Title:   TANGIBLE
Author:   Blueswirl@aol.com
Classification:   T,R,A
Rating:   NC-17
Keyword:   Mulder/Scully
Spoilers:   5th Season

Summary:    Sometimes, to have anything, one must be 
willing to risk everything. 

Distribution:  Feel free to post this story on any archive or 
web page, as long as my name remains attached.

Watch out -- Disclaimer ahead:  the characters of Fox 
Mulder and Dana Scully belong to Chris Carter and 1013 
Prods. and Fox Inc. and I'm using them for this story 
without permission.  So sue me.

Feedback:   If the mood hits -- I'd love it at 
Blueswirl@aol.com.



TANGIBLE  
Blueswirl@aol.com
5/5/98



A dream!  a dream!  for at a touch 't is gone.
O mocking spirit!  thy mere fools are we,
Unto the depths from heights celestial thrown.

From these blind gropings toward reality,
This thirst for truth, this most pathetic need
Of something to uplift, to justify,

To help and comfort while we faint and bleed,
May we not draw, wrung from the last despair,
Some argument of hope, some blessed creed,

That we can trust the faith which whispers prayer,
The vanishings, the ecstasy, the gleam,
The nameless aspiration, and the dream?

- Emma Lazarus



I walk down the corridor with my head at half-mast, 
following the man in front of me precisely three steps back, 
careful to keep in line, careful to do nothing that will call 
any attention to me.   Like mindless drones, worker bees in 
a hive, yet in truth there is no work to be done.  Work is a 
word that has lost whatever meaning it once had.  Now 
there is merely time, endless and unending, punctuated 
only by these visits to the Draining Room. 

And, of course, Outside.

When we reach the end of this last labyrinthine corridor I 
turn to the left, no longer following the man in front of me.   
As though hearkening to some time-honored yet obsolete 
tradition They keep the women separate from the men, 
though there is very little reason to. Blood is blood, after 
all.  

This new, smaller hallway opens up into a vast, white 
space.  Row upon row of silver chairs, each tilted back at a 
sharp angle, line the space and define it.  The Monitor 
points its hand at me and I move quickly forward to the 
nearest chair, settling into it as best I can.   The headrest 
isn't comfortable but then again it never is.  With my legs 
stretched out before me I rest one arm at my side and place 
the other in the tray specifically designed for that purpose.  
The left arm, always the left.  I think that there's something 
about the signal transmitted by the band I wear on my right 
that threatens the accuracy of the procedure.  The metal of 
the tray is cold against my skin, bare beneath the short 
sleeves of the white tee shirt I wear.  The steel bands come 
up and around automatically, imprisoning my arm above 
my bicep and around my wrist.  

I take a deep breath, and wait.  

Soon enough the needle descends from the ceiling, coils of 
transparent tubing trailing in its wake.  With a faint, 
whirring hum the needle unerringly finds the artery in the 
bend of my arm, sliding through the swollen tender skin.   
It is all I can do not to flinch, though I hardly notice the 
pain.  The urge to scream left me a long time ago.  

The needle now in place, I can almost feel the valve open, 
though I know the actual hydraulics are kept somewhere in 
the ceiling, out of my reach.  I watch with glazed eyes as 
invisible suction draws my blood up and out of my body 
and into the sucking, hungry tube.  The thick reddish liquid 
defies gravity as it swirls upward, devoured by the 
Machine.   I watch with mild curiosity; despite the 
familiarity of the procedure there is something 
frighteningly compelling about the process.  I watch until 
the dizziness begins to set in and then, like the others, I 
close my eyes and wait for Them to finish with me.  Soon, I 
think, the word dancing across my mind.  So soon.  

Not soon enough.  

I am barely conscious when it is over, which is in itself a 
blessing; Their fancy technology still hasn't found a way to 
get the needle out as easily as it goes in.  I hear the locks on 
the steel bands disengage and feel the cool metal slide 
across my arm as they retract into the sides of the tray.   I 
don't move, I don't even open my eyes.  There's no need to 
yet.   They always give you time to recover from the loss.   
It's the one courtesy that They can't avoid, taking as much 
as They do.  

Despite my best intentions, I fall asleep.  It is the Monitor 
who wakes me and I jerk myself upright, disoriented and 
woozy.  The nausea passes after a moment and I pull 
myself to my feet, falling once again in line.   Back through 
the entrance, down the small hallway, and then once again 
into the corridors that have come to define my very 
existence.  One foot in front of the other, I remind myself, 
doing my best not to stumble.  A missed step, a fall to the 
ground might appear to Them an insurrectionist act.  And 
we have learned too well that punishment is swift and 
severe.

Nothing looks as good to me as the bed in my cell.  I 
collapse onto it, ignoring the snick of the door as it locks 
behind me.  I curl myself up into a ball and force myself to 
breathe.  

"Bad?"

I nod my head against the pillow, too exhausted to answer.   
I don't need to, anyway.   Her question isn't really a 
question but a greeting.   She knows how it is.   It will be 
her turn soon enough.   We are under constant surveillance, 
and excessive conversation is forbidden, though I have 
never been sure exactly why.   The idea of escape is no 
more than a dream.  

After a time, I open my eyes and look across the room to 
see her sitting, legs dangling off the side of her bed.  There 
is concern on her face and I tilt up my lips in a halfhearted 
gesture of reassurance.  In all this time, in the months that 
we have been cellmates, I have learned very little about 
her. She is younger than I am, which may account for the 
irrational desire I have to protect her.  Under other 
circumstances, she would probably be a student, a sorority 
girl at college occupied with thoughts of boyfriends and 
parties and weekends at the beach.   But here, now, she is 
nothing but my cellmate.  The ninth, I think.  Or maybe the 
tenth.  It disturbs me to realize that I've lost track. 

They are always searching for more of us -- the "Special 
Ones", as They say.  Cloning doesn't seem to work;  maybe 
the artificial creation of human life strips away some 
essential element They need, or maybe it's just superstition 
on Their part that causes them to steer away from unnatural 
methods of reproduction.   They still do tests though, lots of 
them.  Especially on women like me who are of no use as 
Babymakers.

"You should sleep,"  she says, and I can see the sadness in 
her expression.   Her hands are crossed above her 
protruding, swollen belly, as though to protect the baby 
growing inside her.  I can't imagine how she must feel.  I'm 
almost happy that I can't bear children, if only because they 
will never be consigned to the horror of this life.  

I manage to answer with the last of my strength.  "Yes," I 
say, and then my eyes fall shut again and everything fades.  

When I next awaken, she is no longer in the room.   I lie 
there for a moment or two, and then find the energy to sit 
up and stretch my tired limbs.  Not for the first time I wish 
that I still had a watch, something to mark the passage of 
time.  But there are no schedules to keep here other than 
those that are enforced by Them, making the need for a 
personal timepiece obsolete.  I stand and go to the basin 
against the back wall to splash water on my face.  It revives 
me, and I feel a surge of anticipation wash over me.  

Soon, I think.  Soon.  

When the door to the cell opens again I am sitting 
cross-legged on the bed, hands folded neatly atop my white 
cotton pants.  An Orderly is standing there, and it beckons 
me with a wave of its hand.  "Come on," it says, and I 
obediently rise to my feet, walking past it and out into the 
corridor.  

Orderlies, as I call them, are different than Guards, in that 
they don't carry weapons, and they don't wear uniforms.  
Although I doubt it is intentional, the Orderlies also seem 
to have a higher quotient of human compassion.   Most of 
my time is spent with Orderlies;  they handle everything 
inside the Compound except the Draining Rooms, which 
are controlled by the Monitors.  From the very beginning I 
have kept all of it neatly labeled and filed inside my mind, 
trying to impose order on the insanity that my reality has 
become. 

I follow the Orderly down the corridor in a silence that I 
finally break.  "I don't want to eat," I tell it.   Five words 
that are soft, but defiant.

It stops to turn and look at me.  I can almost read the 
confusion in its face, its efforts to reconcile my statement 
with the schedule.  "You're hungry," it replies simply.

I am, actually.  Ravenous, in fact.  But I don't want to stop 
and eat.  Not now.   The thought of even trying to swallow 
the usual bowl of protein paste is enough to make me gag.  
"No," I  insist.  "I'm not."

The Orderly says nothing and for a moment I can almost 
feel the jolt of current shoot up through my arm from the 
band on my wrist, can almost feel my teeth grind together 
as the pain sears my body and forces me to the ground.  I'm 
so prepared for the agony that I'm surprised when the 
Orderly merely nods and continues down the corridor.  It 
takes me a second to realize that I've won the battle, small 
though it might be, and then I follow behind.

Before too long we arrive at the set of double doors that 
separate the Compound from the place I have named the 
Waiting Room.  The Orderly leaves me there, but I am not 
alone.  There are others, like me, waiting to be processed.   
Waiting for a taste of freedom, no matter how brief.  I stand 
with the others, waiting, and as I wait I marvel at how 
smoothly the whole transition took place.  How the world I 
knew so well just three years before transformed so 
completely into this strange new one.   Then again, three 
years ago I couldn't have envisioned the kind of devastation 
that we survived;  nor, despite all that I had learned in the 
course of my own work did I ever imagine that there were 
those who had not only expected this, but had helped to 
engineer it.

Finally, my turn comes, and I step up to the desk to be 
processed.  The Officer at the desk -- an Officer because it 
has the uniform but not the weapon of a Guard -- extends 
its right hand towards me and I respond in kind.  It ignores 
my offered palm and takes me by the arm instead, roughly 
pulling me towards it so that it can better access the metal 
band around my wrist.  It picks up a thin cylindrical tube 
and presses the tip firmly against the circular indentation 
on the side of the band, and I feel the jolt of a small 
electrical charge.  The gray screen on the side of the band 
reacts by lighting up with a bright orange digital display.  
The face reads 24:00:00, though from the Officer's point of 
view I know that the numbers are upside down. 

"You know the rules," it reminds me, and I nod, transfixed 
by the numbers, which are already moving.  Counting 
down.  

23:59:59.  23:59:58.  23:59:57.   

Time, precious time, is being wasted.  They give us 
twenty-four hours at a time.  Never more, never less.  Just a 
little taste of freedom to keep us in line.  A single day, and 
I will not squander a second more of this one.

The Officer releases its hold on my arm and waves me on, 
and I head towards a second set of double doors at the far 
end of the Waiting Room.  There are jackets there, hanging 
on a rack against the wall.  Windbreakers, really, made of a 
heavy nylon fabric to help deflect the constant breeze.  I 
pull on a jacket that is close to being my size and then step 
up to the two Guards in front of the doors.   Though 
undoubtedly they have just seen me be processed, I raise 
my arm and allow them to check the readout on my band.  
One of them presses a button on the side wall and the doors 
open, revealing a short walkway.   The walkway is glass, 
and through the dirty streaked surface I catch my first 
glimpse of the world beyond.  I step into the walkway and 
the doors slam shut behind me.  Another glance at my wrist 
-- 23:57:44 -- and I quicken my steps.  A final door at the 
end opens automatically and immediately the walkway fills 
with a dust that makes me cough, but I continue forward 
until I am once again Outside. 

It's stretching the truth a bit to call the area surrounding the 
Compound a Yard but it's the only word I have that seems 
to fit.  Maybe junkyard would be a better term;  a place 
where trash collects.  The Yard extends in a sloppy circle 
around the whole of the Compound structure, but there's 
only one exit and it's near that portal that people tend to 
gather.  The fence that surrounds the Yard carries a vicious 
charge and the Guards at the portal are heavily armed and 
funnily enough it's all to keep the others out, not to keep us 
in. 

I'm surprised at how early it is -- the sky is still the vague 
hazy brown that now passes for dawn -- but then I 
remember that I didn't stop to eat.  Without a watch I have 
no idea of the time but as I scan the faces of the people 
gathered outside the gate and come up empty I begin to 
think I made a mistake by rushing, my eagerness causing 
me to waste time instead of save it.

I cross the Yard, hoping that it's just too dim yet to see what 
I'm looking for.  Since it's early, the Yard isn't as crowded 
as it is sometimes;  in the middle of the day, others like me 
endlessly wander the perimeter.  Boring as it may be, it's a 
change of pace.  On the other side of the fence, people 
stand as close as they dare.  Some are searching for familiar 
faces;  occasionally, the lucky ones find each other.  There 
are others who stand there hoping to be admitted inside the 
Compound, despite their lack of qualifications.  Maybe it's 
because they don't know what happens inside.  Maybe it's 
because life Outside is too miserable for them to bear.

I reach the gate and the two Guards there give me a cursory 
glance and then unlock it to wave me through.  They raise 
their weapons to ward off the crush of people that surround 
the door and just as I step between them I am knocked to 
the side by a man running as though pursued by the Angel 
of Death.  One of the Guards turns to stare after him while 
the other, well-trained, keeps his strange weapon on the 
crowd.  It's obvious to all of us that the frantic man belongs 
inside the Compound, and not just because he's dressed in 
the same telltale clothes that I wear.  It's the manic intensity 
with which he runs that gives him away, the way in which 
he streaks towards the door to the walkway and dashes 
inside as soon as it opens.  I watch him until he disappears, 
a morbid curiosity making me wonder if he'll make it in 
time.

Sometimes they don't.

I step through the outer gate, the final barrier, and find 
myself amidst the people who gather there.   Some of them 
stare, and I stare right back.   I'm used to it by now.   I am 
special, after all, for no other reason than that I'm 
necessary.  I am needed.  They are jealous of me, and I of 
them.  They would give up the reality of freedom for the 
illusion of safety.  I pray every night for the opportunity to 
do the reverse.  

I walk through the crowd, passing men, women, the 
occasional child, my eyes flicking restlessly from one to the 
next.  There's a strange, almost carnival-like feeling 
amongst the assembled throng.  People barter items in 
trade, a pair of battered sunglasses for an unlabeled can of 
food.  An armful of clothes for a flashlight-size battery.  
Anything and everything in exchange for a half-full bottle 
of water.  There are a few others like me, wandering along 
dressed in their own blue jackets.  Only a couple, here and 
there, and when our eyes meet, we turn away.  

The crowd isn't yet half the size it will be at midday, and I 
make it to the outer edge without finding what I'm looking 
for.  I consider waiting.  I tell myself it won't be long, I'm 
early but not that early.  I remind myself of the plan.  And 
then I look at my wrist.  

23:51:12.   

I start to walk.  

I know where I'm going, pretty much.  There's a road, a real 
paved street that begins about half a mile through the 
weeds.  The path to the road is well-worn and easy to 
follow and I start off, walking fast.  My heart is thumping 
with adrenalin and it feels good, it feels right.  The wind is 
blowing hard, like it always seems to now, and my hair 
whips across my face.  I stop for a moment and grasp it 
with both hands, winding its length into a makeshift braid.  
It's long and heavy and I have nothing to secure it with so I 
tie the ends into a knot, hoping that will hold it in place for 
awhile.

Probably because it's early, I make it to the road without 
meeting anyone on the path, which is fine as far as I'm 
concerned.  There's never any real trouble near the 
Compound; maybe people are afraid of the Guards.  But the 
further you go Outside the more you have to fear.  You 
never know if the person approaching you is going to turn 
out to be friend or foe.  

It's much easier walking on the asphalt, even though it's 
cracked or damaged in spots, mainly because the wind 
doesn't stir up as much dust as it does in the field.  The soft 
white shoes I wear are already dirty.  They're not really 
made for hard walking but I press on regardless.

There's more traffic on the road -- traffic, what an 
absolutely hysterical concept -- and I keep to the far side, 
my head down, my eyes straight ahead.   A young woman 
passes me, and shortly thereafter a family, huddled together 
as they trudge along.   All of them headed in the opposite 
direction, towards the Compound.   The family's youngest 
child, a little boy, stops in his tracks when he sees me, his 
eyes wide and his mouth hung open in frank curiosity.  I'm 
almost tempted to smile at him and then his father takes 
him by the hand and pulls him along and the opportunity is 
lost.  

Just being away from the Compound has me feeling so 
much lighter, I reach the edge of the town without realizing 
how far I've come.  I stop at the point where the road I'm on 
intersects what used to be the main street and look up to 
see that the sun has fully risen.  Through the veil of the 
dusty, damaged air the sun seems more pink than yellow, 
more distant somehow than it used to.   But it's definitely 
morning, and now I'm starting to get concerned.  

22:26:17.

The town looks deserted, but I know better.  There are still 
people here, people who keep out of sight.   Underground, 
mostly, in whatever cellars and basements are still 
accessible, away from the wind and from those whose 
intentions are less than noble.   There's not much left above 
ground, anyway.   Most of the structures have been 
ravaged, although not totally demolished in the way that 
some cities were when it all came down.  There were no 
bombs here.  The damage that has been done here mostly 
came afterwards, when the town was looted and burned by 
the fever survivors.   

I realize that I've stopped moving, and I force my feet to 
continue forward, creeping into the ghost town with more 
than a little trepidation.  I glance around, looking for 
anything that might threaten me, all too aware that I am 
alone and unarmed.  For some reason the abandoned 
buildings look more foreboding than they ever have before.  
There was a time when that wouldn't have caused me to 
hesitate, but the woman that I have become does exactly 
that.  I stop and think about returning to the road, about 
sitting there under that distant pink sun and waiting it out.  
There's only one way to get to the Compound.  I could sit 
there, and wait.  

22:22:56.

I keep moving.  

I am retracing steps that I've taken sixteen, no, seventeen 
times before.  I know the library is near the center of town, 
one of the few structures that still bears some resemblance 
to the building that it once was.  Its facade was made of 
marble, not wood or even brick, which meant that there 
was little of it that was of use to anyone else.  Most of the 
buildings that I pass are unidentifiable now, having been 
pillaged past the point of no return.   I try to occupy my 
frightened mind by picturing how the town must have 
looked before, when people milled the streets in the course 
of another ordinary day.  

Perhaps it is because my thoughts are so consumed with the 
past that I fail to realize that I am no longer alone on the 
wretched sidewalk.  Perhaps it is because I am listening for 
the sound of my name that I fail to hear the growl.  Perhaps 
it is because I am so busy searching for what isn't there that 
I fail to notice what is.   

The skitter of broken glass on concrete causes me to whirl 
around and it is then that I see it.  A dog, so large and 
menacing that it would be better described as a wolf.  
Which at this point might not be an inaccurate guess;  
strange things have happened in the last few years.  It is 
huge and black, foam dripping from its muzzle as it 
contemplates me from two blocks away.  Long ago it might 
have been someone's pet.  Now it is nothing but my enemy.

I try to play by the old rules -- ignore it and it will go away 
-- but it's a new game now, and to the wolf-dog all I am is 
prey.  My few cautious steps only cause it to move forward, 
slowly at first, and then faster, its long nails 
clack-clack-clacking on the asphalt as it begins to run.  

As its loping gait increases in pace my heart speeds up to 
match and my feet find the rhythm.  I start to run, hoping 
against hope that I can put enough distance between us to 
save myself.  My shoes slip against the cement as I run, my 
arms pumping at my sides, my breath soon coming in 
gasps.  The wolf-dog howls and I glance over my shoulder 
to see that others have joined it, at least three that I can see, 
all of them hungry, all of them mad.   All of them 
abandoned, and though there is a part of me that feels for 
them I can't afford to think of them as anything other than a 
menace.  

I reach the end of the block and now they are so close that I 
can hear their labored breathing, smell their foul stench.  I 
have lost all sense of direction, the library lost to me now, 
the only thought in my mind that of escape.  But there is 
nowhere to hide.  All of the buildings are open, exposed, 
glass missing, doors torn down.  There is nowhere to go 
that they cannot follow me.  

"Help!"  I scream, calling out to the pairs of unseen eyes 
that I am sure are watching me from their hiding places 
inside the ruined buildings.  Calling for a samaritan that in 
this time and place does not exist.  

It feels as though I have been running forever when in the 
distance I see the iron bars of fire stairs, attached to a 
ramshackle structure at the end of the street.  The stairs 
lead nowhere, the upper story of the building having long 
since fallen away, but they still dangle from the framework, 
above the ground, away from the wolf-dogs.  It seems like a 
chance, no matter how slight.  I force oxygen into my 
lungs, struggling to breathe in the windy, dusty air, and a 
howl of my own escapes my lips as my mind orders my 
body to do its bidding.  

When I near the stairs the wolf-dogs are literally nipping at 
my heels and I burn the last of my energy in a sprint, 
bending my knees as I jump.  My right hand catches the 
edge of the bottom rung and I hang there for a dangerous 
second until I am able to bring my other hand up to join it, 
my body now suspended just above the wolf-dogs who are 
circling and snapping below.  My feet are like bait to them, 
tantalizing sweat dripping off the bareness of my exposed 
ankles.  I clench the muscles in my stomach and pull my 
legs up, tucking them close to my chest.  I fight to better 
my handhold on the bars, to pull myself upwards to reach 
the safety the iron stairs promise.  I get one leg up and over 
and am straining for the other when my sweaty palms cause 
me to lose my grip, and I feel myself slipping.  

No, I think, not this, and my panic and fear emerge in a 
scream.  "Shit!"  I yell, as though mere profanity will create 
a miracle for me and enable me to hold on. 

C-R-A-C-K!

The noise is so loud in the stillness that it startles me 
almost enough to lose my tenuous grip.  It is followed by 
two more -- C-R-A-C-K!   C-R-A-C-K! -- and it is only then  
I realize that what I have heard is the echo of gunpowder 
igniting with air.  I glance over my shoulder, behind me 
and below, and see that the lead wolf-dog has dropped, 
blood streaming from a series of wounds in its head and 
shoulders.  The other wolf-dogs wail, stomping around 
their fallen leader, until another blast -- C-R-A-C-K! -- 
causes them to disperse, scattering in all directions like 
dust to the winds.

Exhausted, my arms trembling with exertion, I hang for 
another long moment and then allow myself to tumble to 
the ground, where I crumple to a heap not far from the 
dying predator whose life has been taken to spare my own.  
I lie there, shattered, one arm tossed carelessly across my 
face, my legs tucked beneath me.  I hear the sound of 
approaching footsteps but don't bother to raise my head, 
until I hear my name.

"Scully!"

I lift my head, my eyes dizzy, unfocused, sweat streaming 
down my cheeks.  He is running towards me, and in one 
hand he carries the long rifle whose bullets saved my life.  
He is tall, and lean, unnaturally tan from the poisonous rays 
of that distant sun, and I have never seen anything so 
magnificent in all my life.

"Scully!"

He reaches me as I rise to a sitting position and is therefore 
able to crouch beside me and throw his arm around me for 
the briefest of moments before pulling away, the rifle still 
clenched in his grip.   "Are you okay?"

I manage to nod, though the capacity for words still seems 
to be beyond me.  For some reason all I can focus on is the 
jagged shape to his short brown hair, and I know that he's 
been at it with the switchblade again.  

His hazel eyes search mine thoroughly before turning to 
gaze at the fallen carcass beside me.  The wolf-dog 
shudders once and then is motionless, and it is only then 
that Mulder turns his attention back to me.  

Rising to his feet, he offers me his hand and pulls me up to 
stand beside him.  "You're early," he says, as he brushes a 
loose strand of hair away from my face with a 
weatherbeaten hand.

"I didn't eat," I explain, savoring the sudden, insane relief I 
feel just to be near him.  After a moment, I add, "You're 
late."

He nods, his forehead creasing with guilt that I want to 
wipe away.  "I was getting some things together."

I take his hand to comfort him but it's really me who I am 
comforting.  "I figured it was something like that."

Mulder squeezes my hand in response, and glances around 
again in the wary manner that he's always had, the wary 
manner which is now more deliberate than I remember.    
When he is finished, he slings the strap of the rifle over his 
shoulder and asks, "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Fine," I tell him.  "Just a little hungry."

His lips twitch up in a hint of a smile that blossoms into a 
full-blown Mulder grin, the kind that I treasure.  "Guess 
you should have eaten before you left."

He laughs, and the sound is small and hollow in the vast 
empty street.  So I laugh with him, and hand in hand we 
make our way past the carcass of the wolf-dog and down 
the block.



If life were but a dream, my Love,
And death the waking time;
If day had not a beam, my Love,
And night had not a rhyme,
A barren, barren world were this
Without one saving gleam;
I'd only ask that with a kiss
You'd wake me from the dream.

- Paul Laurence Dunbar



My attempt to elude the wolf-dogs led me in the wrong 
direction and we end up circling back, over two blocks and 
then down to the old library building.   We walk up the 
entry stairs and then, bypassing the doorway which was 
once the front entrance, make our way over to the left side.  
The frame of an old side door allows us to access the 
concrete stairs that lead to the basement.   It is musty down 
there, and dark, but Mulder has a flashlight that makes dim 
circles on the ground before our feet.  Flashlights are rare, 
and batteries rarer still, but Mulder is just as resourceful as 
he was when we worked together.  I'm used to surprises 
where he is concerned.

We speak only once, when I break the quiet between us 
with a question.  "Did you get it?"

"Yes," he replies, one hand carrying the light, the other still 
clenching mine.  "I've got it.   But..... there are no 
guarantees."

"I know," I answer, which is the only answer I can think to 
give.  

We make our way through the fallen plaster and broken 
floorboards until we are deep inside the rubble.  Once 
there, we stop, and I stand still and hold the light as he 
moves aside piles of debris to uncover his secret cache.  He 
breathes a sigh of relief that the objects he has concealed 
are still there, though I know that very little time has passed 
since he last visited their hiding place.  He pulls out a 
hiking pack that has seen better days, and then another 
smaller backpack, the kind I remember carrying when I 
was in school.  What looks to me like a pile of rags turns 
out to be a handful of clothes, and beneath that is a random 
assortment of cans, most of which have lost their colorful 
paper labels.  There are other items barely visible in the 
dim light, but it is obvious to me that Mulder's carefully 
hoarded stash has been considerably depleted.  There's even 
less left after the trade than I expected.  

"Here," he says, giving me the clothes.  I take them from 
him:  a couple of tattered shirts and a pair of jeans that 
looks amazingly intact.  No further words are needed, and 
as he rummages through the other things I lay the flashlight 
on the floor, pull off the telltale clothing I wore from the 
Compound, and begin to dress.

There are no undergarments in the pile of clothes that 
Mulder has scavenged for me and so I leave on the white 
panties that I am wearing.  There is a tank top, made of 
faded brown nylon, and I yank it over my head.  It's the 
closest thing I've had to a brassiere since all of this 
happened and as I dress I allow myself a few seconds of 
fond reminiscence about the lingerie I kept in my 
apartment back in D.C.  Matching bra and panty sets, 
bedecked with ribbons, satin and lace in one glorious, 
sachet-scented pile in the top drawer of my bureau.   

That was then, and this is now.

Tank top on, I reach for the tee-shirt.  It's black, and except 
for a small hole near the neckline, in near perfect 
condition.  Then I pull on the jeans, which don't fit quite as 
good as they look, but once I fold over the waistband they 
stay balanced on my hips.

Mulder has finished messing with the stuff left in his 
hidey-hole, emerging with one can clenched in each fist.  
He looks at me, standing there, and pauses before he 
speaks.  "Are you sure you want to do this?"

I know what he's asking, and I know why.  And I know 
what this could mean for both of us.  But right now, selfish 
though it may be, I can't see any other way.  I extend my 
left arm towards him, with its bruised and blackened flesh.  
"This isn't living," I tell him, and he nods.  He balances 
both cans in one hand and reaches out for my arm with the 
other, running his index finger lightly along its length.

"No," he says, "it isn't."  And the way in which he says it 
makes me realize that the same is true for him.  

I step away from him and pull on the plaid shirt that looks 
like it should be flannel but is actually cotton, with a rip 
down the front near the placket but not so near that it won't 
button.  The pile of clothes is finished now, and I stoop to 
put back on the shoes I'd been wearing when I left when he 
stops me, pointing to the faint edge of the beam created by 
the flashlight.

There are shoes there, tennis shoes, and in the pale glow 
they look brand-new.  That illusion is shattered once I lean 
forward and pick them up, but they are in fairly good 
condition nonetheless.  I slide them on and they are only a 
little big.  They will probably give me blisters but they feel 
so much sturdier than the shoes I was wearing I make up 
my mind then and there not to care if they slip.

"They're perfect," I tell him, and another of those 
half-smiles crosses his face.  

"Good," he replies.  "They weren't cheap."

That causes another little chuckle to ripple between us and 
then Mulder is standing before me, the two cans again in 
his hands.  He's opened them with something, maybe a can 
opener but more likely the Swiss army knife that has done 
more for him than almost anything else.  One unlabeled can 
has been revealed as a container of pineapple chunks, the 
other what looks to be slices of Mandarin orange.   

Conscious of the dire circumstances that we face, I 
immediately protest.  "I don't need both.  I'm not that 
hungry."

Mulder shrugs, and glances over his shoulder at his secret 
cache.  "There's no way we'll be able to carry all of it 
anyway."

I know that he's right, but part of me still feels guilty.  
"Then share them with me."

He nods, and we both sit down on the dirty ground, tucking 
our legs beneath us.  He holds one can and I the other, and 
we take turns, eating the little pieces of fruit with our 
fingers.  We are halfway through the cans before I take a 
piece of pineapple between two fingers and guide it to his 
mouth.  His lips part to accept the fruit and he takes in a 
good bit of my fingers with it, sucking on them deeply 
before pulling away to chew and swallow the tidbit that I 
have given him.

That is what begins it, and we finish the two cans by 
feeding each other, piece by succulent piece.  I think about 
how many meals we shared together before, how many 
salads and burgers in how many diners, and realize that 
none of those meals were quite as precious as this one.

When we are finished, Mulder carelessly puts the cans to 
the side.  There is no need to bury or hide them now;  we 
will never be coming back to this place.  To this hidey-hole 
beneath the library where we first found each other again.  
It will no longer matter if people or wolf-dogs discover this 
secret space, for we will be gone, never to return.

Leaning forward, Mulder reaches for my right hand, 
holding it gently in his grasp, turning it slightly so that he 
can better see the orange numbers on the band that glow so 
brightly in the near-dark.  

21:39:14.

"We should get going," he remarks, as casually as he is 
able.  I incline my head just the slightest bit in agreement, 
tamping down the sudden nervousness in my stomach that 
threatens to cause me to lose the food I have just 
consumed.

With that, Mulder gets to his feet and I follow suit, holding 
the light again as he checks the contents of the two packs 
he has filled.

The larger one holds eleven of the random, unlabeled cans;  
three extra C-size batteries for the flashlight;  two 
well-worn blankets;  two boxes of the shells needed to fire 
the rifle;  a torn pillowcase which is revealed to contain a 
small, opened stash of beef jerky;  three matchbooks, 
nearly full;  two more of the 
cotton-but-should-be-flannel-shirts;  a half-full bag of rice;  
six differently-labeled plastic bottles of water.  The smaller 
knapsack holds another blanket;  five more of the random 
cans;  three T-shirts in various colors;  two additional 
plastic water bottles;  a half-used roll of duct tape;  a Bowie 
knife that I have never seen before.

Mulder nods with satisfaction as we conclude our 
inventory, and I am struck once again by his 
resourcefulness.  By the resourcefulness that enabled him 
to gather this small pile of treasures that we will so 
desperately need.  By the resourcefulness that has enabled 
him to stay alive as long as he has.  

"Ready as we'll ever be," he announces, and closes up both 
of the packs.   I take the smaller of the two without 
bothering to argue, as I know it is a fight I would certainly 
lose.  Having shouldered our burdens, we make our way 
out of the dank basement back into the open air.  Once we 
reach the strangely filtered sunshine, Mulder switches off 
the flashlight and I turn my back to him so that he can stuff 
it into my sack.  We start down the street and then pause 
momentarily while Mulder checks the back pocket of the 
faded jeans that he wears to ascertain whether he is still 
carrying the crumpled map that cost him four cans of food 
and a box of cigarettes.   Reassured to find it safe in its 
resting place, he leans over and places a chaste kiss on my 
forehead.  And then we are on our way.

We see a few more people, now, making their way through 
the streets of the woebegone town.  As a result it doesn't 
feel as desolate as it did when I arrived; it's almost 
strangely normal.  Some of the people I actually recognize, 
people who have made this place a permanent home or at 
least a temporary one.   We pass the street where we left 
the dog and its body is gone.  I wonder who took it away, 
and shudder to think why they might have done so.

It isn't until we reach the outskirts of the town that I realize 
that I've never even known its name.  I know that it's 
located somewhere in what we used to call the midwest;  
the east coast of what was formally known as the United 
States was basically destroyed by the bombs and fires that 
ravaged everything during the war.  It was only later that 
we learned about the Compounds that had been built in the 
heartlands, built to serve an alien purpose.  It was only after 
They began snatching us up by the truckload, separated by 
blood type, that we began to realize the hideousness of 
Their strategy.  It was only then that we discovered that 
Their plans for colonization could only be accomplished 
with a certain amount of unwilling assistance, and that 
those who did not qualify as necessary would be banished 
to fend for themselves in a world that no longer existed.  

Mulder was one of those who was left on his own.  One of 
those who somehow managed to survive the bombs, and 
the fever;  the riots, and the looting.  One of those who 
somehow managed to hide long enough and keep himself 
alive long enough to emerge on the other side, defenseless 
and alone.  Homeless, but free.   

One of the luxuries that the Compound afforded me -- 
perhaps the only one -- was the opportunity to think.  To 
think about how things were, and how they are.  To think 
about how some were spared, and some were not, due to 
the cruel hand of fate.  Sometimes it almost makes me 
laugh to think how unconscious people were about the 
specificity of blood type.   A person could have walked into 
any bar, before, and asked all of the patrons to identify 
their own blood type;  only a random handful would have 
been able to answer the question correctly.  Despite all of 
the panic about AIDS no one really gave any thought to 
their blood type, only whether or not the blood running 
through their veins was infected.

Yet, that simple bit of information became the litmus test 
that decided who should live and who should die.  Because 
in the end, They needed us.  Despite the war that destroyed 
so much, and the fever that killed so many, They couldn't 
find a way to truly inhabit this planet without us.  Despite 
all of the experiments conducted in tandem with certain 
highly-placed, powerful individuals, They couldn't find a 
way to truly merge with us and still remain Themselves.

So They didn't;  didn't merge, that is.  The attempts at 
alien-human hybridization were abandoned and instead 
tests were conducted to discover what it was that They 
needed in order to live on this planet as we had done for so 
many hundreds of thousands of years.   And the answer was 
found in our blood.

The blood in the human body plays an integral role in our 
ability to absorb and metabolize the oxygen we need to 
keep ourselves alive and functioning.  And the same was 
found to be true of Them.  The only wrinkle in the plan was 
that They didn't have blood, at least not the kind that we 
have.  And short of some kind of hybridization that would 
have robbed Them of whatever They considered to be 
imperative, They had to find some way of obtaining it and 
absorbing it to keep Themselves alive.

Absorbing it didn't prove to be a problem, especially if it 
was blood of a specific type.  Obtaining it became the 
obstacle, and soon enough, it became frighteningly easy to 
do that as well.

In the terms of human science, type O blood is known as a 
universal donor, as it can be given to a person of any other 
blood type and be absorbed without clotting.  It's the most 
common type, followed by A and B.  Type AB is very rare 
-- less than 6 percent of humans are born with that type of 
blood.  People with AB blood can accept transfusions of 
any type, but they cannot donate to anyone who is not also 
AB.  

Ironically enough, when it comes to alien-human 
transfusions, AB is the only type of blood that They *can* 
accept, the only type that will not clot or risk killing Them.   
From this, all of the nightmarish horror sprang.  The 
creation of the Compounds, the destruction of all that we 
once knew and considered, if not sacred, then at least 
routine.  

My mind whirls with all of these thoughts as we walk, and 
walk, and walk.   We walk to the far end of town and take 
the main road four miles further until we reach the onramp 
for the interstate.  It's a steep uphill grade and the straps of 
the pack dig into my shoulders as we make the climb.  
When we get to the top we are on an overpass that crosses 
above another freeway.  From that vantage point, the 
devastation is clearer to me than it has ever been before. 
Through the thick, cloudy, dusty air I can see hundreds of 
cars, some crashed, some merely abandoned, scattered 
across the road in all directions.   Most of them have been 
scavenged for any parts that might be of use;  none of them 
work, all having been drained of whatever gas and oil they 
once carried.  There aren't any people visible from where 
we are but I know that were we close enough to look, we 
would find bodies in some of the cars, and the thought 
makes me shudder.

There are cars scattered on our part of the freeway too, and 
Mulder and I keep our distance from them as we walk.   He 
has told me about people who hide inside them, waiting to 
ambush travelers who might pass them by, and I notice that 
his grip tightens on the rifle as we move along.  He has 
reason to be wary.  

There is a deep scar on the left side of his face, stretching 
from his temple down to his cheek, above the stubble that 
he needs to shave.   He was attacked by group of teenagers 
wielding makeshift weapons.  It was a shovel that left the 
gash on his face, and he was lucky to not have been killed 
by the blow to his head.  When he awoke, nearly a day 
later, everything that he'd managed to gather was gone, 
including most of his clothing.   Sunburnt, starving, and 
parched with thirst he had gotten to his feet and stumbled 
over his Swiss army knife, which had been forgotten in the 
dirt.  And with only that in his hand, he began again.  
Continued on his search.  His quest to find me.

Because he carries the rifle, Mulder is in the lead, which 
gives me the opportunity to study him without his 
knowledge.  There is so much about him that is different 
than I remember, and it is a conscious reminder to me of 
how much he has endured.  He talks less than he used to, in 
simple sentences and short, terse words.   He has spent 
much of the last thirty-nine months alone, and it is harder 
now to break through the barrier of his solitude.   Even 
after he found me, and we first took advantage of that 
space beneath the library to discover each other again, he 
said very little, expressing his feelings for me with actions 
instead of words.

Seventeen times we met at the gate to the Yard and made 
our way into town, using the small fragments of time that I 
was allowed to catch up on years of separation.  I told him 
of the trucks in which I was carted across the country, 
penned in amidst a crush of other captives, headed to an 
unknown destination.  I told him about the Compound, and 
how it worked, and of the punishments for disobedience.  I 
told him about the days that blended together until they 
became one seamless, miserable mass.  I told him about the 
nights, and of my bleak conviction that they would never 
end.   

I told him much more than he ever told me, and I think that 
even now he seeks to shield me from the horrors of his 
experience.  What little I know I have pieced together as 
much from what he hasn't said as from what he has.  

We were separated when They evacuated the city;  things 
were a disaster then, in the aftermath of the first bomb.   
After his blood was tested and found useless to Them he 
was dumped with many others in a zone that was deemed 
safe, though that wasn't true for long.  The fever did not 
pass him by;  he suffered for months before he fully 
recovered.  By then, many of the people who had cared for 
him had themselves succumbed to the disease.  

After that I'm not sure what happened to him, nor how he 
lived.  The rioting and looting was still going on, though 
perhaps not as viciously as it once was;  there was little left 
at that point to be taken.   It was then that Mulder began to 
learn about the Compounds.   There are seven of them, or 
so he has told me, scattered across the midwest.  He 
learned of their purpose and it was then that he made up his 
mind to search them all if need be, in order to find me.  A 
crazy idea at best, but then again, crazy ideas have always 
been Mulder's hallmark.  And his tenacious determination 
paid off, for both of us, when he found me at the fourth 
one.

We walk for miles yet see no one on our journey, which I 
find somewhat surprising.  No humans, and none of Them.   
I'm not sure which I'm more afraid of encountering.  We do 
see a few more of the wolf-dogs, but only from a distance.  
Other than that, it's horrifyingly quiet, with only the scuff 
of our shoes on the cement to relieve the deadly silence.  

Finally we stop, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I slide the 
pack off of my back.   Mulder opens his pack and takes out 
a water bottle, while I bend over to fix the lace on one of 
my shoes.  He hands me the bottle and I take a long sip, 
then move to pass it back to him.  It is at that moment that I 
catch a glimpse of myself in a cracked side view mirror 
that hangs on one of the cars.  I hand him the bottle, and 
then step forward, transfixed.  

I can't remember the last time that I saw my reflection, and 
it takes a moment of strong consideration before I 
recognize the woman in the glass.  The woman's face is 
pale and her hair is long and strawberry red, the color 
intensified by the strange light from the sky.  Much of it 
has escaped from the makeshift braid and tumbles 
haphazardly across her shoulders and down her back.  I 
move closer to the mirror, a sudden vain impulse causing 
my fingers to reweave its plait.  As I braid, I look at the 
eyes of the woman who gazes back at me.  Her eyes are 
large, and blue, the dark circles beneath a testament to all 
she has endured.  To all I have endured.   

I turn away from the fragmented mirror and move back 
towards Mulder, indicating to him with a nod of my head 
that I'm ready to keep going.  

We are headed north, north and a little bit west, according 
to our plan.  There's nothing back east now, no point in 
returning to the place that we once called home.  And the 
Cities that They have established for Themselves are down 
south, at least from what Mulder has heard.  Apparently the 
hot, dry climate of the former desert states is more 
comfortable for Them.  So we walk north, attempting to 
put as much distance between us and Them as we can in a 
single, solitary day.

The hazy sun is high in the sky when we stop to eat;  my 
arms shake a little as I drop the pack to the ground and I 
hope that Mulder has failed to notice.  We have stopped at 
what was once a weigh station for the trucks that passed 
along the interstate.  Its concrete structure is still standing, 
and its partially enclosed roof allows us a bit of respite 
from the sun and the wind.  I can already feel the tingling 
in my cheeks from the sunburn I won't be able to avoid.  

Mulder sits down beside me, stretching his long legs out in 
front of him with a barely audible sigh of relief.  The tennis 
shoes he wears are more tattered than my own, and I 
wonder how many miles they have carried him along.  He 
opens the latches on his pack and asks, "How are you 
doing?"

"Fine," I tell him, and I mean what I say, even though I'm 
tired, hungry, and more than a little bit thirsty.  I take the 
bottle of water that he offers me and drink nearly a third of 
it without noticing its warm, tepid taste.   "Even better 
now," I add, and pass the bottle his way.  

Lunch for us is a handful of beef jerky and the contents of 
two more cans, one of which is more pineapple.  The other 
turns out to be string beans, which don't taste nearly as 
good straight out of the can.  We finish the rest of the water 
bottle and then Mulder tucks it back into his pack, saving it 
for a time when it might be refilled.  Then we lean our 
backs against the concrete wall, side by side, and rest.  
Mulder has a watch that he scavenged from somewhere, 
but it is really the band on my wrist that tells us when it is 
time to pick up and keep moving.  

16:15:56.

The afternoon passes even more slowly than the morning.  
We talk very little, each of us conserving our energy.   By 
midafternoon, my body is ready to call it quits.  Unlike 
Mulder, I've gotten very little exercise of late, and the 
quiver in my thighs reminds me of that fact with every 
single step.  We stop only once, to share some more water.   
Although it tastes good as it runs down my throat, I'm 
almost sorry that we stopped because it allows me to notice 
how sore I've become.  

Mulder pulls the map from his pocket and studies it, 
running his finger along the torn page.  He checks the 
position of the sun overhead, and then his watch, before he 
announces his decision.  "Another hour," he says.  "Then 
we should get off the highway."

There's tension in the lines of his face.  "What?"  I ask, 
knowing that something is wrong.

"Nothing," he says with a shrug, folding up the map and 
putting it back.  "Just thought we would be further by now."

Though I know he didn't intend them as a criticism, his 
words make me feel as though I have been holding us back.  
I make more of an effort to pick up the pace, walking 
beside him now, doing my best to match his stride.  I know 
he is tired, too;  I can see it around his eyes, in the way that 
his shoulders hunch under the pack that he carries.  

We actually go on for closer to two hours;  by the time we 
reach the offramp that Mulder deems appropriate, the sun 
is low on the horizon and the light is dwindling away.  We 
have arrived at the remainder of what was once a populated 
suburb.  We stick to the main road, passing by the damaged 
husks of strip malls and convenience stores.  Everything 
has been looted past the point of recognition and again I 
marvel at the extent of the damage.

The road we are on takes us into a residential section of 
this forgotten city, the boundaries of individual properties 
still easily distinguishable amidst the rubble.  It is eerily 
deserted, and I wonder if there are people here, hiding, if 
we truly are as alone as we seem to be.  I walk beside 
Mulder and as I walk something catches my eye, the glint 
of something metal in the overgrown weeds.  

"Wait," I tell him, taking him by the arm and then pointing 
in the direction of the hidden object.  He sees it and nods, 
but as we move cautiously towards it he raises the barrel of 
the rifle, suspicious of a trap.

I bend at the knees and part the weeds with my hands.  It's a 
pot, a little pot made of stainless steel.  The imprint of its 
maker is still visible on its copper bottom.   I hold it up to 
Mulder for inspection, a silly grin crossing my face.  I feel 
a child's sense of pride in my discovery.  

"Good sleuthing, Sherlock," Mulder declares.  "Now all you 
need is the stove that goes with it."   My smile widens.  
These days, I'm happy to hear the corniest of Mulderjokes.

As the sun threatens to disappear entirely, we pass the 
remains of an elementary school.  The last beams of light 
dance across the iron frames of playground equipment, 
monkey bars and tetherball poles and basketball hoops.  I 
can't see the painted hopscotch squares on the asphalt from 
this far away, but I know that they are there.  White painted 
lines that are no longer of use to anyone.

I don't know exactly what Mulder's looking for;  someplace 
safe, I assume, though his definition of safe is probably 
much more stringent than my own.  I busy myself by 
watching the shadows that have crept up around us for any 
signs of motion, by listening to the emptiness around us for 
unfamiliar sounds.  It's oddly silent;  there are no crickets to 
be heard, the hum of electric power lines long since gone.  
We are ghost people, walking through a ghost town.

We round a corner and now the yards are spaced farther 
apart than before.  This must have been a more expensive 
area;  inhabited by people who could afford big houses and 
big green lawns.   It's too dark now to see;  the shadows 
have swallowed us up.   Mulder pulls the flashlight out of 
my pack and turns it on, but the little circle of light it 
provides isn't much help.  I never knew that it could be this 
dark.   In the blackness, the display on my metal bracelet 
glows more brightly than ever.  

11:09:33.

Eleven hours, I think.  And it is at that point that it hits me.  
There's no going back now.  Even if I wanted to;  even if 
we turned around now and walked straight through.   We 
would never make it in time.  There's no going back.

And suddenly I'm no longer capable of going forward, 
either.  

I look around, straining my eyes to see beyond the crescent 
of dim light that is available to us.  The block that we are 
on ends in a cul-de-sac;  the house at its farthest end seems 
to me to be the most logical place.  "We should go there," I 
tell him, using my hand to indicate the house.  "It's at the 
end of the block, on its own little hill.  Besides," I remind 
him, "it's too dark to keep walking."

Mulder weighs my words, considers them, and finally 
agrees.  "Let's go," he says, using the flashlight to 
illuminate our path.

When we reach the house, I almost regret my decision.  
The word haunted crosses my mind as we stand just outside 
the ragged remains.  But I manage to keep putting one foot 
in front of the other as we circle the structure, looking for 
the best possible space to make our camp.  We settle on 
what was once probably the living room.  Three of its walls 
stand intact and the fourth is still half there, which affords 
us some measure of protection from the wind, as well as 
any unwanted visitors.  We waste another few minutes 
looking for a basement, but find none.  If there was one, its 
entrance has been long since blocked.  

"Doesn't matter," Mulder says, as though he were reading 
my thoughts.  "Outside, we can build a fire."  He looks up 
at the sky and adds, "We'll probably need it."

I agree;  I can already feel the chill through the shirt that 
I'm wearing.  I wish that I'd been able to bring the blue 
windbreaker from the Compound, but its color was too 
obvious.  The risk, too great.    

Speaking of risk, I'm surprised that Mulder is willing to 
build a fire.  "Aren't you afraid that someone will see the 
flames?"

He shrugs.  "I'm more afraid of sleeping above ground 
without it.   If there are animals, hopefully it will keep 
them away."

We lean our packs against one of the walls and begin 
gathering wood.  There's plenty around, most of it probably 
remnants of the furniture that used to fill this home.   We 
pile it up in the corner that is the most protected from the 
wind, stacking it precisely so that it will burn hard and 
long.   It takes four of Mulder's matches until it catches;  
when it finally does, the flames build steadily until we have 
a solid little bonfire.   It warms the space, and gives it a 
cozy feeling that helps to ward off some of my anxiety.

It is not until we are seated near the fire and Mulder is 
rummaging through his pack that I remember the pot that I 
found.  Excited now, I pull it from the sack that I have 
carried and hold it in my hands.  "We can cook some rice in 
this," I tell him, thrilled that in some small way I have 
managed to contribute to our efforts.

He responds in the affirmative and I take that as a signal to 
use up part of one of the water bottles in cleaning the pot, 
drying it off with one of the tee shirts we brought along.  I 
fill the pot with the remainder of that water bottle and then 
together we make a place for it amidst the burning wood.  
As we wait for the water to boil, Mulder busies himself 
with several of the cans.  We've used up a lot of the water;  
probably more than we should have, considering the 
circumstances.  Mulder is positive that we'll reach the river 
tomorrow, and then there will be more.  I'm not so certain 
that we'll even reach tomorrow.  It's all the same, in the 
end.

Our dinner consists of a little more of the jerky, a can of 
peas, a can of peaches, and two solid helpings of the rice.  
The rice is clumpy, sticky like rice in a sushi restaurant, but 
when you don't have a fork or even a spoon it's easier to eat 
that way.  The food tastes good, much better than anything 
at the Compound ever did.  

There's something exhilarating about being outside after 
dark.  The nights that I stayed with Mulder in the town we 
remained hidden beneath the library.  Tonight there is 
nothing above us but sky, and it doesn't seem to matter that 
the clouded air blocks the stars from our view.  We are 
outside, we are together, we are alive.  At this moment, 
nothing else is significant.

Now I am feeling brave enough to talk about the future.  
"Let me see it," I demand, and Mulder reaches into the 
front pocket of his jeans and removes a thin silver wand.  It 
is no bigger than an unfolded paper clip, with a little knob 
at the end.  It is for this that he has traded almost 
everything he has managed to collect.  It is because of this 
that we have made this journey.

I take the tiny silver bit in my hand and hold it.  It weighs 
next to nothing, yet it represents everything.  "It seems so 
small," I tell him.  "Are you sure that it works?"

Mulder shrugs, but I know that his casual demeanor is just 
an act.  "We won't know until we try it."   

That much is true.  We have traded nearly everything on a 
promise.   A promise that this small piece of metal has the 
power to unlock the bracelet that holds me prisoner.   

After our sixth or seventh clandestine meeting Mulder ran 
across a man who told him that he knew how to obtain 
such a device, a device that could end our torment.  Rumor 
had it that a device such as this could, if used precisely, 
unlock the metal wristband at the exact moment that its 
timer ran out.  To attempt to unlock the bracelet at any 
other time would have the usual effect, causing an 
explosion that would decimate not only the wearer but 
anyone else in the near vicinity.  But at the moment that the 
counter reached zero, so the story went, it could be 
unlocked with this device in the heartbeat before the 
bracelet responded to its internal program and detonated.  

It seemed like a myth, an old wives' tale.  There was no 
way that it could be true, but the man who spoke to Mulder 
claimed to have seen it work, and that was enough for him.  
And it became enough for me.  He spent the next weeks 
searching for enough bounty to acquire the device, weeks 
that I spent wandering out to the Yard in search of a visitor 
who only rarely appeared.  Until finally he had gathered 
enough for a trade.   Until finally, we agreed to risk 
everything on this single hope, this solitary dream.  

Holding it in my hand I feel my bravery ebb away under the 
rising tide of my fear.  I'm glad now that we have left the 
Compound so far behind.  We did it to be safe, in case a 
deactivated bracelet sends out a signal that might allow 
Them to track us.   I'm glad now that we are so far away 
because part of me would easily run right back, rather than 
face an almost certain death.   

I can't hold the little device any longer and I hand it back to 
Mulder, who takes it without a word and tucks it safely 
away.  



Oh let the music play a little longer,
And sweetheart clasp me closer to your breast.
Life is strong, and death; but love is stronger --
And sweeter, sweeter rest.

Oh, sweet is rest when love is watching over,
And twilight comes with dreams that reassure;
Weaving out of the silences that hover
Hopes which must endure.

- William Stanley Braithwaite



When we finish eating, Mulder takes the cans and goes to 
bury them, to block their scent from reaching any hungry 
animals.  I clean out the rice pan with a little water, and use 
still more to wash my hands and my face.  There aren't any 
towels, so I use a tee shirt as a substitute.  Afterwards, I 
pull the blankets from the packs, arranging them on the 
ground near the fire.  I lay the rifle beside them, close 
enough to be reached if the need should arise.

I can hear Mulder, in the near distance, digging shallow 
holes.  As I wait for him, I loosen my hair from its braid.  I 
run my fingers through its length and wish I had a comb.  
The noise of digging stops and is replaced by the sound of 
the pack being unzipped and then the splash of water.  I 
don't turn around to look.  I merely sit, surrounded by 
darkness, listening to the noise Mulder makes as he cleans 
himself up.  

I sense him almost before I hear him, approaching with the 
faintest of steps.  I feel his breath on my neck as he kneels 
behind me, and I gaze into the fire before me, watching its 
flickering flames.

"Touch me, Mulder," I whisper, and he doesn't hesitate.  I 
feel his hands on my shoulders.  They glide along my 
collarbone and down my back until they encircle my body.  
His hands are large, and strong, and his fingers nearly touch 
as they span my waist.

I tilt my head back until it is resting on his shoulder, and 
quietly I command him.  "More," I say.

His hands slide away from their grasp of my waist and 
creep up beneath the cotton-should-be-flannel shirt, 
beneath the tee shirt and the tank top that I wear.  His 
hands are warm against my skin as they drift slowly 
upwards until they cup my breasts.  I moan, just a little, and 
he begins to knead me, ever so gently.  

"More," I demand, and he responds by grasping my nipples 
between his thumbs and forefingers, squeezing them tight 
as he continues to hold me close.  I squirm restlessly, my 
head tipping further back, and it is then that his teeth close 
upon my earlobe.  His bites are tentative at first, and then 
harder, until the firelight spins before my eyes and I have to 
slam them shut.

"More," I murmur, and I am begging now.  Begging for the 
same thing that he wants, that he needs.  I can tell by the 
way he holds me, the way he caresses me.   And so I plead.  
"More..... please.  More."

His lips suckle my earlobe, then his mouth moves south to 
trace the line of my jaw until his teeth find my neck.   He 
nibbles me, hungrily, as his hands continue to work their 
magic on my chest.  I arch my back, shoving my breasts 
deeper into his grasp, giving him further access to the pale 
skin of my neck, my hands sliding up over his knees to 
clench the firmness of his thighs.    

He groans then, low and deep, and it forces a whimper 
from me.  "More.... more.... more."  I can't think of any 
other words, but he seems to understand me nonetheless.  
He keeps his mouth busy as his hands move away from my 
tender breasts.  They slip outside and pull the shirt off of 
my shoulders and down my arms.  Slowly, so slowly, his 
fingers grasp the bottom of my tee shirt and tank top and 
pull them upwards, the fabric sliding over my torso.  I raise 
my arms instinctively and allow him to pull it over my head 
until I am free.

It is only then that his mouth leaves me and for a moment, I 
am alone.  I open my eyes to see him kneeling before me, 
gazing at me like a man possessed.  I possess you, I think, 
and the very thought makes me quiver with desire and 
anticipation.  His eyes are hungry, his body shakes.  He 
stretches a hand towards me and I see how his fingers 
tremble as he reaches for a lock of hair that has fallen 
between my exposed breasts.  He catches it gently, 
smoothing it up and over my shoulder until it tumbles 
down my back, his eyes never leaving mine.

If tonight is to be our last night together, let it be forever. 

I reach for the hand that he has left to rest on my shoulder.  
Grasping him by the wrist I bring his palm to my mouth, 
running my lips over the callused skin of his hand.  I suckle 
his flesh, keeping my eyes locked with his.  Naked to the 
waist, I rise to my knees and lean in towards him.  Using 
his arm as leverage I pull him towards me until we are 
inches apart, until I can feel his labored breath against my 
face.  I slide my mouth across his palm until I reach the 
heel of his hand and then I touch his lips with my own.

Mulder responds then, deeply, passionately, wildly.  His 
kisses are more penetrating they were, before.  I have the 
sensation that he is trying to swallow me whole, that it is 
more than lips and teeth and tongues that collide in the 
space between us, as he draws me ever inward to his soul.

I still remember how it felt to cross the Yard, another 
aimless walk on another endless day, and suddenly see him 
standing there on the other side of the fence.  I thought at 
first it was a dream, my nighttime fantasies made real by 
the broad light of day.  And then when my gaze truly 
focused and I saw the brightness in his eyes and the joy in 
his face, I thought I would faint, simply collapse in a heap 
amongst the rest of the lonely wanderers.   I remember how 
my body shook as I made my way to the fence, how I stood 
there and stared at him on the other side of the barrier, 
thinking that somehow all of my dreams had at last come 
true.

He was real.  Tangible.   At last.  

This is how Mulder looks at me now, when I pull away 
from him and break our fierce kiss.  He looks like a man 
who has been given life's greatest gift, and perhaps he has.  
Against all odds, we have managed to find each other.  And 
whether it is for tonight or forever it is still the greatest of 
miracles.

Overcome by these thoughts I lean into him, burying my 
face in the softness of his neck.  There is little about 
Mulder that is soft or gentle these days, so unlike the lover 
that I knew when we worked together back in D.C.  But 
this space between his neck and shoulder remains a 
sanctuary for me, a place where I feel safe, and nurtured, 
and whole.  He cradles me there for as long as he is able, 
running his hands through my hair until they emerge at the 
small of my back.  He holds me to him, tightly, as though 
he is afraid to ever let me go.

When he pulls away it is to kiss my lips, my chin, my neck, 
running his mouth over my skin until he reaches my 
breasts.  He nuzzles me there, tenderly, and murmurs under 
his breath.  His words are lost to me as I cradle his head, 
stroking his hair, holding him close.  His mouth engulfs my 
nipples, first one, than the other, and I whimper his name, 
subservient to the love I feel in his touch.  

Before I am aware of what is happening I find myself 
straddling him and realize that I have pushed him to the 
ground, atop the blankets that I laid so carefully down by 
the fire.  Its crackling reddish-gold glow illuminates the 
planes of his face, the lines that have been etched in his 
skin.  I lean forward and kiss every delicious inch from his 
forehead to his chin.  I lave my tongue over the stubble that 
crosses his cheeks, I suckle at the delicate hollows beneath 
his eyes.  I will never have enough of his taste, his touch, 
his smell.  I can never take enough to quench the need 
inside me, never enough to make me feel as though I have 
sampled all that he has to offer.

Mulder's hands come up to grasp my shoulders but I pay 
him no mind, my own hands eagerly pulling at the shirt that 
he wears, tugging at the buttons, yanking them from their 
holes.  That task accomplished my attention wanders to his 
tee shirt.  I pull it up and over his head, mussing the brown 
locks of his hair, causing them to fall across his forehead in 
disarray.  Now we are skin to skin and I drape myself 
across his chest, savoring his warmth, his strength.   His 
arms are twined around my waist as I shiver in his grasp, 
the cool night air accosting my back.  

My hands slip down below, fumbling for the buttons to the 
faded jeans he wears.  I slide them down around his waist, 
tugging his underwear along for the ride, until he is bare 
beneath me, his clothes bundled around his knees.  Mulder 
shifts his body easily, fluidly, kicking the pants off of his 
body so that now, as I lay atop him, I feel the fullness of his 
nakedness.  I feel his erection, warm and pulsing against 
my groin;  I run my hands across the scratchy softness of 
the hair on his legs.   I nuzzle my head again into that space 
against his neck, fully and totally content.

It might be enough for me but it certainly isn't for Mulder.  
His own hands are busy now, tugging at the jeans that he 
gave me, hauling them over my ass with speed, not 
tenderness.  Suddenly I too am naked as the day I was born.  
He grabs the uppermost blanket in one strong hand and 
pulls it so that it covers us both, the other two forming the 
slightest of cushions against the hard ground below.  We 
roll together, our bodies pressed as close as we dare allow 
them, our lips joined as our tongues fight within the 
caverns of our mouths.

There is nothing I would not give to have this joy go on, 
and on, and on.

Mulder grasps my shoulders and pushes and I turn as he 
bids me to, until I find myself beneath him, my thighs 
spread on either side of his legs, his penis rock hard and 
solid against me.  I am trapped beneath his heavy weight, 
and I writhe with the anticipation of what I know will come 
next.  

He surprises me, however;  he slips two fingers inside me 
instead of his erection.  Two fingers that probe me hard and 
fast, making me squirm, making me squeal.  I toss my head 
back in ecstasy and he nibbles at my neck, my chin, his 
fingers moving double time in response to my response.  I 
wiggle my ass to press myself against his hand, seeking 
more of him, always more of him.  It has always been this 
way between us, since the very first time, but things are 
more intense now that so much has changed.  It is almost as 
though our conscious knowledge of how perilous life has 
become, how scattered its joys, has infiltrated everything 
including our manner of making love.  Sex between us has 
taken on a certain desperation, as we are all too aware how 
rare these liberties have become.

He works me until I am beyond myself, until I am panting 
and gasping and moaning incoherently.  I can hardly see his 
face.  He is a mere silhouette above me, illuminated by the 
flickering light of the fire.  But it is enough;  the smell of 
him, the taste of him, the feel of him have already pushed 
me over the edge.  Above me, the blank, starless sky looms 
as I feel my back arch, my body tense, and then I am free, 
floating beyond myself, anchored only by him.  

I know that the night has just begun when Mulder flips me 
onto my stomach, his lips finding the nape of my neck as 
his hands slide beneath me to cup my breasts once more.  I 
am still gasping for air, but my ass rises of its own accord 
to press against his groin.  I hear him groan, once, twice, 
and with the third passionate sigh he sinks into me.  His 
body is hard and tense as he drives into me.  Slowly at first, 
and then faster, and faster.  Arousal shoots through me like 
water down a drain as I raise myself onto my elbows and 
knees to abet his penetration.  His hands clutch at my 
breasts, his fingers toy with my nipples, his mouth rests wet 
and heavy on my back, his lips tangle in my hair.

We ride like this until I am swept away once more, until we 
tumble to lay side by side, quivering in each others' arms.  I 
am dimly aware that Mulder is holding back, and for some 
reason this upsets me.  I want us to share everything, 
absolutely everything, and I don't want him to compromise 
himself on my behalf.  Not now.  Not tonight. 

This may be why I struggle out of his grasp and make my 
way along the length of his torso, my hands creating a path 
for my lips as I slide inexorably down.  My hands reach his 
hips and I clutch them tightly in my grasp as I move my 
head into position and take him in my mouth.   Mulder 
moans as I engulf him, sliding him all the way in and then 
back again and again.  I allow my teeth to trace him lightly 
from root to tip, relishing the way that his body shakes 
beneath my trembling hands.  I suck at him, drawing him 
into me, every fiber of my being focused on pleasuring 
him.

He doesn't allow me to achieve the goal that I have set for 
myself.  Just when I feel his body readying to take that final 
plunge, he pulls away, contorting his body and my own, 
twisting us so that I wind up beneath him once more.  He 
sheaths himself in me again, thrusting hard, and deep, and 
long.  I murmur my approval, unable to do anything else, 
and our eyes meet once more as he captures my lips in a 
fierce breathless kiss.

We rock there, together, far past the point of bliss, and it is 
then that we hear the noise.  It is the hollow sound of 
falling wood that reaches our ears and we freeze, suddenly 
motionless, locked together in a timeless embrace.  His 
body stiffens, his muscles clenched beneath my palms as 
we listen, prepared for the most dire of events.

M-e-o-w.

It's a tiny cry, from a tiny animal.  I feel the tremors in his 
body as Mulder relaxes, his tension giving way to giddy 
relief at the sound.  "Cat," he groans, and I laugh.

"Cat," I echo, and we share a smile as a second 'meow' 
ricochets through the darkness.

We finish what we have begun, both of our bodies now 
begging for release.  Sweat drips over us and my eyes 
flutter as I strain to see his expression in the firelight.  
Mulder howls as he climaxes and I quickly follow suit, 
wrapping my legs around his thighs as I drain him of his 
essence.  

When it is over we lay together, our bodies still joined 
beneath the blanket, arms encircling one another tightly, 
unwilling to admit that we have reached the end.  I rest my 
head against his chest, listen to his shallow breaths as he 
struggles for air.  

I will never let him go.

Mulder finally pulls away, but only so that he can tuck 
himself more firmly against me, so that we are nuzzled 
together as closely as two human beings ever can.  It is 
there, snug in his embrace, that I finally allow my arm to 
move, bringing it up far enough to read the numbers on the 
metal band.  

07:38:17.

It is late, and I am tired, so tired.  But with only eight hours 
to go I am unwilling to succumb to sleep, and instead I 
cuddle against him.  It's cold, despite the heat of his body 
and the warmth of the fire, and for a moment I debate 
about reaching for one of the shirts we abandoned.  In the 
end, I'm too reluctant to sacrifice the feeling of his skin 
pressed against my own, and I accept the occasional shiver 
that courses through my body as the price I must pay.  

Mulder shifts against me, kisses my temple, and mutters 
something too softly for me to distinguish the words.  
"What?"  I mumble, hoping that he has heard the question.

"You amaze me."

The words are still quiet but this time I am able to absorb 
them as the compliment they are.  I've never been the best 
about accepting praise, and verbal feedback from Mulder 
has always been rare.  Perhaps that is why I encourage him 
to elaborate, though I know it's not the gracious thing to do.

"Why?"  I ask.  "Why do you say that?"

Only silence follows, a silence that lasts so long that I 
begin to wonder if he has fallen asleep.  Finally he speaks, 
but it sounds as though the words have been dragged from 
deep within.

"You make me believe I can do anything."

This is more than I could have asked for;  from him, it is 
almost too much.  Personal words have never been our 
strong suit.  We communicate much more through shared 
glances, through little gestures and bigger actions.  I don't 
know how to respond.  The burning ache in my chest 
makes it difficult to speak.

Instead, I raise my hand to caress his cheek, lying so close 
to mine.  I run my hand along his jaw over and over, until I 
dare trust my voice.  "I would have come for you," is what I 
ultimately say.  "If I could have, I would have come for 
you."

"Oh, Scully."  His voice smooths over me like velvet.  "I 
know that.  I never doubted that."  He shifts again, his arms 
pulling me closer as the fire begins to flicker and wane.  

Sleep continues to beckon and so I force myself to think 
about the future in order to stay awake.  Mulder has told 
me the stories that he has heard about the north, about the 
new communities that have arisen, and I try to imagine 
living there.  Try to imagine the two of us, together without 
the constant threat of death hanging above our heads.  Try 
to imagine the two of us enjoying our freedom, building a 
life.

The thoughts that fill my head are happy ones, perhaps too 
happy.  They aren't enough to keep me awake, however.  
My eyelids feel heavy and as they start to close, I call to 
him.  

"Mulder?"

His hands gently stroke my hair.   His voice, when he 
answers, is rich and deep.   "You should get some sleep," 
he says.

"Don't want to," I reply, but the yawn that escapes my lips 
spoils the effect.  

"You're tired, Scully."

"So are you," I point out, and his silence tells me that I've 
won this round.  Protectiveness is an important facet of 
Mulder's nature, and I have come to understand that.  
Sometimes I even embrace it.  There were times in our 
retreat beneath the library when I would allow myself the 
luxury of falling asleep in his arms, knowing that Mulder 
would watch over me and the clock on my bracelet.  I trust 
him completely.  Mulder has always been better at taking 
care of me than of himself.  And I know how much he likes 
watching me sleep.  

But tonight is not his responsibility.   And I don't want to 
waste any of the time that I know for certain still remains 
to us.  

"Talk to me," I whisper.  "Tell me again about the places 
up north."

"You know all this already," he sighs, but it is a sigh of 
resignation.

"I don't care," I say.  "Tell me again."

And so he does.  Holding me close under the blanket, his 
lips against my ear, he tells me everything he knows about 
the new cities.   About how people have gathered there and 
found a way to begin again, without all of the technology 
that up until recently we took for granted.  Then we talk 
about how long it will take to get there, and the routes that 
we should follow.  We talk about the things that we will 
need to survive the journey, and what we will have to do to 
get them.  

"What happens if we get sick?" I wonder, thoughts of the 
fever suddenly crossing my mind. 

"Well," he deadpans, "that's why I brought you along, Doc.  
You didn't think there was any other reason, did you?"

I poke him in the stomach and he laughs and kisses my 
cheek.

This is how we pass the night, as the fire burns down and 
the darkness overhead is slowly bleached away.  Neither of 
us ever really succumbs to sleep, though more than once I 
have to fight to keep myself from dozing off.  

It isn't until the fire has gone out, leaving only a few red 
embers behind, and the sky above is the pale brown of 
dawn that I dare to glance again at my wrist.   

00:41:33.

"Mulder?"

I turn my head to look at him and see that he, too, has read 
the numbers on the bracelet.  "We should get up," he says, 
and reluctantly I nod.

We dress in silence as the sun creeps up over the horizon.  
We take turns washing up, using most of another water 
bottle in the process.  I finish first and neatly fold the 
blankets, trying to keep my mind off of the inevitable.   
Mulder asks if I am hungry and though I am, sort of, I can't 
stomach the thought of food.  "Maybe later," I tell him, and 
notice that he too has decided to abstain. 

Before too long we've got everything packed up and tucked 
away and then there's nothing else to do.  We amble 
aimlessly around the destroyed house and its neighbors 
looking for any lost treasures, but find nothing.  And then 
we can't ignore it any further.  

Together, we sit down on the ground not far from the 
remains of our fire, cross-legged, close enough so that our 
knees are touching.  Mulder reaches for my right wrist and 
takes it in both of his hands.

00:09:42.

The bracelet is too tight to slide around on my wrist;  They 
measure you for them and as a result it is a nearly exact fit.  
Mulder twists my arm a little so that he can more closely 
examine the tiny circular indentation that mars its surface.  
He takes out the little device and examines that too, 
inspecting its design and the way that it should work.

"You know," I say, "I can do this myself."   As soon as I 
have said the words aloud they seem right to me, as though 
they represent the only possibility.  "You shouldn't be here.  
You don't have to be."   I don't want him to be with me, I 
realize.  Not for this.  Not when there is so little chance of 
the device living up to its promise.

"No way," he declares, lifting his head to meet my eyes.  I 
open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off.  "It's too 
difficult for you to do this with your left hand.  There's no 
way that you can be precise enough."

I'm tempted to yank my hand from his grasp, to run as far 
away from him as my legs will carry me, but I don't.  
Instead, I gaze back at him and wish that time would stop.

00:04:27.

All we can do now is wait.

00:02:54.

We stare at each other in the deadly silence and then 
Mulder leans in towards me to capture my lips in a kiss.  
The kiss is soft, lingering, gentle.  I refuse to think of it as a 
farewell.

00:01:39.

He holds my right arm in his left hand, the thin silver bit 
poised between two fingers and the thumb of his other.  
The hand that holds mine is trembling, just a little, but the 
hand that holds the device is rock steady.  

00:00:18.

Now or never, I think, my eyes flickering from the orange 
numbers to his face and back again.

00:00:10.

"I love you, Scully," he says, and a lump forms in my 
throat.

"I love you too."

00:00:05.

I find that I can't watch.  I don't want to see what he's doing, 
or when he does it.  I keep my eyes trained on his face, on 
the intense concentration written there.  His eyes are 
focused on my wrist, the edge of his bottom lip is clenched 
between his teeth.  I want to pray, but I can't find the words.  

Suddenly Mulder's hand moves, lightning fast, and 
instinctively my eyes slam shut.  I hear a sound, the faintest 
of clicks, and then nothing.  

Nothing but Mulder's startled gasp.

My eyes snap open and I see that the metal band has 
popped open, and now lies splayed in a curved semi-circle 
trapped between my wrist and Mulder's palm.   We jerk 
apart simultaneously, springing to our feet and backing 
away as the bracelet falls to the ground.  Seconds pass as 
we foolishly watch it, too stunned to run away despite the 
fact that it could still detonate, even now.

And yet, nothing happens.  Nothing at all.  

It is a soft, choking gasp that brings me to my senses and I 
raise my head to see that Mulder is crying.  I can't 
remember having seen Mulder cry before, at least not like 
this.  The tears stream silently down his cheeks;  his eyes 
are squeezed shut, his hands dangle loosely, helplessly at 
his side.  

"Mulder," I whisper, and he raises his head, opening his 
eyes to look me straight on, his mouth curving upward 
slightly as he continues to weep.  

I fall into his arms and he holds me close and I don't think 
I've ever felt better in my life.  We stand there, oblivious, 
merely holding one another, the horrendous metal bracelet 
lying forgotten in the dirt beneath our feet.  

It is over, I think, and suddenly I too want to cry.  

I don't know how much time passes before we release each 
other.  Mulder unabashedly raises a hand to his eyes and 
swipes away the moist liquid that remains.  Then he smiles, 
the sweetest of smiles, and takes my hand.  Together, we 
move towards the knapsacks we have packed and shoulder 
them.  Together, we turn our backs on the band of metal 
that was my prison and walk away.  

Whatever the future may bring, it is the present that 
matters.


END 


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