizing the plot lines of sci-fi movie classics, God said, "Wait, we can get into 'The Truths of Universe 101¼ later. How about you just hearing me out first?"

Not wanting to get on his bad side, for obvious reasons, I held my tongue. He proceeded to answer most of the questions that I've had about our alien visitors since I first began my quest so many years before. That my search for the truth has finally yielded results has me a bit stunned. Here was one source I'd never even considered consulting.

The next phase of the aliens' project to take over the Earth and destroy the human species is to start this summer. It might have begun sooner had last winter not been so

long and harsh or if we'd had a warmer spring. The visitors are going to release their millions of bioengineered, highly aggressive, Africanized honey bees which carry a virulent, mutated form of smallpox. This particular strain of the disease is supposed to be 100% fatal to all who have not been immunized against the illness. By September, every man, woman and child who was not inoculated and hence also not genetically catalogued during the 50's, 60's and early '70's when that part of the project was being implemented, will be dead. The population that remains is the gene pool that

they plan on using to harvest the DNA necessary to make themselves hybrids. The second step will involve infecting the survivors with the black oil.

Beginning with one pair of cells these small organisms enter a carbon based life form and take over the entity's mind, allowing their own creator to control their hosts. This is how and why we humans will surrender ourselves to the visitors. Once the genetic matter is removed from us, the aliens will trigger the black oil to begin the next part of its life cycle -- gestation of a mindless, vicious monster. These clawed, fanged, ultimate soldiers will be allowed to run amuck for the 48 hours that is their life span. They are bred to crave the flesh of the species that birthed them, then, when they die, they immediately decompose down to twenty-three pairs of cells and the cycle begins all over again.

I was both fascinated and repelled by God's informative lecture on the biology of this killing machine the aliens have designed. This creature's life cycle is what will both deliver us to our conquerors and ultimately destroy us.

Another surprising bit of knowledge that I discovered was that Scully and I caused a major upset to the visitors' plans when the episode in Antarctica occurred. All of those people who were in the cryogenic freezers in that space ship were to have been the genesis of a huge, massive world wide takeover. The creatures that are spawned from

this part of the black oil's metamorphosis must all 'hatch' at the same time in order to

have the same hive mentality. I seems that I wrecked their plans of a huge crop of monsters being born and hence a more rapid conclusion to their project when I tainted the nursery's life support system. However, there are 23 gestating humans in stasis right now, as I speak. Even though it will take more time, this virus will spread in ever expanding ripples 'til there are none of our kind left.

God says that he wants me to...

****

Later -

I woke up, and it was night. I'd had a seizure, either brought on by stress, lack of my medication or maybe, because I am running a fever. Whatever triggered it, I'm afraid there will be more. I managed to clean myself up and find some warm clothing at the New Age store. When morning came I made the trek down to the burnt out cabin, and with some paint I found inside the wood shed, I left a message for my friends as to where I will be staying. I hope it's legible. I'm camping out in the Stanley Hotel. There are couches in the lobby and a huge fireplace. Beside the exit doors of the resort's immense, well-stocked kitchen is a breezeway to a woodshed filled with enough fuel to last till next spring. With as many rooms as this place has, I don't think I'll ever run out of linens so I should be fairly comfortable and able to nurse my cold until my friends return.

God hasn't been around since the day before yesterday. Maybe I just can't hear him because my head is so stuffy. I have, however, been talking to Stephen King. In my dreams, of course, but at least I'm not alone, and the man does tell some entertaining stories. These visions are a lot less frightening in content than the ones I had that featured a certain divine entity.

God has informed me I volunteered to be Moses this incarnation. I've always told Scully that I'd make a lousy Jesus. My temperament's all wrong to play a New Testament sort of savior. My mission, should I choose to accept it, is to tell the leader of the visitors to let my people go. To get the hell out of Dodge. To leave and not come back...or else. Now, to complicate matters a bit is the fact that I've listened to the tapes I made of my conversations with God, and mine is the only voice that is audible. So, is this proof that I'm insane? I know I'm probably sick, and not just with the flu, but does that mean this has all been a delusion?

If you really are there, God, how 'bout helping me out here? You see, I just might not be the best messenger, you know? Not with my history. Am I supposed to do this all on my own? I don't think I can do it alone. After suffering through one Messiah complex down in Central America, I'm not sure anyone's gonna buy that you and I have had these little chats. So, how about a sign? One that someone else, someone who's not a blind, brain-damaged epileptic can see or hear? And God, I don't want to be alone anymore. Not now. Not after this. I'm not doing so hot, and I miss my friends. Where are they? Are Scully and Skinner okay? Why don't you answer? Why aren't you talking?

You got my attention. Hey, I'm finally talking to you, just like Mom suggested. This is the first time I've done this since I was 12, so maybe I'm not doing it right, but they say you hear all prayers...so, why aren't you listening to me now?

John Lee Hart Late Spring, 2003

We arrived at the cabin not long after sundown yesterday. I think Maggie Mae hit bottom when she saw the ruins. We'd already stopped by Skywatch and it was gone. She'd hoped she'd find Scully and Mulder at this vacation home. The woman is strong, but it's been a long, hard road and we're all ready for the journey to end. There

were no tears, she just stood there beside the charred timbers, her face chalk white, her eyes two glittering jewels of pain. Hell, the sight of her made me want to start bawling.

"Jack!" Morrie yelled, saving me the embarrassment of revealing my deeply sensitive inner self. He was standing by what looked to be a woodshed. Fortunately it was far enough away from the cabin that it didn't even get singed, and there on the side was a message, painted in a wavering, helter skelter script which was barely legible. Still, it was plain enough for us to read a little good news. Mulder had survived this fire and apparently Scully hadn't even been here when it occurred. Now, that in itself was a little odd, leaving her partner alone like that, but maybe she and her old boss, Skinner, had just gone on a little recon for supplies or something when it happened.

"MAE!" I called over to the silently grieving woman. She hurried to my side and quietly read the message.

"Well, we know where he is. And we know they found each other once after they were separated. Maybe they're together now. I always wanted to stay at the Stanley." With barely a sigh Maggie Scully adjusted her pack and walked back toward the road we'd just come down.

We'd already passed through Estes once that day. Our journey from Wellington to this spot had been detour after detour because floods had washed away most of the roads. We'd hiked the back route through quaint little ghost towns with names like Masonville and Stove Prairie (hardly what I'd call prairie; the mountain we traversed to get there seemed pretty steep to me). We had gone through the town that was the gateway to the Rocky Mountain National Park on our way to S.A.Wagner's cabin.

The night was cold, and the freezing rain had become stinging, snowlike crystals by the time we crossed the hillock to the vast resort hotel. I saw that there was a glow of firelight filtering through the massive, turn-of-the-century style, lead-crystal windows that fronted the lobby. It was proof that somebody was home. The entry way wasn't locked, and we walked into the huge, warm, parlor-like room. A roaring fire was burning. Moving to the large sofa that was parked before the hearth we found Mulder.

I don't think Maggie Mae had ever seen him like this. She talked later about how he'd shown signs of schizophrenia once, during one of her stays at Skywatch. How he had even harmed himself by stabbing a pair of scissors through his lame hand. But this went beyond that.

Maybe it was just his appearance that was so frightening. He was sick. A person didn't have to be a doctor to know that. You could hear it in the thick, phlegmy sound of his breathing, see it in the his color, the way his flushed, glistening skin seemed to reflect the dancing, red and gold flames. The fever heat radiating from him could have warmed the room by itself.

It was obvious he hadn't bathed, shaved, or even changed his clothes in days. Oddly enough, there wasn't even a hint of the odor of filth about him. That should have given us a clue as to what was going on, but then we didn't know whose hand had touched this scene. Well, at least Morrie and I didn't understand. We were blinded by the sparkling intensity of that one sightless eye as it stared into the fire. I'd seen that look of madness in Mulder before. Down in Belize and Guatemala. It was the look of a man who believed he'd talked with gods. How was I to know he'd finally, actually met one?

"Fox?" Maggie Mae's voice broke into my silent study of my old friend. Her normally strong, softly spoken, self-assurance was missing. Her voice was reed thin and shook with cold fear. Mae had been reared Catholic. She grew up with tales of saints, martyrs and miracles. She knew what was in the air; she could smell it.

With a quick turn of his head Mulder caught the lady in that fiery, jade-colored stare, and I heard her gasp.

"Quid me persequeris?" His tone was a cry of agony.

"It's not me," she answered him. She actually understood what he was saying and quickly moved to his side. How she found the courage to wrap her arms around him is beyond me, but she did, and he clung to her, like a frightened child. "It's not me, Fox," she whispered softly.

Mulder sobbed holding tightly to the woman, clutching her to his chest. Morrie and I watched in silence while his face twisted with grief.

"Help me," he whispered. "Pater mi si non potest hic calix transire nisi bibam illum fiat voluntas tua."

Maggie started to bring a hand up to smooth his sweat soaked hair, but she jerked away when a sharply guttural groan escaped him.

"Mulder?" she gasped, as he fell backwards clutching at his chest. Her eyes widened with shock when she held up her hands. Both palms were covered with dark red blood. "Oh, my God. Jack, he's hurt! He's bleeding."

My partner and I rushed over, stunned. "Where, where's he hurt?" Morrie cried.

Mae shook her head, "I don't know." Her voice was the closest to panic I'd ever heard it.

I bent over my friend, trying to get him to move his arms from where they crossed his chest. He groaned in agony, writhing mindlessly on the sofa.

"Fox, let me see. Let me see where you're bleeding." The woman finally persuaded him to lower his arms, and I felt my stomach plunge. The entire front of his flannel shirt was dark and wet. Buttons popped loose, clicking loudly on the polished, pine floor after she ripped his shirt open. His sleeveless undershirt was a dark maroon stain. Maggie was just starting to raise the sodden fabric when his seizure began. She was knocked from her place by his side by his violent spasms. There was no way the examination could continue while Mulder convulsed, but fortunately the brainstorm wasn't even three minutes by my estimation.

The moment Mulder's body relaxed Mae once again began searching for the wound that had spilled so much blood. She used her own shirt to wipe away the sticky wetness from the heaving chest, his too-thin belly. There was nothing there; his skin was whole, not even a mark. That's when I first noticed the odor Maggie Scully claimed had permeated her senses from the moment she first approached her patient. It was a sweet, floral scent.

"Lilacs?" Morrie asked, his nose wrinkling from the almost overpowering smell.

"Ambrosia," Maggie sighed, still dabbing at his skin. "See if you can find some water and fresh clothes for him. He's going to sleep now, probably all night. The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak." Her smile wasn't really what I'd call strong.

I glanced to Morrie and was surprised to catch him crossing himself, then we hurried off to do what she'd asked.

*****

We ate well that night, feasted on the stores of a pantry that had fed presidents and paperback fiction icons, the famous and infamous. The huge natural stone hearth was our campfire and Morrie, Maggie Mae and I unfurled our bedrolls before the flickering fire, keeping watch over our sick friend. It wasn't until after we'd finished helping Maggie bathe and tend to Mulder that any of us noticed that there was no need to gather wood. This was an eternal flame, stoked by someone, some being who had been watching over our friend before our arrival. Mulder rested peacefully almost all night, sleeping through the conversations that lasted 'til dawn.

"So what do you think is going on, Jack?" Morrie queried. I can't believe that after twenty years Morris Eugene Victor has never learned not to get me started. Maybe he just knows if he gets me talking I'm guaranteed to take his watch. He's probably learned how to sleep with his eyes open and has been fooling me all this time, conning me into thinking he's listening to my ramblings when he actually has been copping Z's.

"Hey what's a little stigmata to a man who can conjure up Mayan temples and almost raise the dead?" I replied, trying to hide my discomfort with a grin at the memories that were flooding back. "This is nothing Vic. We lucked out. The last time I was with

Mulder and he had a seizure he triggered an 7.6 earthquake. I won't even mention the fact that he just might have started the whole ball rolling towards this apocalypse because he put the head back on this big-bosomed idol in Chunchiclil. See, the natives had this legend that..." I stopped short when Mulder stirred, feeling my heart flutter a bit, knowing that my powerful friend had always denied that he had anything

to do with reconnecting that huge, stone, Mayan fertility god¼s head to its body. That the ancient prophecy of the world coming to an end, if the statue was ever made whole actually became fact, didn't make my blood pressure go down either.

"You can't really call what we saw stigmata, Jack. Christ didn't have any wounds to the part of the chest where we saw the blood," Maggie countered, softly resting her hand on Mulder's leg. Her touch soothed his fevered writhing instantly. A smile tugged at her lips with his faint, whispered sigh of "Scully," and her soft pat to his thigh ushered him back to sleep. "But, I do believe His hand is here, and don't tell me you don't feel it, too, you heathen"

I was surprised to see Morrie's nod in agreement to her statement. Imagine, my partner, the original agnostic skeptic, believing something that can't be proven by a

blue print schematic or a navigation chart - who would have thunk it.

"Maggie Mae, I wandered those jungles down south for half my life. Hell, you saw for yourself how the lines of what IS real and what just can't be aren't drawn too clear in that land. You know, maybe since civilization is gone the whole world's slid into the Twilight Zone." I sighed, my nerves were making me ramble. I tend to do that when I'm scared. Or confused. Mulder always has this effect on me. Especially, when he's pulling this miracle shit. I glanced up and saw I'd captivated my audience so I went ahead and continued my speech, not quite sure where I was going, but as always finding comfort in the sound of my own voice. "Maybe now that civilization's in the crapper, we¼re all becoming savage enough to believe that dawn comes when the sun swallows the stars. I do believe there's more than meets the eye with my buddy here. I just don't really buy into thinking we oughta start writing gospel about him. Not yet. And I don't think Mulder wants the lead in a passion play."

Maggie Scully has the patience of a saint. She looked at me with those warm, dark eyes of hers, and the power of her glance stilled even my loose, flapping tongue. "I know we've all got a role in what's being staged. From what I understand, you're already one of the stars of the first act. You followed him, saved his life - risking your own neck, I might add, to do it. So tell me, why is Fox Mulder so important, Jack? Why would Mohawken Jack Hart risk life and limb to make sure a smart-mouthed, know-it-all ex-fibbie made it out of the jungle alive?"

The woman has a cruel streak and knows how to make me squirm. "He's my friend," I confessed.

"I know what he means to you, Jack, but you know who he is supposed to be, what he's meant to do. Tell the truth." Maggie leaned forward and clasped my hand, flashing that knowing Mona Lisa smile. The warmth melted me, and I allowed her to see inside. Not too many get that right. That she, of course, doesn't hold what she finds against me is why it happened.

"Jack, you know your friend has a job to do, and that he's going to need all the help he can get to be able to do it. Mulder's scared, too, Jack. Right now, he's sick, lost

and very, very frightened. He doesn't know where to turn. He asked me, when we first found him, why I hurt him, why I persecuted him. I think God is asking a lot of him, and he doesn¼t really want to taste this particular cup of poison."

For the first time since I'd known her I saw miles and years showing up in that beautiful face. She wearily closed her eyes, then took a deep, sighing breath before going on with her speech. "I don't think he's got a choice. Not being Mulder. I guess we're all coming to that moment. We have to decide what part we're going to play. The clock's ticking down. What are you going to do? Are you going to follow him? One more time?"

"Do we have a choice, Maggie?" I asked, having to swallow my fear before I could even speak.

"No, not really. Not if we have a conscience, and we've decided to listen to it. But didn't we once dream of saving the world? Back when we were young? The torch was passed on to us, remember?"

My laugh was bitter. "Actually, I never cared about saving the world. All I wanted to

do back then was stay stoned." Her eyes never left me; her frown was a tolerant scold, so I had to nod, admitting the truth. "Ask not what your planet can do for you...." I quipped in my best Camelot-era parody. She patted my hand. This time it didn't warm the cockles of my heart. I was...am still scared shitless. "Maggie, what IS coming."

"I don't know, Jack," she whispered turning her gaze back to the man who just might be the key to the future. He was now thrashing in his sleep, trapped in some nightmare that could possibly be a vision of tomorrow's reality. I remember those twitches and moans well, from that last time when Mulder talked with the gods while he dreamed.

"I think were going to have to wait 'til he wakes up and tells us."

Maggie gave a sad smile. Morrie crossed himself. I shuddered and tried to swallow my fright. This time it stuck like a lump in my throat and wouldn't go away.

End Part 4/?

Chapter 5

Dana K. Scully - Tape 2 (continued) April 2003

The days had been growing cooler, the nights lengthening, and what happened in that clearing outside of Indianapolis convinced both Brodie and me that what lay ahead was something that would be best faced with plenty of allies around us. So, we fell in with our rescuers that very night. The Fates, of course, were smiling on us because it just so happened that our new friends were also heading west.

(Long pause followed by a sigh.) By the way, Mulder, you were right to make me do this. To tell my story out loud. To make it so I had to openly talk about what happened. I must admit, it has been painful, sometimes more agonizing than I had initially feared. But, you know, I've come to realize that after each memory is reported, each recollection is pulled from the dark corner where I'd stuffed it, hidden it away; it's as though the light suddenly made it bearable. It's like bringing it out and facing it takes away its power to hurt me.

So, thank you for pushing me through this therapy, Dr. Mulder [laughs]. Whether this was, in part, a form of payback, some sweet revenge for all the medicines that I've forced down you over the years, it has helped me to heal. Thank you, Mulder. [Pause/machine off].

[Machine on]. Sorry about that, Mulder. I had to rewind. I needed to refresh my memory as to where I'd left off in my story after I lost my composure during the thank you speech [laughs]. I'd been meaning to tell you how much I appreciate your concern on this tape, but kept forgetting to do it. It was long overdue, and if you're still there listening...and God knows, since you asked me to make this for you, you figure it's your duty to listen to the whole thing. I do know that you've put yourself through this for me. I realize having to listen to this account must be horrible for you.

But, this is your reprieve. Long overdue, too. I know it's a bit late to be offering you this, considering all you've been forced to hear, but you don't have to finish this journey with me. I can finish this story right now. Brodie wound up leaving me. I stumbled over some proof that he just might have fallen victim to foul play, so that's why I believe he's dead. BUT, I managed to go on by myself and had the great fortune to be given a place to stay when the snow came. After reading your story, in DF-2, I probably passed the winter easier and with more comfort than you and Skinner did. And when spring came I only had the rest of Nebraska and that tiny tip of Wyoming to travel, so I made good time. You were there waiting for me on the road and we fell into each others arms and...well, that's the end of my story.

So, please, go ahead and turn this tape off, if you want to. You know my story has a happy ending, because we're here together now, as I'm speaking. (Pause, followed by a sigh. The next sentence is barely audible, whispered.) Well, you tried, Dana.

Initially, Brodie's near escape seemed to bring us even closer, but as the miles passed, questions and doubts began to plague our relationship. Most of the fault was probably mine. I was hell bent to get to Colorado as quickly as possible, to discover your fate. Joining up with the group meant a change in our route as one third of the travelers' destination was the Chicago area. I now realized that the likelihood of Brodie and me making it back to Sky Watch alone was slim, so, although this detour pained me, I knew it was necessary. We'd been slowly making our way north to the Windy City when the first ripples of discord surfaced.

The camp had bedded down for the night; each 'family' group finding their space about the central bonfire, like so many spokes in a wheel. Each adult pulled sentry duty once about every 10 days, walking the outer circumference and stoking that center flame. Brodie and I had volunteered to pull duty the night before. I sank into my bed dead tired, bone weary.

"You know, I have a sister in Addison," Brodie murmured casually, just as sleep had begun to gently cradle me in its grasp. I knew this revelation had a purpose, so I fought sleep's comforting embrace and forced my lids back open. The moments of silence slowly slipped by in the brisk, fall air, and I was beginning to search for a suitable response when he finally continued, calmly informing me, "We might be having an early winter. So that's good."

My first instinct was to rail at this thinly veiled suggestion of wintering with his sibling, but I became suddenly frightened by this new direction my future might take and the angry words froze, unspoken.

"You don't want to go to Colorado?" My voice shook, made thin and fragile by icy fear. I couldn't make it home alone.

"No, Dana, I..." he'd read the terror in my tone. His hand caressed my shoulder in comfort, but he'd held his feelings, his frustrations, doubts and, yes, his own fears for too long, and the first of them finally slipped free. "Dana, we might not be able to make it there... before winter. It's so far and if the snows start..."

I know he heard my ragged breaths and the harsh gasps as I fought the tears.

"No!" I surprised myself with that loud protest and indignantly pushed myself upright to plead my case. Murmurs coming from our neighbors announced the hour was too late for such ringing ire. I shoved the fleece lining of my bed roll into my mouth to quiet myself.

For the first time, bitterness coated Brodie's tone when he leaned in close and whispered hurriedly in my ear. "If he's dead it's not gonnna' matter when you get there, and if he's not, you'll make it home to him in the spring. Okay? Dana? Okay?"

I wrapped my arms about my head so I wouldn't have to hear him, and let my forehead rest on my knees, trying to escape his words, needing to find my own thoughts. My own truths. How often, over these long, frightening, tiring days that we'd been traveling, had that same, fearfully blasphemous idea entered my own brain? Was returning to bury a dead man worth dying for? I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt you there inside me. Wasn't that all the proof I needed that you were dead and gone? I lifted my head, suddenly having to gasp for each breath. The flood of emotions that flowed through me seemed like a constantly recycling current, and held me trapped and floundering for what seemed like forever. That these emotions which enslaved my thoughts, my actions, my entire being, had once been in my masterful control, made it just that much more bitter that I was having to accept such a fate. I glanced at his face, reading his stubborn insistence that I admit to the truth of his words, his will.

"You think Mulder's dead, don't you?" I flung that question at him like a slap, but Brodie didn't even flinch. This made me rage against this horrible snare of suppositions and fears that threatened my hopes and purpose all the more. "You want Mulder to be dead, don't you?"

That no denial came almost stole my breath away. That's when the truth rushed in to save me. I suddenly lifted my head and sought to catch Brodie's eye, startled by the clarity this thought gave me. The roaring fire flamed up with the wind. "He IS alive. I know it! Because I've never felt him go. I would feel him leaving me..."

I saw deep into that dark, umber gaze and watched a flash of searing, jealous pain, but it flared just that once, then flickered and died, smothered out. The fire that ignited that bright flame, still burned, for it was banked with glowing coals, a love that burned with such infinite heat, my eyes misted at the sight.

*****

We traveled the access roads when they existed, down the northbound lanes of the interstate when they didn't. Stalls, wrecks and those vehicles that were just plain left behind because that last traffic jam was the mother of all gridlocks, made those parts of the journey spent on traversing the cluttered highway almost a classic venture of futility. We usually made less than three mile markers each day when having to scramble over the obstacle course of busses, trucks, and what seemed to be a selection of every make, model, and color of car that had rolled off every assembly line in the last 30 years. The solid river of metal, America's Dream Machines, went on for as far as the eye could see, both ahead and behind us, without a break, without end.

We'd almost reached the mid-American crossroads of I-57 and State Highway 36 when we spotted him. He'd positioned himself atop the cab of a jack-knifed, fire-engine-red Peterbuilt, a doom-saying town crier in a faded Bears T-shirt and torn, threadbare jeans. He'd seen the sprawling approach of our group and was standing behind the wind-foil on the eighteen wheeler's roof, madly waving his arms to get our attention. By the time Brodie and I made it there, he'd climbed down from his perch and was surrounded by those who'd reached him first.

I was surprised to see that the slight, young man had the ever-growing crowd's rapt attention. He looked half crazed; his eyes were two burning gems that blazed darkly in his pale, skeleton-like face. The scraggly, shoulder-length hair and beard called to mind those pictures of Charles Manson that were taken right after his capture. You remember the shots, the pre-shaved head, pre-swastika shots. The ones that reveal a madman, a lunatic, yet still hold you spellbound. They always left me frightened, because I could feel the pull his followers must have felt when caught in that strange, hypnotizing gaze. The disheveled messenger, who quickly began his tale anew when the last of the stragglers in our group caught up, claimed he'd escaped from Chicago. He'd made it his mission, so to speak, to intercept travelers heading to the area to warn them away from the place which he claimed had become 'Hell on Earth'.

At first I had plenty of suspicion and doubt about what he was saying. The happenings he described were so horrible, it was almost impossible to believe they were true. However, after he finished, he seemed to single me out and began talking to me on a personal level, and I was starting to be won over. The more I listened, the more I believed. And I was not alone.

"You were there? You saw these things happening yourself?" I asked, speaking in a stunned whisper.

Brodie's face had been a mask of shocked horror, and I suddenly remembered that his eldest sister, Eleanor, might be living through the nightmare world being described, that is, if she was even still among the living. If she'd not been one of the victims.

"Dana, come on! This guy's crazy," my companion whispered fervently in my ear. His hand was tight upon my arm, trying to pull me away.

My free arm was caught by the stranger, and those dark, ebony eyes held me. I found myself desperately searching those two beacons, trying to gauge if this mad prophet was perhaps drugged. His irises were so black I couldn't even find his pupils, and I found myself wondering if they'd swallow me whole just like they seemed to swallow the light. Mulder, if this was lunacy I'd been witnessing, I was no longer a sane, impartial observer, for I was pulled inside. I fell into the inky, black void and jerked my arm away from Brodie, moving closer to hear all he had to say. "They're feeding on each other. At first it was just the weak, but now, they're moving in gangs and raiding people's houses, campsites."

"Just who are these THEY? The only THEY I know are the aliens. Where are the visitors when all this is going on? I've never seen them lose control. They wouldn't let this stuff happen. I have an idea why they're here and this doesn't fit in with that purpose. They have to keep us in their control, and you're talking like they're not even there." Brodie's tone, when he began this speech, was viciously angry. He'd been screaming his questions in challenge, but mid-way through his ire seemed to fade. By the time he finished he almost seemed troubled, like something had made him think there might be a grain of truth in all this, and he was truly puzzled as to why it was taking place. I watched these conflicting emotions play across his face, and though he was still standing by my side it felt like he was a million miles away.

"They're not there. They came in that first week, closed down the city, took the food, burned all the government offices, then labeled us. That's how they found out who the people in power were--and the cops--and executed them. Then they left us."

"To destroy ourselves," I murmured. It had grown deathly quiet while the man had been talking, and my half-to-myself comment seemed loud. It hung in the cold, crisp air like it had frozen there, for all to hear. "Is this what they're doing in the cities like New York, LA? They know they can't feed, can't control that many people? Are they doing this in all the major population centers?"

"How should I know, lady? I just know that's what they've done here. If you have people who live anywhere north, from here to the lakes, you might as well write them off. If you're going home, there's no home to go to. All that lies up this road is death." He paused and ran a thin hand through his dirty clump of hair, which made it stand up more in spiked disarray; but for the first time, those glassy pools held a touch of sanity.

I didn't want the tales being told to be true. I didn't want to believe that any of this horrific narrative could be grounded in reality. That would mean having to face that we now lived in a world which took the old metaphor describing our existence as being "dog eat dog" to its ultimate dark conclusion - man was feeding on man. Tears stung my eyes, and I grabbed his arm. "Where should these people go then?"

He shrugged and turned to remount his perch, his duty to our group done. He peered down the road, and I assumed he saw no more travelers, because he slumped to sit on the brightly colored cab roof. I watched him silently as he found his place and tilted his head back, shutting his lids as if to nap in the warm, morning sun. The people about me were moving away, but I was still held frozen to my place, caught by his words and the lingering feeling that this message had somehow been meant for me. I jumped in alarm when the sleeping prophet leaned down and met my eyes. Surprise quickly vanished, replaced by a sharp, icy terror, when he smiled. His face eerily resembled a skull, and the hand that stretched out to tightly grasp my arm was stark, white bone.

I looked for help, but Brodie was gone; the crowd was milling away, so I was the only one that heard the last part of his message. At least I think I understood what he said when he leaned over the side and pulled me so close my skin stung from his chilling, softly, whispered warning. There was no doubt that his words were meant directly for me; he spoke to me, calling me by name.

"I don't know where the people should go, but we both know where you're supposed to go. Snow's coming. You need to hurry, Dana. It's a long trip to make alone. You know which road you have to take. Don't stray."

The sun chose that moment to hide behind a cloud, and the sudden drop in temperature made me shiver. Well, that's what I tried to convince myself happened as I pulled away, thoughtfully rubbing my wrist, then threaded my way through the throng of people to find Brodie.

*****

John Lee Hart
The Stanley Hotel
Estes Park. Colorado
June, 2003

I don't think it could be summer yet, but then, who knows? Not me, nor anyone else here for that matter...except Mulder. But he has so many other things on his mind, I don't think I'll bother him by asking for the date. He'd probably just say that it's late...time is running out. I think being overly melodramatic comes with being a prophet. His fever broke at dawn, and by mid-day he was awake enough to force down some of the soup Maggie Mae was demanding he eat. He recovered so quickly that yesterday we all decided that our sickroom campsite in the lobby was no longer necessary, and we each picked out a room for ourselves. Maggie Mae's is there on the second floor, right by the grand staircase that opens into the lobby, and of course, next door to Mulder...just in case. Morrie took a suite on the same floor; one of the luxury rooms. It's got a great view.

My room is on the fourth floor, far opposite end. I spent 20 years in an occupation that demanded I not sleep with my back to a door, and old habits die hard. Since the elevators are useless without electricity the only way to get to my new domicile are the fire stairs. I deliberately jammed the door to the set of stairs nearest my room. I can't sleep if I don't think I can hear when someone is coming. The wooden floor of the long hallway leading to my quarters serves this purpose well. At least it did until this morning.

The knock came at 1 a.m. by my watch, which is as accurate as we can get in these timeless, dateless, post colonization days. I hadn't yet drifted off. I'd been thinking, woolgathering, about my friends, and what had happened, you know, life in general. The unexpected, unannounced knock brought me to my feet in a leap that these ancient bones shouldn't make, and the hard pounding of my heart was a reminder that I'm too old for this shit.

"WHO'S there!!?" My shout announced how pissed I was, and it fueled my anger because it also relayed my fear. I didn't bother with my robe when I went to open the door.

"It's me. Mulder."

I was surprised that he'd been able to make the climb, and I felt ashamed by both my reaction to his knock and the fact he'd been forced by my paranoia to overextend himself like this. I jerked open the door and he greeted me with a wan, sheepish grin.

"Sorry about waking you, but I need a favor, Jack."

As pale as he was, the twin swaths of red that cut across those high, prominent cheekbones in his too thin face shone like stoplights.

"What ya need, Mulder? I asked, snatching my pants off the bedside chair and grabbing his arm, guiding him to sit. His recovery these last few days had been amazing but looking at him standing there, barefoot, thin, bony ankles sticking down from his frayed, high water jeans, healthy was not the word that came to mind. He was haggard, and I could tell that asking for this favor troubled him. It had to, why else would Fox Mulder be blushing? He paused, and this gave me a chance to slip into my pants. Not that he could see my own pipe stem, knobby kneed, legs in the dim, candle light. If his sight wasn't already gone he would have been blinded by that amazing view. My legs are so fish bellied white, I have to squint when I look in the mirror.

"I need to go paint over one of those big signs comin' into town on the Peak to Peak Highway. Scully and Skinner'll be comin' home this morning and I..." I stared at him, my amazement growing, not just from my friend's uttering what must be some kind of precognitive statement but from the deepening color which had spread so that even the man's ears now blazed the same fiery red-orange shade of a sunset after a brush fire. "I...I just wanted to save her a few steps. Let her know we're here at the Stanley."

It's not often I've gotten to see Mulder blush. I've always struggled against this cruel, sadistic streak that surfaces periodically; a sad shameful flaw, which does sometimes allow me the chance for an occasional snicker. It happened to pick last night to rear its ugly head, so I couldn't help myself, I just had to mess with Mulder. "Oh, so Scully's coming home today? This morning?"

His mute nod informed me my friend knew I'd designated him as my current victim. He accepted his fate, knowing that I was not going to let him get away with his quickly uttered forecast of the future. I watched the man carefully arrange his face in preparation for the smart-assed jibe he knew was coming. I, of course, would never let a good friend down. "Ah, Mulder, did she call you on her cell to let you know when to expect them?"

It wasn't quite a frown that played across his face, and he didn't lower himself by responding to my baited barb. Mulder simply allowed me to continue with my malicious fun, while he suffered in silence, head bowed. This reaction did finally make me feel a twinge of conscience; after all, the man had been at death's door three days before. So, I decided to cease my taunts, finishing with one last sarcastic query. "So, did God say what took them so long?"

"No, but I have to believe the floods made them take the back route, don't you? They were coming back from Denver and wound up having to make a lot of detours." Mulder lifted his head to focus on me with a calm stare that suddenly made my heart rate speed up to double-time.

It's just one part of that creepy, uncanny way he has of making you doubt your own senses. You know the man's sightless, or at least so close to it that he can't possibly be seeing your shape; much less be peering at you so deeply. That lone eye looks inside you and knows the exact nature of your soul. He knows the truths we keep hidden inside. The silence surrounding the moment stretched out, forcing me to meet that intense stare, which held me until I found myself fidgeting beneath the gaze of a blind man.

"Yeah, I'll bet a lot of roads washed out between here and Denver," I murmured. My pause lasted a heartbeat then ended with a sigh. Who was I fooling? I knew it was too late. Small talk wasn't going to stop the inevitable. This always happens when Mulder looks at you. You wind up having to face whatever truth he uncovers.

I had to admit I felt the presence of some sort of unexplainable power which either originated within or radiated through my friend. It had been there for the three years I'd known the man, and I had little doubt that it had been there, perhaps just dormant, throughout his life. Since our arrival, Maggie Scully, Morrie and I had witnessed countless occurrences of sensory and physical phenomena which seemed to be both effecting the man and emanating from him. The fact these preternatural manifestation went on continuously made it apparent that his power had grown. I found I could no longer deny that something was happening to Mulder, that some kind of change was occurring.

I've never been a religious man, but I have turned my problems over to a Higher Power before. That's how I made it this far. I took 12 steps a long, long time ago, and it saved my life. I'm not a joiner, and there weren't too many AA/NA meetings in the Yucatan, but I never felt I was alone after I admitted I couldn't handle my addictions without help. Believing in God as a concept has been something I've struggled with my entire life; taking something to my heart, entirely on faith, is hard for me. Still, facing God as a reality, like Mulder allegedly has, well, just the idea chills me to the bone. When that thought crossed my mind this morning, I shuddered in fear. When I'm frightened, my tongue tends to loosen.

"So, you and the MAN have a nice talk? Did he have anything earth-shaking to say, or was it all just about Scully's homecoming?" My mouth was dry, and my query came out more strained and sharper than I'd intended it to.

"Actually, Scully's coming home was the chief topic of conversation when we visited tonight." Mulder's smile was not his normal one, and the burning glow in his eye had cooled. He kept his tone calm, matter-of-fact. "But, yeah, like always, we talked about a lot of things."

"Did He tell you the secrets of life?" I asked, my voice not making it above an awed whisper, even though I'd meant the query to be a joke.

Mulder's laugh was a soft, flavored blend of bitter-sweet irony mixed with peppered, acerbic acceptance. "Yeah, but it isn't something you didn't learn a long time ago, Jack."

I smiled; having to force it through clenched teeth made my face ache. "Well, can you clue me in so I can make it a point to remember? I'm almost 60, Mulder, I wouldn't mind knowing what it's all been about before I'm gone."

He chuckled again, and his tone had lightened. His face finally seemed to smooth out, and I felt my own tautly stretched nerves slowly relax when he grinned that grin I'd missed seeing for so many years. "Well, the point is...there is no point. There's no one big reason or purpose to existence. How can there be, since our souls are eternal? We're supposed to just take it as it comes, make the most of each moment, to enjoy it while it's happening. Not because it's all gonna' end, but because the moment will, and memories are nice, but you can't remember what you don't experience." He paused, noting my stunned response to his words. "Hey, I told you it was something simple. God admitted it took Him forever to figure it out."

Mulder's laugh was like quicksilver and helped me to get over my shock at discovering that the answer to mankind's ultimate puzzle, that ancient riddle -- "What is the true 'Meaning of Life'" was something that I could have stumbled across inside a Hallmark card. I started chuckling along with him, finally understanding the 'point', and for awhile we both got lost in the infectious hilarity that comes when laughter finds company.

My laughter finally slowed down to an intermittent chuckle and I wiped at my eyes, trying to get myself under control. This visit had been for a reason, and I was just about to suggest we needed to head out or Scully wasn't going to get her sign, when this actuality hit me, just popped into my brain -- Mulder was talking to God. The God, the Creator of the universe. Mulder didn't have to have faith in God's existence, he had God himself. Questions flooded my brain like someone had turned on a tap, but I stopped short when one small, quick thought slipped past the heavily weighted philosophical quandaries.

Would I actually want to see the face of God? The sun is the center of our solar system, the giver of heat and light. Yet, we can't look at it directly, with the naked eye. So, what happens when you're in the presence of God? Their last conversation supposedly ended moments before he'd knocked on my door. I glanced over to my friend, sitting in the chair across from me. At first I saw no sign that this close contact had any effect on him, but then I looked into that one eye. This convinced me that my relationship with God was fine. Close relationships don't always have to be face to face, do they? Having witnessed the painful glint in Mulder's eye, all my questions died.

"You know I'll help you, Mulder, you only have to ask. Whenever, wherever, whatever. You can count on me, but..." I had to stop, my heart was thumping so loudly in my chest I couldn't breathe.

Mulder frowned, I think he could hear the pounding from where he sat. Somehow, he knew what was troubling me; he sensed the nature of my fear. "You don't have to look at what you don't want to see, Jack. He knows how much each of us can take. He wouldn't ask this of me, if he didn't think it was necessary. This sort of thing only happens when he's running out of options. I can deal with it." He sighed, and his grin was meant to comfort. He almost pulled it off.

"Just go on believing what ever way works for you. It's enough for him. Once his children reach a certain stage in development, God's just happy that they think about him at all. If we get the details wrong it doesn't matter. Our misconceptions never change Him. Remember what he said a long time ago? "I AM WHO I AM!" Well, the visitors stopped believing in him, but he didn't cease to exist. That's my ace in the hole; I think that's what'll save us." Mulder laughed out loud. It was such a good laugh, from deep inside, and I had to grin at how happy it made me feel. I didn't exactly understand what he was talking about, but he continued on, telling me his plans. "Jack, this is why God needed to talk to me, he wants me to stop the aliens. To convince them that their Creator wants them to leave us alone."

Mulder is Moses. I had to grin at the thought. "Okay, let me see if I got this straight. God wants the aliens gone, so he picked you to go tell them to get out. If they don't, you, with God's help, will send a plague to make the alien's sorry they defied the will of God, yadda, yadda...and this will go on for however many times it takes to convince the bad guys that the good guys always win. I get the picture. You're doing 'The Prince of Egypt' only with live action and no singing." Mulder nodded, a hundred watt smile flashing at my quip. I was still puzzled though. "But, why does God need you? Why doesn't this all-powerful God just smite those green blooded assholes and be done with it?"

"Hey, sounds good to me." Mulder was shaking his bushy head as he chuckled. "Matter of fact, I asked Him the same thing. He said he wants US to give it one last try." I didn't think much of God's reasoning, and my laugh was short, full of contempt. Mulder never lost his grin.

*****

We walked out to the outskirts of town and painted a sign. I carried the two buckets of paint, which were naturally, since this was Colorado, dark blue and day-glo orange. I don't think there'll ever be a shortage of those tints in this state. The blue Mulder and I brushed on covered the green road sign announcing Estes Park's city limits and elevation. (Another little peccadillo of the Rocky Mountain state...showing how far a town is above sea level and not its population. Actually, if it had said what the population was then, it would have been wrong now, but as far as I know, Estes Park will always be elev. 7522 ft.) I painted out the announcement - "We are at The Stanley Hotel --Mulder" in foot high, florescent orange letters, finishing just as the sky began to lighten to the east.

Mulder and I chatted while we worked, but the conversation never returned to anything remotely theological. We talked mostly about football, a subject spurred, I guess, by our palette. We didn't speak at all as we trudged home, dead tired, the bright orange sun rising over the canyon into the bluest of blue summer skies. I dropped my buckets beside the porch, and with a hand on my friend's arm to steady him, we climbed the stairs to our temporary home. No one was up yet, but I could hear the sounds from Maggie Mae's room announcing that she was stirring. After hustling Mulder into his adjoining quarters next door, I hurried to get cleaned up before breakfast.

I hadn't gotten all the paint splatters washed off when I heard the sound of Morrie's size 13's coming up the hallway. I knew before I opened the door and he gave me the news -our sign worked; Scully and Skinner knew right where to find us.

What follows in this narrative won't be the lucid, linear recollections I've been relating. My memories of what happened after that morning's impromptu, roadway news conference are disjointed, a fragmented mixture of a few encapsulated moments in time, images of startling clarity, surrounded by a black void of nothingness. It took me the entire winter to piece together this timeline, Mulder. How much of what I say is real, and how much is fantasy, I really can't tell you, but it does bring to mind something Brodie said to me that last night before he left.

This scene from the past, which is somehow fixed in my mind, ends with my young friend not actually speaking these words to me. He's singing them.

*****

I'm reclining against my rolled up sleeping bag, mulling over the way things are. Brodie feels he can't be this close after the takeover and not check to see if his sister is okay. I see nothing I say is making a difference. He has to go, and I'll have to learn to deal with his decision. He is going tomorrow. Hopefully, he'll make it to his sister and back to me; time will tell. I watch the campfire, these simple facts playing over and over in my mind.. "You still awake?" Brodie asks, and I see he is sitting there, elbows on bent knees, lotus style, chin resting on his fist while he studies me. It appears he'd been doing this for a while.

"Yeah, just kinda zoned out there..." I murmur, studying Brodie, sitting cross-legged at my side, casually leaning forward to warm his hands over the flames, as he tells me, "Yeah, easy to 'cross over into the Twilight Zone' these days, isn't it?"

I gave a soft chuckle. "Brodie, we live in the Twilight Zone now. Ever think you'd wind up being Mad Max - hiking across post-apocalyptic America, an alien implant in your neck?"

I watch the flickering light color and shadow his pale, white face. His large, dark eyes are haunted; the tortured grin is but a ghost of a smile. His voice is a warm, rich baritone, as he offers this lyrical comment about where fate has brought us.

"I'm steppin' into the twilight zone,
The place is a madhouse,
Feels like being cloned,
My beacon's been moved,
Under moon and star,
Where am I to go,
Now that I've gone too far?"

He sang about madness and suicide. He believed what we'd heard was one poor, mentally disturbed man's delusional obsession; twisted further by gossip and rumors. Brodie willingly walked up that road; nothing I'd said convinced him not to go.

*****

Even though it was not quite noon, in unspoken agreement, our group had decided to set up camp there at the crossroads. Nothing was said -- well, nothing was said that I heard. The crowd simply broke and people just seemed to gravitate to the back parking area of an abandoned roadside truck stop. All 100 plus travelers then commenced the task of laying out their personal belongings in their designated 'spot' of our wheel shaped community. Most of our fellow travelers decided to change their course to a different destination during the discussions which went on throughout the day and long into the night. But Brodie and 31 other intrepid souls chose to continue north. They refused to take the word of a man who was obviously mad. Brodie stated that the messenger's frightening claims made his desire to see how his sister fared just that much greater. But he refused to admit that anything we'd heard could have been true.

I do find it telling that none of these people brought family or loved ones with them on this trek. We were all left behind at the roadside camp. Doesn't that speak of some vestiges of doubt as to what lay on that road up ahead?

The second night after Brodie left I followed him. I did believe what had been said, if not with my reasoning mind, with my soul and heart. But those lonely hours spent dwelling on how I'd let him head off and face the future alone finally got to me. At dusk I left the camp, hoping to catch up with my partner as quickly as possible. I walked throughout the night and the following day, not stopping until exhaustion forced me to rest, just as the sun set that second evening. I found shelter in an abandoned motor home. The huge vehicle was down in the ditch, alongside the northbound lane, up to its belly in mud. The snows that had fallen the morning of Brodie's departure were once again threatening, but I slept soundly and deeply, warm in the plush, metal campsite.

When I awoke I discovered that the storm had been no more than an idle threat. No flakes had fallen overnight, but the icy frost covering the asphalt beneath my boots did make walking treacherous. I'd only been traveling an hour when I spotted the clearing. It caught my eye because it was obviously a site that could be utilized by a large group of travelers for an overnight stay. As I crossed over to the wide, grassy glen I realized it was a perfect campground; it almost looked as though it had been designed for that purpose, and it was obvious it had most certainly been used very recently. While the smaller pyres that lay here and there about the clearing were cold, there was a circle of rocks in the center where a large bonfire had burned. While no embers glowed, the stones and ash still held heat, meaning a fire had blazed there not too many hours before.

My grin at discovering this evidence, that my friend might not be more than a few hours ahead of me, vanished when I spotted the well worn path. Why this dirt trail that disappeared into the copse of trees surrounding the glen disturbed me is something I can't quite clarify. All I can tell you is it took every ounce of courage I could find to follow it, but I felt compelled to do exactly that. I had to know where it led.

I'd traveled only about a quarter of a mile into the urban forest when I noticed the scent. A foul, acrid stench that stung the eyes even though it was only a faint trace seeping out from the shadowed path ahead. With each step I took the odor grew heavier, matching my heart and my fear. Finally I came to the spot where the trees and underbrush grew sparse. This is where I saw the first mound. Stepping over a rotting log, I made my way off the trail and over to the dirt circle to investigate. I soon noticed other small, round humps that lay beyond the first one. There were dozens scattered throughout the woods. Those in the distance showed a clear ridge where the filling clods had settled, making stark, earthen outlines that showed the circumferences of each pit dug. The smell was thick, cloying, making it hard to breathe because it burned the sinuses. I instinctively began to breathe through my mouth.

There was one mound which caught my eye, the most distant from the path. It didn't show that dark, sunken rim because it was new. That's where I began to dig, using the collapsible camper's shovel in my pack. It wasn't hard, the dirt was still loose. This grave was fresh. I found the first body less than 3 feet down. I recognized the face. His family had camped next to us. Wrestling him out of what was meant to be his final resting place was hard, for his body was rigidly cold, and rigormortis held him tightly in its grasp. I finally managed, though, then went on to the next, and the next. The bodies were stacked three deep in some places. I continued to dig, searching...

The mass grave was no more than 4-1/2 feet at its deepest spot. The bodies had been sprinkled with quicklime to keep the animals at bay and the odor confined to the burial site. I wore gloves, but the chemical worked its way to the skin of my wrists, burning me. I didn't notice it until later. It didn't seem to matter. I didn't care. I'm sure the campsite trap failed on those days when the wind was right, and the stench of decomposing flesh was carried back to the clearing. The night before, the breeze had been gusting to the south. Brodie and his friends had never suspected a thing.

My young friend's body didn't number among the 24 I uncovered that day. I believed it was because he had been one of those chosen to be taken away to be slaughtered for food. It was night before I finished reburying the victims, and it was sometime during that long, dirty task that I totally lost my mind.

END TAPE

-WSS-

*****

Walter S Skinner
June 2003
The Stanley Hotel
Estes Park, Colorado

Sleep won't come; my mind is too filled with a swirling mixture of memories, scriptures and questions which flit rapidly about in crazy, disjointed patterns. These thoughts never slowed down long enough to allow me to snag them with my weary, sluggishly moving consciousness; so I'm now trying to write, hoping this focused activity might at least offer a way to retain and address some of those bobbing and jostling thoughts.

Scully and I hardly slept last night. We were so close but stopped to rest, simply unfurling our bed rolls, not even bothering with a fire. Trying to sleep was useless, so we repacked our bedding and started walking. Home was just up that road. It didn't mater how tired we were, because our next stop was the last stop. We were arriving home empty handed, worried because we'd been gone so long and how we'd left Mulder, but the suspense of not knowing how he'd fared would soon be over.

Dawn brought the sight of the familiar lake and the red, shingled roof of the Stanley, high on its hillock, visible for a mile. That's when Scully spotted the sign. I don't ever remember hearing my former agent squeal in girlish excitement, but it was proof that there truly is a first time for everything. Mulder was apparently well enough to make this sign, so there was reason to hope. Our prayers had been answered. I don't think she stopped laughing the remainder of our walk. It was a sound I've always secretly relished, and I was smiling at her happiness and the fact that our journey had been shortened by a few miles.

*****

The mother-daughter reunion was filled with laughter and tears. We were told of Mulder's illness and all that occurred while his fever burned. Then the room grew quiet when the man himself appeared. I was shocked by how his sickness had ravaged him, but it wasn't until he made it over to us that I noticed the change. My prophesy had been fulfilled. I was right; Mulder had survived everything for a reason. He had been given his gifts for a purpose. I should have rejoiced, or at least been pleased with myself because, for once, I'd 'backed the right horse.' However, all I wanted to do was run away from him. Away from what I knew was coming. I wasn't alone. Scully was frightened, too.

Still, she did manage to go to him and take him into her arms. He knew something was wrong, though. He felt the difference in her touch. We all moved to the parlor and sat by the huge hearth to talk. Every eye stayed on Mulder, and all thoughts seemed to be focused on what we knew was coming. The intense stares and brooding brows hardly reflected the casual chatter that passed among us that morning. It was almost noon before it happened, and I have to laugh, because I didn't notice anything until Mulder was fully into his revelation. It was then I realized that what I'd been watching for, what we'd been anticipating since he'd joined us, was happening. That's when I finally spotted the glint in Scully's eyes. When I saw her fear. And her sadness.

The idle conversation was still droning on in the warm, late morning air, changing from topic to topic, person to person. That Mulder was no longer a participant didn't catch my attention, even though I believe I was focused on him. The man he knew down in the Yucatan, Jack Hart, was expounding on something; I haven't the faintest idea what, when Mulder suddenly straightened. He let out a deep, soul weary sigh, then began to speak.

"I have to leave tomorrow. There's something I have to do. Something God needs me to do. I've talked to Maggie, Morrie and Jack about this trip...this job I have to do. But, He's filled in some of the details, so you three might want to change your minds about coming with me. You see, we have two weeks before THEY start the final stage of their plan. We have to be in Nebraska by then. With Scully's friends from last winter."

I was confused by what he was saying, the way his words came out slowly, as if each syllable was too heavy a weight to be borne. My questions were almost voiced, but that man, Hart, spoke first. "Two weeks! Mulder, how the hell can we get to..."

Mulder raised his hand and silence reigned. "I don't know all the whys and wherefores, Jack. He's not telling me until I need to know. I just know how much time we have, where we're supposed to be and what God wants me to do. He wants them gone. And we're...I'm supposed to make them go." His fingers pressed into his skull, leaving crimson circlets on the pale flesh of his forehead. "The general plan's a breeze, it's the details that are the bitch." The laugh that followed was cut short by a gasp that sounded just shy of a sob. That harsh, quick intake of agony left us all staring at our friend in bleak silence. Mulder picked at a raveling hole on the knee of his jeans, seeming too embarrassed by the emotions he'd allowed to slip free to even lift his head.

"So I guess that means we need supplies and provisions for two weeks," Margaret Scully announced, pushing up from the couch. The upward set of her jaw was a mute exclamation of determination as she took charge of this move. The transient lifestyle of being a military wife had given us a perfect Field General. "If we're leaving tomorrow, we'd best get started."

There was no room for questions or arguments in that tone. We were ready for our journey before the sun had set.

*****

Mulder ran out of steam just before dusk. I'd just returned with my latest haul of two nylon bubble tents to find him sitting on the floor, reclining against one of the new hiking packs, head in his hands. He straightened when I opened the front door, but it was obvious he was used up.

"We're almost done. Why don't we all make an early night of it?" I asked, dropping my burden and squatting beside him. He was too tired for false pride. With a nod he accepted my help making it to his room, offering a fleeting grin and murmuring thanks after I ushered him to his bed.

"I'll tell Scully you want to make an early start," I commented, watching him fumbling to untie his sneakers before finally giving up and toeing them off, fully laced. The shoes landed with a heavy thunk near the bathroom door. "Neither one of us got much sleep last night, so I'm sure she'll be right behind you. I know I'll be sacking out after I get some of the dirt off from our last road trip."

Mulder's clumsy attempt at shucking off his T-shirt halted, and his arms dropped to his lap. "I'm sorry." His face reflected his misery. "You just got home. I hate asking this, but...are you going the distance with me?"

"Everyone else may fall away, but I never will," I quoted the scripture, whispering a silent prayer that this time the vow would be honored to the end.

His chuckle was soft and his grin sardonic. "Good, so if we don't get any crowing cocks we'll be in good shape."

I knew he couldn't see the blush which scorched my ears, but I still couldn't look at him, choosing to study the Navaho design on the throw rug at the foot of his bed. "You still saying your prayers, Reverend Walt?" His voice was muffled as he finally jerked off his shirt, and I glanced up to see a flash of blue sail across the room to land atop his shoes.

For better than half a year that had been Mulder's query each night after I doused the lantern. At first it had been a taunt, spoken in harsh disdain at my new found, religious fervor, but as the endless winter stretched on, I came to see it as a way he could share my faith.

"They help me to sleep; He gives me 'sweet dreams'," I murmured, letting my smile widen as I gave the expected reply. With a groan Mulder stretched out on the bed. My grin died, becoming a frown, when I noted the gray, haunted pallor of his face. "Guess maybe I'm not sayin' 'em right, then. My dreams aren't what I'd call 'sweet'," he muttered, rolling over so the last few words he'd spoken were muffled as he burrowed his face into the pillow.

I didn't know what to tell him. I didn't know what I could say that might offer him some measure of comfort. This seemed to be his goodnight, so I left. Apparently, I must not be saying them right either. For two nights I've tried to sleep. Now, it is three hours before dawn on the second night and I'm still awake.

-WSS-

*****

John Lee Hart
Atop Storm Mountain
Laramier County, Colorado
June 2003 (1:00 a.m., Day 4)

"Always hoped that I'd be an apostle,
Knew that I would make it if I tried,
Then when we retire we can write the gospels,
So they'll still talk about us when we've died."

The view from our campsite is magnificent. When morning comes we should be able to see the sun rising over a bowed horizon. Yes, we should be able to see the dawn highlighting the curvature of the earth there across those amber waves of grain (or whatever that is) covering those prairies that stretch out as far as the eye can see. And we will be witnessing this wonderful, breathtakingly beautiful, panoramic scene, thanks to me, Jack Hart. Because I fucked up royally. You'd think that having a sense of direction would have been a prerequisite for the job of navigator on this mission, wouldn't you? Actually, I knew we needed to go east; I just didn't know that meant turn left, not right. Instead of heading down Risk Canyon and on to Sky Watch, I led us up to the forestry station that sits atop this mountain, costing us an entire day in our already tight schedule, which could quite possibly bring about the annihilation of mankind. But, we do have a fantastic view!

Skinhead, AKA Walter Skinner, demoted me from pathfinder to flank because of my blunder. Not that he actually has the power to make such decisions, but everyone was just too footsore and exhausted, on top of being distressed and depressed about the time loss, to care. No one challenged his gung-ho, G-man reaction, which came after we finally realized the miles long, extremely steep incline we'd been plodding up wasn't ever going to crest and start going downhill. No one else said a thing about my error, certainly not our actual appointed leader, Mulder. He barely had enough energy to get his bedroll spread out before he collapsed on top of it, falling asleep instantly.

As penance, I volunteered to pull the first watch for the second night in a row, receiving mumbled thanks in acknowledgment. I didn't bother to wake Scully when it came time for her to relieve me, just took that watch, too. But it doesn't make me feel any better, because it doesn't help us. It doesn't change a thing. My Daddy used to tell me, "Jacko, you'd mess up a wet dream." Leave it to me to screw up even God's plans.

It does give me time to catch my journal up to date, which, according to A(sshole)D(ictator) Skinner, we should all be doing, being we're apostles and all. Funny, the jerk doesn't mention these archival duties, or our new callings, when Mulder is around. Looking at Mulder today, I don't believe he's really concerned about whether the Gospels According to Mohawken Jack OR even Saint Walter are being kept current. The tortured glint in his eye, that puckered, almost pained frown, his ravaged, near bleeding bottom lip, even the tight, cautiously controlled way he holds himself, all clearly speak of a man with more important matters weighing on his mind.

I should start from where I left off that morning after we painted the sign and Scully and Skinner made it home. It turns out that their expedition was a complete bust. Not only were they gone twice as long as they'd expected but they returned empty handed. The Fort Collins drug heist went off without a hitch, but the stores of that pharmacy had been transferred to Denver. Any thought of venturing into that metropolitan area ended when they found that as far north as Longmont, there was little left for those who remained. The violence and insanity, that came with hunger and need, made entry into any settlement area a suicide mission, growing even more dangerous as the population increased. So the entire venture was for naught, and they still had to make the dangerous, detour ridden, return trip.

The one bright spot for Scully was returning to discover that her mother was alive and well. (I think she was glad to see Morrie and yours truly, too.) The happy homecoming took a back seat to the changes in Mulder. He made an announcement that we were all cordially invited to join him in the upcoming Armageddon. Of course, everyone unanimously accepted his invitation and immediately began preparations for this much anticipated event, which (we were informed), should officially start two weeks after our departure. Details were sketchy, still are for that matter, but our friend has assured us that he and the Organizer of this event have everything handled and will fill us in as need be. Except, of course, they didn't count on picking a navigator who didn't know his left from his right, east from west, or up from down.

We did make good time from Estes Park to here. The weather had been excellent, and if we hadn't had to worry about fatigue we could have traveled the entire 16 hours we were blessed with daylight. But we are only human, all of us, even our amazingly gifted leader. Up until this afternoon Mulder had been handling the hardships of traversing these mountainous paths with no problem. In fact, if anyone slowed the expedition down it was me and Maggie Mae, the two ancient travelers. Until we reached that fork in the road, nothing was slowing Mulder down, not his near blindness, his gimpy side, not even his recent illness. He'd been his old, glib, just this side of hyperactive self.

I'd stopped to check our bearings, giving us all a chance to share some bottled water. I'd chug-a-lugged my sips and idly handed it off to my friend. I never glanced up from the topographical, water colored chart that was so confusing to my Rand McNalley schooled eyes. I was still holding out the bottle, still turning the puzzling origami atlas this way and that, when I noticed my companions had grown quiet. Looking up I discovered four sets of eyes glued to Mulder. When I turned to face him, I saw why.

His body was rigid, but it was far from still. He wasn't quite trembling; the movement was not exactly a palsied tremor, instead he seemed to be vibrating from head to foot. Even his half open eyelid was caught up in a flickering dance that appeared to be caused by some unseen electrical field coursing through him. That's when I labeled the odor that had been assaulting my sinuses, burning the sensitive membranes with its sharp, acrid charge. It was ozone. I squinted against my tears, entranced by the shadows reflecting off the swirling, milky white surface of his upturned eye.

"Mulder! Oh God! Skinner! Jack! Make it STOP!" It was Scully, her voice stretched thin and high by her panic. Thin, blue-white beams now arced from his fingertips. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Scully move toward Mulder. She was stopped when Skinner stepped in front of her, blocking her way.

"DON'T!" His deep baritone alone might have halted her progress. It did signal the end of the event, and Mulder crumpled to the ground as if the ties that held him erect had been snipped by his former supervisor's loud, ringing command.

Once more all eyes were focused on our 'leader', who was slowly trying to at least make it upright enough to sit. None of us helped him in his struggles; we simply watched him, stunned senseless, while he wrestled vainly against the gravity that held him prone. Scully was the first to break the trance that held us all, but rather than helping Mulder up, she knelt down next to him, to speak to him, bending to his reclining level.

"Mulder, are you all right?" Her voice was husky, raw with fear. "Mulder, it's okay. I'm here. It's me, Scully"

By the time she'd helped her partner to a sitting position we were all down on that sandy road, squatting or kneeling, all wanting to see if the man was all right, needing to appease our curiosity as to what had just happened while we'd watched in amazed wonder. I think we all had one guess as to what had occurred, but no one wanted to believe we'd actually witnessed the physical presence of God. Some of us had seen Him contact Mulder before, but I don't think it'll ever get easier to accept, even if it becomes commonplace.

From what I understand, very little was learned from this divine connection making it seem as if God enjoys staging shows of flash and smoke, but which provide little actual substance. Mulder said that all God told him is that we have four days to make it to Sky Watch. If we miss this deadline our chances for the rest of God's and Mulder's plan to succeed (still no word on exactly what that is, by the way) will be slim to none. Mulder either can't or won't say why there's a time limit, or why it is so important to be at the ranch by that day.

I don't know if talking with us face to face, like He does with Mulder, is difficult for the all powerful Creator of the universe, but it does seem to take a lot out of my friend. That's why it bothers me that God didn't have anymore to tell us except that little bit of scheduling. Considering what Mulder went through, you'd think that God would have at least told him which way we needed to turn to go DOWN the mountain.

*****

Dana K. Scully, Tape 2 (continued),
April 2003

Well, I see that I am almost out of time and tape, which seems to be the perfect point to bring this therapy session/audio trip down memory lane to an end. My time spent at New Deseret was a sort of vacation, spa, hospice retreat. The people were, almost to an individual, the kindest, most compassionate human beings I've met in my entire life. They were godsends, literally. But most of my time spent with Sariah, Lehi, Ruth and my other friends are memories to be shared during those quiet times when you and I have nothing more pressing than whiling away a day simply enjoying one another's company.

These last two recollections happened during that lost time, which started with meeting the truck top oracle, but careened out of control after I found the clues to Brodie's fate. I can't actually say whether they truly happened, were simply the product of an overactive imagination, or if I did finally plummet through that diaphanous veil that separates lucidity from madness.

The first occurred immediately after I exhumed the mass grave. I know I found my way back to that mired to the axle motor home, but as to how long I stayed huddled in that cold, dark, closet bedroom, I won't even venture to guess. It might have been just that first night and the ones that followed. But the longer I ponder that particular conundrum the more I believe my stay might have exceeded a week, because my back pack was empty of all the provisions I'd brought within a day after I resumed my journey.

What I do remember is how the dark gloom enveloped me the last night of my hibernation. My view was bleak, both inside and out. Gazing through the bedside window I saw that the world was a chaotic battlefield; icy rain sliced through the newborn autumn twilight. The bruised, purple darkness was split by crystallized daggers that captured the gloaming light so they glistened like fire. Inside, where I lay, was a gray haze that darkened to ebony as it leached deeper and deeper into my sprit, my soul. The blustering gale screeched, shaking the room, raging because the thin walls dared to defy its path. I cried out, praying for the angry, howling wind to stop.

When it died, a thick, icy mist seeped in to blanket the world with such a cold, isolating silence that I began to sob; at least the tempest had kept me company. In the quiet there was only me. I was alone, with only my thoughts to fill up the empty hours that stretched so endlessly ahead. Home never seemed so far away as it did that still, frigid night. Hell is cold, Mulder; a frozen, lonely death. Nothing survives that chilling fire, not even the burning hope of one's heart's desires.

"He's dead. Everyone's dead." The words were spoken aloud in a voice so thin and fragile that they splintered instantly; the moment they were touched by that freezing darkness. The shards cut into me, wounding me with the pain of truth. I started to sob, at least finding some measure of comfort in hearing the sound of my pain. Perhaps I did cry myself to sleep. I do know my eyes closed because I had to force them open when I was startled awake by a noise in my dream. But did I sleep, and was it actually a sound that startled me? There is no proof of what I truly remember. The reality that burned into my mind, warped and unsound as it must have been, is a memory so clear and concise it was as if I'd captured it on film.

I recall prying open my grief swollen lids, not so much because I heard something but because I felt a presence. I sensed someone was near, someone who was decidedly familiar. There, through the thick, almost tangible darkness, I saw you. It's funny, but it never crossed my mind that I might be witnessing some sort of ghostly, spiritual apparition of my lover returning from beyond the grave to comfort me in this time of need. Even with your beautiful face lit by the flame from some invisible campfire, I knew you were with me, still alive, and we were simply separated by space and fate. "It's still forever, Scully," your soft, deep, whispered reassurance came, warming and filling the emptiness inside.

*****

This final tale happened much later, many, many miles down the road. It was that first real blizzard, which was followed by so many. Even before it hit, my days were nothing but mile after mile of putting one foot before the other and endless time, blending seamlessly into one long eternity. Life had become nothing more than surviving the freezing wind, the chilling rain, the icy mist, which made the air itself so bitterly cold that each drawn breath crystallized into biting razors that shredded the lungs.

The coughing began long before the snows started. It wasn't long 'til the fever came, stealing what little was left of my senses and reality. I was rescued and given sanctuary in America's heartland, sometime between the first storm and the one that followed. That's as close as I can call it. I do know the reason I survived was because I had this vision, or dream or whatever label you care to affix to the inexplicable event I'm about to relate. Whatever you decide to call it, it's the reason I'm here, still alive, breathing and making this recording tonight.

The world was white. As far as my eyes could see, there was the glaring bright, absence of color that we call white. Frost, sleet, misty fog, crystallized ice, snow. I don't know which weather phenomenon hit so suddenly to blind me. I simply know that within minutes the sun disappeared, and I was swallowed up by a wet, freezing, blanket that made me lose my sense of direction and perception. The stiff, icy numbness that quickly froze my face and all four extremities convinced me that I needed to find shelter very soon, or my journey west was going to end on this desolate stretch of road. I was going to die; a short, strawberry topped, human Popsicle on some godforsaken, forgotten byway, somewhere between western Iowa and eastern Nebraska.

The faint blur of brown off to the side hinted at a building, fanning the last sparks of my faith that God was still with me and that His memory was infallible. Fighting the violent wind, which made each step forward almost impossible, I struggled through snow that was already forming drifts higher that my knees. I forced the huge, wooden door open, stumbling into the warmth of a cozy chapel. The mud-brick walls and rustic timbers told me I'd found shelter in a Spanish Mission. I remember puzzling over the fact that a church with Spanish architectural styling, so common along the shared border of Mexico and California, was a bit out of place here in America's heartland. I shrugged it off, though, without a second thought because the USA WAS truly a land of unique diversity. That there were no other questions anywhere in my mind spoke volumes about my feverish state and the possibility of a frostbitten brain.

To the right of the alter, on the far side of the row of pews, was a huge, potbellied stove. The cast iron surface radiated such heat the ice that had coated my hair was already melting into rivulets that were streaming down my face. I hurried over to the heat, pocketing my gloves and holding my hands so close to the dull, ebony metal, my skin almost seemed to glow cherry red as the blood began to flow again. I jumped when I heard the sound of footsteps behind me, even though I'd been searching for the tender of that lovely blaze. I turned, flashing what I'm sure was a broad, silly grin of blissful thanks.

The sister lifted her head to return my smiling greeting, and that's when my heart forgot its natural function. My lungs followed suit in this amnesiac trend when they tightened, and in one quickly painful gasp, expelled every bit of usable air that they held. I began to cough; the chronic wheeze that had been plaguing me for days making me bend at the waist, turning my legs to jelly. My black robed hostess rushed to my side, catching me and shouldering my weight until I slumped in the nearest pew. Gradually the harsh, hacking sputters slowed, and I finally managed to draw in enough air to speak, addressing this spirit who wore the face of my sister -- "Missy?" My voice was a faint, wispy rasp filled with shocked amazement.

The cornflower colored eyes sparkled with a smile, and the deep pang of hurt which doubled me over came at realizing just how much I'd missed being dazzled by that true blue, free spirited gaze. My nails were short, bitten to the quick by this point, so I was forced into pinching the flesh of my forearms in the hope that this pain would awaken me from this wonderful, frightening nightmare.

"You're not real, this isn't happening. Not real, Not re..." My chant stopped short when one sudden possibility made a certain four chambered organ miss several beats of its rhythmic cycle once again. "Am I dead?"

"No, Dana you're not dead." Melissa's laugh rang out, but her face was already blurring. I'd not registered the reaction she'd hoped for, so she tried again. I watched in stunned horror as colors blended, swam before my eyes, before finally settling into the thin, bearded visage of the crossroads messenger. My response, a hysterical cry of fright, was delayed, but it still came long before I managed to make my sluggish motor reflexes respond to the shrieked command of "GET AWAY."

I don't believe my fleeing out into the storm was this apparition's wish because that gaunt, frightening image immediately became liquid, flowing away before I'd even made it to my feet. I froze, half upright, bent at the waist, watching this eerie transformation. The features swirled, the hues blending and mixing together, flesh melting and molding in a pulsating landscape of textures and features. For one slight moment I caught the barest outline of my father's face, dissolving quickly before the writhing mutations began once again.

This time the odd, morphing specter made the right choice, deciding that the most comforting, calming face would be yours, Mulder. Oddly enough, it was the smooth, almost boyish visage of Special Agent Fox W. Mulder that appeared, culled from my memory of that day long ago when we first met; you glancing up from the slides, flashing a sly, sardonic, cocky, lopsided grin. Seeing you as you were then, fit, eyes twinkling, self-assured, eased my mind as no other creation could have, and I focused on that face.

"Dana, you need to listen to me, okay? Believe it or not, it's still cold. That stove was just a figment of your imagination, like a mirage. You made it appear. If you look behind the counter you'll find some matches, so you can light the grill for some real heat. Trust me, there's plenty of propane left to keep you warm 'til this storm passes. Please look at your hands, your gloves are off and you're still very, very cold." His statement made me glance at my fingers, and their pale, lifeless tint convinced me he spoke the truth. I gazed around in wonder as the mission gradually turned transparent, fading away to the solid chrome and bright Formica surfaces of a roadside diner; one which had apparently seen its better days long before the take over had come.

Taking me by the hand, this entity led me to the box of safety matches and watched with infinite patience as I switched on the gas and lit each small pilot flame. He grinned in encouragement as each knob was turned to high and all ten burners ignited, warming the area within minutes. I met that smoky, jade gaze and saw something celestial. It was almost sublime; a vision of all that we could ever hope or wish to be. You might say it was a reflection of everything that is good and pure inside each of us. That fleeting moment passed but left behind the luxury of faith as well as infinite trust in the being who stood before me. I believed.

My Mulder vision paused allowing me a chance to explore my new habitat before grabbing me by the hand and leading me to the least damaged of the five vinyl covered, swiveling stools. Perching on the seat next to me, long legs bent so the knees jutted like twin peaks, almost kissing a countertop sky, my host went on with his instructions. The warm, solid touch of his hand proved the truth of this reality. It was a truth I savored.

"If the storm does calm down some, you'll find a few cans of soup and stew next door at the Gas Mart." I followed the long, tapered finger, which pointed to a world of nothing but thick swirls of white on white. I took this Mulder at his word that there was a Gas Mart out there, and it did have the stores he promised.

He read my acceptance to this and again cautioned, "Now, don't go out in this, even if you're really hungry. Only if the storm dies down where you can at least see the store through the windows. You have pots and silverware here in the kitchen, if you do get the chance to go for canned goods. I don't think any bowls or dishes survived the looters, though."

The familiar grin lit his face, and I couldn't still my hand as I reached up to touch the smile lines at the corners of his mouth. So real, so real. The words kept repeating in my brain. My face was alight with my happiness.

"I'm sure you can sacrifice enough of your faultless, Miss Manners, training to just dine from the pan, at least for the chance at a hot meal, huh, Dana...?"

"You call me Scully," I corrected, watching him bob his head that I was right, that was what he should call me.

The tip of his tongue danced over his full bottom lip as he thought about what he needed to tell me next. "Scully, when this blizzard ends you need to hotfoot it down this road as quick as you can. Stay as close as you can to the middle, between the drifts, and no matter what, keep going. Even if it gets dark push it as far as you can...don't stop. Just keep on walking. At the end this trip, I'll be waiting for you, okay?"

I saw that he was fading even as he uttered that last soft, comforting reassurance; I panicked, grasping at the air where he'd been seated.

"Wait!" I cried, my voice breaking when I tried to wrestle back the tears. The image solidified to almost reality, and I reached out to touch the fully tangible warmth of a tan, smooth jaw. "I know you're not really Mulder, but can't you stay just for a little while? I'm..I, I...please don't leave me alone." It took every ounce of will not to give in to the sobs that threatened while I begged my fantasy companion to stay.

When he nodded, giving me his unforgettable grin with utter perfection, my resolve did crumble. I fell against a clean white shirt that smelled exactly as I remembered it from all those many times I used that shoulder to cry on.

My angel remained, keeping me company the entire three days of the storm. He frequently repeated his instructions for my last desperate race against the next blizzard. When it came time to respond to his drill, I did exactly as he'd preached. I hurried as fast as I could for as long as could. I succumbed to the cold and exhaustion right outside the settlement of New Deseret.

Old Nephi Humphrey's snow cat almost ran over me when he made a last minute run to check on his boarded-up house before the next blizzard blew in.I'd collapsed just after dawn, dead center between the two mountainous drifts, sprawling in front of the low spot that marked the ancient farm's drive. The diner was almost thirty miles east of the spot where I dropped. I easily beat the next snow by an hour. My new friends rescued me. Saved my life. Nursed me back to health. The journey home was almost over. The wait that remained was long, but the distance was nothing compared to what I'd traveled. And you were there, waiting for me.

End 3/6b