Subject: Corpse 4/9
Date: 24 Jun 1995

Corpse 13/?

Fox Mulder and Dana Scully and the X-Files property of Chris Carter and
Ten Thirteen Productions. Emma and Kane and the whole darn town and story
are all creations of Livengoo and may not be used without my permission.
I derive no profit, so I like to derive lots of email.

This story if fairly violent, and there's lots of profanity. Hope you
folks are enjoying it. I regret to inform you that I fibbed, there's gonna
be a lot more than 15 parts. Sorry for being untruthful.
Goo
________________
We took my car. I got to navigate, and we wound up in front of Cecil
Heat, watching, as night really took hold. The front seat was lit,
faintly violet, by a streetlight above us. Mulder flipped through his
file, saw what he wanted, and looked carefully over the parked cars
in the lot. A moment later he was out of the car. I followed him,
scurrying to keep up as he paced along behind the cars, checking
plates. It took a while. Mulder kept glancing around, making
certain no one but me was behind him. The sound of dry leaves
skittering in the wind made both of use jump, and I longed to be in
some house, in front of one of the cozy fires I could smell.

He finally came to the dark brown Dodge he must have wanted,
noted the location and plates. A quick circuit to look in the
windows, but I don't think he really expected to find anything. As
he turned around, he looked past the office building and cursed.
There was another exit, and from where we had to park to watch our
exit we couldn't see it or the Dodge.

"What are you thinking, Mulder?" I was stomping my feet, hands
shoved in pockets and shoulders hunched, but a sharp breeze
chilled me through the coat. I looked back, realized we couldn't see
the back exit, and that there was nowhere that would let us see the
car and both exits. "You're not thinking of sitting out here by this
car? That's crazy! Kane might just drive home in his truck if he
sees us there. I've seen these things parked overnight sometimes.
Or he might just shoot us. And what would you do about him
anyway, since you can't arrest him?"

"Don't be melodramatic, Emma. You watch too much TV." But he
sounded distracted, and at least part of my argument probably made
sense to him. He turned an unpleasantly speculative look on me,
glanced back at that gate. I could read that particular look, it
wouldn't take Scully to figure it out.

"No way in hell, G-man! I'm not gonna sit over there and wait for
some whacko who likes to murder people and knows what I look
like. You already know where he lives, what do we need to sit here
for?"

"Scully'll call if there's been a missing person report filed. If he
doesn't have the next one yet, I want to get ahead of him. I don't
want to risk losing some poor bastard unlucky enough to remind
Kane of his dad." There was a sad, bitter tone to that.

"C'mon, Mulder. They have . . . " I wanted to remind him missing
persons had to be gone twenty-four hours, even out here in the
sticks, when his phone started buzzing. I was really beginning to
hate hearing those things. He flipped it open, listened. I knew
from the look on his face it was Scully. A very few questions and he
disconnected, shaking his head.

"Scully's seen their scape-goat. She says he should go down on
charges for porn through the mail, but she doubts he even kills
roaches in the kitchen."

"Mulder, how did they catch this guy? Why? What makes them
think this is him?"

The look he gave me was bleak. "How do you think. Our friend,
Kane, set him up. Picked a soothing target, and put one of his tarps
in the guy's trash." He'd finally gained some common sense,
because he was headed back to my car.

"Is that why they think they have the killer?" I ran along, staying
on my toes and hoping I didn't hit a pothole and twist an ankle. I
desperately wanted to be someplace light, and warm, and full of
sane people who never killed anyone or tried to play games with
madmen.

"Mm hmm." Mulder unlocked my car door. I slung myself in and
leaned over to unlock the driver's side before he was all the way
around the car. He got in and pulled a map out of that damn file of
his.

"So where'd they find this tarp? It couldn't be in his car or his
house, since they didn't have a warrant by the sound of it. And
how'd they know what it was?"

"They found it crammed under a lot of trash bags, conveniently
bloody and incriminating." His voice had a bitter edge to it, and the
muscles along his jaw were tight as he studied the map, turning it so
the compass rose pointed the way we were headed, instead of
leaving it with north pointing up.

She also says we're too late to keep him from taking anyone. . . ." If
he'd sounded bitter before, his tone was acid now. "They won't take
the report for another twelve hours, but Estelle Carson is in there
in hysterics because her husband, Frank, never came home from
his night job." He reached out and gave the ignition key a savage
twist. "Scully will meet us there. We're going to take Kane up on
his invitation."

"What?! WHAT? Are you out of your mind?"

"No. We're just out of time. Frank Carson didn't call in after the
middle of his shift, guarding Handlon Industrial. Kane's had him at
least fifteen hours. He worked some of that, but if we want to get
Carson out alive we have to go now. And the minute Carson's dead
we lose Kane." Mulder had his arm over the back of the seat and
was backing. He whipped us through a reverse three point turn and
gunned the engine. "You know the area, navigate." He tossed the
map over to my lap and told me what to look for. I don't think he
really needed me navigating, he just wanted to shut me up. When I
looked at him, I could see the muscles of his jaw shadowed by the
dashboard lights. There weren't many people out, and he put his
foot to the floor.

Streetlights strobed past us, until we reached the sparser sections of
town. I kept my quiet until about then - keeping my peace would
have been a lie. My guts hurt and the skin of my thighs and arms
prickled at the thought of what Mulder suggested. Suggested? No,
what the damned FBI idiot planned. I'd never held a gun in my life,
but I suddenly craved one. I kept imagining Fox Mulder, walking
into Kane's house, and sitting in the car waiting. I couldn't have
left him. I knew if he walked in there, that's what I'd do. Sit and
wait. Until Scully or Kane came for me, whichever was first.

Fear finally did what common sense couldn't. "Mulder," I kept my
voice low, trying not to make him any angrier. "Mulder, isn't there
back-up or something you can call for? FBI SWAT teams or
something?"

He sounded surprisingly calm, given the way I could see tendons
stand out on his hands and down his neck. "There would be if
everyone wasn't sure they'd just arrested their killer. But I'm
Spooky Mulder, and every FBI agent out here already thinks I see
monsters under my bed. They won't send SWAT teams for my
hallucinations, and we don't have time to convince them."

I wanted a gun. I wanted Jerry. Maybe the fabulous Jerry Rigg
could have figured out a way to convince the local boys in blue that
they had a fake, convince them we needed them, but I couldn't. I
swallowed on a sick feeling, and grabbed the edge of my seat and let
Mulder and his hunches drive me where we had to go.

The traffic had been thin coming out of town. By the time we got
out into the countryside we could see only one set of lights, and I
prayed that they belonged to Scully. Mulder was driving too fast,
but well, as we swung around the bends and punched through the
pockets of fog that hung over streams. My head ached with the
certainty that this couldn't be real, that this man would keep
driving forever, and I'd ride next to him. I looked at his face, lit
from below. Long nose, strong jawline, clenched and angry now. I
couldn't see the color of his eyes, they looked wide and dark,
watching the road.

The houses were spread out here in the countryside, simple boxes on
concrete foundations, one or two stories. Little, plain things stranded
in the middle of open, featureless fields. Front door, back door,
basement door and shed. No place to hide, nowhere to run that can't be
seen a mile at least. I felt trapped in the open out here. When he
braked suddenly I gasped and braced myself. My seatbelt snapped hard
across my chest, crushing my breasts for a moment before the belt slacked
and he pulled into a driveway.

Wheels ground on the gravel of the drive, and the clatter of gravel
stunned my ears for a moment as Mulder pulled in next to the aluminum
basement door of a dark house and shut off the engine and lights. The
silence and chill of night gradually claimed us as we sat there. Slowly,
I started to see again, was able to see him in the faint, grey that can't
be called light. He was watching the house down the road, perhaps a
couple hundred yards away. I could see his hands on the wheel, and the
way his shoulders hunched forward told me his hands were probably locked
around the wheel. His breathing sounded shallow and fast, soft panting
breaths, not like he'd run but like his pulse was pounding and his lungs
were screaming but he didn't want anyone to know. My own breathing was an
unsteady thing, fast, gasped past teeth I clenched to keep from chattering
with my nerves.

He'd twisted in his seat, facing back the way we'd come, and was
watching the road. The lights we'd seen earlier had turned off some
ways back and we were alone out here. I could see far across the corn
stubble fields out here, see to scattered lights of other, thinly
dispersed ranch houses. See all the way to the dark patches that were all
that was left of the woods that once covered this area. The wind sent
leaves skittering past us, scratching loud across the hood. I could hear
the corn stubble whistle, hear the squeak of the realtor's sign in front
of the house where we sat, and waited. The rustle of Mulder's long, black
coat was shattering when he whirled back the other way, scanning the road
both ways, looking for any glimmer of light. I could feel the scream
building behind my teeth, and finally vented it, but in no more than a
whisper.

"What are you waiting for? What do you think is going to happen?"

His voice was only a little louder than my hiss, distant and thin.
"Scully should be here soon. She said she'd meet us here. She'll park
back and across the road." Back to scan the other way, and I could feel
the tension he kept out of his voice, like a static charge building in the
car.

"But what will you do, then?" He finally turned, as though he could see
me as anything but motion and blur in the dark.

"Then?" He finally had an expression in his voice, something other
than tension. If I had to name it I'd call it an edgy smile. "Then you
hear a scream and Scully and I break in with cause. I thought that was
obvious."

"You thought perjury was obvious? I mean, at the trial that's what it'll
be!" My hiss was the real thing now, not a choked scream but a deep,
furious gasp at his temerity.

"Look, I'm not going to argue with you, Emma. Just sit in the car if you
want, but it's going to get . . . " He broke off, turning to find the
lights that belonged to the drone of an engine over the fields. He sat
there, stroking one hand along the stitches on the other, watching. Then
he pulled this gun out of a holster under his arm, and it looked like a
cannon in his hand. I could smell the oil on it, and hated the faint
gleam of light off its metal. He checked it carefully, working little
parts that did god-knows-what. I'd never even touched a gun, and I had no
idea what he did with this one, but he was careful, utterly focused on
what he did for the few moments it took. His life must have depended on
this ritual in the past, from the way he set to it now.

Finally he slipped his finger through the trigger guard and held it. I
could hear his hiss, very different from mine. His hands had been so
stiff and sore that helping me clean the day before had been hard for him,
and now . . . The grip he needed to hold that weapon must have split open
the cuts across his knuckles. I could see dark against the pale of his
hands and flinched. He used his left to pull the gun away from his right
hand, then slipped it back into the holster without a word.

The lights on the road were close, almost here. I could feel how intent
he was on it, as focused as he had been on his gun the moment before. He
twisted tighter, and reached slowly for my shoulder, watching. The engine
shifted down and the lights swung towards us.

"Shit!" All that tension unwound in one instant, as he yanked me flat
across the transmission and dropped on top of me. Sudden fear crushed the
air out of me, then I sobbed for a breath. The lights flared through the
car for a moment, and I heard the grinding sound of the car pulling into
the house Mulder had been watching. He sprawled on top of me, listening.
I could feel his hand snake between us, reaching for his pistol, hear his
gasp as the stitches caught on cloth and pulled. And then we were still,
holding our breath, waiting as a car door opened, closed. Feet crunched
on gravel, briefly walking toward us and then stopping as another car door
opened, a pause, shut. Mulder's chest was moving against my back and
shoulders as he breathed in silent little pants and we could both hear
clearly. The steps walked away then, and gravel changed to the heel taps
of concrete as he reached his walk. Up steps, a screen door that creaked
as it opened, the faint jingle of keys.

Mulder shifted carefully, lifted just a little. I stayed where I was, but
I suppose he was watching that house again, watching the man who let
himself in and shut the door again. He must have turned on indoor lights,
Mulder's face was faintly lit, not bright enough for a porch light but
enough to see the haggard look of him.

"Shit shit shit . . . " Soft, toneless refrain as he slapped his open
hand on the curve of the wheel. I sat and looked back down the road, but
there was no flicker of light in sight. Mulder was silent now, watching
that house, his hands working back and forth up his legs like he was
trying to wipe sweat off them. A few moments where nothing happened, and
I started to breathe smoothly again. Scully would get here, they would
run in and do the hero thing and the bad guy would give up or get shot and
that would be that. Then a translucent basement window lit up and I heard
Mulder swallow. No sound came out of the house down the road, but a
minute later Mulder cursed and opened his door, softly, as soundlessly as
possible. I lunged and grabbed the sleeve of his coat.

"Mulder, what the hell are you doing?" So low. When would I ever
speak in normal tones again?

"Listen, you stay out here, Emma. When Scully comes tell her I went in
ahead and to call back up . . . " he bit his lip. "If she goes in, Emma,
stay with her, watch her back. She may need someone to just watch."

God damn it! She'd left me to babysit this madman, and he was out of his
mind again! "Mulder, you aren't thinking of going in there?" He was
trying to twist his arm free and I was digging my nails in and hanging on
with every pound on my frame. If I'd known where he kept his cuffs I'd
have played like Jamie Lee Curtis and cuffed him to the wheel of the car.

"Emma, let go. He's in there with Carson . . . Emma, I can't let him do
this. He's going to torture Carson." His voice had a desperate urgency
that still didn't make me want to let him go.

"Scully will be here in just a minute, you were gonna wait for her, she's
gonna kill us . . ." I could hear a faint whine of hysteria creep into my
voice. He was getting loose. "Mulder, don't do this . . . " He yanked
his arm free and stepped back.

"Tell Scully, I'll be ahead of her in there. I'll be careful."

My reply hit empty air as he turned and ran, low and silent, for the
house. Not that what I'd said was very persuasive. I watched him go and
balled my fists and pounded my legs until it hurt. Then I pulled the door
shut as quietly as he'd opened it, tugging so it would latch, and locked
all the doors. I saw Mulder go up the front stairs, work at the door a
minute, two. God, please let the bastard have a deadbolt. I crossed my
fingers and prayed. And the son of bitch didn't bolt his door when he
went in and Mulder had it open and had slipped inside. Fuck, fuck,
fuck!

It was cold out there. I wrapped my arms around my chest and let my teeth
chatter at last. And waited to see who would come first, Mulder, or Kane,
or Scully. And waited.

God, how long had he been in there? I saw a flicker of shadow across
the upstairs blinds once, twice, then no more. I caught myself holding my
breath a couple times, knew that my hands hurt from the way I'd clenched
my nails into my palms, but I couldn't time anything by that.

Damn him, damn him, damn him. I looked around for Scully, but I didn't
see anything and I couldn't stand to look away from that house more than a
few moments. Every time I did, the hair rose on my neck and I could sense
Kane creeping out the backdoor and around to the car.

I spun back to the house, staring around, looking for Kane. I almost
hoped to see him there, at least then I'd KNOW where he was. Nothing was
moving but leaves, nothing had changed. No Kane. No Mulder. Just me. I
sucked in a long, shaky breath that sent a dizzy wave of oxygen to my head
and let out the stale air I'd held in my lungs too long. Spun around
again to check all the locks, yes, they were all down. Spin back to look
out the front window, leaning forward to be sure no one could hide behind
the post of the window. Oh lord, it was cold. My hands were painful with
it, fingers chilled so I could feel them through the fabric of my slacks,
but I was afraid to put them in my pockets, afraid I wouldn't be able to
pull them back out fast enough if I needed them. My breaths came in sharp
little bursts, but I could not slow them. My blood pounded in my ears and
I could feel the blood, as hot in my face as my feet and hands were cold.

The windows had clouded with my breaths and I leaned forward to wipe the
glass with my sleeve. Wiped fast, all across the window, praying no one
had crept up while the windows were fogged. Leaves rattled across the
hood, and I hunched forward over the dash and watched the house, eyes
flicking from upstairs to basement windows, ears straining for a shot or a
scream. A little sound registered for long moments before I understood it
was my own voice, whimpering and cursing, wishing. I looked at the
ignition, drew a deep lungful of relieved air and bounced the keys in the
ignition with relief. I almost scooted over and fled, chewed my lip as I
considered it. I could run, I could get the cops. . . and I just knew if
I did, he'd need me and I'd be too late. And he'd die, and maybe Scully
and maybe Frank Carson and I'd. . . I'd live with them in my dreams every
night of my life. I looked back at that damn house, and wondered how it
could look so normal and safe and sane.

Unclenched my hands again when my nails hurt me . . . again. I almost
unlocked the doors and walked up there. Not knowing was almost worse than
doing that. Then I remembered Kane's voice, rasping in the dark in my
ear, Kane's hand on my breast. I scrubbed my hands across my front to
obliterate the sensation, and stared at the windows again, until they were
burned on my eyes and the after-image of them shone in the blackness of my
skull in the brief instants when I dared to shut my lids. I could feel my
eyes sandpapered by the cold air, my teeth cold as I drew air across them,
my ears aching with strain. And the rap on my window shattered all the
quiet and I screamed, spun, hit my head on the roof of the car as I
unwound in terror.
________________

=====================================================================
======

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Corpse 14/?
Date: 25 Jun 1995 06:02:48 GMT

Corpse 14/?
First, Mea culpa, mea culpa maxima but de minimus non curate. It's gonna
go WAAAAY over 15 parts. I won't know how many until I finish tying it up
and the edits are done and it's all split and separated. For those who
waited until 15 and then figured it was done, sorry. For those tired of
seeing the blasted thing, sorry. For the rest of you, have fun.

Fox Mulder and Dana Scully property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox
Broadcasting. This story, Emma, Kane and Emma's town all creations of
Livengoo. You may have guessed I used the X-Files and CC's characters
without permission. I don't profit, I don't get paid. But I do get email
and always like more! Those death threats have been great, keep 'em
coming!

Fair warning, I write with violence, profanity and I aim for unsettling
situations. Read at your own risk.
Goo
________________
Scully leaned in close, knuckle against the window she'd
just rapped. I could see her searching the car behind me, glancing into
the backseat to be thorough. Her face drew in with a worried frown,
and she rapped again. My hand shook so badly I could barely pull the
lock up, but I finally did and she wrenched the door open, put her hand
on my shoulder. It was the hand she'd knocked with, her gun was in
her other hand, held at her side and pointed to the ground.

"Emma? What are you doing? Where's Mulder?" Her eyes flickered at
the lit house even as she asked. The realtors sign creaked and slammed
in the wind, and we both jumped. I winced at the sob I heard when I
drew in my own breath, embarrassed. When I spoke my voice was
strained and high.

"He's in there, Scully. Kane came back and . . ." She raised her hand,
cut me off, crouched to look into my eyes on a level and I scooted back
from what I saw in her eyes.

"You let him walk in there?" Her voice was so quiet, I felt it more than I
heard it, like broken glass on my bones. "How long has he been in
there, Emma?" I swallowed, and knew I was cringing. She must have
seen that I didn't know, had no idea how long Mulder'd been in there.
Scully looked away. Her knuckles stood out where she gripped the car
door. Her lips were thin with anger, and she stepped back to shut the
door.

I lunged to block it, caught it against a hand so cold that I didn't feel my
fingers move. I slid out of the car and grabbed her arm as she was
turning towards the house, stopped her. Her hair swung as she turned
to glare at me, dark against the pale oval of her face. Her mouth was a
narrow, furious line and I could feel the tension in her muscles.

"Wait. Wait! Mulder said you'd be coming, and that I should stay with
you." Scully gave me a withering look and yanked her arm free.

"Stay in the car, Emma. You know how to do that and you won't get
under foot." She was skirting the front of the car, staying in the
shadows between the houses. Her black coat and red hair registered as
motion rather than a person, a flicker of movement. I caught up and
ghosted at her elbow, staying on my toes to keep from making noise.
Scully pulled back against Kane's house in the deep shadows under the
windows. She turned a glare on me, and cursed so softly I could barely
hear it.

"Go back to the car. I need to know what's at my back in there. I'd
rather have empty air than you." She scrabbled in a pocket and pulled
out her little phone. "Here, if you really want to help, call and talk the
police into getting out here." She shoved it into my hand and

I stood there, holding the phone so tight the bones in my hands hurt.
Scully crept up the stairs Mulder had used, and gently turned the
handle, stepped through into the house that had already swallowed her
partner, keeping company with a killer. I felt the breath freeze in my
throat.

The phone was what finally broke me free of my paralysis, and the sure
knowledge that I couldn't just flee. I retreated to my safe haven,
crouching down by my car, where the wind cut cold at my ankles. My
fingers fumbled at the buttons, wooden and painful. I called 911 and
begged, just begged, for help.

"Ma'am? Ma'am, calm down, tell me what's wrong . . ." She sounded so
official, just like on TV, just like when I'd found Tommy and all this had
started. I suddenly saw his face lying cold and still, and sobbed.

"I'm so scared, help, please . . . " She was still trying to calm me down,
and my face was wet in that cold, bleak wind. I thought I could hear
voices from Kane's house, hear screams, although I knew it was just the
wind. "My friends are in there and he's going to kill them and I can't
help them . . ." and every word was true.

"Ma'am, tell me where you are . . . " On and on. I told her near as I could
figure it. I'd held the map, but Mulder was the one who'd gotten us out
here. Damn him, why hadn't he waited? And then I did hear a scream, I
spun, crouched, and fell onto my knees and the gravel bit into my
knees. The voice was male, shrill with pain, like nothing I'd ever heard
or ever could forget. My eyes felt so wide they hurt, and the voice on
the phone was frantically telling me to talk to it, but I couldn't, couldn't,
could only hear that voice. And then a sharp cracking sound, nothing
like what I'd heard on TV or in the movies. I dropped the phone and was
halfway to the door before I knew I wasn't hearing the tinny voices any
more.

The stairs felt too hard under my feet, too solid to be real, like they were
made out of something that never should have belonged on Earth.
Scully'd left the door ajar behind her and it slammed against the wall as
I barrelled through it, too scared to just walk. Fear drove me into the
hall, where I stood panting and trembling, staring around to find what
they'd already found.

Empty rooms, cheap furniture and drapes all drawn. It only took a
moment to understand no one was up here, and then look beyond it,
searching for a door or stairs, for a voice or . . . .any sign of them. I
could taste something stale, and sour on the desperate breaths that shot
oxygen too fast so that I could see spots from the corners of my eyes. I
stepped further in, lurching against one wall to keep my balance,
startle-staring around me. I smelled solvents, and rubber, flour and
urine around me. Ammonia-reek under pine, and a faint, sweet hint of
burned flesh. I gagged and staggered to the end of the hall, shying
from the dark of a closet door, the unknown space past the arch of the
dining room, to the end of the hall, kitchen one way, basement stairs
sinking into the space beneath the house, but no sign of anyone live to
be seen.

Voices floated up the stairs, voices I knew . . .

"Back away from them, back away now!" Mulder, but too tense, strained
instead of confident. And another of those horrible, sobbing screams,
but lower than what I'd heard outside, and Scully's voice too low for me
to make out the words.

"You won't shoot me, Fox." Kane's voice, calm and low. My
hands shook on the banister at the top of the stairs. And a sudden
scuffle, and another shot. I could see the light swinging crazily down
there, hear Scully scream for Mulder . . .

How I made it down without tripping is a mystery to me. The light was a
sickening thing, swinging too fast to really find the shadows or what
had cast them with any certainty. I picked Scully out of the chaos of
shapes, crouched over someone wrapped in her coat. Snapshot
knowledge of things appeared in the light to be swallowed by shadows
as the bulb swung away. A curling iron stained with red-brown that
was not rust, a belt sander with fresh paper, a metal chair crusted with
waste. Other things, things that crop up in nightmares then submerge
again into thankful bliss, objects never designed to cause pain, but
twisted from the uses for which they were meant. My guts twisted at the
sights, and the smells . . . burned flesh, rotten skin, and a chemical reek
of acids and things forgotten since high school. Solvents, things that
burned and hurt to the touch, and Dana Scully holding a man, whose
bare legs were streaked with blood and waste below the shield of her
coat. She looked up and saw me, and her eyes were flat with horror and
need.

I saw all that, but I barely recalled it until later, much of it only in my
dreams. No, what I saw was a vicious tongue of flame that lanced past
Fox Mulder to lick the the side of the man Scully held, graze against her
hand, then flicker back and away. I couldn't recognize Carson through
the pain and horror on his face, and I'd known him only slightly at
best, but I flinched for him. Scully had yanked her hand back, then put
her arm back around him and was drawing him towards the stairs
where I stood. Mulder stood half turned towards Kane, trying to keep
her in sight, but if he turned away from Kane the flame licked out first
towards him, then past him and at her. Carson screamed again as it
licked his ankle even while I was watching. Mulder stepped in towards
Kane, then back as it turned to him, separated him, drove him towards a
door.

Kane, laughing, holding an old-fashioned gasoline torch, glass bottle
and nozzle. His thinning, gray hair was wet with sweat from its heat.
Mulder had a bead on him, but was not shooting. Kane must
have squeezed the trigger of the thing, because a twenty foot flare
lashed out towards the younger man, who threw himself away from it,
and away from us. He fetched up against the wall next to a door, huddled
away from the flames. I don't know if he made any sound, my heart was
so loud. . .

I took the last few steps and moved to flank Carson, desperately trying to
lift Carson and urge him up those steps. Flame, a thin, long needle of it,
struck the wooden steps in front of me and flashed down and towards
me, across my coat and I was part of it and I screamed and threw myself
down, rolling, rolling begging it to go out. . .

Rolled against the table where I knocked things off. A sheaf of reeking
sandpaper fell across me, stained and covered with nameless lumps. A
delicate little power drill came loose from its holder to bounce off my
shoulder, and other objects struck and rolled away. I sprawled there,
breathing in the terrified relief of not burning.

Kane had backed around now, keeping a position where he could keep
the two federal agents separated from each other, keep me now
separated from Scully and Carson, too. He was laughing.

"You should have come to visit earlier, Agent Mulder! I haven't had
such fun in years. That day you dropped by, you should have come back
to visit. . . .We have a matter of a broken obligation to discuss." He
sent another arc of flame towards Mulder, who spun away from it and
through the door, into the darkness of the room beyond. Scully had made
it up another step, but Carson was so slow and I could hear him gasping
with the pain of his effort. Kane turned back to them, and I screamed an
instant before Scully as I saw the flame lick across her arm, bare beneath
the thin blouse.

Her scream pulled Mulder back out of the darkness and safety of that back
room, brought him shouting into the door. "Back off! Put it down now!"
The flame was flaring across Scully's sleeve. Oh god, I drove myself back
onto my feet and lunged up the three stairs to wrap myself around her,
smothering her shrieks, and the smell of burnt skin and silk in the wool
of my coat. Mulder's voice was urgent and frightened behind us and I
could feel Kane at my back. God, why didn't Mulder just shoot the
lunatic?

Sometimes you get what you wish for. I heard a flat *crack* and then
flame lanced past me to set a trail across the stairs in front of us, and too
much happened at once . . .

The first thing I knew was a wave of scent of gasoline, and two
screams from behind me. I released Scully, who was sobbing, but
upright and aware, and we looked behind us into the inferno. Mulder
had shot, and Kane had tried to flame him, sent fire in a thin trail
across the room. When he was hit he must have thrashed. He'd thrown
the bottle . . .

A huge, spreading pool of fire seethed in the middle of the room. Fox
Mulder was huddled up in the door, watcing the flames with visible
terror. Even in those instants I could see him backing away from it. He
finally stopped, just in sight, where he could see us and Kane. He kept
Kane covered from the far side of the narrow and vanishing channel to
safety. And I could see Kane standing against one wall, clutching his arm
and watching us with a hatred that matched the heat around us. Then he
smiled at us.

Scully, next to me, almost lunged back down there but Carson cried out
and grabbed her, drawing sounds of pain from them both. He was
trapped. He'd never get out without both of us. I was too busy to look at
her face, as I wrapped my arm around his other side and tried to drag
him out with me, but I knew the pain that had to be there.

The sound of fire chased us up those stairs, fire not yet out of control but
seeking its freedom. Scully went through the hall door first, turned to
grab Carson and pull him through, with me pushing and lifting the
man. The sweat on my hands made them slippery, but strength born of
terror lifted him into the hall, slammed the door on Kane and his fire.
Slammed it on Mulder. We dragged Frank Carson down that cool, normal
lie of a hall and out into the shocking dark cold of night. Away, we had
to get him away from this house. There was no sound yet, no smoke, but
that would come. We pulled that poor man across the yard, where the
gravel and brittle, winter grass dug into his bare feet, tormented
injuries I didn't know of and feared to learn. Down by the road where we
finally let him spill to the ground. He curled around himself in pain,
but Scully wasn't looking at him now. She was scrambling back to her
feet.

I reached to grab her again. She was shivering in her thin clothes, one
arm burned and bleeding. I could see the slick wet of the blistered flesh
in the faint light that escaped from Kane's house, but she was ignoring
it and reaching to her waist for her gun.

"Scully. Scully! Wait!" She turned a stare of shock, and fear, and fury
on me. I don't know if she even recognized me, she may have only
known someone had grabbed her. "You can't go in there."

"Mulder's still in there, Emma, let go of me *Now*." She recognized me,
all right. I think she wanted to shoot me. But I shook my head. Her
eyes kept flickering towards that house, trying to track what was
happening. She wrenched her arm, trying to pull away, and I grabbed
her harder and pulled. I was taller and heavier and she was trembling
with shock. I pulled her down next to Carson. She'd have to hit me to
make me let go, and she'd listen to me first.

"No. Look at this man. He's hurt. You're the doctor, he needs you. And
you're hurt yourself. How much can you do in there?" Oh god, common
sense except where was I leading us with this?

"My partner's in there. I am not leaving him. Get your fucking hand
off of me. Now." She bit the words off between chattering teeth. I
couldn't push her much further, but I couldn't let her go there. She
wouldn't be able to do it. She'd die in there, both of them would. I could
feel my own terror sobbing in my throat and my adrenaline sang in my
ears. I hadn't even known Tommy Dalbert, but he'd brought me here.
Frank Carson, I'd only met . . . but I knew Mulder now, I knew Scully.

Oh god, I couldn't leave them and run. And I couldn't let her walk, hurt,
into the fire after him. My stomach wrenched but I pulled her down
hard. She couldn't leave me with Carson, and I couldn't leave her and
Mulder to the flames. And that left only one answer. Oh god, I looked
back at the house and pulled my feet under me, standing.

"You're the doctor. Stay here." I saw her hand lift like she wanted to hit
me with her gun, but I was already on my feet and she must have seen
more determination on my face than I could imagine being there. A
faint wail of sirens far away was beginning to hum in our ears. "Scully,
you have to stay here. I'll get him. If you go now, I don't think either
one of you will get out of there." They were contagious. I was out of
my mind. I was going to get killed. And I was going to walk into that
house.

I looked back at her to be sure I was right, to be sure that she couldn't
survive this. She was halfway on her knees, eyes standing stark in a
face that had to be more than pale, and even in the faint light I could
see her shaking. Her blouse hung from one shoulder, burns were dark
red up her arm and shoulder, streaking around her back and across her
chest. I pulled off my coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. She
was watching the house, angry and desperate. The sirens were closer,
but not nearly close enough.

I could see her weighing my words, weighing what she thought was in
there. And understanding that, in this condition, she very likely would
not be fast enough, strong enough. One arm? Shock? She'd kill them both
if she walked in there, and thank god she understood it and accepted it
fast, because if I'd had to argue I couldn't have kept the strength to
help them. She looked up at me finally. "He's pyrophobic, Emma. Scared
of fire. Get him out of there." I nodded, and she turned to the job
she'd sworn an oath to do, treating the tortured man, and I turned to
Kane's house and ran, too frightened to waste any more time.

To this day, I can't remember going up across that lawn or up those
stairs. One minute I was listening to Scully tell me her partner might be
even more afraid of that house and the fire than I was, and the next my
right hand was shaking so hard I had to brace it with my left to get hold
of the latch on Kane's front door. The door swung open to a stinging,
thin smoke that hurt my nose and eyes, and I sank my nose in my sleeve
and threw myself past the threshold, taking each step on the promise
that one more and I could turn around and get back out of there, run to
safety, away from Kane, and fire, and things that I didn't want to
remember falling on me. And away from Fox Mulder, alone with all of
it. And I'd take another step.

Through the haze of smoke upstairs I could still see the rooms I'd seen
before, see the furniture that belonged to some family in a catalogue.
The first time I'd stepped past these rooms I'd seen the furniture and
smelled chemicals and not understood why. No bottles up here, nothing
that wouldn't belong in any sitcom. Now I knew the smells were from
the bottles in Kane's basement.

I could hear the popping roar, still faint and small below me. No glassy
explosions yet, but that was only a matter of time. Oh god, the door was
hot at the top of the stairs. I pulled it open before I could let myself
understand why, and heat rolled over me, lifting my hair and baking
the sweat off my face. I wanted to turn tail and run, oh god, and I
stepped down into that heat instead.

The only thing I could hear was the fire, although I could still see. The
bulb still lit the basement, no longer swinging, but the fire sent wild
shadows spinning in its place. Halfway down and I could look out into
the room I'd seen before, see it empty of life and transformed into hell.
Fire was flickering out on the concrete floor where it had consumed the
gasoline, but was climbing the wooden partition I'd seen Mulder vanish
through. And it was crawling along the wall towards a workbench
crowded with bottles and equipment. I stared in horror, saw a few
labels, Hydrochlo - something. Some -sulfate. Other names I vaguely
knew from chemistry in school, things that burned even without fire. I
dashed for the floor, feet rattling on the stairs. The door on the other
side of the room was still free of fire. Kane must have gone through it.
I followed, not wanting to see how things that burned without fire would
burn with it.

The room on the other side felt cool after the pressure of heat behind
me, and it was dark. Lit by the fire behind me and stray light from the
bulb back there, nothing else. Somewhere down here was a door like
the one on the house next door, no doubt about that. Kane was
homicidal, not suicidal. He had a back way out of this hell-hole, or he'd
have been right behind us on the stairs. No, the door was down here
somewhere, and somewhere down here was Fox Mulder. I just had to
find both of them and get him through that door, without finding Kane,
and we'd be gone.

Unfortunately, if Kane had gone through this door he was between me
and Mulder. I gulped and stepped away from the door that silhouetted
me against flame. The snapping roar of the flames was getting louder,
and drowned out anything I might have heard. I reached, but couldn't
feel a wall or anything but air around me. I prayed Kane kept his
basement as empty as his upstairs. Step forward, slowly, step again.
My foot hit something hard and I fell across it with a clatter of
metal I was sure could be heard even over the fire. The lawn mower
under me hurt, sharp edges and shapes that dug into my hands and
knees as I scrambled back to my feet, skittered to my side, and finally
fell against a wall.

I froze there, staring into the dark with fire-aching eyes that felt wide
enough to fall out of my head. Sharp popping explosions told me the
fire had reached the chemical bottles, sometimes louder ones screamed
and boomed, and the wall behind me shook in time. I crept sideways,
away from the flame, oh god . . . please let me find the next door.

The faint light of the fire in the next room intensified, and a black
rectangle to my left swallowed it. I lunged through that door and threw
myself to the floor, listening for the chuckle or whatever other sound
Kane might make, listening for fast panting or voices, hearing nothing.
And then a sharp clatter from the dark, not in this room, muffled as
though by a door. The chuckle I'd dreaded, but too far away to be for me.
Muffled, like the clatter. I was through a door and knew where a wall
was now. I felt my way around it. Bare partition, splinters in my
fingers from the 2x4's that held the thing, then cold,cinderblock wall
under my fingers. I briefly heard Mulder's voice, but couldn't read
anything from the brief snatch of it. Cold block under my hand, and I
tripped over cylinders, paint cans. Back up, off my bruised knees, onto
my feet. And forward in the dark, hearing bits of sound too short to be
words. My hand hit the low barrier of a door jamb, a shuttered door,
cooler even than the surrounding brick.

Sob in my breath, I'd found the basement door. I'd found the escape. I
almost wrenched it open when I heard the voices, and knew I was still
hearing the fire. The moment I opened this door the fire would draw
towards me and it. I could get out, but Mulder would burn alive down
here. I let my hand trace the frame, cool and sweet, and found the lock.
I flipped it off and moved on past it.

Cool block again, and the smoke in my throat was acrid, tainted with the
sting of chemicals now. My eyes stung, wide and blind and painful. The
blocks cornered into another wall of particle board and 2x4s, more
splintering and hot wood. Was it cyanide this stuff would let off when it
burned? Formaldehyde? Something toxic, something deadly. Lots of
deadly things down here. And another door so I could move on, looking
for the deadliest of them. Trail my fingers along the panel of the door,
feel the grain of wood. In the dark, my fingertips were so sensitive, the
wood felt like ridges. I reached for the door knob, paused with a certain
fear I'd feel a sticky film but finally touching only metal. It took a
moment, a shaky breath and a cough in that close, burning air. Then
twist and push before I could lose my nerve.

________________

=====================================================================
======

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Corpse 15/?
Date: 26 Jun 1995 06:30:33 GMT

Corpse 15/?

Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, and the X-Files property of Chris Carter,
Ten-Thirteen and Fox Broadcasting. Emma, her town, Jerry, the hospital
and all the rest belong to the Goo.

Carter's characters used without permission, don't tell on me. No profit
derived.
Goo
_____________
And there was light here. Horrible, flickering, stained light that
showed me Kane's broad back, one sleeve stained so dark it looked black
in this light. Beyond him, Fox Mulder was lit by a wall of flame that had
replaced the partition here. Overhead fire licked past the door frame,
crawled obscenely along the ceiling over Mulder's head, corroded the
wooden wall and door behind him. I could feel the flaming cinders
dropping on my skin, smell the burning hair as they struck me, and the
two men facing each other. I froze in the doorway, chills riding my
spine against the terrible, blast-furnace air of this room, and longed to
turn and run through the door I'd found and left. I looked past Kane,
for Mulder. If I hadn't seen him I probably couldn't have stopped
myself from turning tail. My fingers and nails hurt where I clutched
the door, gouged little flecks of soft wood out of it.

I couldn't see Mulder fully for Kane's bulk, blocking him, scuttling with
light, jerky moves side to side. He was pinned back in the corner
between partition and cinder block wall, but he kept trying to slide
past the heavier man and was driven back by a vicious length of knife
that flashed as Kane lunged at him. The black of his coat swallowed the
light, but the sweat on his face shone, eyes wide and frightened and
flickering between the fire and Kane, who was talking.

"It's all right, Fox. I understand. It's hard to do what they tell you to do,
hard to remember what they tell you. I understand. You don't have to try
to forget anymore." Kane's voice was somewhere between pleading and
furious.

"We don't have to do this, Kane. We can still walk out of here." Mulder's
voice shook, but I was surprised he could even speak. "We can walk out
of here, Peter. We still have time to get out of here . . ." They
shifted, and I could see Mulder wasn't holding his gun anymore. He had
his right hand clutched close to his chest, the left out and guarding it.

"I'll walk out of here, Fox. You'll stay. You forgot. You'll have to stay.
Don't you feel it, the fire's here for you. Feel it reaching for you?" He
feinted, pushing Mulder back again, towards the corner. "I have to find
my brother, my father. They told me to take them, just like they told you
. . . " Kane's voice was angry now, vehement. "You did what you were
told once . . . you tried to find your sister. You found one of the Bad Ones.
You shouldn't have stopped. You shouldn't have betrayed them."

I must have moved. Mulder's eyes suddenly shifted to me, just for an
instant, but Kane lunged and a bright flash of metal sent Mulder in a
desperate, instinctive lunge sideways, trying to dodge the knife and the
hungry flames behind him at the same time. The sound he made wasn't a
scream. It was worse. Kane's knife flashed again, caging him back
towards what had been a wall and was now a tangle of flame and light and
blackened boards.

"Peter I'll help you find your brother, help you find your father. I
didn't betray anyone, let me out of here NOW! I'll help, I can help, I
can find them for you . . ." the hysterical edge on his voice carried past
the fire, instinctively made my guts twist up even harder. Mulder kept
trying to move away from the twisting fire, kept moving up into range of
that knife and only backing away when Kane slashed at him, forcing him
back, and his voice never stopped, getting thinner and more frantic the
further back Kane forced him.

He backed from between Kane and the fire's heat, to fetch up against the
block wall, trapped on the far side of the room. I could see the sweat, a
gleam that couldn't last long enough to bead, on a pale, soot-smudged
face. His throat convulsed as he swallowed. I could see him trying to
get words back out.

He was pulled down in a half-crouch that kept dropping him where I
couldn't see, and then Kane would move and another thin splatter would
flick off the point of a knife that wasn't shiny and bright anymore, and
my heart was choking me and my guts were pretzeled where I stood, praying
Fox could pull it together and get to my side of the room, get out of
here. I could hear him still trying to talk his way out, but his words
weren't making sense anymore and his voice was spiralling into panic, and
Kane just kept edging him back, forcing him into that corner and keeping
him there, like Kane didn't even see the fire, didn't care that the
ceiling was burning, that the wall was just coals and licking, dancing
flames, and the heat . . .

Kane was circling back again, edging Mulder back towards the
inferno. His broad back kept blocking the FBI agent from
sight, and I could barely hear him past the roaring howl of the fire. My
lips cracked in the heat, and I could see spots of cinder-burn on Kane's
shirt, on his tanned neck and in his thinning hair. Mulder's coat and
hair must have similar burns. He was edging back, away from the older,
heavier man, his eyes, flickering over Kane's face and past, trying to
find a way out, but I don't know if he was really even seeing us anymore.
I stepped closer, heard Kane's voice, harsh with smoke
and anger.

"Your sister disappeared. You said they took her. Liar! You did what
they told you, but then you lied. They told you, too . . . what did they tell
you! Damn you. You remember. They'll take us all if we stop. You
stopped looking for her!" Oh god, he kept forcing Mulder back towards
that wall, the one crawling with living fire. Whatever he'd said, Mulder
was focused on him again, eyes panicky-wide in a pale, sweat-slick face.
"You have to stop lying. You have to look for her."

"I am still looking, they did take her, I remember them taking her . . ."
His voice was shaking, thin and sharp. "Your father took you to see
them, Kane. Remember, your father took you to see them. Let me out, I'll
help you, we'll find them, I'll help, I'll keep looking, I'm not lying, he
won't hit you anymore, please, please, we have to get OUT OF HERE! We
have to . . ." he broke off when flame dripped from the
ceiling, cringed towards Kane, then twisted as the big knife slashed
towards him. Dark drops splattered the floor under them, hissing in the
cinders and spots of flame, staining the painted concrete floor.

"Please, Kane, please, he won't hit you any more, won't hit you or your
brother, please, we have to get out of here!" I don't think he knew what
he was saying any more. His words were a fast, hard string of whatever he
thought might get him out of there and Kane just didn't care.

"He did not! They told me what to do!" I could hear Kane's shriek.
Whatever Mulder was trying to do, he was making Kane worse, the big
man was forcing him back along the wall. Mulder kept trying to slide
away, but the fire blocked one path, and I could see his eyes tracking
back to it, caught between it and the man screaming at him. "Just like
they told you with your sister. What'd you do, Fox? drop her body off a
pier? Dump it in a road-bed? What did they tell you to do with her? How
did you find out what she was? Why did you stop looking?" Angry,
howled questions, punctuated with the flash of the knife. "Feel the heat
in here, Fox? Know what it'll do to you? Do they tell you like they tell
me? It's going to peel your lying skin off your bones and boil the lying
blood in your veins . . . " Another slash, trying to drive Mulder sideways
towards the fire. He didn't move this time, just pulled into himself
against the cinder wall and took the slash, cringing down away from
the wild flames. Blood flicked across the wall as Kane swept the knife in
a carry-through. Mulder's face was pale and sweat-drenched, and
smudges of red blood, black soot, stood out as dark as his eyes. He was
pulled in tight, watching Kane by an act of will, keeping his eyes off
the fire over his head, the wall of fire to his right. His voice was a
sharp, desperate wail.

"I'll tell you, I'll tell you what they told me, we have to get out of here
Kane, we have to get out of here NOW!" Mulder tried to lunge around
him again and Kane sliced across his arm, a flash of white shirt through
the coat, and Mulder fell back against the wall, arms wrapped over his
ribs, eyes flickering between the ceiling and Kane. "Let me out of here,
Kane, I'll tell you what they told me, they told me what they wanted . . ."
Babbled words, words that enraged Kane. Oh god, he was going to kill
him . . .

Break my eyes away from them, pray that looking away won't change
anything, look around again but this fucking room was empty, empty. I
could hear the terrified voice trying to convince Kane to let him out, get
out of here. Step back but I couldn't see in the dark, couldn't see
anything but the faint tracing of red light and heat on the ceiling, wait
. . . wait. I turned and raced back to the door I'd found, and the paint
cans I'd fallen over were there. Grab two by their wire handles, a
couple heavy pounds of sloshing metal, and I could hear another scream
behind me, hear Kane screaming at Mulder.

"Liar! Liar! They told me. They want me to find them for them. They
told me how to find them! You'll burn for your lies. They want you to
burn!" Whatever Mulder was trying to do, he'd pushed Kane into a howling
rage and the fire was growing and the air was burning my lungs. Smoke and
heat and the sounds were all fire and anger.

The door was a brilliant rectangle of light when I turned. A few racing
steps and I could see them again. See Fox Mulder, helf crouched down by
the wall, gathering himself, watching the fire, not Kane. The lunatic was
screaming at him, telling him how the fire would feel on his skin, in his
hair, what it would do to him. I could see the coughs that wracked
Mulder, feel them shaking my chest as the smoke thickened in here, but
Kane seemed impervious to it, and that knife was a narrow wedge of flame
in his hand, drawing blood in its wake.

"You'll die, and your sister will die, and all the others will still be out
there . . ." Kane never finished it. I couldn't see Mulder well behind his
bulk, but there was a sudden shift of black coat, flurry of motion, and
Kane staggered back, the FBI man wrapped around his arm and tight
against his chest. For a moment I thought it might work, backed
towards the door, hoping-praying-wishing for Mulder to break loose on
this side of Kane and run. Then the heavier man got his left hand
wrapped around the collar of Mulder's black trench coat and I screamed.

Kane yanked Mulder off him, spun him towards that sheet of roaring heat,
twisting light and pain that they'd been dancing around. I could feel the
heat with them as Kane shoved Mulder back, knife forgotten in his other
hand. And I couldn't stand and watch him burn, couldn't let the madman do
this . . .

I stepped into the swing and let that paint can carry like a baseball bat
to slam across Kane's shoulders. The killer howled and dropped Mulder,
spun on me as I let the momentum of the can pull me back and away
from him. I expected to die then, with his knife in my ribs, screamed
at the narrow agony of a slash that opened the thin skin over my ribs.

A red haze that had nothing to do with blood or cuts or anything but
terror and this bastard scaring me and hurting me and forcing me to be in
this fucking basement because of his fucking, twisted mind and the bastard
cut me! The bastard, the bastard! I swung that can with all the force of
my spin and slammed him with it. Fuck the knife. I was gonna beat him to
death with it. The thing caught him full across the chest, where he'd
left himself open to slash at me again, sent him staggering.
I followed my can around and hit him again.

The wire of the handle burned across my palms. I could feel the welts
rise and some useless little voice in my head reminded me that metal
conducts heat . . . The air burned in my throat. Heat and smoke and
fumes etched their way down my throat. And Kane had staggered back and
the bastard tripped over Mulder, falling towards the burning wall. And
flaming boards were tumbling down across the whole end of the room. The
partition was crumbling, spilling live fire across Kane's legs. Kane
shrieked, flailed for anything to pull himself free, caught one of
Mulder's ankles and pulled. Mulder was screaming at him, kicking at him,
totally panicked. I had him under the arms then, trying
to drag him back, but Kane wasn't letting go and he was thrashing and hard
to hold and Kane was dragging Mulder towards him with adrenaline
strength. I could feel that pull almost yanking Fox out of my hands, and
the smooth concrete gave no purchase.

Mulder lashed out at Kane, pulling loose from my grip. Kane's pants
legs were burning, and he was screaming in pain but his face wore a
look of clenched determination, and the bastard was dragging himself
out of the fire. He had hold of Mulder's coat and was pulling himself out
hand over hand. I thought they were both screaming, but couldn't hear
anything but fire and my own gasping breaths now. The smell of burned
hair and wool overwhelmed the chemical stink of the smoke, and I was
breathing in little shrieks of terror, seeing flames take on Mulder's coat
as cinders dripped from above us. I felt burns speckling my back with
agony, eating through my shirt in blistering coins of flame, and I was
screaming, trying to lock my arms around a thrashing, panic-stricken man
and drag him away.

Kane's weight was too much for me to pull. He had hold of Mulder's lapels
and wasn't letting go, no matter that Fox was clawing at his eyes, his
throat. A tremendous, crashing explosion sounded in the next room, and I
saw huge, flaming beams crashing to the floor when I looked up. Mulder
curled himself into a screaming ball in my arms, and Kane reached beyond
him to seize my shoulder, face reddened and wet, blistered where sparks
had struck him, his face and touch freezing my blood even as waves of heat
carried the smoke up away and singed the eyebrows off my face. Kane's
frantic pull yanked me down, across Mulder.

And I must have been dying, senseless in the last instants. I thought I
felt a sudden wave of cool air flash past me. It drew the flames over me,
over us, and the world exploded into light and heat and agony and air was
a memory. Fire was all. Fire and a dark well that reached to seize me as
the fire wrapped it's arms around me and drew me close.

____________________

The fire had faded to darkness, peaceful at first. I lay motionless,
knowing my room would be still and quiet in the middle of the night. Draw
a breath and the world exploded into choking agony. Coughing that sent
sight blasting into my head in a swirling horror. My eyes were open now,
the chaos around me slamming my brain through sheer, obliterating agony, a
sight of flames and sparks far away from me, a shapeless mass hanging over
me, holding my head, and the pain crashed over me and swirled me back down
to darkness.

____________________

The world came back slowly, in increments of perception. A faint
knowledge of light first, only enough that I knew I was in darkness,
because I knew now what light was again.

Next was fear. I could feel things waiting to come back to me, things I
did not want to know. Pain was hovering somewhere not so far off, and the
memory of flame and terror hung at a distance. I knew they were there,
but they were not real to me yet. My name was real, but not my body.
Sound dopplered, louder and softer, a faint susurrus mostly. It gradually
resolved itself into voices. Strangers sometimes, my mom, Jerry? I
thought so. Sleep claimed me again.

Life came back faster the next time, the sound of a door opening, and the
voices made sense now.

" . . . ow she'll be delighted to see you. They cut the morphine and she
should wake up soon." Mom. I smiled with the warm, safe feeling that Mom
could always give me when I felt awful.

"I'm looking forward to it. She owes me an exclusive." Laughing voice I
knew best lately from the phone. What was Jerry doing here? I pulled my
gummy eyes open, feeling the graininess at the corners. I tried to bring
my arm up to wipe at them, and a fuzzy, dull blanket of pain smothered me,
graying the edges of the world, freezing my hand and dragging an animal
whimper out of my chest. Tight, scraping pain under my sternum, and I
ruthlessly quashed the urge to cough, certain that I wouldn't want to know
how it felt.

They must have heard me. My mother's face swam into view, and Jerry's
behind her. Soft hands stroked my hair and my face. Voices told me to
lie still. I could feel tears trace me face at the pain in my chest, and
the pain that flayed the skin of my back. Mom's tears finally forced some
self-control on me, as causing her pain had always done. I found a smile
somewhere, became aware that it moved a mask on my face. The air was cool
and strangely odorless. I breathed carefully, finally whispered my first
questions. I had to ask twice before they could hear me past the mask.

"You're in the burn unit, darling. You're going to be fine, but you're
going to be sick for a while first." Tell me about it. A sudden memory
of why I was going to be sick . . .

"What happened to Mulder?" I didn't think I made any sound, but they knew
what I had asked. They exchanged a rueful glance.

"The man you were with?" My mom the rocket scientist. "He's down the
hall . . ." I didn't like the way she trailed off, looked back at Jerry.
Fortunately Jer had never felt as over-protective.

"They got both of them out, Emma. Kane's in the secure ward, being
treated for burns. Mulder's down the way, same deal as you with the heat
damage, but not so many burns. He makes up for it in knife wounds."
Jerry winced.

Kane was still alive? My guts twisted, but he was locked up. We were
safe. "How bad?"

"What, you looking to pick him up, Mrs. Peel?" He was going to regret
that. Revenge is a dish best eaten cold. I must have looked sour,
because Jerry shook his head, glanced at my mom's back. "I met your
friend, Dana. Very impressive lady."

My friend? No ironic tone, I wondered what had changed from Scully being
willing to gut me like a catfish for letting her partner get into
trouble. I wondered, but only distantly. I closed my eyes, and enjoyed
the way the faint, fuzzy warmth of drugs blunted the raw-meat-feeling of
my back and chest. Somewhere far away, I heard Jerry tell my mom to go
get some sleep, that we were all tired. Then the blanket wasn't grey
anymore and the calm peace of sleep swallowed me again.

___________

Lying there in black peace with a full tummy from bad hospital food.
They'd shooed my visitors out at 8:00 and moved my bed so I could watch
TV. Turned it off after Picket Fences. They had stopped my big
painkillers on the misapprehension that second degree burns didn't hurt
enough to merit morphine, and I was stuck with Tylenol 3. Hell, I'd use
that stuff for cramps.

I'd tried to go down and visit Mulder or Scully, but the nurses had shooed
me back in bed, arguing that they'd let me sit up and let Jerry stay late
tomorrow if cooperated tonight and got some sleep. I'd slept most of the
afternoon and really didn't think I needed that much more sleep, but the
ward bosses had no real sympathy for my need for gossip and put me under
house arrest in my room. Health facists. I'd have to wait for Jerry to
get here tomorrow. He'd been going to fill me in today, after he sent my
mom off, but I went to sleep on him. Why did they only give you drugs
when you wanted to stay awake, then stop them when you were bored and
wanted to sleep?

Maybe they weren't totally off base after all, because I must have slid
off into sleep eventually.

________________

I was crouched there and the ceiling was falling on me and I was burning
burning burning and I just couldn't feel it yet but it was coming coming
coming . . . .

I couldn't run. I couldn't move. I had to stay there until I could reach
Fox Mulder, who I could see in the middle of the flames, screaming, and
Peter Kane was holding him there. Dana Scully was at my shoulder,
shouting at me to move, to get him, and I screamed at her that I couldn't,
that I couldn't move and I couldn't reach him, and my scream woke me into
cool and dark and pain that didn't hurt nearly bad enough to be me burning
in hell. But I could still hear screams echoing down the hall.

I might not be in hell, but Fox Mulder was not so lucky.

Footsteps raced past, nursing staff running for his room. The slam of a
door muffled the sound, but I knew it was still there. I buried my face
in my pillow, sobbing, and finally even the faint whisper of his shrieks
died away and it was quiet again.

____________
Cont.

From:livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Corpse 16/?
Date: 27 Jun 1995 03:48:02 GMT

Corpse 16/?

What, my threats have tapered off. Are you all on vacation or is it too
hot? Only my hard core of threateners is out there still. Though I do
love the folks writing me in as a parody character, and the one who's
threatening me with the stuff I write about (just wait!). Oh, and the
repeat on the bratwurst and polkas!

And look out if violence and profanity bothers you. It's all here. No
hearts, no flowers, just lungs and fire. And don't ask because I no
longer have any idea how long it's going to run. Suffice to say, we have a
while before it finishes.

Usual disclaimers. Boy, I get tired of writing these things. Blah blah.
Scully and Mulder and the X-Files property of Chris Carter and
Ten-Thirteen. Used, of course, without permission but also without profit
and, hopefully, without offense. Emma, her town, her story and all that
property of the Goo. No using without my permission! I don't get money,
so I hope to get email.
Goo
______________________
I hadn't hoped to sleep again, but I must have because I woke up the next
morning bright and early, to cereal and juice and other stuff that was
hard to recognize as food in any conventional sense. My peaceful mood
lasted until I recalled my nightmares - and the nightmares that weren't
mine. All of a sudden, I really wasn't very hungry.

They let me sit up,like they'd promised, and got rid of the stupid oxygen
mask, and that miserable IV that's the de rigeur hospital look. My back
pulled and hurt a lot, but I could tell it wasn't cracked or bleeding or
anything, and so I didn't panic. I just whined for more Tylenol, and they
gave me some, but not nearly as much as I wanted. I knew dentists had a
high suicide rate from guilt over inducing pain, and I was hoping these
nurses could catch a bad case of it.

The nurses wouldn't tell me anything about how Mulder was. They just told
me he and Scully were both fine and I should think about getting better
and getting out of their hair before I got so bored I trumped up a
malpractice suit. They might even have been joking, but they certainly
were not telling the truth. I'd have gone down there except, well, I was
kind of dreading what I might learn.

But sooner or later I had to run out of distractions. When the
Animaniacs, and The Tick, and even Beakman, were finally over, and I was
stuck with celebrity bowling, I got up and pulled on the little robe my
mom had brought for me, peeked around the door, and sauntered casually
down the hall. Out for a stroll in the fashionable part of town, and I
just happened to be dropping by Fox Mulder's door, and - look at this - it
was open!

Mulder had somehow gotten them to move his bed around to where he could
watch the door. I could tell because that power strip where everything
gets plugged in was looking very lost without its hospital bed, over on
the wall that would have offered some privacy. I guess seeing who came
through the door mattered more to him than privacy. He'd certainly come
awake fast enough when I showed up, but his eyes looked awfully glassy
even so.

I padded across the bland, linoleum floor, rested my hands on the chrome
guards on the side of his bed. He was watching me over the upper edge of
a mask that was a twin to the one I'd been able to ditch that morning.
The mask's attendant machine was blinking and chuffing away. Another big
machine with a weird object on a pipe was also next to his bed. I was
profoundly relieved that whatever it was, I hadn't needed one. Clearly
I'd gotten out with less damage than he had. I leaned against the guard
rail and crossed my arms on it, smiling at him.

"What, no greeting smile, Mulder? After all we've been through?" What
was this? He was still watching me like I was, well, like I might as well
be Kane. When I'd leaned in he'd flinched and drawn back just a little.
I looked around, and grabbed the chair by his bed, thinking that sitting
down might make him relax a little. He stayed tensed, and kind of pulled
away until I was seated. I could see bandages along his arms, and some
more stitches to add to his collection. About the only thing that really
looked better was his left hand, out of bandages. His right was bandaged
more than ever, and I remembered him protecting it in the fight. Kane
must have done that somehow, before I found them.

God, he must heal beautifully or he'd have looked like a patchwork quilt.
"C'mon, Mulder, I came down to visit and all I get is the silent
treatment? You owe me better than that."

At least he'd finally relaxed back against his pillows. He was pale as
hell, and they had a couple IVs jacked into his arm. He can't have had
burns like mine on his back, or he'd have been lying on his stomach like
they'd had me. After a moment he reached up and pulled down the mask,
wheezing just a little, licked his lips and gave it a try. "Hi." Awfully
thin little voice, there.

"Hi? Is that the best you can do?" I studied him, took in the ragged
hair where cinders had wrecked his cut, the flat expression, and what I
figured was a heavily sedated look in the eyes. His hands had trembled as
he pulled down the mask, and were shaking still. Not like nerves or cold,
more like you get when you work out too long and your muscles start
jumping and won't stop. Spasms.

I scooted my chair a little closer and leaned up against the side of the
bed again. And he focused in on every * single * little * move like I was
about to go for his throat. God, he'd been spooky before but he was
outright creepy now. That look and the way he had to work for his air was
giving me the shivers. "Look Mulder, I. . . " What did I think I was
going to say to him? He wasn't doing witty banter this morning. Clear my
throat and stall, and try to ignore the flinch at every sudden move or
sound. Ignore the way he'd look around like he was checking the room,
then snap his eyes back to me to make sure I hadn't moved on him. I kept
my voice low when I finally figured out what to say.

"I heard you having. . . nightmares last night. I just kind of wanted to
check on you. I had some nightmares, too, and yours sounded like
duesies."

"Duesies?" Not particularly curious, not really like Mulder at all, more
like he was picking up on the last word I'd said.

"Yeah, real screaming meemies. And if you wanted to, you know, talk about
it or anything. . ." Still nothing. I swallowed and wondered just how
much crap they'd pumped into him. I hoped it was a hell of a lot to be
doing this to him.

"Duesies. I always wondered where that came from. . ." His voice was
paper-dry and whispery and it just faded in and out. At least it was a
try. I patted his hand, felt the muscles flicker under the skin, tried to
recall when I had asked the same question.

"Uhhh, my dad told me it came from Duesenbergs, those old roadsters?"
Finally a real reaction, finally. Mulder nodded when I mentioned
Duesenbergs.

"My dad told me about Duesenbergs. He said they were really fine . . . we
made a model of one once . . . ." he pushed the words out between breaths,
finally let his eyes drift shut. I almost missed the next words. "I
wonder if he broke that, too. . . "

A hint of a sound at the door startled him half-upright and wide-eyed
again, gasping for air. The look of intense relief on his face told me
before I looked around that it was Scully, standing in the door and
watching us with a worried, unhappy look. The moment he'd seen her,
Mulder had settled back and let himself relax. I think he slid into sleep
almost instantly.

Scully walked with an old woman's aching exhaustion this morning, cup of
stale coffee held tight in her right hand. Her left was stiff with
bandages stained with the stuff they smeared on burns. I was sure I'd be
smelling that gel in my dreams for the rest of my lift.

She'd stopped by Mulder's bed, set her coffee down. Reached up to put the
mask back over his face and brush the hair off his forehead. She checked
his pulse with that instinctive wrist-grab doctors use when they say
hello, talking in this low, calm voice the whole time, telling him he was
safe, everything was fine, he should just sleep. . . over and over. When
she looked up, she met my quizzical stare with a tired look that was
beginning to seem awfully familiar. Just how often did she spend
sick-watches over this guy that that should be such an accustomed
expression?

"Emma. You should be down in your room, shouldn't you? And you
definitely shouldn't have helped him take the mask off." She sounded too
tired to be very angry with me, more frustrated and worried than anything
else.

"Morning to you too, Scully. And I didn't help. He did it all on his
own." She didn't really seem surprised at that. They both looked so
tired, I felt almost guilty for having slept most of the night with these
two around. "I wanted to see how Mulder was, and how you are." I stood
up and leaned over from the opposite side of his bed to see the grease
slick on her coffee. He must have been asleep for real already, because
he didn't twitch when I got close this time.

"Looks like great coffee, Scully." I reached over and took the cup out of
her hand. It was only luke warm. She didn't try to stop me, just shook
her head like she was trying to wake up.

"Sorry I snapped at you, Emma. It's hard to get him to leave the mask on
and take his meds." She sighed. "I was going to drop in on you later."
She kept her voice soft, and a hand on his wrist. "I'd have been by
earlier, but it's been busy."

"So I see. I mean, if you can't even get off the floor for something
better than this," holding up that revolting cup. "I tell you what. Let
me sneak off the floor and I'll see if they have a real coffee place in
the lobby."

She gave me the first real smile I'd seen on her face in a long, long
time. "You do that, and I'll write you a recommendation letter for
whatever job you try to get next."

I grinned and headed out of there. One or two visits to clients and
friends in this hospital had taught me the ropes, so I rifled through the
things my mom had brought me the day before, found my purse and bribed a
candy striper to bring a big, big cup of Starbucks' best from the lobby.
God, I love the power of money.

That cup of coffee might have been gold for the look Scully gave me when I
handed it to her. She settled back in the uncomfortable chair they put in
hospital rooms to encourage visitors to go somewhere else, and quietly
drew down a pretty fair draft of it. I took the other chair, watching him
sleep and wondering what the hell was wrong with him. I mean, of course
he was scared of fire. I could certainly relate to that. But this was
pretty extreme, jumping at every noise and fazed out of his head.

Scully finally sighed with the relief of a huge dose of hot caffeine and
leaned forward to settle her elbows on her knees. She glanced over at
me. "I don't think I got the chance to thank you . . ."

"What, the coffee? Don't sweat it . . ."

She shook her head. "No. Thank you for going back in there." She
hestitated, "I think I can guess a lot of it, but tell me what happened,
Emma."

What happened? God, I had been carefully not thinking about what had
happened. She saw the shiver run up and down my frame.

"I understand, believe me. It's scary to try to remember things like
that. But I need to know what happened to you and Mulder, and you're
going to have to tell the D.A." She gave her partner another worried
glance, and I knew I wasn't the only one who the D.A. wanted to question.
She hid her concern behind another sip of coffee, then looked back at me.

I took a deep, deep breath and tried to organize what I'd been carefully
ignoring since I woke up the day before. One last try to get out of this.
. . "Are you sure we should be talking about this in here? I mean, if
he's reacting like this. . . "

She actually thought about for that a moment. "I'm pretty sure he's sound
asleep. Keep your voice down, but I do need to know this." She left
unsaid what I was sure of by now, that she wouldn't leave the room for
more than a few minutes at a time if anyone gave her the choice. The D.A.
was probably what hauled her out earlier, to judge from the tone of her
voice when she mentioned him.

Time to pony up. I told her about going in upstairs, about going through
the basement door. I suppose I was trying to delay talking about the
basement as long as possible, no matter that I couldn't avoid it.

"The rescue crew said it was lucky you forgot to close the door again,
that it probably saved your lives when the smoke escaped to the upper
floors." Her voice, still low and calm, bracing me for what I had to tell
next.

"I went downstairs, Scully, and the fire was starting to really catch in
that one room. It hadn't spread much, but he had all those chemicals down
there."

She nodded. "He used them to cause some of the 'alien experimentation'
damage. Lots of acids and bases, nasty stuff."

"Yeah, whatever." I really hadn't wanted to know WHY he had those
things. "So, you remember there were two doors? I couldn't go through
the one Mulder used because of the fire, so I went the other way." She
knew I was stalling, I could see it on her face. "And I ran around the
other way, through a couple dark rooms. I finally found Mulder and Kane,
and they were fighting, and Kane kept him cornered. I don't really
understand what Mulder was trying to do. He kept talking about Kane's dad
and his brother, and about getting hit, but he just made Kane angry." I
shuddered. I didn't think Scully needed a blow by blow of what Kane did
with that knife. I certainly didn't want to go through it, even
verbally. Let her ask Mulder when he was feeling less out of it.

"And Kane was raving at him and kept trying to back him into the fire. I
could see Mulder was falling apart." I shivered again. "So I went and
got a paint can and hit Kane with it a couple times, and he cut me." I
swallowed. I didn't want to remember this part. I didn't care if I'd
been brave or heroic if or it would sound good, I didn't want to remember
it and I didn't want to talk about it. "And Kane tripped and the wall
fell on him. He . . . grabbed Mulder, and then he grabbed me, and
everything was really bad, Scully. I can't really recall a lot. I was
just scared and Mulder was scared. I don't know if he even knew what was
happening anymore. And then it all fell in on us and I remember cool air
and then fire. . . "

I was shaking now, sweat rolling down my sides, and everything around me
felt far away and wavery, like a heat mirage. Oh god, my head was dizzy
and I tasted bile and, and. . . I reached Mulder's bathroom in time, just
barely, and heaved my hospital breakfast and flushed and heaved again, and
I was kneeling there, sobbing and retching my empty guts out, and Scully's
hands were holding my sore shoulders, and a wet cloth was against my face,
and I could still see that fire and Kane's eyes gleaming insane and
hateful in the baking light that was killing us. Other voices registered
finally, a voice I knew in with all the strangers.

"Jesus, Emma." Jerry, and hands on my arms, bigger than Scully's. He
pulled me onto my feet, shooed away the nurses who were trying to scoot me
back to my room, and got me over to the chair I'd left a moment before.
Scully brought a cup of cool water, then went back to Mulder, who was
awake and wrapped up in his sheets, as far back against the headboard as
he could possibly get. I could hear him breathing from where I sat.

I'm sure Jerry was having a field day with all this drama, but I was
sitting there curled up and sick and shaking from things I would as soon
never be able to remember. For now, though, he looked wonderfully
sympathetic and familiar, and I put my face into his shoulder and soaked
his nice, Italian suit with tears and snot and any other icky stuff crying
your heart out causes. Jerry just stroked my hair and shushed me, holding
me lightly enough that it didn't really hurt.

"Hey, Mrs. Peel. I didn't expect to find you breaking up down with the
FBI." Soft voice, next to my ear. Jerry had one of his showy, linen
handkerchiefs out and was wiping my face. It was obviously never intended
to be functional, because it was stiff with starch. I took it out of his
hands and wiped my face and blew my nose, looking up to find him avidly
scanning Mulder and Scully, clearly taking mental notes. I looked over to
find Scully watching him with the same hostility she'd shown when she
spoke of the D.A., and vaguely recalled that Jerry had met her the day
before. Unusual reaction, normally the Rigg treatment had them creaming
their jeans and quivering through the knees. I swallowed and started
paying more attention. It would be a real shame to miss this because I
was busy wrecking Jer's suit.

Jerry was giving Scully his best, absolute shiniest, win-them-over smile,
and apologizing for just busting in like that. His white, capped teeth
just glowed against his olive complexion and black hair. The spiffy suit
and hand-painted tie really made me feel drab in my hospital gown.

" . . . but the nurses said Emma had come down here, and when I heard
someone being sick and all, I thought I might be able to help."

"Thank you, Mr. Riggins, but this is a hospital. There are plenty of
staff who can help." Her voice had an icy edge that said the press was
not welcome here, no matter how helpful. "But you might want to take Emma
back to her room. I'm sure she needs the rest." Or Scully wanted the
rest from us.

I could see her point. The minute things had gotten complicated her
partner had pulled in and was wearing a USDA-prime version of the
expression he'd greeted me with, blank and terribly, terribly watchful.
He'd get dizzy if his eyes kept tracking that fast. I could hear him
breathing fast and shallow, and whatever machine was hooked up to the mask
made weird sounds. Scully was visibly tensing up, and I could feel Jerry
starting to get his hackles up, the ones that happened when he thought
someone was hiding something. And my head was starting to hurt. I really
wanted all that tension between these two to go away, and Mulder to stop
acting this way and everything to go normal again.

"Scully." Okay, everyone looking at me now, fine, I always did like being
the center of attention, and it got Scully and Jerry to stop trying to
kill each other with looks. I knew Jerry. He wouldn't leave so long as
he thought something was happening, and I just couldn't cope with him and
Scully thrashing this out. I'd rather play lightning rod. "I'm sorry
about getting sick like that. I got kind of upset." Let it work, please.

"Understatement of the decade." Jerry's breath stirred the hair by my
ear, his eyes fixed on the feds and recording every detail. Knowing J.
Rigg, he was probably only just keeping himself from drooling with
curiosity. No way would I get him out right then, no matter how badly I
wanted to leave. Nosy bastard. I wanted to tell him his socks were
mismatched, just to throw him off stride.

I got a shaky breath into me, and tried again. Maybe if I told her the
rest it would calm everyone down and we could get past the present
hostilities. "I wanted to ask about, well. . . Kane kept threatening
Mulder down there." I thought I'd had their attention before. Jerry was
coiled next to me, and Mulder had fixed on me the instant I mentioned
Kane's name. Scully had drawn a fast breath, and had turned to step
closer, when Mulder grabbed her wrist. Oh, I definitely had their
attention.

"I mean, Mulder was talking about Roswell and Kane's dad and brother. I
understand all that. But Kane wasn't talking about that very much. I
could see that it made him angry, but he kept screaming this stuff about
Mulder and aliens taking them, and looking for the real people and fake
people." Mulder had a grip on Scully's wrist so tight I could see his
knuckles go white, see her wince. At least he was tracking. He must be
feeling a little bit better. Maybe the drugs were wearing off.

"And Kane kept asking Mulder how he'd killed his sister and why he wasn't
looking for her anymore and. . ." I trailed off. Scully was shaking her
head at me, mouthing something but not making any sound. And Mulder. . .
I'd thought the man was pale before. I was wrong. It was so quiet in
there, you could hear his breath hiss out past his teeth, hear it rattle
as he tried to draw it back in. Hear one soft, unsteady word.

"Saaam . . ." Scully had spun, wrapped her arms around his shoulders.
Jerry was tensed like hunting dog. Fox had wrapped himself around his
ribs and was trying to breathe. I could hear him fighting to pull in the
breath, hear Scully cursing as she tried to get that thing on the hose
with one hand. I wanted to run for a nurse, get out of there, help her
somehow, and was frozen where I sat.

"You're still sick and you don't know what you said." Jerry's urgent
whisper rode over any protests I might make. "Stay here. I'll find out
how he is. I know you're worried about him . . ." He left me there, and
was across the room and next to Scully. I could see more than I really
wanted from right where I was, but Jerry wanted to soak up every fucking
detail.

I'd known Fox Mulder believed aliens had taken his sister. At least,
Jerry had told me he thought that, but it hadn't really sunk in before.
Now I listened to him babble, or try to babble. He was gasping and
fighting for air, mask pulled away like it was choking him, words forced
out on panicky breaths as he twisted and tried to breathe. Scully had the
long, stick thing on the end of the tube and was ordering him to hold
still, take the thing, breathe whatever it was, but he wasn't listening
and he was thrashing around now. I could feel my lungs ache with
sympathy. He had Scully's wrist and she couldn't get that thing near him,
and he could barely breathe at all now, but the little air he had carried
fast, desperate words that made no sense.

Scully didn't have a hand free, between her hurt arm and her partner.
Jerry leaned past her and slapped the call button for the nurse, but I
could hear them running in the hall before then. Monitors made this noise
that put chills up my spine, counterpoint to Mulder gasping for air he
couldn't get, and babbling with the little he could, Sam and looking and
believe him, believe him. The words were becoming gasps, just fighting
for air, arched back against his pillows. Scully looked up for the
nurses, tried to get that pipe thing near him again, but his hands were
locked around hers in breathless panic and I could see the veins in his
neck, see him fighting and losing. . .

They must have been able to hear Mulder halfway down the hall before the
hysterical gasps ever started. Monitors and bits of words and that awful
sound of trying to breathe air that never got to your lungs. . . I felt
ill again, and I was so glad when some big nurse finally pulled Jerry
away, and helped me out with him, and we lost sight of Mulder and Scully
behind nurses and everybody else who answered that kind of call. I wasn't
staying to take a head count.

Mulder's choking followed us down the hall, and I hated myself for having
seen him like that, having done that to him. Jerry dived for his
briefcase the minute we stepped into my room, scribbling notes on a pad of
paper. I went to the bathroom and tried to rinse the sick taste out of my
mouth, but it just stayed and stayed and no amount of water or toothpaste
seemed to make any difference.

cont.