The Damascus Files File 3 Part 4

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DISCLAIMERS: They all belong to Chris Carter
and Fox. I want nothing. Don't sue.

SUMMARY: 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.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Well, friends, apparently we
were asking, with our combined
ju-ju, mantras and prayers, for something
that was deemed unneeded. (Yes, I believe
all prayers are answered...it's just
sometimes the answer is NO.) I have fallen
victim
to that strange fanfiction writer's malady
which I've heard has befallen even our
Queen, Vickie Moseley. So, unless some
miracle occurs between now and April 11th,
this will be the last post until May due to
health problems. I am so sorry this last part

has taken so long. It's just that I have
stumped the medical profession as to what is
wrong with me. I am going to have the
doctors check my DNA for any signs of alien
encoding, since I've also heard there's this
microscopic, symbiotic life form that's
going around...

Many thanks to Mori, for her eagle eye, Aly
for watching out for me and all who have
helped get this long story this far. Couldn't
have made it with out you all!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Before I had a chance to open up what might
have been a lengthy debate on destiny,
karma, reincarnation and plagiarizing the
plot lines of sci-fi movie classics, God
said,
"Wait, we can get into 'The Truths of
Universe 101’ later. How about you just
hearing
me out first?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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