THE DAMASCUS FILES FILE THREE Part 3 of ?

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SUMMARY: Chapter 3 - Mulder begins to notice
some disturbing symptoms and Scully's tale
continues. FILE THREE - The end draws near,
and each person must choose which part he
wishes to play in this the final act. Each
person decides his own destiny, but no one's
fate is his alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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